So, I did some things last night. I went through all of the early chapters and combined quite a few of them. I essentially just halved the amount of chapters in this story for 34 to, after this update, 18. A lot of readers have been bothered by the weird lengths, and I think it was scaring people off, so I consolidated most of my early chapters into bigger chapters. Very little was changed in the chapters themselves. Some scenes I added some connective tissue to link them together so it reads easier. A re-read of everything really isn't needed unless ya'll are dying to see they very few changes I made. Thanks for everyone who has hung in there and made it this far! After looking at all of that earl stuff, I realized how hard it may have been for ya'll to get past the weird, changing lengths. Hopefully it's better now.
ALSO I FIXED THE FLU/FLOO THING! I've been saying I would do it, and I did it!
And something funny I want to share: a guest review called this a goddess-curb-stomp fic. I loved that. The review wasn't meant to be complimentary, but I seriously laughed to myself after reading that description of this very OOC Hermione.
As an apology for essentially rewiring the first 12 chapters, I'm updating early! This chapter is going to introduce several different OCs for Slytherin. They have minor parts to play, so don't get concerned over their addition. As always, please review, and happy reading :)
Hermione woke with a start. Her wand was buzzing.
When school had begun, she had set simple alarm spells, so her wand would vibrate her to wakefulness at five in the morning every day. She had gone to bed the night before at five pm, so she had achieved her goal of a full twelve hours. However, she wished she had aimed for more. Then, she could have spent more time with Badb, learning more about their lives before Merlin and their dead sister, Macha. The phantom pressure of the goddess's hand comforted Hermione.
She rose and showered, appreciating the scalding cascade of water down her body, rinsing her mind and heart as well as her hair. It was her first day to go to class after the attack, to face the students who had no doubt concocted whatever stories about her. Today was not the day to morosely remember her departed sister. Today was the day to be Heir Black.
Dressing quickly, she donned the school uniform, accented with her new embroidered robes. The Black family sigil, designed in black thread and real silver spun incredibly fine, was impossible not to notice when the light hit it. She fixed the le Fay pearl drops in her ears and slid the Black bracelet on her wrist, attiring herself in pureblood armor to face the students.
The girl in the bathroom mirror was the same creature that had been sorted into Slytherin, but with a sharper edge. Her eyes were cold gold to contrast the silver she had adorned herself in. She chose to leave her hair wild and unbound, the curls falling to the bottom of her ribs. She would tame no part of herself today. It was still strange to see the wild creature the dissolved enchantment had revealed, but she felt the rightness of it in her bones. Her hair and eyes were no longer brown, but she was still the same on the inside.
She didn't miss her old features. She liked the gold eyes that her grandmother had had, that her sister shared. She liked the sable curls that framed her face in wild snarls, resistant to spells and combs alike. Hermione wasn't prone to vanity, but she did know that the face she saw in the mirror was one she liked. Other people may not like it, but they didn't have to; they just had to respect what was in her head.
Curiously, she wondered how her housemates would react to her new looks. They were used to the mousy haired muggleborn, not the black-haired, formally recognized heir. Many people had claimed she now resembled her infamous aunt. Would they see Bellatrix Lestrange when they looked at Hermione Black? Or would they see through her new coloring to the girl beneath, the same one they had deceived with their welcoming attitude.
Leaning forward, she traced one finger along her eyebrow. Did her father have the same ones? Maybe she looked like one of his parents. She hadn't yet mustered the nerve to actually find portraits of the Black family to compare to herself, despite her apparent similarity to Bellatrix. She wouldn't admit to herself that she was frightened she wouldn't look like any of them. She had already had to contend with not fitting into her muggle family, so the thought of not fitting into her magical family caused her heart to stutter in a way she didn't like.
Fingers brushing her cheekbone, she frowned. Narcissa had the same cheekbones, although their similarities stopped there. Then, a sickening realization occurred to her: Draco also had the same cheekbones. She scowled at her reflection, suddenly unhappy with her appearance. Unfortunately, cheekbones were not something she could change, even though any vague resemblance to that insufferable prat made her cringe. If anyone else pointed it out, she resolved to hex them.
In their beds, Pansy, Daphne, Tracey, and Millicent all slept soundly, comfortable in their sweet dreams. Their gift baskets lay unpacked all over the room, clearly enjoyed by the young witches. She ignored the new letters on her nightstand, well aware of what they were. The girls could apologize all they wanted. Hermione felt no need to accept.
Before she began throwing hexes at their sleeping bodies, she gathered her books and left the room. The common room was another daunting prospect, but she discovered upon entering that she had worried needlessly. The scene of her near murder did not affect her. She felt safe, knowing Marcus would soon be dead. He would hold no power over her ever again. Heart thrumming at the thought, she wondered when Narcissa would accomplish her request.
