A/N: Hey everyone. My apologies that it's taken me so long to post a chapter. I feel like I owe you an explanation, so here goes... To be completely honest, I lost two friends within two weeks to suicide, and frankly, it's been really hard to find the motivation to write. I'm getting back on the horse now, so thank you so much for your patience and understanding. Hope you enjoy this chapter. xx
Hermione opened her eyes to the familiar wooden roof of her parent's home in Ashwood. Her brow furrowed as her sleep-groggy brain attempted to make sense of what she was seeing. Her nose filled with the scents of sawdust and freshly baked bread, and she heard starlings chirping from the nest that was nestled under the outer sill of her bedroom window. She sat up slowly, wincing as the early morning sun shone directly in her eyes. She raised a hand to shield her vision from the brightness, and as she did so, her hand passed straight through the illusion.
Her eyes widened as the vision slowly crumbled, dissipating like smoke as the picture of her old life streamed away into nothingness. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm her frantically beating heart as she watched the last traces of magic slip away. Her chest ached with every breath that she took, prompting a trickle of confusion and unease to slip through her veins.
It felt so real. How could I have made something like that..?
Draco. He did something last night. There was magic that streamed out of me then, too. What on earth has he gotten himself into?
Strangely, she could have sworn that she could taste a green apple.
With that thought, she groaned and shifted, placing her feet on the ground. Even though she knew that the vision of Ashwood had been nothing but an illusion, she couldn't ignore the homesickness that flared to life in her belly. Her concern about the magic quickly took a backseat to the ache in her chest.
"My kingdom for a letter from home. Anything normal would do me some good," she muttered, standing up and stretching. Half-desperately, she wished for a piece of her former life that she could actually hold. The magic had shaken her badly; she couldn't calm her whirling thoughts.
Please. Any piece of home will do.
Hermione stared at the bright beam of light that shone under her heavy wooden door for a full minute, hoping that she could wake up from this strange dream that had become her life. Unsurprisingly, nothing changed. Her head felt like it was filled with sawdust, and her eyelids were so heavy that she felt like she could sleep for another day.
Bloody hell.
She shook her head to clear any lingering cobwebs from her brain and turned to her trunk of belongings. Hermione's hand had barely touched the iron lock when a sudden popping sound made her jump. Her hand burned with a tiny electric spark, but she was too startled to care. She spun around with wild eyes as a letter drifted down onto her pallet.
It had appeared out of thin air.
She was reaching for it before her brain clued into what she was doing. Hermione snatched it up, tearing the envelope open with shaking hands. She scooted over to the sunlight that shone through the crack under the door and clumsily unfolded the parchment. Ron's distinctive chicken scratch greeted her from an ink-soaked page, and she sank down onto the frigid stone floor, reading the information within the letter with a greedy heart. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that Ron had truly written it.
Her hands fell into her lap as she considered Ron's words. There was something about the tone of the letter that nagged at her; something weighed on Ron's mind. He'd clearly scratched out swathes of writing, and she traced her fingers over the patches of pitch-black parchment.
Her heart beat steadily against her ribcage, and she closed her eyes, delving into the bubble of unease that simmered in her belly. As she concentrated, her heartbeat sped up slightly, prompting a slow-moving trickle of nervous energy to seep through her body.
"Revelio," she breathed, allowing the word to seep out of her mouth. She didn't know if that was the right word to use, but something in her gut prompted the Latin to slip from her tongue. The ache in her chest was heavier now, but she mistakenly attributed that to anticipation.
Her eyes snapped open as a flood of warmth washed out of her mouth, spreading as a tiny wave of silver light. As she watched, transfixed, the ink blotches on the page faded away, and the letters hidden underneath revealed themselves.
She read the entirely of Ron's letter again. Her jaw dropped.
Her first emotion was sorrow; Ron was lonely without her. His strange confession of his innermost thoughts didn't bother her in the slightest, in fact, she wondered if it was too late to flee back to her village and tell him everything. There was a tiny part of her that was still fearful that he'd be terrified of her, that he would turn his back on their friendship once he found out what she'd done.
She couldn't deny that there was also a part of her that had always assumed that he would be by her side, no matter what; Hermione didn't need to be told that feeling that way was selfish.
Clearly, Ron had kept several secrets of his own.
She understood everything that he was trying to say. Hermione wasn't sure whether she'd use the word "love" to describe the deep connection that she and Ron shared, but the thought of Lavender and Ron walking together, getting married, and having children ignited a strange flicker of anger that frustrated and confused her in equal measure. Her thoughts all centered around the painful question of "what if".
