August 1997
Warm rays of light began to warm the dank, dark House of Black. The previous night flooded her mind, torrential and dark. He had not been there, which only slightly lightened her mood. Yet, between the wretched house elf, Ron's apparent interest in her, and the fall of her world, Hermione could not sleep. Instead, she looked at the journals strew across the desk. Her two matching journals, both similar yet different, stared at her. From the phoenix book, Kingsley detailed the ongoing changes within the ministry. Cinnamon eyes read through the scrawl of the dark man for the umpteenth time.
It was the quietest coup I've ever heard of, Kingsley wrote. One minute, we hear Scrimgeor passed, the next they announced Pius Thicknesse as the replacement. At the announcement, I ran into my office, warded it, and sent off my patronus. The changes that are coming down the pipeline, and rather fast, are nasty. A muggle-born registry, where they put witches and wizards on trial for stealing other's magic. Hermione scoffed at the ignorance and stupidity of such a mandate. Rumor has it that it'll be headed by Dolores Umbridge. They've set up an Undesirable List, which Harry tops, followed by Hermione and Ron, naturally, and are strictly regulating and watching portkeys and floo. In addition, we have reason to believe they have set up a taboo on the name "Voldemort," to catch us easier. The other bit of news is one the Order will not be pleased to hear, not that there is much pleasant about today. The Ministry plans to install Snape as the next headmaster of Hogwarts, may the gods be with us. Be careful. Be safe. Above all, be smart.
Underneath the rather expansive paragraph, Remus' tight script enquired about the security of the various safe houses, which places would be protected, which needed new wards to replace the ministry applied protections. Here, Hermione added her thoughts and light to light grey wards she researched for herself. While a few were discarded, many were accepted and plans were made to get warding parties started at dawn. In addition, a general rant of Snape's many flaws and faults were exchanged in exhausting detail.
I can positively report that every Order member, direct and sympathizer, are safe and protected, Remus wrote around three in the morning. The guests have all found refuge in confirmed safe and protected houses, and will remain there until the warding parties have visited and reinforced existing protections. I take it that you are all safe, Hermione? No problems on your end?
With a shake of her head, Hermione read her short response. Nothing we couldn't handle. Inadvertently broke the taboo, but we oblivated the DEs that came to us. We are holed up and safe at the moment. The three Order members were smart enough to not inquire where the three teenagers resided. Not that Hermione would tell them even if they did.
A general round of relief came from the journal, as the various writers went to rest for the time being. This, however, did not conclude her correspondence for the night. Instead, her little black book chimed even as the morning sun poked it's head above the horizon. Weak light shone upon the golden art of a lioness, tabby cat, and tawny owl sleeping in an elegant heap as only cats and owls can achieve. It started with Augusta demanding to know if they were safe -which Hermione reassured the older woman. Then, Minerva began to write, asking if they needed anything, if one of the house elves could provide anything for them. This prompted Hermione to reply, quite tartly, that they had one overly grumpy elf here.
The worry bled into gossip -who attended the wedding, who danced with each other, their dresses and robes, anything the two, old biddies could think of to distract themselves and Hermione from the horrible night. Eventually, talk turned to future and what things could be accomplished within the next few days of confusion, before Voldemort had full power over the ministry and things were still in chaos.
And what about you, darling, you haven't said a word about your needs. Do you have everything you require? For your health and that of the boys, of course? Food? Preserved things? This Minerva wrote, her long, loopy script upon the page.
I have enough health supplements and nutritional tonics to last at least a year with proper dosing. We may get hungry or crave food at some point, but we will be well enough to function for quite some time, Hermione's handwriting answered. In the meantime, I'm working on a new spell that I hope will help the boys later on.
It was seven in the morning before Hermione could finally nod off to sleep.
oOo oOo oOo
The first few weeks in Grimmauld Place passed in restless quiet. They were doing everything they could to locate the missing horcrux. It wasn't until Hermione, armed with her knowledge of elves and the ancient magics that bound them to humans and vise versa, confronted Kreacher did they make progress. In the meantime, as the boys grumbled about bad luck and did little to help the situation, Hermione worked on her containment spell.
Three weeks into their forced confinement, Harry found her tinkering with her spell, frowning in concentration. Sharp, emerald eyes watched with rapt interest as she muttered and jabbed at the orange, hoping for some change. Within the last week, when Hermione had her breakthrough with Kreacher and now, the elf developed a soft spot for the brunette.