Settling in the chair beneath the portrait of Morgan le Fay, her former incarnation, she began to revise her goals list. Long term goals included freeing Sirius Black, somehow seeing her mother in person, and bonding with her sister. Short term goals were much more varied. She needed to bespell her bed until it was a fortress; cultivate new alliances among her house; oversee the assets of her family name; talk to Professor Snape; avoid Dumbledore and the elder Malfoys, if possible; and create a comprehensive list of research topics, among many other things, in order of most to least importance. She sighed. She had a lot of reading ahead of her.
"I can tell by your wand that you now know the truth," a voice whispered from behind her.
Hermione turned to face the portrait. "Yes," she confirmed. "Odd that I am talking to a collection of my former incarnation's memories, but I have dealt with odder these past weeks. You are strangely nice, considering I know what we are truly like."
Morgan le Fay's eyes glittered in dark amusement. Hermione could see just how much the adult witch favored Badb. "I treat myself a little differently than I do others, witch. I may just be a painting, but I am activated with the trapped memories of my likeness."
"Do you remember anything that could help me?" Hermione asked.
Morgan shook her head sadly. "Think, dear girl. Would you entrust any memories of importance to a portrait?"
"You're right," Hermione nodded, amused despite herself. Or amused because of herself?
"However, there are a few things I can do for you. I will keep an eye out for you in the castle. Paintings hear many things in Hogwart's halls."
"Excellent idea," Hermione muttered, appeased. "A network of spies would be very useful." She didn't really have a need for spies, but gossip often became blackmail, and she would never turn down an opportunity to have power over another student. "Wasn't one of the earlier headmasters a Black? Would it be possible to recruit him as well?"
"Phineas," Morgan admitted with a sneer, "is repulsively loyal to the school, despite how much he abhorred his occupation as headmaster. He is unlikely to share the secrets Dumbledore speaks in his office."
"Hmm… it doesn't hurt to try and convince him. Tell him what Dumbledore did. Our esteemed current headmaster purposefully left my father, the male heir to the Black name, to rot in prison. Then, he turned a blind eye to the plot to kill me, the only true Black not in Azkaban, to our ancient family. Maybe that will sway him," Hermione speculated.
Morgan nodded. "I will try, but I make no promises. Your family is a stubborn lot."
"I had to get it from somewhere," Hermione murmured, refocusing on her task as the portrait left her frame.
She spent a good hour creating a comprehensive outline of topics, with main headers, bullet points, and sub points. No one could ever fault her organizational skills. The next few years of studying would be very busy indeed, between preparing for classes and her own research. With her pressing task of revising her goals and research plans completed, she settled in to skim the notes she had created weeks before to refresh herself for classes; it took only minutes, except potions. Professor Snape was an exacting teacher. Then, she began to read the book she had snagged from the pile in her room. She had only been reading for a half hour about pureblood society, to prepare for her lesson Sunday, before the another student ambled into the common room.
A boy, his hair neatly tied at his nape, took several minutes to pull a chair before the fire, trying to avoid the Scottish chill that had descended over Hogwarts. It was several more minutes before he finally realized Hermione was watching him.
"G'morning," Alim Shafiq muttered in surprise when he discovered he was not alone. "Bloody hell!" he cursed when he realized that not only was he not alone, but that he was looking into the bright gold eyes of Hermione Black, the infamous heir to the two greatest houses in Britain.
"Shafiq," Hermione greeted cordially.
"Gra—I mean, Black," Alim fumbled, his tanned skin paling as she continued to stare, eyes blank and unbothered.
"I received a letter from your head of house," she said conversationally. "Your grandfather welcomed me to the fold and invited me for tea over the summer."
"Oh, yeah," Alim stuttered, "he's super interested in getting to know you. He said he knew your, uh, grandfather. You know. Orion Black."
"I know now," Hermione said. She actually didn't really know much about her family yet, but her quick temper led her down the shortsighted path of anger. Despite the danger lurking beneath her words, her face remained carefully composed. "Does everyone in our house know, as well?"
Alim was normally confident, but Hermione Black unnerved him to the core. He knew he could beat her in a duel—she was only a firstie, after all—but her sheer potential political power had led his grandfather to counsel him to stay wary and cordial. Also, Slytherin gossiped; he had heard what Marcus had looked like after what was rumored to be Fiendfyre had gotten ahold of him. Alim had no interest in becoming barbeque, even though he doubted a first-year had managed to summon the dark flames. Whatever had happened in the common room while he had been in bed, Marcus was still in St. Mungo's over a week later. That was enough to keep Alim cautious when it came to dealing with the skinny first-year. "You mean, like, does everyone know you're not really a— a muggleborn?"