She pressed a hand to her mouth. I don't have time to fret over what could have been. Either I accept that I will die and kill Draco if I leave, or I stay and try to find a way back to Ashwood once I'm finished here.
Neither thought brought her much comfort. After sitting quietly for a few moments and still coming to no satisfying conclusion, she tucked the letter into the top of her stockings and quietly got dressed.
Her mood continued to plunge downwards as she trudged up the steps to Slughorn's tower. Hermione yawned hugely as she opened the door to the workshop. To her relief, it was deserted. She quickly got to work, determined to take her thoughts off of Ron and Ashwood.
She minced ginger and peppermint, infusing them into an oil by the warmth of a large pillar candle. She added several more herbs to the mixture before drizzling in a generous spoonful of honey and then pouring the decoction into a bottle. Hermione glanced over at the door, then quickly strode across the workshop's rough floor and turned the key in the lock. She returned to her seat and took a deep breath; she wasn't looking forward to activating the magic in her blood. It was different this morning, wilder somehow.
"Lumae lumen," she muttered, placing her hand over the hot, flickering candle and directing the force of her will towards the green mixture in the bottle. The now-familiar rush of magic rustled through the room, ruffling her hair and absorbing into the tincture. The bottle began to glow faintly, pulsing as if it had a heartbeat. Hermione hurriedly snatched her hand back from the candle and blew hard on the hot spot on her palm.
She let out a tiny, unladylike oath of pain and annoyance and hopped off of her stool.
Okay, first, I have to find a way to make it convincing that Draco's recovered from his illness. Then, I have to figure out how in we're going to live long enough to-
Just as she was about to leave the room, she felt Tom Riddle's diary let out a tiny pulse of magic. She froze, staring at the bookshelf where it was hidden with wide eyes.
It pulsed again, and she secreted Draco's fake medicine inside a small pocket in her skirt. Carefully, she edged over to the bookshelf and pressed the two hidden knots in the grain of the wood that concealed the secret drawer.
The diary glowed faintly, and she almost couldn't bring herself to touch the book. It was different this time; it didn't feel like it was mindlessly calling to her, it felt like it was somehow attempting to communicate. It was no less insistent than before, however, and was letting out so much magic that she was afraid to leave it as it was; she still didn't know why Slughorn had the book to start with.
"Narcissa..?" She asked quietly, peering into the small drawer. "Is that you?"
The book pulsed again, which Hermione hesitantly translated as a "yes".
Feeling only slightly less stressed, Hermione slowly reached out and palmed the book. It vibrated violently, shaking itself open to a page that she hadn't read before.
Her gaze skimmed over the entry. Her jaw dropped. The entry had been penned more than sixty years ago, but the words inked on the page in shimmering green ink almost made her drop the book in shock.
Most regrettably, I have committed an error; I admit that I was not as thorough as I ought to have been when judging the strength of my servants. As a result, the ritual bound my apprentice to a Fae. She was not strong enough to resist the allure of the wicked creature, and as a result, she instantly fell prey to its silver tongue. She did not last another fortnight.
She died horribly; I was most relieved when her screams ceased. It appears that the two creatures were bonded, in both body and soul. My only satisfaction lies in the simultaneous death of the Seelie- I now have an entire body to harvest. The blood is most potent, however I have yet to test the properties of the bones, organs, and brain. It will do for the time being; in due course, I shall require more Fae flesh to continue my experiments.
To summarize: it appears that there are consequences beyond what my previous experiments have revealed, however, that only strengthens my resolve. I was forced to explain myself to the council today; a dishonour that I am not eager to revisit. The fool Flamel seeks to invalidate my research, and I must admit that I am tiring of his interference. I am close to conquering death, whereas he is content to treat the ailments and aches of the weak and old. It does not matter that he is over a century old.
The simplicity of alchemy pales in comparison to what I have learned while searching outside of our realm. My ancestors were correct to seek power within other dominions. I have been cheated out of my birthright, and it is for that reason that I shall never cease my pursuit of the fae.
Flamel's interferences and ridiculous sorcerer's stone will not change that fact. He has created a flawed prototype, nothing more. The gall of the man- to name his weak creation "The Elixir of Life" is most insulting and misleading. I refuse to entertain the notion that a French peasant has outwitted me.