"Whatcha doing, Hermione?" Harry finally dared to ask.
"Making a spell," the young woman in question answered while distracted.
"To do what?" He asked with a curious tilt of his head.
"To contain the harmful magic of the horcrux," Hermione responded before the bubble broke and she swore.
"Colorful language there, 'Mione," her friend teased.
"It's just, this is important," she grumbled, leaning back in her chair. "Horcuxes are nasty, and they do more than just hold a soul. There are records of them bringing out all the negative emotions and magnifying them, taking root in those of weak wills especially." Both gave a surreptitious glance up to the room that Ron claimed, before turning to one another with identical guilty, sheepish grins. "In addition, they can deteriorate your health, suck your magic, and possess you if you let them stay on you too long. The idea with this spell is to make a mobile bubble that holds back all of those things so it's easier to hide and keep without all the nasty side effects."
"That… sounds like a brilliant idea," the mop haired boy blinked, amazed and awed. "How have you managed thus far?"
"I can get the charm to hold for at least a week," a slender finger pointed to a dark arts book from the library, "However, I can't get it any tighter than this," she motioned at the orange surrounded by a magical film several inches from the skin. "The idea is to have it cling to the surface, so nothing can escape."
"How can I help?" Harry asked, earnest and hopeful to be of use.
"Here, hold this for me, and let's see how this goes," she began.
Hours passed without seeing Ron as the two friends worked hard. While the containment bubble held closer to the surface than after lunch, nothing else had improved. Certain spells still pierced the bubble, and they came into the kitchen with animated conversation. Within, a sneering Ron greeted them with his typical passive aggressive remark about how cosy they looked, how happy they seemed.
"We were working on a spell to contain the horcrux, Ron," Hermione crisply announced, taking none of his mood on top of everything else. "You are more than welcome to do more than read old muggle comics and sleep."
Needless to say, that did not go over well with the youngest Weasley. He pouted for the rest of the night and into the next morning. He took his comics into the library the next day, and ignored the two working Gryffindors as if to chaperone the pair. Hermione simply rolled her eyes and worked on the proper arithmancy equations while Harry worked on his assigned 'homework.' Between the two of them, they had a potential list drafted of likely places horcruxes could, and what they may, be. All the while, Ron muttered to himself incomprehensibly, taking a nap after lunch, and not even bothering to return to the library once satisfied his best mate wasn't making a move on 'his girl.'
"Did he really say that?" Hermione sighed, a mixture of exasperation and irritation.
"On Merlin's soul," Harry chuckled. "Something about how I already had Gin, and that should be enough for me, and not to steal this one thing from him."
"He is remarkably self absorbed," Hermione idly remarked before she cast the containment spell upon a small quaffle. "I take back what I said in fourth year. The teaspoon has a larger emotional range than he does. It was an insult to silverware everywhere."
Harry let out a loud, gleeful laugh, "You're horrible, Hermione!"
"No, I'm dead honest," she smirked. "There's a difference. As it stands, I cannot picture myself with someone who doesn't trust me, let alone thinks everything is all about him. Ronald blew his chance with me last year when he used another girl, who he knew has bullied me since first year, to make me jealous or some tosh."
"Now tell us how you really feel, Hermione," Harry chuckled once more, before sending a spell at random to see the results. "Holds up against the reductor again, but not as tight as your last concoction, oh mad scientist Granger."
"Really," she snorted, a wry smile touching her lips. She added without conscious thought, "You know, if I didn't see the spells on the side of the Prince's journal last year, I never would have thought to try and make my own spells from scratch. I knew how to infuse and mix spells, easy enough once you have the basics, but to create one from nothing? That thought never occurred to me before."
"At least some good came of that thing," her friend spat, room suddenly cold.
"Come on, you got the felix felicis as well, no need to be so bitter about cheating to beat the rest of us," the young woman remarked, hoping to relieve her friend of unnecessary tension.
"Well, when you put it that way," Harry allowed himself to be dragged out of the bad mood, not pursuing that avenue of loathing.
The rollercoaster of emotions that came with living with two teenaged boys took it's toll on Hermione. Harry noticed, and sent her to bed with promises of food delivered by Kreacher. With a bit of poking and prodding, the brunette turned toward the stairs and went to the shower. Hot, stinging water fell upon her person, soothing her aching, tired muscles. Hand lathered and rinsed soap and shampoo, applying conditioner, and she stared at herself with a deep sigh. Time, as she knew, grew shorter with each moment spent here. She wanted to set up her boys for the best possible chance of success. Hermione hoped she accomplished enough.
