AN: Here is today's update! As ever, please do review. This chapter is dedicated to 'I Dont Do Words'!
At the bottom if you're interested, I've put up the origin of all the quotations I use in chapter titles! I really enjoy researching them, so I thought I'd share.
Chapter VI: Many Might Go to Heaven with Half the Labour They Go to Hell
(Ben Jonson)
Hermione's gaze darts from the man before her to his identical portrait on the wall. He follows the movement.
"Yes, that's me," he says. "Albus."
"You've been… expecting me?" she parrots. With a concentrated effort, she tamps down the rising panic so she can keep thinking clearly. She's going to need her wits about her, especially if she needs to make a run for it. "Why? How?" The unasked question: Are you about to sacrifice me? The muscles of her legs tense in preparation.
He chooses to answer her second question. "I saw you in the tea leaves," he says affably, smiling. "An imprecise art, of course, nothing like the True Sight the devil can manage. But since he can't speak of what he sees, the rest of us poor souls get by on little tricks and shortcuts. Every so often, one of these shortcuts even bears fruit."
Her lip curls. "The tea leaves," she says, voice flat and blatantly disbelieving. "Of course. So instead of admitting you've been… stalking me, or whatever, you expect me to believe you saw me in your afternoon Earl Grey, is that it?"
He shakes his head at her. "I'm afraid we're just going to have to agree to disagree on that score, Hermione. Come. There are some people I want you to meet."
Keenly aware that the eyes of almost everyone in the church are upon her, she lets Harry push her forward slightly.
"This is Sirius," Dumbledore says of the man standing on his left. "Sirius Black."
She jerks slightly at the surname and instantly tries to cover it up with a cough, hoping nobody has noticed. Black? As in, the House of Black to which Draco's mother belongs to, and one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood families of Hell? This is the first incontrovertible evidence of what she's suspected all along: that she's currently surrounded by blood traitor demons.
Physically, there's no resemblance between Draco and Sirius – at least not beyond the same striking looks which Hermione is beginning to suspect must be a demonic trait. It would make sense: sin is supposed to be attractive, to trip people up and turn them inside out with desire, and Sirius Black certainly looks capable of the task. He's incredibly tall, several inches over six feet. The hair which brushes the collar of his leather jacket in sleek waves is black as a moonless night, against which his pale skin gleams lustrously fair. His heavy-lidded eyes are North Sea grey. The primary similarity to Draco is that every cell of his body oozes casual, contemptuous arrogance.
Hermione considers putting out her hand for a handshake, the habit of politeness hard to break, but the wolfish grin he gives her makes her reconsider. She settles for a nod.
"That's my godfather," Harry says, the pride in his voice evident.
Hermione is hit by a barrage of outlandish names and faces. Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Dedalus Diggle, Emmaline Vance, Amelia Bones; in comparison, the name Draco seems positively mundane. At least it's an actual Latin word. She keeps nodding at every new introduction Dumbledore performs, her hand kept safely by her side.
Finally there seems to be nobody left to meet. By this time, Hermione's confusion is at a fever pitch. She hadn't entered the Church of Hogwarts expecting some sort of networking session. Where are the answers she was promised?
"So, Hermione," Dumbledore says, as the last person to be greeted – a rakish, disreputable-looking fellow named Mundungus Fletcher, the sort of person she'd normally cross the street to avoid – slinks away. They're in an isolated circle by the table; the only people in their little group are Dumbledore, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and (oddly enough) Ron. "You're probably wondering why you're here."
"The thought had crossed my mind, yes," she says drily.
He fixes her with his penetratingly blue eyes. Even though his silvery hair and beard are testament to immense age, his skin is almost unlined. "Well, there's no point beating about the bush," he says. "I am a demon."
A series of possible responses pass as fast as lightning through her head. She rapidly selects the most realistic one and discards the others.
"What?" she says, as though she hadn't heard. "Sorry?"