I will continue with my research in secret. The fae that I have bound to this realm refuses to speak of her magic; we shall see how long it takes to loosen her tongue. The aging Duke of Sussex has offered his dungeon, and for that, I will reward him with a small token of the lams'eh elixir. He may yet prove himself to be a loyal servant.
Hermione shut the book and quickly stuffed it back into its hiding place. Her mind whirred quickly over what she'd learned.
What an arrogant ass. He clearly assumed that no one would read his journal. Flamel could be the key to saving us. I need to find out who he is and where to find him. He might still be alive. If not, there may be someone who knows where the stone is. I wonder if Draco-no, I can't tell him about this yet.
She took off running, wrenching the door to the laboratory open and darting down the steps that led to the main level of the keep. She rubbed at her chest as she ran; her lungs ached something fierce.
Draco paced, staring irritably out the window. He'd expected Hermione to come by with her miracle cure hours ago. He'd returned to the castle shortly before dawn, unable to sleep due to the rush of magic that pulsed through his veins. He'd sent Slughorn away, denied his father an audience, and spurned the page sent by Lady Parkinson.
He wasn't in any mood to be civil.
Unwilling to wait any longer, he strode to the door of his chambers and flung it open. The guards, naturally, jumped to attention as he glowered at them.
"My Lord, how can we be of service?" The burly man on the left asked hesitantly; Draco was only mildly annoyed by his timidity, he knew that he'd consistently been a prat over the course of the last three months. They had good reason to be wary around him.
Abruptly, he changed his mind. He was going to look for Granger himself.
He glared at them for a few long seconds before he slammed the door closed. Draco strode into his bedchamber and snatched up his cloak. There was no time to waste.
He returned to the main door and wrenched it open once more. The unfortunate guards jumped to attention as he swept past them. He walked quickly to the end of the hallway before turning into a small side passage and taking a small, little known staircase that led up to Slughorn's tower.
His boots clacked quietly on the hewn stone of the corridor as he purposefully made his way towards the workshop. He didn't bother knocking; he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
To his surprise and annoyance, Granger was nowhere to be seen. His eyes narrowed as he took in the still-warm candle and the scent of herbs that still permeated the air. Underneath the scent of medicine however, he picked up a faint trace of magic. It smelt like burnt sugar; she was using earth magic.
Damn. I will have to teach her the dangers of using it so carelessly. Anyone with a hint of magic in their blood will be able to trace the power back to her.
He braced his hands against the worktable, glaring at the neat bottles of unknown substances and oils that stood on the far edge. Draco wasn't sure what bothered him more: the fact that Granger was nowhere to be found, or that she'd used magic and then left without telling him where she was going.
His head snapped up as another thought occurred to him. Somehow, he knew where she was.
The library. If she has questions, that's where she'll be.
Without a backwards glance, he left the room.
Hermione flipped impatiently through the pages of yet another genealogical record. She sifted through the family trees described in the book, forcing her gritty eyes to focus. She had found no mention of a man called "Flamel".
He was a peasant then. None of these manuscripts mention anything about families that aren't noble. They've even burned off the names of those who left the family to marry commoners; at least I assume that's what the marks are for.
Another tome greeted her as she pushed a finished volume aside. Hermione had chosen some of the oldest families in Britain and Europe to research; somewhere, there had to be something that she could use. She opened the new book with renewed focus and ignored the table of contents completely. She was interested in family trees, not the long and detailed history of land ownership between the Gaunts and the Notts.
She skimmed down the page, chewing ferociously at her lip as she read. She accidentally bit down too hard as her eyes darted over the name "Riddle". Hermione clapped a hand to her now swollen and throbbing lip as she leaned closer to the page.
The sons of the family had been named Tom for eight generations. They appeared to be vassal lords to the Duke, maintaining lands that housed a small town called Little Hangleton.
Odd. The diary suggests that he's found a way to extend his life. If that's the case, then he's well over two centuries old. The amount of subterfuge that it would take to conceal this secret would require the cooperation of several people..? There's only so far that a resemblance to a father could take a son. At least one of the Dukes of Sussex was in on the secret too.
The thought send a shiver of revulsion down her spine. There was only a tiny, shrinking doubt in her mind that Riddle had found a way to cheat death by means of stolen magic. Her finger traced upwards in the family tree, stopping at the names at the top.
Panic spiked through her veins, acrid and sharp.
She'd never heard of the Peverells, but there was something in her blood that reacted to the words. Another name made her pause, but she couldn't focus on it enough to wonder at its significance.