A strangled gasp broke the customary silence of the morning. On the morning edition of the prophet stood Dolores Umbridge, proud and puffed with her own self importance and power. Around her neck hung the very necklace they desired, and they all knew what stupid steps they had to do next. With a clear goal, the three set about feverishly planning the next move. For the first time since they arrived in Grimmauld, Ron contributed.
Minerva McGonagall sat in the staff room, glaring daggers at the dark wizard at the head of the table. She shuddered to imagine what horrors would befall their children with the Carrows in charge of discipline of all things. It didn't help that the wretched man decided, quite on his own, to take control of the syllabi and actual punishments outside of House points. Honestly, how humiliating to be stripped of her rightful power.
As his rich baritone drawled with the ease of an aristocrat, red painted her vision. Sarcastic barbs, acidic remarks, and painful retorts colored the otherwise surprisingly normal pre-school staff meeting. Housekeeping items were ticked off with greater efficiency than Minerva remembered. Budgets were handed out, resources properly allocated when all was said and done.
Sharp eyes looked up once more, and took in the looks of perplexed surprise. They were ready for a fight, to mutiny, and yet, there was nothing truly objectionable outside of the obvious teaching appointments which the new Headmaster most likely did not have a say in. Curiouser and curiouser, the Carrows appeared to have tuned out the sallow skinned man's meeting. The more apparent their disinterest, the more odd the subjects. Everything from formal patrols, staff and student alike, always in pairs with someone from another House. The explicit privileges of prefects and Heads, with the strict, uniform punishments for infractions, all made the staff frown.
The Carrows, idiotic and imbecilic as they were, saw the confused, upset staff and snickered, thinking their Lord's choice in Headmaster excellent. They took in nothing of the words, and knew nothing other than the strict, almost militant standards he expected of the students and staff. However, what they couldn't know, was the fact that these rules were always in place. That he created nothing new, simply reinforced, quite pointedly and acerbically, what was always expected. Apart from no-nonsense efficiency and lack of sweets and easy chatter, Minerva could almost believe it to be the beginning of any other year.
Under the insults to all the Houses, even the hidden dig at Slytherin once as Snape was well known to do at times in the staff room previously, the underlying message was quite about control. Monitor behavior, try to nip trouble in the bud, do not give the Carrows more reasons than they already had to harm the students. Reinforce the message of not being found if out of bounds. Rule with a firm hand when necessary, and, above all else, do not tickle the sleeping dragon. The warning, too, glared clearly in their faces: if any true discipline made it to him, Snape had no way to soften the blow.
In a haze of befuddlement, the staff meeting broke up. Sharp and abrupt as always, the new headmaster swept out of the room in dramatic fashion, the two death eather cronies cackling behind. For a few moments, no one moved. Filius stared at Pomona who, in turn, gazed in wonder at the potted tree in the corner of the staff room. Vector and Babbling frowned at one another, and even Sinistra and the dotty Trelawney looked pensive.
"Did that just…?" Filius began, looking imploringly at the transfiguration mistress.
"I think he warned us," Septima finished. "Damn Slytherin plays the bastard so well, I can't tell if he was serious or not."
"So, what do we do now?" Pomona muttered, looking around the room. "We obviously can't mutiny, not if the boy is trying to keep us on our guard and help us."
"Nor can we be nice to him," frowned Aurora. "He killed Professor Dumbledore, for Merlin's sake! Are we all conveniently forgetting that fact?"
"But there was something wrong with Albus all of last term, if you remember," Filius frowned. "Not that it makes the act any less reprehensible, but Albus was a slippery one. Has he spoken to anyone?"
All eyes shot to Minerva, who pinched her lips and thought hard. The few times she went to the office after Albus Dumbledore's death, the portrait remained resolutely silent. What more, every time she stood just beyond the door, she could hear the portraits, many of them, in fact, berating her previous boss. His placating, calming tenor would answer them. While she could hear no words, Albus evaded any staff member with obvious intent, which caused Minerva's built in 'highly classified secret' alarm to mentally sound.
"They were fighting quite a lot last year," Pomona murmured, a small frown on her face. "In fact, Hagrid and I heard their raised voices sometime last winter out across the grounds. Severus may not have liked Albus, but to kill him? Knowing the great clod, Albus knows more than he is letting on."
