Chapter Three: The Clash of Cashel.
Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by J. K. Rowling, or her publishing company, or Warner Brothers.
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Pilliwickle wished greatly to make Hermione like him. Not just in terms of admiration, but culturally as well. While Thatcher took Ruby under her wing, he certainly plucked Hermione up for himself. Daily he had her visit him in his offices. They would discuss magical and political affairs over tea. Him wishing to know what she thought of such and such policy put forth through Riddle's Serpentine Palace or Dumbledore's Grand Consortium of Magicians. Other times the old man was more interested in weaselling out just how much she knew of magic. Obviously Hermione was much more free with her tongue on the former rather than the latter. He need not know that she was only capable of First Year spellwork, slightly underdeveloped in Transfiguration which Cirrus had not gotten much chance to tutor her in, and very much advanced in Potions. (Tom Riddle's Department of Information Management, a propagandist mill, were much more concerned with unregistered mudbloods grabbing hold of spellbooks than Potion's textbooks. Hermione could brew at a Fourth Year level already).
Then, when these talks seemed to have provided him with the needed information, they morphed into usually something else entirely. One time the guards were ordered to take her to the grounds for a, 'surprise.' She was greeted by what they excitedly told her was the top of the line, hottest broomstick of the year. A Cleansweep they called it. Though at first the girl felt quite like puking after lifting off the ground, her clever brain recognized that this was a means of escaping with Ruby. So she sacrificed her sense of wellbeing and discomfort rapidly. Whirling through the air like a bird minutes after being given her first set of instructions. 'You are a natural!' The guards cheered as one before taking turns themselves. That day Hermione did not just learn to ride a broom, but she also learned that grown wizards were unhealthily obsessed with Quidditch.
A set of historians were assigned to both Ruby and Hermione. One was a dour muggle professor who had been an instructor at Cambridge, the other an overweight, merry witch who had authored several books on her field before joining the resistance. The pair had been quite astonished that Ruby and Hermione were both so literate. Testing her luck, Hermione requested Professors in the sciences and mathematics be sent to instruct them, and experts in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. If Pilliwickle was willing to teach her muggle science, he seemed to recognize the dangers a brilliant mind posed with knowledge of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, resoundingly denying the second request.
Both Ruby and Hermione were healthier than they had ever been before. Meals, whatever they wanted, three times a day, every day. Nutritional potions. Health checkups with trained Healers and muggle doctors. Their shared chambers were never cold with draft, and they slept without fear of a throat slashing every evening. Hermione's night terrors were easily cured with a glorious Potion called Dreamless Sleep. Often Pilliwickle would give her little gifts after their meetings. Sometimes strange witch robes, though very silky and pretty, or Wizarding candies. Her favorite were Fizzing Whizbees, not that she told the old man as much, though he still figured it out anyways.
One night, long after they had turned off the lights, Hermione crept across the cavernous chamber and slipped into Ruby's silky bed. "Like old times, hmm, 'Mione?" Ruby mumbled with a smile. The girl simply gave her friend a teasing kick in the shins before tucking her arms under the pillow. Silence fell around them once more, though it was hardly destined to last.
"Are you happy here Ruby?" She wondered finally, voice somewhat meek, afraid of the answer.
For a long time the young woman did not answer. Hermione half-hoped she hadn't heard the question. "Are you happy here Hermione?" Another pause, "Because that is all that matters to me. I told you we are sisters now. I'm your big sister, and even though it is because of who my father was, I am finally able to give you the things you deserve. The safety and education I always knew you needed. So, yes, I am happy in that sense, but if you are not we will leave. Find someplace where you can have all the things you want." An arm was wrapped around Hermione's waist, and a sloppy kiss pressed to her cheek.
"Yes," Hermione lied, feeling the tears welling, "I am happy Ruby."
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"What do you think of the American amalgamation that has occurred between the Deomcratic government and the MACUSA, Lady Granger?" Margaret Thatcher asked her this one day as they sat in the gardens. Mr. Pilliwickle had been otherwise engaged with something regarding a bloody clash in Belfast. Madam Thatcher, as Hermione called her, had shown no scruples in snatching both Ruby and Hermione for herself. The true business of the day started after she sent Ruby off on some inane errand, 'Would you fetch me my reading spectacles dear Princess Amaryllis?'
