Then…
"Is he dead?"
Narcissa Malfoy leaned over, checking Potter's pulse, his breath. She noticed it was faint, but somehow still present. It took all over her pureblood aristocratic decorum to not visibly react.
Instead, Narcissa leaned closer. "Potter, is my son alive?" She blocked him as subtly as she could.
Potter's otherworldly emerald eyes opened for a beat, fluttering briefly in her direction while taking in his precarious situation. "Yes, he was."
Narcissa's relief was palpable. She knew what she needed to do. Leaning down closer to his ear, she didn't hesitate. "Play dead," her voice barely a whisper, light as she could risk. She saw his slightest of nods as acknowledgment, before she leaned back onto her heels, exhaling. She turned back to her master, head bowed, as expected. She gathered herself. This was the moment of no return.
"Yes, my lord. The chosen one is no more."
She watched Voldemort carefully from beneath her bowed view. This was the tricky part; if he bought her lie, her family might survive, even prosper. If he didn't, she was readily aware that their fate could be a cautionary tale's worst nightmare.
Narcissa felt his steady chilling gaze on both her and the Potter boy. She found herself saddened, realizing Potter was the same age as her precious son. Her baby, who had to bear such horrid weight for the last few years because of choices his arrogant pillock of a father had made. She couldn't resist the barest glance back over her shoulder, toward that bloody peacock.
Even now, standing proudly amongst their lord's faithful as if he hadn't led his family, his House & Hers, the entire wizarding world to cusp of utter ruin. As if the only reason he was still whole and hale and not buried in a shallow grave or digesting in the stomach of their master's ravenous familiar wasn't solely due to her machinations and their son's traumatizing sacrifices. She knew her baby boy wasn't perfect, but he wasn't what they tried to make him become, what his father's failures forced him to become. Oh, she could so happily murder both Lucius and his precious master then skip off merrily to live happily ever after with her little dragon right beside her, as it should've been.
At last, Narcissa saw Voldemort's face begin to smile. It was a cold, death's head grin, macabre and malignant, but a smile nonetheless. She exhaled heavily, breath quivering in her chest. The monster had bought it. They had a chance. She felt a smile begin to break out of her face, internally rejoicing in how she might've just out-Slytherined the purported Heir of Slytherin himself.
Narcissa began to stand, moving away from Potter, plotting her next step, when a bolt of sickly green roared past her, striking Potter's prone body.
She whirled around, face aghast, fledgling plans already in tatters, to see her ridiculous excuse for a husband pointing his wand toward them, tip still pulsing ominously.
He looked at her and shrugged.
"Better to be sure."
…Now
Hermione had no idea how she'd kept ending up back on Privet Drive, again. She stood staring at that house. She promised herself she wouldn't go in this time at least.
The only one Hermione would have wanted to see was the only one she'd could never see ever again. She could still see his bloodied body at the battle, all those many months ago. His emerald eyes were open, still, dull in a way they never were in life. It was the moment she knew for certain that he was really gone.
Hermione could still feel his eyes, like they were staring only at her, in blankly lifeless disappointment. Like he'd died knowing she'd broken her promise. That she failed him.
Not like she'd ever outright told him. It was a secret promise Hermione made in her heart, borne the moment a strange boy scaled a Troll in a bathroom, where he not only saved her life but gave her one as well. But instead, she broke her promise of a lifetime, she failed him when he needed her most. He knew and she knew, but she was the one who had to live with it.
Hermione whimpered, her breath visible in the autumn chill. She missed him so. Every moment of every day, in ways she'd never considered before it was already too late. So many regrets. She even found herself hoping he'd become a ghost, just so she could see him, talk to him again, maybe say everything she'd never said.
But she knew he long deserved peace like all true heroes do, even though he'd never call himself that in a million years. Even if that meant she'd never be with him, ever see him again. Not after what happened to her. Even before that, it's not like promise breaking failures like her deserve paradise, especially after they become what she's become
Against her will, Hermione noticed she'd taken three strides forward towards the front door of Number 4 before she caught herself. She closed her eyes as her heart seized, thundering in her chest. She swallowed her grief before releasing a shuddering huff. One tear escaped despite her worn efforts, she wiped it away agitatedly. She would not go in, this time.