"And getting Severus to talk is like pulling teeth from a chimera," grumbled Filius.
"Especially if this is something Albus wanted, and Severus felt he deserved it," Minerva sighed. "Make no mistake, the old man is awake and kicking in his portrait. I've heard him. Every time I enter, he pretends to be asleep."
"So, where does that leave us?" Pomona frowned, looking at her fellow teachers. "We know Albus had a hand in this-"
"No surprise," Aurora Sinistra snorted.
"-And we know that Severus is the closest to He-Who-Can-Rot-In-Hell," the normally placid woman growled to Minerva's great amusement. "He is leading this school, whether any of us like it or not, and there is absolutely nothing that says he didn't do it for any other reason than the obvious. At the same time, he all but outlined what he considers the most important rules, and all but begged us to keep the students out of trouble."
"I wish we could still discipline and monitor our own students, though," Filius sighed. "At least as heads of House, that would be nice. It feels like he is robbing us all of power, and making it easier for others to walk all over us."
"But the Carrows have to send in their discipline requests to the Headmaster as well," Bathsheba pointed out. "At this point, I vote we take a 'wait and see' approach. We do not act any different, but we do as he asks. Whatever his reasons for murdering Professor Dumbledore, he appears to have the safety of the children at heart for this term, and I can agree with him on that point."
"Not to mention," Aurora added, Slytherin gleam in her eye, "as long as we remain here and teach, we are still valuable. As soon as that changes, it is likely we will be killed or chased off. Discretion is the better part of valor here, ladies and gentlemen."
Hours later, as the sun set for the night, Minerva reflected upon the day's events. In her hand was her approved syllabus, few marks added. The only notations were to keep her large, Gryffindor nose where it belongs and to not ask leading questions, and to keep her house from openly rebelling against the faculty. He threatened her job, and her position as Head of House, with a few, well chosen, acidic remarks.
Minerva fancied she could understand Hermione's perception of people, as she gazed at the offensive, red ink. Anyone reading this would think it a castigation, condescension and patronization at it's finest. Yet, underneath, there were many ways one could take this. An advance alert to keep her House from overt punishment, to keep her head down, and to weather the storm to come. Burgundy journals rested upon her cherry desk, and moment of indecision gripped the Professor. It would not due to rouse suspicion against Snape's allegiances just yet. Give it a few weeks, Minnie, ol' girl. If this is more than just the work of a day, to keep us from rebelling against him, then I'll talk Hermione.
With that in mind, she retreated to her sitting room and curled up to read a good book before heading to bed for the night.
September 1997
By the third of September, the trio had a plan. Reckless, ridiculous, and absolutely mad, they no longer cared. Pass the point of desperation, they had worked together to come to this neat, terrifying conclusion. It would take about two weeks, give or take, to properly prepare, observe, and execute, but they now had a timeline, a working deadline.
Oddly quiet through most of August, the Order journal chimed with odd questions left unanswered, and pleas to be safe and take care, to seek help if necessary. However, Hermione calculated the risk. They could not bring anyone else in on the plan. Reconnaissance and recovery were the key words to the scheme, and everyone knew the more Gryffindors together, the more reckless they would be. Nor would Remus entertain the idea of sending his pregnant wife into the ministry to help. Hermione snorted at his high handed 'concern' for her safety.
I thank you for my part of the worry, but please, we both know you don't truly trust me at this moment, Remus. To pretend otherwise at this point is merely superfluous and rather condescending, she had wrote. In her other journal, Minerva outright laughed at her gutsy return. Hermione continued with, The boys and I will be executing a rather risky plan and wish for as few people in on it as possible. By the end of September, you will know some of it. We are taking every precaution necessary. She explained the exit plan, without going into detail, and found that Kingsley had the most pertinent bit of advice.
Be sure to apparate to several different locations before returning to your base. He instructed. Make them different for each one of you, and make them timed and random. You don't want anyone following you to your safe house and making you flee.
Exhausted, as she always felt those days, Hermione settled back in her chair, deep in thought. They couldn't do anything more than plan, and planning would be quite tedious. The boys were working out their surveillance schedule, which Hermione requested to be left out of as she worked on perfecting the containment charm. She asked Minerva to speak with Professor Flitwick, and see if he'd have any amazing insights.