"Yes," she answered quietly. "Does everyone know the truth?"
"Yes, everyone has known about you since it—the attack—since it happened."
"I see," she replied calmly.
"Is it all true, then?" Shafiq asked, his curiosity winning out over his nerves when she went several minutes without revealing the infamous Black insanity. His aunt had been in Bellatrix's year. The stories had made his skin crawl. "Are you really the heir to both houses?"
"Yes," Hermione said again. "I was declared the official heir to the Black and le Fay houses yesterday at the ministry."
Alim whistled, shaking his head. "So it's set in stone then, is it? Heir Black and le Fay. Hell of a combo, Black."
Her feral smile became a little more human. "I think I agree with you there, Shafiq."
Bolstered by her agreement, Shafiq asked, "So, do you want an apology or what?"
The smile dropped from Hermione's face. "I always thought you were smart. Don't ruin it."
Alim was saved from responding to the subtle threat when another Slytherin entered the common room, followed by several more. They all ceased their tired, early-morning chatter and eyed Hermione warily, inspecting her new robes and jewelry with interest. She cheerfully ignored them and began to pack her books into her bag, uninterested in fielding any more questions until breakfast, when she had to sit among her peers. She supposed she could take her breakfast from the Slytherin table and eat elsewhere, but she didn't want anyone to think her cowardly. Fine-tuning her reputation would take time, time she would have to spend among her housemates.
One of the fifth-year prefects, Castella, was the only early riser brave enough to approach Hermione. The Black witch quirked a brow in question. The girl stared resolutely at her, honey blonde curls captured in one of the green ribbons from Hermione's gift basket. Unlike Hermione's wild hair, Castella had envious, perfect spirals, brushing her collar in neat whorls.
"Thank you for the gifts," the prefect said. Her dark eyes, which normally pierced through younger students, held Hermione's gaze evenly. "Should you ever need my help, it will be my honor as a Swann to aid you."
As a prefect, Castella should have been one of the first lines of defense against Marcus and Draco's plotting. She had been responsible for Hermione's well-being, and she had failed utterly. Hermione as also hurt, despite her best efforts to squash the feeling. Castella had been one of the girls Hermione had falsely considered a friend. The prefect had always been there to answer questions and give advice, but she had shirked her duties and left her charge to break beneath the wands of her housemates.
"What was the most important rule, again?" queried Hermione absently. She twirled a wild curl around the tip of her original wand. Her new wand was tucked into her sleeve, hidden from the curious gazes of her fellow students. "To stick together, right?" She freed the wand from her hair. The threat was clear. "Of course, within the privacy of the dungeon, anyone was fair game. But don't you think my fellow housemates murdering me may have revealed some cracks to the outside?"
Castella's eyes hardened. She had never been the type to admit fault. The entire room's attention was on them, quiet chatter dimming to silence. Several older students began ambling over casually, preparing to intervene.
"Rules are rules," Castella said. "Those two went too far. They should have known better."
"I don't disagree with that," Hermione commented, her voice far too casual. She wasn't lying. She understood that the house she had been sorted into was not the type to watch each other's backs if turning on someone offered an advantage. If she had been a pureblood from the beginning, aware and educated in her duties, she would have done the same as anyone had. She would have let the mudblood burn. But she hadn't been aware or educated, and she had been the one abandoned to her fate, even as she had stupidly waited for someone to help. She kicked herself daily for not knowing any better; for letting herself open her heart and trust. "But you're a prefect. Shouldn't you have been one of the first people to stand up for me, mudblood or not?"
Castella blinked at the slur in surprise; everyone thought the word, but even Slytherins rarely said it. The girls, especially, usually held their tongues. "Marcus is the heir to his house. So is Draco. Things aren't as simple when the Sacred Twenty-Eight are involved."
"Things are run differently here in the dungeons," agreed an approaching seventh year, coming to lean lazily against the wall several feet from the girls. Hermione had never spoken to him, but she knew Roland Avery was also a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. She had received a letter from his grandfather as well, asking her about a marriage contract, which she had yet to respond to.
"I have known from the beginning that Slytherin is governed by aspiring family-career politicians, and not by authority declared by outside figures, however helpful prefects may be. What you seem to be assuming is that the complex power structure somehow mitigates the grave insult every single one of you have caused me."
Thorfinn Rowle, another seventh year, laughed. He and Draco shared the same coloring, but Thorfinn was all Nordic square edges, where Draco was French angles. He was also Sacred Twenty-Eight. "Do you read dictionaries for fun, then? You may not be a mudblood any longer, but you're still a swot, I see. Call it what you want, Black. But Flint is gone, dead this morning. Malfoy is still around, if you want to go after him next. Get your revenge on the person who actually did something, not the people who did nothing."