Besides, the last time she went in, Hermione barely avoided an accidental Magic outburst that would've wrecked the place. Just the site of that bloody cupboard door was enough to set her off. The still present echoes of his turmoil. The smell of old blood. The desperate scratches on the inner door. She'd almost taken out the block before she could bottle it back in.
Not that they might not have deserved it, given their bystanders complicity in Harry's torturous childhood. She blamed them, just like she blamed herself. There were two others she blamed the most, however.
"Fucking Dumbledore. Fucking Voldemort." She spit on Number 4's manicured lawn.
Not a day goes by that Hermione doesn't curse Dumbledore and/or Voldemort for making Harry's entire life into a nightmarish hell where his only escape was to court death so often it finally claimed him. Not a day goes by where she doesn't fantasize about murdering both of them in increasingly imaginative ways at least once or twice.
Unfortunately for Hermione, the useless groomer was already long dead while the spineless terrorist remained frustratingly out of reach. Unfortunately for the snatchers who responded to her breaking the Taboo, her rage needed a healthy outlet and they picked the wrong witch at the wrong time.
"Hey there, mudblood. Why don't you put the wand down, huh?" The lead snatcher monologued. She was already bored. "You're outnumbered and outclassed besides. Reckon you can do this the easy way," he licked his lips, eyeing her up and down. "Or the fun way" he cackled then, his crew of fetid vermin joining in.
Hermione sighed in disgust. For that, she decided, this is going to be not just painful, but embarrassing as well, for however long it lasts. It had already been a long day. Halloween was just around the corner; she found herself missing Harry even more.
Damn that bearded goat & that spineless snake face to all seven Hells.
Hermione was in no mood to play with her food. She did put her wand back into its holster, these cretins didn't even deserve the dignity of her magic touching them in anyway. Fortunately she was wearing gloves today. Though she's going to have to toss them or bleach them. Bloodstains can be so hard to deal with, sometimes she doesn't have the energy for it. Especially when it's never hers. Not anymore.
The lead was giggling, obviously thinking himself so clever. He swaggered over, like he'd already won, his smile growing more twisted with every step. Hermione grinned too, but hers was cold as the grave. It should have made him pause, but he seemed to distracted by the pretty to see the real.
In a way, she was glad he didn't, his type had earned this end many times over, she could tell. Hermione felt fortunate to be the privileged instrument for his comeuppance as well as his final deliverance.
Hermione could feel her Other side rumbling within, chomping at the bits, ready to be unleashed. Her raw bloodlust rising up tsunami-like, but she tempered herself down. Didn't want to risk slippage, not here, not now. Control is key. The Other didn't like that, not one bit. Hermione knew her Other absolutely hated being tamed, not getting what she wants. Sigh. Like that's not a pot-kettle in 3D.
While she was calming her petulant tenant, leader guy tried to reach out, to grab her arm, probably to pull her close. Barely paying him any mind, she still casually batted his hand away with audible force, before striking his nose with one fist, shattering it totally. She fluidly followed that strike with a sharp left to his throat, crumpling his windpipe like an empty soda can. She finished him by punting his balls into his lungs, just because she felt like it. She knew what he'd likely done with them before, after all.
Leader guy collapsed, twitching and rasping, clearly going into shock. He was losing consciousness, already coughing up blood, not on her thankfully. She watched him coolly, desperately fighting to keep a life he obviously didn't appreciate or respect. She spit on him, dismissing him with nary a thought, before looking at the rest.
To Hermione's complete lack of surprise, the rest of the snatchers hadn't moved an iota, they all stood back shocked into silence. She wasn't shocked, Fakes and frauds never cope well when prey becomes predator, after all
The big one looked at his dying boss then back at her, his face purpling. "Bitch!"
Honestly, he reminded her of Crabbe and Goyle, except somehow dimmer, if that was possible.
She rolled her eyes, head shaking. So predictable.
"You… you.. Bitch!" Big guy repeated, quite loudly; she stuck a pinky in her ear, wincing. he really screamed it, as if volume were the actual issue. She stared at him and just yawned.