Thus far, the minute tweaks gleaned from the half dwarf helped bring the bubble closer. Tinkering away with the spell equation, she hoped that it would be the correct combination. Nothing seemed to work, and the longer this went, the longer she would be with that thing wreaking havoc on her boys. It didn't help that Ron acted the petulant child earlier, or that Harry began to catch cabin fever from him. Nor did her body cooperate, feeling achy and sore the whole day. A soak and to lay down in bed were her only wishes at this point, but she pressed on.
Amidst the burning candle light, illuminating the room with their warm, orange light, a groan announced her settling back into the stuffed, winged chair. Fingers flicked and, with an exhausted glee, the pages of equations floated around her. Try as she might, her yawns became more pronounced. Eyes sluggishly followed a complex neutralizing charm until she blinked.
The dark, inky sky twinkled above in their merry dance as night creatures wove their comforting song. Distant laughter and music trickled through the balmy night air. A warm, distinctly masculine body cradled her own, his warmth relaxing her aches and pains. The same quilt from the festival draped over them as their arms twined together on top. For a moment, there was only silence. As with the festival, Hermione did not consciously control her actions; she experienced them. Her head would not crane as she wished, nor would words come forth, though she wished to talk and question.
Instead, her body molded to his, quivering with each lazy stroke up and down her covered form. The Goddess purred and preened as her God followed each curve, each valley with equal attention. Eyes closed in relaxed contentment, and neck bent to one side, allowing him greater access to nuzzle. A smug, feline smile bloomed upon her face as the man radiated acceptance, affection, and satisfaction. One arm held her, firm and possessive, as the other continued to roam.
"I see you approve of me still," Hermione's voice murmured in the thrice twined voice of the Goddess.
"How could I ever not?" His rumbled response as his hand settled to merely stroke the same place.
"A woman never knows if one night pleases, and the next night disappoints," she murmured, head turned to whisper in his ear.
"You have not displeased me," he tightened his hold on her for a moment. "Not in this, nor any form."
For a time, they laid together, listening to the night's symphony. Her fingers tangled with his, the steady beat of his heart lulling her to sleep. Yet, Hermione's Goddess did not quite succumb to the night's enchantments. As their joint minds whirled as one, she felt his sighs and gentle attentions. A light flashed to life in her mind's eye. A hidden smile tugged at her lips as she nuzzled him in return, flushed with a secret unearthed.
"I know your deepest desire, my God," her Goddess whispered. His sudden still tension caused her to pause for a moment, before she continued, "And it will be my greatest pleasure to grant it, should you claim me as your own."
A few minutes of quiet tension passed as the man weighed her words within his mind. Slowly, and under her affectionate ministrations, did he relax once more. The smile never left her face as her thoughts began to slow down once more. A deep, rumbling sigh whooshed by her neck as she felt him hold her close, his nose buried in her hair.
"And it will be nothing but my greatest wish to do so," his soft voice reverberated through his chest into her back.
"So mote it be, my God," she replied, equally quiet and solemn.
His hold tightened around her in answer. The pleasant sensation of warmth and protection curled around her being so complete that Hermione marveled. She wished the moment to last for an eternity, yet knew it as fragile as gossamer. Soon, the calm serenity caught up with Hermione. Safe, accepted and desired, she fell into a deep sleep to the sound of crickets and far off laughter, wrapped in the arms of her own God.
oOo oOo oOo
The next morning greeted her as depressingly mundane. Gone was the firefly darkness, balmy, summer breeze, and all consuming magic of the festival. Instead, she found a particularly worried Harry and irritable Ron. The morning followed the same cadence as the previous weeks past. Research and planning in the library, followed by lunch. This day, they worked out where and how many jumps each person would need to make before deemed 'safe.'
This followed with more experimentation of the containment charm. Then tea, as an overly solicitous Kreacher affectionately took care of Harry and Hermione while tolerating the 'ill behaved Weasley boy.' Hermione couldn't agree more, yet said nothing. By the evening, thoroughly overworked, the boys retired to the front sitting room while Hermione remained in the library.
She regarded her journals, set upon the desk with great care. The Order knew nothing of importance or value that would help them with this task. She already received the pertinent information from Kingsley and Tonks. There was little else that needed to be done on that front. She wrote her daily report, as dull and unchanging as the others. Words of thanks and updates on other fronts scripted into existence. Minerva provided the Hogwarts front, as Remus relayed what endeavors the others took.