Magic pulsed through her skin as she thought. Hermione took a deep breath, fighting to keep the stray wisps of silvery power that she'd seen the night before from rising off of her skin.
Three brothers. Riddle mentioned something about ancestors. How could he have knowledge of how to trap Fae-
Her head snapped up as a male figure threw himself into the chair opposite her at the great oak table where she sat. Her brows shot upwards as Draco glared at her. She hated that even when he was pouting, he cut a striking figure in a pair of jet-black trousers and a billowing white shirt.
"Uh, hello-"
"We were supposed to meet this morning," he interrupted her, clipping his words to convey his irritation. She clenched her jaw slightly in an attempt to keep an annoyed reply at bay and chose to shrug instead.
"It is morning," she reminded him gently, returning to her reading. She darted a furtive glance around the room through the curtain of her hair. They were alone in the library, and for that she was glad, but she couldn't ignore that someone could walk in at any time. Silently, she urged him to leave; it would be incredibly strange to see the Duke's son speaking to the court physician's apprentice alone.
She could tell that he was glowering at her without looking at him; his stormy gaze burned into her from across the polished wood of the table. His finger tapped impatiently on the cover of one of the manuscripts in front of him, and Hermione forced herself to take a deep breath and meet his gaze.
"Do you mind?"
"Why are you in here? I thought that we had made an arrangement," he said darkly. "You used magic in the workshop-"
"I found something that I needed to research. I mixed the cure for your fake illness, I just need time to figure out how we're going to make it convincing. The magic was for your benefit, by the way."
As per usual, he didn't appear to be impressed.
"Clearly, you've found something better to occupy your time than our health," he said quietly; his tone was flinty, conveying the depths of his annoyance. Hermione resisted the urge to shiver at his coldly indifferent tone. His hair shimmered in the early morning sun, bathing him in golden light.
She was deeply irritated by the way that the sunlight lit up his lithe form, giving him an ethereal glow. It reminded her of the issue of her magic; she still didn't have the foggiest idea of what to do about that.
"Your mother showed me something this morning," she replied, savouring her tiny flicker of triumph as his eyes widened and he leaned forwards. "I have a new lead."
"Granger-"
"I'll tell you what it was, but you have to tell me why magic was dissipating off of my skin last night after midnight," she continued, refusing to let the tiny voice in her head that chanted for her to shut up dissuade her.
"None of your business-"
"Yes, actually, it is. What if I didn't have my own room? We can't be careless, my Lord," she replied peevishly, glaring at him with as much irritation as she could muster. Her eyes prickled from exhaustion and the weight of unshed tears, but she determinedly looked him in the eye. It was a small comfort to see that he looked as tired as she felt.
He watched her for a moment. She could have sworn that he was slightly taken aback, but she wasn't interested in deciphering his facial expressions.
"I made two deals last night. I was close to death, and the magic that the whores were able to give me is enough to sustain both of us for a while," he finally replied, softening slightly as he leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps your body was reacting to the transfer of energy."
She stared at him for a moment, more than slightly offended by his casual use of the word "whore", but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her uncomfortable.
"Why didn't you tell me?" She asked softly, suddenly bamboozled by his casual mention of his brush with death. Her fear of dying paled in comparison to the shame and frustration that welled up in her chest. He'd said it so casually, so nonchalantly, that she felt as if he doubted her ability to find a solution to their problem.
That was just another tiny twist in the tightly wound ball of frustration and stress that had quite happily made itself at home in her belly.
"You didn't need to know," Draco said sharply, watching her with an expression that rapidly flickered between irritated, regretful, and confused. "You couldn't have helped."
"How do you know that?" Inwardly, she winced at the accusation in her tone.
Her question didn't help assuage the riot of emotions that she was trying frantically to compartmentalize; to shove far away until she felt well enough equipped to handle them. In fact, she suddenly found herself thirsting for a reason to make a scene; it was so unlike her that she clamped her lips together and knotted her shaking hands together on her lap.
Her pride had reared up like a reckless lion, swirling through her bloodstream like an ice-cold spill of adrenaline. It took all of her concentration to keep the magic that lay underneath the surface of her skin from reacting to Draco's presence; being around him made it stronger.
The more I use the magic, the more unpredictable it becomes, she thought wildly, forcing herself to concentrate on Draco's reply.
"I didn't have enough time to waste. Any time that we spent wasting our breath would have reduced my chances. Don't twist my words."