The Big guy roared. He raised his wand, seemingly so angry he just fired a splattering of dark miasma at her. Not that it mattered, she was already in his space, directly under his face. Just for kicks, she hit him with the exact same three-piece his boss just got blessed by. She was right back in her prior spot before his twitching body ever hit the ground.
Once Hermione resumed her place, she took a look around to see what damage, if any that weird attack did. Seemed toxic, possibly corrosive. She wondered if she could replicate that somehow. For purely academic reasons, of course.
The snatchers looked at him, then looked at her. She shrugged, then grinned
The snatchers tried to reorganize then, regroup and either attack or retreat, but she was already moving in to take out the trash. Her speed obviously caught them flatfooted, as expected. As did the vicious savagery of her unrelenting assault.
Some tried to work together to take her down, but by the time the third body dropped in a broken heap it quickly became every man for themselves.
Hermione scoffed, almost too easy.
Their attacks were amateurish, their counters even more so. Took barely an effort to avoid or redirect their spells, either letting them miss her or manipulating them into a little friendly fire. Not so friendly for them, she snickered. What's a stray curse between friends after all?
If not that, there was always the chance to invade their personal space. In these many months since her awakening, as it were, Hermione had yet to meet a wizard or witch that wasn't worth less than an overfilled toilet once she closed the distance.
One mook tried to punch Hermione or maybe slap her, the technique was so haphazard and sloppily executed that she could not be bothered to tell. Her counter rang his bell but good, the rising knee to the ribs provided that melodic sound of a compound fracture. The resulting panicked wheezing was icing on the cake.
She absently tossed him into his buddies, sending him directly into the path of one of their curses. From his pitched scream, that must've really hurt. She rushed the stunned caster, snapping his wand arm at the wrist and elbow, then separating that shoulder for good measure. A straight right to his mewling jaw ended his bellyaching before he could bother her ears anymore than he already had. She crushed the wand with her heel while turning away, not like he deserved it anyway.
Even relying on the basics her daddy had taught her coming up to defend herself would have felt like overkill if they didn't so richly deserve it. The sound of every bone breaking, every pained grunt, every agonized groan, every shuddering scream was music to her. It was a requiem for every life these monsters had already destroyed and would have destroyed had they not run into her.
She remembered her father's lessons well now, though it felt too late. He taught her how to handle the three B's: bullies, bigots and bandits. Leave no ally behind and leave no enemy in a position of strength. Wish she had drilled that into Harry as a proper counter to Dumbledore's endless well of indulgent clemency.
Once she understood everything, saw his whole plot in its misbegotten Machiavellian entirety, she burned. Oh how she burned. She could not help it, she would not stop it. And after what happened to her later? She burned even hotter still. Some relationships coped, others broke, but it didn't matter. Not to her. Not after all she'd lost. Not to her rage either.
The last cowered on the ground, his fear permeated the air like an autumn breeze. Hermione watched him whipping his head around frantically, seeking help that would not or could not come. She saw the moment he recognized the state of his erstwhile buddies, laying wrecked around them, some barely twitching and moaning, several others utterly disturbingly still. A few, permanently so, especially Mr leader guy. She grinned at the thought. Her good deed for the day.
"It's you…oh Merlin, it's you, isn't it" he cowered back, gasping. "You're… you're the Thrice-"
Hermione's swift kick interrupted his sniveling speech. "Finish that phrase and I'll make you regret it." She hated all her brand new monikers, on so many levels. Gods, it almost made her miss the simpler days of 'beaver bookworm' at times.
Having a sobriquet borne from her trauma was bad enough, but then it spread, turned into a pureblood spook story overnight. W Wizarding World Urban Legend. So now, whenever her prey finally realized just who they had been messing with, she had to hear it, and be reminded of her pain.
Every. Single. Bloody. Time.
It bloody pissed her off something royal.
Though, Hermione could better relate to Harry's turmoil over his own collection of cursed titles. It made her feel closer to him, in a bittersweet way.
"Please, I'll give you whatever, just please?" The snatcher was sobbing, trying to drag himself away like a mangled crab, his badly wrenched arm cradling his damaged torso. "Look, please have mercy." His tears smelled delicious to her. "I got a family, a wife, a sprog too, please, just spare me, huh, please?"