"I am a demon," Dumbledore repeats. "Born and bred in the flames of Azkaban, eldest son of a High Lord of Hell." He looks at her expectantly.
Hermione has never been a good liar, but she throws herself into her role with everything she has. Her life depends on it.
"Is this some kind of joke?" she asks coldly. "Because I find it distinctly unamusing." She glares at Harry. "Did you seriously bring me all this way here just to waste my time?"
She turns as though to go, but Ginny catches her wrist. Her touch burns. "Not so fast," she says. "We can prove it."
Hermione laughs without humour. "Look, I'm not looking to be converted into whatever religion it is you people practise, so if you could just –"
She breaks off. Ginny is holding out her hand, and in her palm is blazing a little ball of blue flames.
"Fiendfyre," the other girl says. "The flames of Hell itself, accessible to every demon."
So she is a demon too. Hermione feels her customary smugness at being proven right, but it's quickly swept away by more important concerns. She isn't a good actress, and she's struggling to work out whether now is a good time to declare she believes them, or if they'd become suspicious at her easy capitulation.
"I'm not going to be impressed by a little magic trick," she settles for declaring.
Dumbledore sighs. "In that case, Hermione, perhaps this will convince you."
He reaches out with one long finger and taps her forehead. Instantly she collapses in a fit of hysterical giggles. It feels as though a hundred fingers are tickling her mercilessly over every sensitive inch of her body
"Stop!" she chokes out, in between gasps of laughter. "Stop!"
The feeling vanishes. She struggles back to her feet, panting. She can definitely admit to believing them now.
"Are you satisfied now?" Dumbledore asks.
She nods. "But why are you telling me all of this?" Finally, a chance to ask the question that's been consuming her since this morning.
"Patience. Let me start back at the beginning," he says. "So, as we've established, I am a demon, as is almost everyone else in this room. But you have nothing to fear from us. I am the founder of the Order of the Phoenix, an organisation which aims to eradicate every trace of demonic influence from the human world."
He's not telling her anything she doesn't know yet. "Why?" she asks. "Why would you do that for humans?"
There's a long pause. Dumbledore looks thoughtful. "Everyone here has a different reason," he says. "For example, two of my greatest lieutenants joined after they fell in love with a human. Lucius Malfoy, ruler of Hell, does not look kindly upon those who commit what he considers to be betrayals of the demonic creed by working actively for humans rather than against them. In fact, he calls us blood traitors. Others are in the Order because they believe that humans are a delightful and interesting race, and should be allowed to live their lives unmolested. Still others are… atoning, shall we say, for the sins they have committed in the past. There really is not a single answer, Hermione."
Interesting. But her original point still stands. "Why are you telling me all of this?" she says.
"Because you stink like the fucking Malfoys," Ron growls out next to her, shocking her by speaking.
Hermione swings around to face him, her heart hammering. This is it. This is why they've brought her here. It's all an elaborate lead-up to announcing that they know her secret deals and are planning to kill her for it.
"The Malfoys?" she says, voice reedy. "I – I don't – I can't –"
She needs to run. But then Dumbledore starts speaking again.
"The issue is, as Ron rather crudely put it, there is a distinct scent of the House of Malfoy about you," he explains. "We suspect that they have been watching you in your sleep, or perhaps that Lucius has sent his son Draco to track you, for reasons we cannot yet begin to fathom. But they cannot be good reasons. They are planning something nefarious. But Hermione, please don't be alarmed – we'll be taking care of it. We just thought it would be better to let you know, so you can better protect yourself."
The relief nearly makes her pass out. Oh, thank God. They don't suspect her at all. They think she's an unwitting victim of the Malfoys.
Fortunately, Dumbledore mistakes the reason for both her previous panic and sudden spate of dizziness. "There's truly no need to distress yourself," he says gently. "It's undeniably unprecedented that the devil would take such an interest in a human; we don't yet know why, but Lucius is possessed of foresight, so we suspect that he has seen something which makes him believe you will be helpful to him in some way. But there is one key thing you must bear in mind, Hermione. Demons cannot force you to do anything you do not want to do."