"I think that Tom Riddle has generals who openly advocate for genocide, and the Shield will fall any day, letting the wolves in. Is it not a premature consideration to question what we will do if we survive attacks from the Soviets, Americans, and potentially that dictator fellow in China?" She paused, temper flaring slightly, "I am not a Lady."
"That may be what I admire most about you, Miss Granger. You are no Lady. Best friend, almost sister, to the new Queen. As powerful as Pilliwickle claims you to be. Yet you identify as a muggle. As someone like me." Thatcher smiled genuinely, and Hermione realized that was what she liked about the woman so much. Always honest, genuine despite her rigid comportment. So very much backed with a spine of iron, yet so very warm and soft at the same time. "You are one of many millions of children who have been abused and neglected. Murdered and consumed by the dark hearts of both corrupt wizards and corrupt muggles. Yet you possess power they do not." She took a sip of her drink, scotch and soda, before continuing. "Pilliwickle wishes to make you think that you are a witch through-and-through. He wants you to forget your upbringing. To become someone he can identify with."
Madam Thatcher leaned in conspiratorially, "That will never happen. Because you are not a witch, but a muggle at heart. You will always be a muggle at your very core. I will not pretend you are some frillish child. We both know exactly what you have seen in your life. I know what happens to powerful women in this awful world all too well myself. Our new Queen was an orphaned prostitute as well. Not that I shame a woman for feeding herself how she can."
Hermione clenched her hands into very white, trembling fists under the table momentarily. Finally, she peered at the older woman. "Americans are mocked widely. Too weak, too young, too stupid, too heroic, too hungry. The old always mocks the new. Until the newly powerful topples such vultures from their withered perches. What they have accomplished in melding together societies that have been separate for centuries is the new normal. I doubt we can accomplish it in time to stop them from consuming us however." She smiled mirthfully, "Honestly, I would rather be American than British. What has this diseased, evil country done for me? At least the Candians and South Americans are being treated better than Riddle treats our people. Muggles aren't being wiped out en masse, and wizards have been accepted as equal members of society."
"I would prefer if you and her royal highness were sent away. Into obscurity again." Thatcher sighed deeply, "You two are our only hope. Sisters. Powerful young women who, perhaps, can unite these two conflicted societies. But alas, we are all puppets of Pilliwickle, though I am certain you have already deduced as much. That I have no real power beyond my wit and drive to do better for our forgotten country people."
"I have," Hermione agreed, and for the first time in days she said something honest again.
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Their situation at the Rock of Cashel, as Hermione learned they were located, deteriorated swiftly over the next six months. Ruby mentioned tensions between Madam Thatcher and her counsellors, while Hermione's meetings with Mr. Pilliwickle were either cut short or cancelled altogether. One of the guards she had befriended, a kindly older man who often spoke of his daughter, informed her in the gentlest, vaguest of terms what was going on. "Tom Riddle has offered a pardon to any barristers if they leave the cause, and it has created issues." This, fortunately, was enough for Hermione to piece everything together. Pilliwickle was facing a large number of betrayals, and much of his forces were selling out to the British West Divide.
In turn, he was increasingly gone dealing with raids and Auror raids. Madam Thatcher, who had already admitted to being dependent upon Pilliwickle's strength, was unable to hold together her panicking muggles. The League of Barristers was deteriorating, as Hermione had always expected it would. Ruby was devastated, but they both acknowledged that it was time to make an escape plan. Hermione stole the Cleansweep from the hut out behind the castle, and the guards were too busy now with other things to notice. Ruby nicked as much canned and tinned food as she could into a bulky satchel. Then while the Princess focused on securing some considerable but portable source of wealth from their opulent surroundings, Hermione was stuck with a far more challenging task.
There were wards surrounding Rock of Cashel, and Hermione simply had no idea how to counteract such an obstacle. The guards had only mentioned them to warn her about going too high on the Cleansweep. 'You hit those wards and you'll shatter your neck. No one can get around Pilliwickle's magic without his permission!' She knew only the First Year curriculum at Hogwarts, and thus very little about wards. Obviously there was what everyone, even the most atrociously undereducated of muggles, knew regarding how the Shield operated. Yet that was an entirely different sort of ward. Or was it? That power had to come from somewhere, and if Pilliwickle was the only magical source then perhaps… Her mind trailed off whenever this thought crossed her mind. Hermione Granger had murdered many men. Sometimes to survive, sometimes because they hurt someone she cared deeply about and they deserved it. Doing what needed to be done for her own survival was no longer a harrowing ordeal. She had even managed to murder Auror Blishwick, though from what the muggleborn heard now that was primarily thanks to his notoriously weak magical proficiency. Sons of powerful Generals did not usually find themselves trapped in a low level Auror position.
