[disclaimer: I do not own Hermione Granger, Percy Weasley, or the world they inhabit. The monkey is to be blamed for his.]
Title: Blueblood, Pureblood, No Blood
Rating: eh…R for language and such, I suppose, because FF.net has made me wary.
Summary: Anya Corso wants to know if she'll be mourned. Hermione Weasley and Veronica McLennan attempt to answer.
I know it sounds odd, since we haven't spoken in what...eight years...that you're the person I'm thinking of now. At the end, as they say. I'm hoping this is the end, because if those crazy bastards were right about that 'heaven' and 'hell' bollocks, quite frankly, I'm screwed.
But I am thinking about you. It's nice. I can see you, you know. Or at least, how I remember you. It's been a while. Maybe you really did marry that idiot Weasley, settled down, bred Weasleys and got a fat arse. Would've been a waste. I hope that's not what you did, because we both know you would've only done it to spite me. And you'd let him think that you loved him. Because face it, baby, you're as big a bitch as I am, you're just standing on the 'right' side of the fence. I like my gray area just fine, sweetheart.
Or I did.
I can't fucking believe it, you know? My own fucking brother screwed me over. I guess all that bullshit about blood being thicker than water really was bullshit after all. We would've made the best team, we would've ruled these people, but he pisses it all away because he's got a fucking grudge against baby sister.
Too late for me to do anything about it, so I guess I'll just savor the knowledge he's not going to be able to jack without me and pretty soon he's going to realise that.
I just wish I could see it.
It's kind of funny. I've never really cared about blood -- I mean, my lifestyle...it would've been a little inconvenient. But it's a whole other story when it's your blood all over your -- white! -- fur rug.
In a purely aesthetic way, if slightly twisted, this is going to look pretty damn good. I may be lying on the ground, bleeding to death, but I'm wearing one of the most expensive, beautiful black gowns in the world, my hair's done perfectly, and I'm in the most stylish and luxurious study money can buy. My dress alone costs more than your house. The blood just makes it artistic.
...I know, baby. I'm fucked in the head.
I know I don't have any right to be asking anything this of you, or, in fact, anything, but I really want to know, and I wish you were here so you could tell me...
Will you mourn me?
When you see my name in the papers, will there be that moment? When your heart stops and you have to fumble blindly for the chair, that moment when you haven't got any words or any breath to say them with...will you give me that? Will you go to my funeral? Will you stand by my grave and cry for me when you throw a rose onto my casket? Black, of course, like the ones you used to give me -- because red was for lovers...not for whatever we were. You never said that, but you think I didn't know? I know how your mind works, you just like to think you're fucking smarter than me.
Hell, my brother just gutted me like a fucking fish. Maybe you are.
Daddy always told me that the person you least expect will be the person who slides the blade home. I thought he was full of shit when he said it, but Armand was in on his death, so maybe he wasn't so far wrong. Fucking bastard. I killed him myself, you know. Told you I had nothing to do with it, of course, some food went down the wrong way, he choked, big fucking deal. I wasn't even in the same country as him. You were all happy because I'd done as you wanted and not killed the fucking bastard.
Baby. You were in Potions for seven years just like me. Poisons. I didn't need to be there.
That's not what I want to say to you, though. If you were here, I wouldn't be talking about my father's arsehole, traitorous fuckbuddy. I'd be throwing myself on your mercy -- not literally, I'm sorry gorgeous but I don't think I can move -- and begging for forgiveness.
You know. In a blueblood, pureblood bitch sort of a way.
I'm going to die now. Hope that's okay with you.
LADY ANYA CORSO FOUND DEAD IN LONDON APARTMENT
She made the headlines. After all, the thirty year old Countess was a prominent businesswoman, with a very questionable past. The news of her suspicious death had been pounced on by wizarding and muggle newspapers alike.
Hermione dusted the entire house. Hermione vacuumed. She picked up her daughters from school, and made dinner. She asked Percy about his day, and if they were going to have dinner with his parents that Sunday. She talked idly of having lunch with Ginny the next day, and tidied the plates away. She saw to it the girls were bathed and replaced Percy's cold tea when it became obvious he'd forgotten about it in the midst of whatever it was he worked on now. She read over her own reports and rewrote most of them. She did a crossword in between. She put the girls to bed and took away Percy's second untouched cup of tea.
When Percy had fallen asleep at his desk, and the girls had stopped bickering and gone to sleep, Hermione left the house very quietly, locking the door behind her. She Apparated to an aging castle in Scotland, where she was met by the elderly butler's daughter, about her age, Veronica McLennan.
They fought. They drank. They cried. They reminisced and remembered.
To Anya. You never forgot a woman like her, even when you wanted to.
Because you never really did.