She draws in a breath. "Demons can't force humans?"
"No, we can't," Ginny says. "We can tempt, and beg, and threaten, and plead, but we can't physically hurt humans. We can't affect your free will."
Free will? This is getting far more complex and theological than Hermione was expecting, or indeed is equipped to handle while her limbs still feel weak from the near miss. She didn't even do an RS GCSE. Grand concepts like free will are far beyond her remit.
"That's… reassuring," she says faintly. She'd suspected something similar anyway. Secrets of the Darkest Arts makes it clear that the devil can't begin to affect your life until you invite him in by summoning him. And Draco's never hurt her or forced her to do anything: his preferred method of dealing with her is through deals, which involve her willing acquiescence. It seems this is a limitation of demonic nature.
"Do you need to sit down, Hermione?" Harry asks, looking at her with concern. "We know it's a lot to take in. But Dumbledore is right – we'll keep an eye on you. They can't hurt you."
She sees her chance. "It is a lot to take in," she agrees, keeping her voice frail. "I'm… I'm not totally sure I really want to stay in someone else's house tonight. I think I'd rather come to grips with this in my own bedroom, if you don't mind."
"We don't mind," Ron says curtly. "I'll drop you off home after the Order meeting is over."
She nods. She can't believe how good demon senses are, that they're able to smell another person on her. Perhaps that's what was bothering him in the car.
Dumbledore calls a start to the meeting. The Order members drag some chairs into a rough rectangle so they can all see each other. Hermione ends up in between Ron and Ginny. The former still looks like he's away with the fairies, and the latter is busy applying a coat of scarlet lipstick as Dumbledore starts speaking.
"We've received word of a planned Death Eater meeting in Angel Park," he says calmly. "Arthur and Sirius will be –"
Hermione's hand shoots up, like it always does if someone is lecturing and she has a question. Dumbledore looks surprised but says, "Yes?"
"What are Death Eaters?" she asks.
It's Sirius who answers. "Lucius Malfoy's inner circle," he says, with languorous unconcern. "Mostly, of course, the High Lords of Hell, but sometimes he permits a beast or two to join, if they're useful to him. The Leviathan in the Lake… the Fenrir wolf…"
"But what do they actually do?" Hermione pushes.
"Whatever they can," Sirius says. "They walk the earth, causing pain and suffering, disease and darkness and death. They don't do anything, in the sense you mean; they can't. But they bring forth humans' most sinful desires, and then humans do their dirty work for them."
Hermione chews this over. It's the most interesting thing she's learnt all evening.
So this is what demons actually do: unleash the latent evil that exists inside human beings. Persuade them to give in to the devils on their shoulder, as it were. She wonders how she feels about this. Probably she should feel outraged, like the Order clearly does. But Hermione has not had the sort of life which permits her to maintain many illusions about human goodness. Adults can be cruel, and children are crueller. Have been crueller to her. It isn't as though demons force humans into being monsters – they manage it all by themselves.
Dumbledore resumes the meeting. "Back to Angel Park," he says. He smiles slightly.
"Lucius and his sense of humour," Sirius says, rolling his eyes.
Hermione was thinking the very same thing. Islington, and the Angel area in it, is a nice, quiet, wealthy London borough. Pretty much the last place you'd expect to be an outpost of Hell.
"Arthur and Sirius will be in charge of leading the offensive teams," Dumbledore says. "The Death Eater meeting will be at midnight, on the Thursday three weeks from today. I will circulate a message with the appropriate team breakdown later. Getting this information was a difficult process for our agent, so we need to move very carefully."
"I can be careful," Ginny says, scowling.
"Not until you're seventeen, Gin, you know that," Ron says from Hermione's other side. He sounds bored, like this is an argument they've had countless times before.
Harry looks apologetic when Ginny turns to him for support. Finally she subsides back in her seat, sulking.
"Honestly, can you believe it?" she says to Hermione in a loud whisper. "Damn near immortal, and Mum and Dad still won't let me join!"