His curt reply took all of the wind out of her sails; of course he'd been afraid to lose any time. She hadn't been in any shape to help him, not with her exhaustion. For the second time, she felt compelled to apologize, but she couldn't seem to push the words past the lump in her throat. At a loss, she simply nodded.
Her gaze dropped back to the beautifully animated page before her. She was so engrossed with studying every painstakingly painted line that she missed the softening of Draco's expression. He watched her for a moment with something akin to respect for the first time; had she looked up, she would have caught a pivotal moment in their partnership.
"Granger," he murmured, leaning forwards over the table. "You wouldn't have been at ease with what I had to do."
She finally raised her gaze, afraid to speak. She didn't trust herself at the moment; for some reason she felt like she was walking an unsteady tightrope.
Hermione wanted nothing more than to return to her room and spend some much needed time alone; the last thing that she wanted was an argument. Her tears were too close to the surface, and she feared that she would get emotional and piss Draco off even more. She knew that they couldn't afford any tears in their excruciatingly fragile working relationship.
"I see," she whispered, sweeping her unruly curls behind her ear. "You went into town. Did you eat an apple, by the way?"
He didn't respond, simply watched her with an enigmatic expression in his ancient eyes. Hermione knew him well enough to see the question in his gaze, but she decided against answering it; it wasn't the time.
"I understand. Something changed last night, and it frightened me. I think our connection goes deeper than just a transfer of magic," Hermione continued, toying with a loose thread on her cuff as she spoke.
Her voice was ragged with exhaustion, but she plowed onwards, determined to finish what she'd started. "Last night, I awoke to a rush of magic. This morning, it created an illusion that looked exactly –no, it felt- exactly like my home."
"And why do you think that would interest me?" Draco asked softly, conveying his disinterest through a carefully disdainful toss of his hair off of his forehead. The warmth in his expression had been thoroughly wiped away. "That doesn't matter-"
"Listen, please," she said sharply, raking her hair away from her face. "I created an illusion in my sleep, Draco. I need to learn to control the magic before our secret gets out."
"What do you suggest?"
"I don't know," she answered miserably, waving a hand at him. "I was hoping that you would have an idea."
"I will teach you to use the magic, after all, I gave you my word," he said slowly, flicking his gaze up to meet hers. "But I don't know anything about a bond that goes beyond the transfer of magic."
"Riddle was conducting experiments, trying to bond a human to a fae and keep them both alive. That's what your mother showed me. Flamel showed up in the text again, and I'm determined to find out who he is and where he lives, if he's still alive. I'm sure that he knows something-"
"I think I preferred it when you were obsessed with destroying me," Draco drawled softly, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on the table. "We can't waste time chasing down some knobbly old human who's probably too senile to find his own peck-"
Hermione's hand flew up, making a comically loud slapping sound as her palm collided with Draco's mouth. He shut up instantly, and glared at her with his strange silvery eyes as she finally snapped her gaze up to meet his. Triumph burned quickly through her veins at his thunderous expression. As soon as she was sure that he wasn't going to yell or say anything uncouth, she dropped her hand.
She sighed. "We shouldn't discuss this any further here, anyone could walk in. I'll meet you at the oak at midnight."
He opened his mouth as if to retort, but she determinedly ignored him and returned to her reading. He sat with her for a while longer, staring at her and huffing quietly with annoyance as she continued to peruse the shelves and tomes that the Duke had set aside for the court's use. Eventually, Hermione snuck a peek through the bookshelves at the table; after an hour, he'd left.
Her relief tasted like guilt in her mouth as she leaned back against the unyielding wood of the bookcase. She hugged her arms to her stomach as she let out a long, calming breath. Hermione was thankful that Draco wasn't in a mood to be terribly ornery; he'd accepted that she wasn't willing to talk today.
Her heart hammered anxiously in her chest as she returned to her seat. She had until midnight to find answers to her most pressing questions.
Suddenly, a new thought occurred to her.
She jumped to her feet and ran towards the sprawling grounds. Her hair flew out behind her as she moved, dashing around corners and clattering glacelessly down stone stairwells.
The crisp fall air immediately swirled into her lungs as she finally made it outside. She coughed, trying to will away the irritation in her chest as she trotted down the hill that led to Hagrid's hut. She'd only been there once before, but her need to learn the answers to two important questions was far more powerful than her hesitation.