Supposing the wards would even fall should she manage to murder Pilliwickle, that was the question of essence. Could she murder Pilliwickle with her usual tactics? With nothing more than a knife and her wild magic? He was powerful beyond her imagination. Whenever they sat together in his office he would deliberately direct the force of his presence into the air. Such a thick energy that Hermione often found it difficult to breathe. The wizard was certainly leagues ahead of Blishwick. Then there was the matter of his age and indomitable intellect. Not only was he shrewd, but he certainly knew things about magic she hadn't even begun to dream of.
No. That was simply not an option. Until, of course, Madam Thatcher visited their chambers one evening. Her demeanor was colder than either Hermione or Ruby had ever seen before. "You girls should know the truth," Her voice was cold, belied by a fiery, ferocious undertone, "All of our wizarding support in Belfast has turned to the Serpentine Palace. Pilliwickle has made apparent to me that I am now no more than a figurehead. He has Imperiused my muggle staff, guards, and soldiers to maintain control over my coalition. If I had little influence before, now I have none." Neither of the girls knew quite what to say in response. To know that such a powerful figure in their corner, albeit a weaker one than Pilliwickle, had been effectively neutered was a terrible blow. Perhaps what hurt the most for Hermione in particular was to see that the first empowered muggle woman she ever met was in just as much danger as the rest.
Maybe it was the desperation of her situation that made the words come back into her mind. It also could have simply been the imbalanced gender dynamic rearing its ugly head once again. Bryony Granger's voice rang loud and clear in her head when she needed the wisdom most. 'Some will tell you that we women are poison to society. That it was the sin of Eve in the garden that curses all of womankind to this very day with inherent wickedness. But I think, my little sweet, that they miss the point. It goes against our nature to lay about in a garden, and we all must one day decide if we are meant to mean something.'
Hermione decided to stop doubting herself, first and foremost. She wondered if a man of her purported magical inclination would ever hesitate to try and stand against Pilliwickle. To do whatever it took to survive. In that moment she embraced the serpent coiled in the base of her spine. Slowly it began to unfurl longingly upwards to her clever little brain. "Madam Thatcher," The muggleborn spoke in a commanding tone, "I am going to write a list of ingredients from the storeroom. You will need to find the best specimens possible. Its time we sort out this mess Pilliwickle put us in."
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While Madam Thatcher seemed very much like a stickler for the rules, with her perfect hair and immaculate outfits, it turned out that she knew how to operate effectively as an agent of chaos. Plots Hermione and Ruby had not even thought of to better the muggleborn's chances of killing Pilliwickle were revealed swiftly. In short order they overpowered a guard together so that Hermione might take their wand by force. A black stick of wood that, though somewhat resistant, interestingly enough seemed to have been utterly dominated by its theft. A simple test of elementary magic demonstrated that the thing worked well enough for its new owner.
This in turn allowed for the women to prepare a far more dangerous poison than Hermione had initially anticipated. Her former idea was simply an underpowered Sleeping Draught mixed with a highly powered Forgetfulness Potion. Both altered, yet neither having required any wand movements. With a wand however, her ingenuity with Potions was finally able to shine. Though her knowledge was rusty after so long without revision or ability to progress in her studies, a paper and pen helped her to think through a new concoction. Weedsoros was an incredibly potent, albeit common, poison. She had never had much need to consider brewing it before, but generally remembered the steps. The only issue was that Pilliwickle might have kept a bezoar handy, Thatcher pointed out, and he was too powerful to risk coming close enough to inject with a syringe.
So through the night Hermione thought of something sufficiently advanced enough to leave her uncertain, yet practical for their purposes. Mixing it with a bit of Wideye would produce impartial dissolving of the crushed beetle wings. Thus, she theorized, they would be left with a toxic, corrosive powder that could be tossed into Pilliwickle's face. So it was that Thatcher left for an hour, and returned with all of the needed ingredients in a cauldron. Her face red, but no trouble to report otherwise. When money was tight Hermione had sometimes secretly prepared Potions to sell on the black market. Ruby had learned to help with such matters as grinding, slicing, and dicing ingredients. Together they managed to, thankfully, produce the predicted result.