What Hermione really wanted to know would not lay in the black phoenix journal. She turned towards her own journal. Golden lines danced in the light of the fire, contemplating her oddly lucid dream the night previous. It felt real, as if something transported her from right here, right now, to their cosy clearing in the festival grounds. Yet, she awoke with nothing more than desire and the lingering relaxed contentment.
I have a question, Hermione began.
I never would have guessed, Minerva's loopy script responded a moment later.
A wry smile painted Hermione's face as she leaned over the journal. She wrote. About her dream, what happened, suddenly knowing something like that about another person. If I am right about who he is, Hermione wrote, Then this is both surprising and a bit like an invasion of privacy. Thinking about it, you would never know that he would want something like this. Then again, looking deeper, this is just the type of thing he would want. It's all rather convoluted and confusing, though.
You say you went a the Midsummer dreamscape, yes? Augusta asked after a moment.
Yes. It felt so real, she replied.
And your Goddess interacted with his Dark God, the elder Longbottom summarized.
It was quite lovely, the young, brunette woman blushed as she wrote. To realize that kind of relationship, to live it, would be a dream come true.
Aye, and it is within your reach, lass, Minerva's writing answered. The type of dream you are having is as real as these journals. Your God and yourself need to connect before the next holiday, and the ancient magics know and accept this. This is their way of bringing you two together. What people don't understand is that the bonds between a Dark God and Goddess is desired. It brings more pure magic into the world, strengthens the natural leys, and produces more magical beings. By making the union something we desire, the ancient magic is continuing and strengthening itself. In turn, it will protect and enrich the lives of their bonded couples.
What Minerva leave out, Hermione, Augusta chimed in not long afterwards, Is the fact that all magical bindings are some derivative of the original vows. Through every magical marriage, a facsimile of the protection and harmony is invoked. Most modern day bindings, such as Weasley hand-fasting we attended, only brings about the minimal amount of power needed. What you would share with your Dark God, should he accept you as you have him, will be far more powerful, with farther reaching consequences. My Edmund and I were much the same as you and your mate. Needed a bit of a push.
Don't worry, lass. All will be well on this front, I am sure. What you learn in your dreams are very real, and usually very private, the tabby cat added after a few moments. If it makes you feel any better, he will grow to know and understand you on such a private level through these dreams as well. Mate of magic are what inspired the myths of soul mates. Everything will align just so.
Hermione leaned back and thought about what she learned. It made an odd sort of sense, despite everything else. Magic was energy, and energy circulated through things. When the ley lines and ancient magics made another magical being, it requires something in return to replenish the energy used to create said being. Modern day bindings do not generate the amount of raw power needed to replace what was lost, and thus often results in less magic being present in children resulting from the union.
Stronger bindings were rarely used, as they required things like fidelity and protection. Paring down on these ties resulted in weaker magic being present, both in the marriage bond and the offspring. Of those who still practiced the older bindings, most notably were families like the Malfoys. Even then, ignoring the traditional feasts and festivals as plebeian and beneath them made conception and healthy pregnancies hard to come by, with the children born a mix of decently powerful and pitiful, if not outright squibs.
What do I do if he rejects me in the end? Hermione chewed her lower lip as she waited for a reply.
Then you disappear. We will make it happen, if you need it, Augusta stated, frank and bold. Those of pure magic will always be accepted in the right places. Keep on creating those spells you are so good at, and you will find a home anywhere.
With a final good night to both of the women, Hermione closed her journal and leaned back in her wingback chair. Thoughts swirled in and out of her mind as she thought about the consequences. Young though she was, Hermione knew what she wanted out of life. Before the ministry disappointed her, she saw a quiet, ordinary outcome, finally catching Ron's eye, marrying a few years out of Hogwarts, working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, having a couple children, before growing old together. After the Umbridge fiasco, ministry work did not appeal to her. Instead, a life in academia called to her, though the rest stayed the same.
Now, though, she looked past all those and saw a journey that enticed her. To join with her mate, to get through this war, and, together, make a new life. Where and what they would do depended on the outcome. And him. Hermione knew none other would satisfy her, that she would take no other lover. The certainty scared her. It excited her. Curls splayed upon a pillow, and all other thoughts turned to dust.
oOo oOo oOo
Days flew by faster than Hermione would have liked. Between the boys, her spells, and her correspondences, the sun set came sooner each day. She dreamed of him again, though nothing but the sound of music and the feel of his hands followed her from Morpheus' realm. Three days before their planned excursion, the trio sat around the kitchen table, a meaty shepherd's pie out before them. Each bite tasted like heaven, a soft delighted sigh left her before she heard snickering.