She paused for a second before knocking on the rough wooden door, hoping against all hope that Hagrid was at home. Hermione wasn't disappointed as his thundering footsteps rattled the front step where she stood. The door creaked open on rusty hinges, and she couldn't help the smile that spread across her lips at the sight of Hagrid's ever-twinkling eyes.
"Hermione, are you all right, lass? Ye look as though ye've been on the run," he rumbled merrily, gesturing for her to come inside. "I've put a pot on, fancy a cuppa?"
"I would, thanks," Hermione admitted, throwing her hair back over her shoulder as she sank gratefully into one of the very comfortable chairs that he'd placed in front of the crackling fire. "I did run down here from the library."
"Plenty o' frightening things to be found in those pages," Hagrid said, smothering a chuckle as he poured hot water into two heavily chipped mugs. Hermione took hers with a nod of thanks; everything in his hut felt warm and familiar, she found the damaged pottery to be strangely endearing.
"I have a bit of a strange question, Hagrid, and I was hoping that you could help me with it," she began carefully, staring into her brewing cup of tea as if it held the answer that she was seeking. "I…I've been doing some research on something that's not exactly well regarded, and I was wondering if you knew anything that could help me."
Hagrid raised one bushy eyebrow and regarded her with a look that, were he anyone else, she might have interpreted as suspicion. She was too busy staring into her cup to notice the flash of recognition that lit up his expressive face. "Aye?"
She took a deep breath. "Do you know anything about the legends of the Fair Folk?"
Her eyes widened as Hagrid's expression darkened. His brow furrowed, and he crossed his gigantic arms. "I dunnae ken where ye got that idea-"
"Oh no! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply-" Hermione hurriedly set her mug down; in her panic, she managed to slop a good measure of very hot water over her already burned and sensitive wrist. She hissed in pain and shoved her hand into her armpit. Her eyes watered fiercely, but she forced herself to look at Hagrid. "I've made a mistake-no, I made a mistake eleven years ago, and I'm paying for it now, and it's rumoured that Highlanders know a lot about the legends of the North, so I thought-"
"Hermione, what have ye done?" Hagrid asked softly, reaching over to draw her injured hand into his. He clucked over the burn, shaking his head. "No, wait, ye shouldnae tell me here. Come with me."
Hermione watched him with confusion as he gestured towards the forest. "Uh, Hagrid?"
"I think ye need a walk," he said pointedly, gently steering her toward s the door. She tromped through the frosty grass behind him as he grabbed a large basket and led the way into the trees.
Once they were out of sight of the castle, he turned, raising one eyebrow in a gentle reprimand. "I think ye'd best explain what ye've gotten yerself into, Hermione."
She sighed. Hermione crossed her arms across her stomach and stared at her booted feet. She knew that she wouldn't have the courage to talk to Hagrid if she could see his face. "When I was eleven, I made a deal with a creature in the woods."
He swore quietly, running a hand over his bushy beard. "Gorach. What possessed ye to do such a thing?"
Hermione worried at her sore lip with her teeth, turning over her answer in her mind before deciding that the truth was the best course of action. "I was curious. For some bloody mad reason, I thought that I could summon a fae if there was one to be found."
"And?" He asked gruffly, stomping into the undergrowth.
She hesitated before answering. "I was successful."
She finally looked up, watching Hagrid through a curtain of her hair as he bent to harvest some tall white mushrooms from the base of a large oak.
"I see."
"You believe me?" Hermione whispered, finally allowing herself to hope as Hagrid's gaze met hers. She was discomforted by the mix of concern and pity that coloured his features.
"Aye, I do. Yer not the first person to fall into a deal with…those creatures," Hagrid replied carefully.
She let out a long breath, absentmindedly winding a long curl around her finger. "That's a relief; I was worried that you'd think that I'm mad."
"I havnae heard the whole story, I expect. What did it promise ye?" He asked quietly, holding out the basket for her to hold. She grabbed it automatically, cradling it as if to draw some comfort from the wicker weaving.
"Well, that's the problem," she admitted miserably. "I never finished the deal."
Her head snapped up as Hagrid froze, watching her with a look that she could only decipher as fearful. Her heart jumped erratically in her chest as she felt her lip tremble.
"I ran away before the exchange was made, and I accidentally stole-"
"Hermione, ye shouldnae have said that-" Hagrid began, shaking his head furiously at her. "I cannae help ye, ye have to find a way to satisfy the demon-"
"Hagrid, he's not a demon! He's a prick, obviously, but he's-" She blurted, clapping a hand over her mouth as his eyes widened.