Considering that Pilliwickle had virtually no magical support the trio agreed easily enough that Riddle would close in soon. Thus the need to act immediately was of the greatest importance. Thatcher investigated what they had nicked while planning their escape and supplemented any, perceived, gaps. Then, knowing full well that they would report to Pilliwickle, she waited till last to order a wizard guard to enchant a bag with the qualities of both weightlessness and a bizarre sort of undetectable expansion. With the bag on Ruby's shoulder as well as the poison in a pouch, Thatcher holding two scary knives in either hand, and broom and wand in Hermione's grasp, they moved quickly.
The castle was silent as usual, torchlight casting long, disturbing shadows which undulated enticingly. Forcing Hermione to think of how her mother had walked, or danced at, technically illicit, muggle street festivals on forbidden holidays. Everything happens for a reason Hermione, learn from the negative, and pull those shoulders proudly back. 'I will survive,' She thought as that advice pounded against her skull, 'I will triumph over Pilliwickle. Ruby and I shall hunt for Sylvie as soon as we are free.' The promise flashed before her very eyes even as they hid around a corner to avoid a guard. Thatcher stood between the two younger women and grasped an arm on either side before they could continue on though.
"Amaryllis, you remember your obligation to this nation, to our people. Let that fuel you forth no matter what comes next. Riddle must not destroy you, nor your spirit, ever." Ruby nodded, though Hermione couldn't deny the proud spark that flashed in her friend's eyes every time she was called by her true name. "Hermione," Thatcher snatched away her attention, "I know admittedly little of magic. Yet I have learned there is great power to intention. You are Princess Amaryllis' sword. If you survive long enough you will one day vanquish all of our enemies. Both domestic and foreign. You need only remember your muggle ancestry with pride, and will it to be so. The greatest humans come from nothing, and you girls both clawed upwards to survive through the filth of destitution and genocide." A wicked sparkle filled Madam Thatcher's eyes, "It is time for us to perform our duty."
With that the sixty-something woman marched forth through the halls. No longer hiding, heels clicking confidently, the loud sounds bouncing off of the cavernous ceilings. Ruby and Hermione eyed one another nervously before quickly following suit. Cirrus had been fond of opera, often drawing her and her mother both into singing sessions alongside an ancient gramophone. Habanera had been one of his favorites, and watching Thatcher now drew the melodious music back into her ears for whatever reason. One of the few wizard guards left, stationed right outside of Pilliwickle's office door, immediately took an offensive stance at the sight of her wicked knives. "Stand down Minister Thatcher! I repeat! STAND DOWN!" The terrified witch snarled.
Hermione pressed the wand against the broom in her right palm, lifting her newly spare hand and curling her fingers violently as though controlling a puppet. For the first time in months she allowed hatred, rage, sadistic intention all to flow from the roaring current of energy that hid beneath her skin. This guard was stronger than Blishwick though her wand arm was rammed so violently into the stone wall that bones audibly snapped. Thatcher spun her knives expertly prior to making quick work of the poor witch. "He knows we are here now. Any spells that might help us avoid triggering a trap Miss Granger?" Thatcher commanded more than asked.
Mercifully Hermione was cleverest under pressure. They all slipped back and to the side as she lifted her wand. Gruesome as it was the young witch hissed, "Wingardium Leviosa," prior to utilizing the broken corpse as a battering ram. Only bloody pulp remained by the end, yet the thick door cracked open nonetheless. An explosion of light and dust surged forth leaving all three of them grateful to have cleared out of the way. Following Thatcher's lead they slipped into the room back to back. Eyes flicking every which way for Pilliwickle only to find empty space. Ruby was struck by a blast of red light and collapsed almost instantly. Face scrunching in the general direction Thatcher expertly tossed one of her knives end over end. Pilliwickle screamed loudly, though he remained invisible, the air rippling where he stood and a knife protruding from what Hermione imagined was his stomach. The woman snapped at Ruby's prone form while slowly advancing on Pilliwickle.