The common room had slowly filled with her housemates, all of them tittering at the customary Thorfinn response: offensively truthful. Only Blaise Zabini, who was notorious for sleeping late, and Verbena Selwyn, who spent every morning showering for an hour, were unaccounted for. Everyone stared at Hermione, waiting so see what she would do next.
"Your 'nothing' would have killed me just as surely as someone's something might have," Hermione replied coldly. "I bled and screamed on this very floor. You are all here now, so what kept you from coming then?"
"It's just different for us," a third year named Opal Loras insisted. She was well-known for being unable to keep her mouth shut, which had led to numerous spats among the girls of several different years. Hermione noticed the girl had a faint shimmer to her skin, as if she had been experimenting with one of Hermione's gifts. "You would know if you had been born into it like all of us had!"
"Merlin," Roland cursed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Opal, shut the hell up, for once."
"It's true!" she carried on, oblivious. "Are we all just going to let a girl we thought was a muggleborn lecture us like a professor? What makes her more special than any of us? Most of us are purebloods, too!"
"Firstly," Kent Travers, a sixth year, began, "she's Sacred Twenty-Eight twice over, and the only heir to both seats. Your family is known for marketing broom polish. There's quite a bit of difference in your social level compared to hers, Opal. So don't go there unless you want to irritate everyone in this room."
Opal fisted the hand holding her wand. "I was still born into the right family. Can you say the same?" she sneered, looking to Hermione.
"I was born into a better family," Hermione replied, fingering her wand, preparing herself just in case. "Magic runs stronger in my blood than in anyone else's in this room. But you're not wrong on one part. You've known you're a pureblood your entire life, and I have not. That is true. But shouldn't you have higher marks, then? Magic has always been a part of your life, and I have only known of it for around three months now. Yet only two weeks past I saw you struggle to do a second-year spell I mastered three weeks ago on my own. I may have been born in the muggle world, but you're less of a witch than I am, Opal Loras. Open your mouth again, and I'll prove it."
Opal's face turned red. She looked around the room for someone to come to her defense, but no one made a move to help.
"Black isn't wrong, love," Thorfinn drawled from the couch. He was sprawled across its entire length, his feet crossed at the ankles as they dangled over the arm, the image of insouciant grace. "You've barely passed every year. Pick on a different firstie than our resident Morgan le Fay."
Oh, Hermione thought to herself, if only he knew.
"Let's remain civil," Roland called out, calming the room as it burst into restrained laughter. "Opal, maybe you should work harder on learning what silence is. Until then, please refrain from looking Hermione Black in the eye. She's looking quite peeved, and I think you may be why. Does anyone who isn't Opal or, hopefully, Thorfinn, want to say something before breakfast?"
"I do have something to say, Avery! Thanks for reminding me," Thorfinn said, sitting up on the couch. His pale hair, kept long and shaggy, fell around his strong jaw. Hermione noticed several witches sigh breathily and beseeched Badb for strength to resist killing everyone.
Kent dramatically rolled his eyes. "You asked for this," he dramatically accused Roland. "This is your fault. I'm going to owl your head of house to formally request payment for the trip to St. Mungo's loony bin I'll be making after hearing to whatever that oaf says. You brought this upon all of us!"
"Stop whining," Thorfinn ordered, pointing a finger at Kent. "I know where you sleep, little girl."
"Get on with it, Thorfinn," Roland sighed, cutting off Kent's dramatics. "I would like to get to the food while it's still warm."
Thorfinn looked at Hermione, blue eyes meeting narrowed gold. The quidditch captain smiled rakishly. "Everyone in this room knows the heads of our houses will arrange betrothals to someone else in this room. Or, if you're unlucky, like Miss Imogen Blishwick, -" the girl in question breathed sharply in anger "—then you'll be sold off to a new-wealth Ravenclaw. Really, love, Webster Bragge is a good enough sort, I expected you to do much worse. Don't look so sour."
"Thorfinn," Roland chided.
"Okay, Avery, don't knot your knickers before noon. Just stating the obvious. It's fair I educate Black on how things are always done. She's the pick of the litter, although all you ladies are exceedingly lovely, I promise. So," he said, his attention turning solidly on Hermione, "which one of us poor sods do you think you'll end up marrying, love?"
Castella, since she was the youngest prefect, and Roland, who felt responsible, spent the next hour trying to remove splinters and tufts of stuffing from Thorfinn after Hermione blasted him backwards through the couch. The rest of Slytherin went merrily to breakfast.