"I dinnae want to ken about it," he said darkly, turning away from her to grab another bunch of mushrooms. "Ye shouldnae have been playing with the forces o' the sithiche."
"The what?"
"I won't say wha'," Hagrid grumbled, determinedly focusing on pulling the fungi from the half-frozen ground without breaking them.
"Spell it!" Hermione insisted, kneeling down next to him and placing her hand on his shoulder. "I wouldn't have asked you if it wasn't a matter of life and death."
"I cannae spell it!" He took a deep breath. "Fine. Ye call them the Fae. If ye'd known what they're capable of, ye wouldnae have tried to summon one."
"Oh. Well, I know that now."
The silence stretched between them. Hermione's mind whirled, skipping over all of the reasons why she'd decided that it was a good idea to destroy her friendship with the kind groundskeeper. She had few friends at court as it was, and she kicked herself for sending this budding friendship shooting off of a cliff.
Her dark thoughts were interrupted by Hagrid's long sigh.
"Why did ye say that it was a matter o' life and death, lass?" He finally asked, gesturing for her to help him. Hermione was grateful for something to do with her hands. She placed the basket to the side and joined Hagrid on the forest floor.
"I'm dying," she whispered, running her fingers through the crisp leaves on the ground as she searched for more mushroom caps. "Our lives are linked together, and we have to find a way to appease some old and terrible magic before we both die. The fae's been trying to find me for over a decade and now-"
"It's the Earl, isn't it."
Hermione's gaze crept upwards to meet Hagrid's, and he must have seen the shock and dismay echoed in her expression; he looked away and laced his giant hands together.
"I though' as much. He was a wee bit too different to be the same man."
"Is there anything that you can tell me that would be helpful?" Hermione asked softly, trying her hardest to conceal the worry and panic that bubbled frantically in her chest. "Anyone who could steer me in the right direction?"
Hagrid closed his eyes for a moment. "I cannae tell you much more than this, but what ye tell me is similar to a story called the beatha ceangailte. "
"What does that mean…?"
"Eh…it's a wee bit complicated. But it's a story for bairns. Ye should be able to find it in Lord Slughorn's collection," Hagrid trailed off meaningfully, dropping the volume of his voice as the sound of jingling horse bridles and shod hooves echoed through the trees to their left. "Once ye've read it, ye might have a better idea of what to do. If anyone asks ye about it, I didnae tell you that."
Hermione nodded quickly, trying her best to look nonchalant as she continued to search for mushrooms. She was so absorbed in trying to look busy that it took a small tap on her shoulder from Hagrid for her to pop back to her feet.
Her eyes widened as a lovely, dark-haired woman rode into view on a glossy chestnut. She was laughing at something that one of her ladies-in-waiting had said as she trotted her horse into the clearing where they stood. Hagrid immediately lowered his gaze and performed a rather rigid bow. Hermione's brows shot together at the sight; she'd never seen the Highlander this ill at ease.
Before she could ponder too long, however, she also greeted the lady. She'd barely eased out of her curtsy when a mocking laugh made her gaze snap upwards. The unknown woman had put a gloved hand to her mouth, but the seemingly genteel gesture did nothing to smother the sound of her cruel amusement.
"Well, I certainly didn't expect to encounter a giant in the forest," she said loudly, prompting shrill giggles from her entourage. "Careful, the creature might hear you and scare your mount."
"Good mornin', Lady Parkinson," Hagrid said stiffly, inclining his head politely. "We're jus' picking mushrooms, we willnae be in yer way-"
"Oh, I'd quite forgotten that you have the capacity for speech," Lady Parkinson said coolly, regarding Hagrid as if he were a particularly revolting bug. "You are in my way. This is my favourite riding spot, and you have sullied it with your clumsy feet."
It took every ounce of Hermione's will to stop herself from flying at the so-called lady. Her hands trembled with rage, and she knew that her hair bushed out around her shoulders. Nervous energy coursed through her body as she regarded the lady with as little emotion as she could muster.
How dare you?! You're Draco's betrothed?
"And who, on God's good earth, is this ill-kempt imp?" Lady Parkinson asked softly, smiling with ill-concealed venom. "Why, her hair practically moves on its own, how unfortunate."
"My Lady, please-" Hagrid began, cutting off with rapidly-reddening cheeks as the lady lifted an imperious hand, silencing him with a nonverbal command.