Hermione swiftly remembered the poisonous powder. Broom clattering to the floor she wasted no time snatching the bag from Ruby's, hopefully unconscious, hand and into her own. In the moments her back was turned Pilliwickle seemed to recover from his shock and noticed the stealthily approaching threat of Thatcher. "I never liked you, you muggle cunt!" He roared venomously, "Incarcerous. Stupefy." As her last remaining ally was bound with rope and struck with that same red light, Pilliwickle finally threw off his invisibility spell. The knife protruded from deep in his shoulder, a river of blood flowing freely to the flagstones below. "I tried, Granger," His evil, beady little eyes glared violently at her, "Plucked you up from obscurity. A diamond living in primitive, muggle squallor. Only for you to betray me? Mayhaps it is time for me to obliviate you and that little whore Ruby. Restructure your minds into something more compliant."
"You pretend to be the better option for muggles," Hermione snapped back frostily, "Yet you are just the other side of the coin."
"What will you do about it?" He retorted with a smug tone, "Presently you are barely a step above the lowest of mudblood slaves. Powerful, but so ignorant. You think you can harm me? Ha!"
"Thatcher could, so why can't I?" She sneered boldly back at him. He barely even processed the words before Hermione had flung the sack of poison at his feet. "Incendio!" Though it had been so long since she held a wand, Hermione focused more on her intention rather than trying to compensate for aim. In the end it seemed Thatcher's advice rang true. A roaring fireball, Cirrus had lectured her in-depth for having so little control, erupted around Pilliwickle's feet. As she had hoped the bag was consumed and a fiery, orange speckled cloud of toxic green powder blew upwards around the ancient wizard. Instantly he seemed to understand what was happening. With a guttural roar he slashed his wand, summoning a miniature windstorm in an attempt to blow the powder back her way. Mercifully it seemed to easily diffuse instead.
So preoccupied he was with diving for something in his desk that he completely ignored the flames rapidly consuming his wand. Just as Thatcher had predicted Pilliwickle went for a bezoar. Hermione enjoyed the sight of the barmy old fart ramming the thing down his throat only to realize that her clever poison would not be so simply beaten. So many times she had relished that look of realization in the eyes of predators; He knew he would die. Though Pilliwickle was no ordinary man. He was crafted from sharp ambition Hermione lacked sufficient experience with. His wand began to flick even as his left hand clawed violently at the peeling flesh off his quivering throat.
The wind howled mightily, both inside the study and out in the castle itself too. Every single torch had blown down by now leaving them in darkness apart from the light of the full moon. Unable to help Thatcher, Hermione knelt by Ruby, struggling to shield the girl from any flying glass. Another flick of his wand and the entire castle began to shake violently. One more nonverbal spell sent all of the bookshelves flying murderously about. The muggleborn ducked left as a fat tome crashed into the wall behind her head with a mighty thump. Mind racing, Hermione felt utterly powerless as he threw fire and vibrant curses into the mix. Wind was now guttering in from the environment outside along with a torrential downpour outside. Lightning struck down relentlessly from the very heavens prior to crashing into the castle with massive booms.
'He isn't just trying to murder me,' Hermione realized swiftly, 'The slimy cretin is trying to take everything down with him!' She stood defiantly to both of her feet only to be blown back down by the hissing wind. Intention. Her power arced about her, partly in response to Pilliwickle's own mighty aura being let loose, and likely also because she summoned it forth with all of her willpower. Suddenly she felt strong. Strong enough to move against the tempestuous barrier, ever so slowly closer to the demented monster. He watched her the entire time. So completely consumed and controlled by the forces he had unleashed that he could no longer claim any sort of control over his own body. Jaw clenching and teeth gnashing Hermione reached forth, yanking Thatcher's knife loose from his arm. Blood blown back by the wind into her face. With one last display of support her magic allowed her to slash outwards in an extended arc with the blade. A crimson smile on Pilliwickle's throat and the poison combined was simply too much for his old body to withstand.
What happened next was not something Hermione was likely to understand until she had received a proper magical education. However, she did know what she felt in the moment immediately after having bested Pilliwickle. All of the magic brought forth upon the castle was suddenly untethered. Every last bit of surged towards her. For a very pregnant moment she simply thought that her death had finally come. Instead there was an explosion of golden light as she was thrown backwards into a pile of rubble.
Half the castle collapsed as her eyes shut firmly.
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