"What?" she hunched defensively over her food.
"Like your food tonight, Hermione?" Harry grinned at the girl.
"It's good, why?" she asked, frowning at the teen.
"So good you want to marry it?" An equally amused Ron asked.
"Well, it'd be more considerate than some people who will remain unnamed," Hermione sniffed, turning towards her plate once more.
"Be careful there, you might gain some weight," Ron snarked.
"No need to be nasty," the witch muttered before shoveling another bite into her mouth.
"It's alright, mate," Harry hummed, eyes twinkling, "Not all of us are as rich or juicy as this pie."
This drew a reluctant laugh from the bickering pair, as dinner continued. Hunched over the table, a self conscious hand ran over her abdomen. A single, frustrated sigh quickly followed, self castigating her lack of self-esteem. The meal ended in much the same way, bickering occasionally, but always ending with a smile. Kreacher served tea as Harry smoothed out the map, and Hermione brought out her lists.
Every day after supper, they ran through the plan, as they called it. Hermione produced the three vials of polyjuice, assembling a 'kit' for each person, complete with a change of clothes, Harry's glasses, and a portkey to the inside of Hermione's old house, which she warded. Hermione, disguised as Umbrige's assistant, would go into her office, duplicate the locket, take any incriminating information, and get out. Harry and Ron would gather more information for the Order, sleuthing into different areas, and hoping to cover more ground.
Soon, the mid September morning dawned, bright and crisp. Gathered at the wooden table, the boys sat catatonic. Hermione hummed to herself, being suffused with the warmth of a lucid dream, as she stirred her tea. Grunts and grumbles answered her questions, as they went to get ready. The witch clucked and shook her head, thumbing through the Prophet for anything interesting.
"Are you both ready?" She asked half an hour later, when Ron finally stumbled downstairs.
"Let's just get this over with," the redhead groaned.
"Right," Harry nodded, awake and alert. "Remember our way points before coming back here."
"And be sure to take your bags, in case we get separated and can't come back here," Hermione added, handing out the packed satchels. "Also, don't be a hero. Get out as soon as you feel the polyjuice start to run out. We don't need to make a media storm."
"Yes, mum," Ron rolled his eyes.
"Don't forget to wash behind your ears," she stuck her tongue out at the boy, before twirling away.
As one, they apparated to the alley by the telephone booth. Squashed under the invisibility cloak, they waited. And waited. For twenty minutes, people appeared and disappeared, though none were their marks. The first to arrive was Harry's, who promptly hit the ground and levitated behind a corner. Next, Hermione's decoy, and finally, Ron's. Bound and asleep, the trio looked and frowned at one another, stripped their targets, and prepared the potions.
"Bottom's up," Harry grinned and downed his vial.
The distinctive bubbling and twisting of polyjuice always left Hermione's skin crawling. Yet, she fit into the odd work robe that resembled a skirt suit. With a shrug, she and the boys took the ID's, pinned them and entered the phone booth. Uncomfortable conversation followed, ministry workers pushing and pulling them in all ways. As they entered the Atrium, Hermione heard Ron yelp about his wife, tugged away by a low ranking Death Eater to 'perform his duties.' Harry went into the lift on his way towards Umbrige's office, just in case it was there. For her part, a voice she could have lived without hearing again called out.
"Martha! There you are, almost late for the first of the day's hearings, dear, that won't do," the saccharine sweet tones of Dolores Umbridge grated upon her nerves. "Now, here is the case list and files, I expect you to be taking excellent notes. We have some very well known muggle-borns attending today."
"Of course, Madam," Hermione demurred, head down as she followed the toad woman deeper into the bowels of the Ministry.
"Remember, the creatures we see today are nothing but magic stealing miscreants," the woman continued, as if Hermione didn't exist. "Those who read 'pure' really know how to fool our spells, but worry not dear, that is why we are here. Ah, and here are the results of the blood parchments, don't drop them now."
"Yes, Madam," her answer, trying to keep a growing smile off her face.
"And, of course, once we have a verdict, you place them to be filed away good and proper. Make sure give a few of the blank blood parchments to the guards. They know how to administer the tests, of course. A drop of blood is never too hard to receive. The folders with red tabs are from yesterday night. Be sure to look over and file those lunch."