"I want to know who the little muppet is," she said slowly, deliberately drawing out her words to prolong the insult of her question as Hermione's heartbeat increased further. She could barely hear what was being said as her pulse thundered in her veins.
The now-familiar warmth of magic washed though her fingertips, but she held onto her control by the skin of her teeth. Instead of something as insidious as magic (also, she didn't think that she could control it, and by extension, anyone who found out about her magic was sure to mean her harm), Hermione decided to use her razor-sharp tongue to defend herself instead.
If I make myself a target now, this woman will never stop trying to make my life a living hell. That's the last thing that I need. Father Albus said that she was cruel, apparently that was an understatement.
"My Lady, I'm Hermione Granger. Lord Slughorn is my instructor," she replied lowly, using every ounce of her control to keep her voice from trembling. "The Earl is our charge."
Lady Parkinson made a small sound of derision. "So it is you who is to blame for my beloved's condition? It appears that you are as incompetent, if not more so, than this oaf who calls himself groundskeeper."
Hagrid flushed an unflattering shade of puce as Hermione's glance swept over his expression. Her heart ached for him, but she determinedly turned her attention back to the lady who still sat imperiously upon her mare.
"My Lady, medicine takes time," she replied, none too gently, "We are making progress."
"Not quickly enough!" Pansy snapped, wrapping her reins so tightly around her hand that her horse let out an annoyed wicker and tossed its head. "You are useless at best! Never sully this path with your idiocy again. Away with you, your presence insults me!"
With that, Hermione made up her mind. Oh, to hell with it. This-this bitch thinks that she can walk all over me! I'm done being civil.
"I cannot do that, my lady. My profession is more important to me than the orders of a third-rank lady of the court," Hermione snapped, lacing her hands together in front of her stomach. To anyone outside of the conversation, it would have appeared to be a submissive pose, but they wouldn't have been able to see the white of her knuckles as she clenched her hands together.
Lady Parkinson opened her mouth as if to reply, clearly furious at Hermione's impertinence, but she continued to speak, ignoring Hagrid's frantic expression; it screamed at her to shut her mouth and crawl away with her tail between her legs. Something deep inside her belly roared its approval as she tossed her wild curls over her shoulder and drew herself up to her full height.
"I would wager a guess that your constant presence at Lord Draco's bedside is hardly helpful. In fact, I would recommend that you cease to visit at all. The stress that your retinue and copious use of rose perfume bring are certainly only going to irritate his already vulnerable body. One suggestion from me, and Lord Slughorn would have to consider that you might be aggravating the Earl's condition."
"How dare you, you little-"
Hermione relished the little lies that fell from her lips. As she spoke, another idea occurred to her.
"If I may, my Lady, I'm not quite finished. You see, Hagrid was helping me gather medicine for Lord Draco, and since you have quite unambiguously forbidden us from being here, I will be unable to finish the decoction that the lord requires to heal. It would be unfortunate if the Duke was to hear of this encounter."
Pansy glared at Hermione, infusing every ounce of her hatred into the stare. Hermione fought not to wilt, keeping her gaze up and her shoulders back.
"In fact, I would be very careful what you say next," Hermine said quietly, darting a glance at the stunned ladies in waiting who sat behind Lady Parkinson. Hermione had no doubt that rumours of this encounter would spread as quickly as wildfire. "I don't imagine that his Grace would take too kindly to his son's betrothed attempting to intimidate and dissuade one of his doctors. Anything untoward that you say will undoubtedly affect the Malfoy reputation, you see."
It didn't take long for Lady Parkinson to recover from her shock. A tiny little voice in Hermione's head wondered if she'd taken her insults too far, but her blood boiled at what the lady said next.
"Mark my words, you little weasel, I will ruin you," Pansy hissed, spurring her mount towards Hermione as if to frighten her.
Unbidden, a word burst into Hermione's sightline, calling to the power that had risen to the surface once again.
Damnum!
A wave of warmth washed through her hands, and Hermione couldn't stop the magic in her blood from igniting. She let out a small gasp as an invisible shockwave exploded from her body, passing upwards as she attempted to grapple the energy back into her body. No one seemed to notice her struggle as a small flock of birds burst into flight above their heads, startling a shower of leaves into a whirling sheet of colour.
Hermione had almost relaxed when she heard the sound of wood breaking. Her heart flew into her throat as she looked upwards, searching for the damage that her magic had done. What she saw plummeting through the treetops terrified her.