Hermione stopped, her grin dropped. Her face blanked. "You dare…" she kicked him in the chest, the snatcher slid 10 feet into a pile of rubbish bins. She heard a snap upon impact, abstractly noting that it sounded like a larger bone, perhaps a femur. She smirked. She was getting enough experience to be able to differentiate nowadays.
The snatcher screeched, moaning and writhing. She stalked over to him, casually. Savoring this moment. He dated bring up family, after what had happened to hers, to Harry? She clenched her fists, feeling her knuckles crack audibly. The sound made the snatcher start sniveling.
"I'll tell you anything, ok? What do you want to know, huh? Anything? I know things, yeah? Yeah yeah, I know things" he snaps his fingers on his good hand. "Yeah I know, you wanna know about the girl, right, the girl? I'll tell you where we took her, yeah. Where we took the girl? And you'll let me go?"
Hermione cocked her head, growling. She gripped him by the neck, holding him in the air. He quivered, feebly kicking his feet, looking away from her ominously glowing eyes, her elongating fangs protruding from her lips. He quailed. She shook him, shocking him out of his rising panic. She snarled, silencing him.
She pulled him close, glaring directly into his eyes. He whimpered.
"What girl?"
"Welcome, Friend."
Kreacher looked up once he appeared in the hidden grove, seeing an old acquaintance. He smiled. "Greetings, Elder."
He eased himself into the grove, basking in the feel of the ethereal magic that permeated the space. The old magic was stirring something deep.
Kreacher was tense, stiff. His anxiety was plain, but that was no reason for poor manners. "How are things this evening, Firenze? Is everything… as we hoped?"
Firenze's smile was sure and easy. "Mars is crossing Pluto tonight."
Kreacher smiled back. That was a good sign, a very good sign, indeed. Most auspicious.
Seems tonight was the night, finally. He had been waiting for so long. Even when every one had forsaken Young Master, buried him in their minds and hearts, Kreacher never did. He couldn't. After all, he could still sense Young Master, their bond was still intact. It wasn't like it was with Old Master, he'd known when he'd lost him. But Young Master wasn't lost, he was merely disposed.
All Kreacher had to do was wait for him, for as long as it took. It wasn't easy. As the Evil One's minions pushed more and more, it got harder and harder. But he kept the faith, and was about to be rewarded.
He had felt the old magics stirring for awhile, calling him, guiding him. Letting him know without words what was needed and roughly when. He happily complied, while counting down the days. He had stayed safe, remaining hidden away, keeping mostly to himself for awhile.
It has been a long time coming, that's for sure. He did help those he could, while he waited. Especially fellow members, friends and/or allies of the House whenever their needs were dire, the random stranger as well, every now and again. Mostly because he knew it would please his Master, make him proud even.
And here Kreacher was, in this legendary place, awaiting a legendary feat. He looked around, feeling the sublime potency of it, how it sings with the promise of power. He had grown up hearing tales about this grove, with its legendary mystique. He had dismissed it as fantasy, like the Hallows, he supposed.
The mythical status of this clearing helped protect it, reinforced by lost magic as well. The space was truly hidden from most every magical, especially the acolytes of the dark one or the bearded busybody. What was hidden there was too precious to risk in the hand of either one of them.
Kreacher could feel his impatience rising. This has to work. It wasn't mere dreams that had led him here, that drove him to persevere, to evolve even. He had no illusions, he needed Young Master back, in the worst way.
"Please let this work, please…" He felt himself whispering, begging, first in his mind then aloud. over and over again. "Please?"
Finally Kreacher saw Firenze look at the sky once more, grinning in blatant anticipation. "It has begun." His voice vibrated with a myriad of emotions. Kreacher could relate, it had been a long year for him too.
Just then, he heard a gentle caw from a nearby branch. Seemed a local crow had taken an interest. Kreacher had a thought to shuffle it along, but the knowing look in the bird's eye gave him pause. He turned back to the grove only to see a miracle.