Demanding bitch, aren't you? Hermione thought, only nodding before entering the courtroom. Spartan as every other government building, the stark lighting cast harsh shadows across the room. Striding through the middle, Umbridge appeared more out of place than ever, happily chatting to Hermione the whole way. When they settled in for the first case, a quick glance reassured her that the locket lay in open sight. Deft fingers moved through the pile of folders, and found her own, tabbed in red and ready to be filed.
"Send in the first person on the list, Salvidor," Umbridge called out.
Fingers opened the requisite file and handed it to the hideous woman next to her. As the court proceedings went, a disgusting caricature, fingers lifted and read her own records. Everything appeared in order, all documents open that needed to be, others resolutely sealed until an appropriate time. Hermione glanced to the side and nearly wretched at the sight of near orgasmic pleasure Umbridge wore as the woman in the center of the chamber begged to not be carted off to Azkaban. Surreptitiously, a small pile of empty blood parchments fluttered to the ground.
"I'm sorry, Madam Umbridge," she mumbled, bending over just as the woman next to her bent to pick up what strayed across her.
In a moment of Gryffindor recklessness, Hermione bumped into the toad. On the way down to retrieve the fallen papers, a deft motion hooked the chain as she 'accidentally' cut herself. Platitudes and apologies spewed forth from the polyjuiced witch as the other bumbled and threatened in her oh-so-nice way. During a part of the lecture, Hermione replicated the locket, handing the fake to Umbridge, before leaving to 'file' the proper papers.
Erratic beats thumped in her throat, horcrux slid into the front of her pocket. She walked into the Hall of Records, and took a moment to regroup. A mental inventory revealed Hermione still had time to look more thoroughly. Eyes ate up the information, though most were known to her. Many of the inner circle of the Order were within the pile, including her own. With a lack of blood parchment. She gathered one of the bloodied pieces of paper, displaying all pertinent information, and placed it within her official files to be sealed away. A small grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.
With moments to spare, Hermione squeezed her way to the Atrium, saying something about catching ill. Ducking and weaving, she felt oddly like a salmon fighting upstream. Head down, feet hurried to the nearest lift, and left. Inside, one of the men, someone she remembered from the misguided attempt to find Sirius just years ago, tried to chat her up. She stumbled and mumbled, trying to get as far away from the man as possible. Thankfully, he took in her green face and accepted her story of coming down with a violent bit of illness and not wanting to spread it.
She dashed out of the phone booth, and around the corner where. A couple flicks of her wand redressed the woman in her own clothes, putting Hermione into a different outfit entirely. Seeing the other two there, and unclothed, did nothing for her troubled state of mind, and, with a crack, she was off. First to Tottenham Court, past the hustle and bustle of shops and cafes. In an alley behind one such shop, a crack led her to the subdivision where her grandparents used to live. Down green arched, familiar lanes, Hermione strolled in placid silence. Turn to the left, and she left without a trace to a town in the north of England her family used to vacation.
One, final pull through the ether released Hermione upon the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place in tact, and with no hanger ons. Eggs on face followed her disillusionment charm before she stepped over the threshold. Silence laid over the hardwood floors and dank, depressing walls. She creaked into the parlor, and found no one. Sneaking to the best of her ability throughout the house, Hermione finally settled within the library, strong wards in place over the front and back entrances and library door.
Without even a clock to watch, Hermione sunk back into her chair. Taking out the innocuous locket, she placed it on the table. According to her calculations, the charm she developed would hold for some time, though not impervious to all the spells she wanted. A deep breath in to center the mind, and long exhale calmed her mind into a serviceable space. Vinewood swished and jabbed at the locket, spell on her tongue. Opalescent light constricted and contoured around the object until completely coated, flashing for a moment, the spell faded into a barely noticeable film.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the hour, echoing through the quiet house. Panic gripped her mind for a moment. The boys were not supposed to be out this long, they were supposed to be back by now. A gulping swallow slid down her dry throat as she settled down to wait, actual journal in her hand as she observed the results. Halfway through a diagnostic spell, her wards on the front door registered the entrance of two people. Laughter and jubilation, the likes of which often followed a well played - dangerous, yet victorious- game of quidditch, overtook the silence.
Hermione stood ready, disillusioned and defensive, when the two boys crashed into the library with nary a worry. Within a second, both were stuck and bound to the walls, gagged and blindfolded.