Her ears prick up. Damn near immortal? Unsurprising, but the near is what she wants to know more about. What's the thing that can kill demons?
She steals a glance at her wristwatch, expecting it to be ten-thirty p.m. at the most, and receives an unpleasant shock. It's already eleven! Draco and Theodore will be there in only an hour! She turns to Ron urgently.
"Can you take me home now?" she asks. She doesn't have to work hard to inject a note of barely suppressed hysteria into her voice. "It's been a really long day, and I've had to take in a lot, and I'm exhausted, and my head hurts now, so…" She shrugs helplessly.
"Sure," Ron says gruffly as he gets up. Not a man of many words, is he?
Hermione makes her goodbyes to the Weasleys and Harry, who clasps her hand.
"Please don't worry about anything, Hermione," he says earnestly, looking up at her. "We won't let the Malfoys use you."
She smiles wryly. "Thank you, Harry."
Ron drives her home in silence. As they're approaching her house, he finally breaks it.
"The Malfoys are dangerous," he says.
"Yes," she says. "I hadn't thought the ruling family of Hell would be cute and cuddly."
"We'll be dropping by to check on you," he promises. It sounds more threatening than soothing.
Comforting herself with the assurance that the Order definitely doesn't suspect her, she lets herself into her house with her key. All is dark and silent; naturally her parents are asleep at this hour. She's never had to practise sneaking around, so she cringes at the loud squeaks the stairs emit when she tries to creep quietly up to her room, but they don't stir.
She gets changed into her pyjamas and settles into bed with a book. There's less than an hour left until Draco's arrival, so she isn't planning on going to sleep, but her body has other ideas. Before she knows it her eyelids have drifted shut.
She dreams that it's a hot summer's day – which it is. She's gone to her freezer and, for reasons unknown, taken out a pair of ice cubes. Moving slowly, languidly, she traces them all over her face, up and down her cheeks. They leave little runnels of freezing water which feels incredible against her overheated skin.
Slowly she becomes hazily aware that the coldness is real. A pair of icy lips are pressed against her cheeks.
"Have you been a good girl while I was gone, Hermione?" Draco murmurs into her ear.
AN: QUOTATION ORIGINS
The one from which I took the whole story's title is, of course, between the Devil and the deep blue sea, which has existed in one form or another since the 1500s. It was originally between the Devil and the dead sea, then in 1637 it's recorded as 'deep sea.' The inclusion of 'blue' dates only from the late Victorian era.
1. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions: This complete phrasing was first recorded only in 1855, but proverbs expressing the same meaning (i.e. the road to Hell is easy) date back to Virgil's Aeneid, and there's a similar sentiment in the Bible. Just the first bit of the proverb (Hell is paved with good intentions) can be found in a 1670 book.
2. The Devil's in the details: Funnily enough, this one is a corruption of the German proverb 'God is in the details'! Our version only dates from the late 1960s.
3. Hell is other people: A quotation from Sartre's play No Exit. Interestingly, he's often widely believed to have said that Hell is an eternity spent with your friends, which in my opinion is a way cooler quotation, but I can't find any sources or attribution for that one. He doesn't seem to have actually said it sadly.
4. Hell is empty / And all the devils are here: A quotation from Shakespeare's play The Tempest. The character who says it is the fairy Ariel: he tells his master Prospero that Prince Ferdinand jumped into the ocean from his sinking ship (a disaster engineered by Prospero) crying out those words.
5. If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell: This is a (loose) translation of words spoken by Juno in Virgil's Aeneid. The actual translation would be something more like 'If I cannot move the will of Heaven, I will move Hell.' It gained fame after Sigmund Freud used it in the dedication at the front of The Interpretation of Dreams.
6. Many might go to Heaven with half the labour they go to Hell: The rest of playwright Ben Jonson's quotation is: if they would venture their industry the right way.
Let me know if you enjoyed these, I'll do them for the other chapters as well!