A single crow flew down to the young master's resting place, seeming to settle into place. Kreacher tensed, livid. He had the thought to vehemently shoo the bird away posthaste, but some visceral instinct said otherwise. Kreacher sighed, reshuffling himself back into his prior setting.
The crow turned its gaze at Kreacher then, as if aware of his previous intentions. The crow was somehow smug, Kreacher thought, surreptitiously rolling his eyes. The crow huffed out a series of sounds that if from another being would be considered a chuckle. Kreacher smirked; so that's how it is?
The crow winked before reorienting back toward the grave, the playful mood turning solemn. His tumultuous caw resonated around the space, seeming to flit through everything and everyone. It was a requiem, filled with a lifetime's pain and regret. A single tear rolled down Kreacher's weathered face. He knew that song was for his Young Master. He hoped it didn't mean that his time was in fact done.
Kreacher prayed for a different outcome. The young master deserved it. His call was answered when the Crow's song changed to one of righteousness, perseverance and the promise of retribution. At the last note, a strange energy swirled up, bathing the area in otherworldly waves.
Kreacher watched in awe as the solidly majestic trees at each cardinal point started to shine with an empyrean light, which flowed through the grove encompassing all of them. The last of his grief dwindled to a low ebb; Kreacher felt younger, better, stronger than ever before.
The light soon narrowed, going from blanketing the entire grove to spotlighting one space in the heart of the clearing. It shined even brighter then, as if the sun had chosen to rise from this very spot. Kreacher could feel those Old Magics again, their ancient energies swirling greater and greater into a transcendent crescendo that brought tears to his eyes.
Kreacher watched as the Earth rumbled beneath the shining light. The solid tundra was shaking, transforming into disintegrated crumble. Suddenly, a hand burst through the fragile fragments, then another followed to match.
Kreacher wished he could help him, to do something, but he was advised otherwise by Firenze. So he stared with a teary grin as a raven-colored mane soon emerged, followed by the rest of him, faded scar and all.
Soon, the Young Master's form pulled itself from the hallowed earth, before falling to grass, shaking like a leaf in a storm, gasping like a beached fish. Kreacher hurried over, muttering soothing nothings while helping him reorient himself back to life.
After a time, the Young Master was able to regain himself. He looked around, assessing his surroundings and his person. He saw the Centaurs, dipping his head respectfully, a honoring gesture that was reciprocated by the watching herd. He looked up at the Crow in the tree, who gazed back before cawing, somewhat gently.
The Young Master exhaled deeply, before looking over toward Kreacher. Kreacher held his breath, hoping that the Young Master was once again as Kreacher had known him. He knew it would much to ask, given how much the Young Master had already endured, but still, Kreacher hoped.
There was a long pause, as they looked upon one another without words. But just when Kreacher was beginning to dim, like he'd regained the Young Master only to lose him in another way, he saw true recognition gleam in the Young Master's emerald eye. Even better still, the Young Master actually smiled at Kreacher, warmly even. Kreacher beamed, his heart bursting with hope and joy.
"Why, hello Kreacher." The Young Master held out an arm, and Kreacher dashed over in a blink, he hugged him, with all he was worth and then some. "Did you miss me?"
Kreacher grinned through his tears. "Welcome back, Master Harry, welcome back." He sniffled, trying to hold on to some dignity as befitting his station. In that moment, Kreacher could feel their bond had changed. No longer was it simply a servant bond, now it was a familial one, he was truly a Black in heart and Magic, a Potter as well. Kreacher felt Master Harry gently rubbing Kreacher's back gently, like they were the family he'd said they were. Kreacher relaxed, stopped fighting it. "Thank you, Master Harry."
Master Harry looked at him and sighed. "It was long overdue & richly deserved many times over, Kreacher." Kreacher felt the rich magic settling into him, it was almost too much. "It's so good to see you well."
Firenze casually walked over to them, intentionally making enough noise to be noticed. Kreacher stepped back so they could both turn toward the newcomer. Firenze gave them a gentle bow, which Master Harry reciprocated.
"Greetings and Salutations
"Sorry I'm late, friend." Kreacher could see that Master Harry had looked up at the Crow again, who was overlooking them all from his perch in the tree. Master Harry smirked slightly. "Traffic was murder."