Summary: AU Hermione had suppressed the memories of her other self for 9 years. But now, her memories are coming back with a vengeance and without her past, there will be no future. Maybe she'll also find out the identity of the mysterious boy that haunts her dreams…
A/N After the confuzzlement of the previous chapter, prepared to have some of your questions answered! E.g. how they were able to apparate within Hogwarts? The first half of this chapter will probably confuse you more, but everything will be explained in the end! This is gonna be one hell long chapter, I can feel it.
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Chapter Two: Birthday Girl
Hermione laid face up under her duvet, examining her hands. Bright sunshine streamed in through the window, providing her with ample light to do so. The backs of her hands propped up the faded blue duvet.
There was a curious scar on her left hand. It was in the same position as her heart line, but ran along a completely different course. It was at least a year old, faded and barely distinguishable on her lined hand. She frowned, trying to remember when she had gotten that particular cut. It was probably one of her memoirs from all those fights with Voldemort. With this thought she dismissed the mysterious scar, and scrutinised her right hand.
The same scar was present. And it was her wand hand; she could only count one instance where she had injured that hand, and it did not leave her with a scar like that.
The scars were no accident. The fact that they were identical suggested that someone had deliberately marked her. She flopped over on her stomach, concern growing with every second, emerging out of her duvet so she could look at her hands properly.
Tracing the left scar with one finger, she tried to think of something that could explain how old scars that she had no recollection of getting, or ever seen before, could appear out of the blue. There was a niggling feeling at the back of her head, and an image flashed before her eyes. A dark room. Sitting cross legged on her bed, across from a boy.
Her palms tingled suddenly and the scars disappeared again. Hermione frowned as the spell took hold, wondering why she was staring intently at her hands.
Turning onto her side, facing her desk, she burrowed under the covers, trying to recall the dream she had last night. It was one of the strange, vivid dreams that seemed more like memories. She could remember every emotion, every touch she felt, but never the people in it. Their faces slipped like water through her mind, just staying long enough to leave an enticing imprint of what had been.
There was a boy. It was always a boy, and he always visited her dreams the night before her birthday. He had climbed in through her window, nearly tripping over her desk.
"You moved your desk," he stated, surprised, standing in the middle of her floor. The first moments were always awkward.
He moved his arm jerkily, placing it around her.
She tensed, feeling the heat from his hand on her back, and relaxed again a moment later, stepping forwards into his embrace. He exhaled, resting his chin on the top of her head.
"Thanks for rescuing me last week. Sorry about shoving you away like that in the last minute," He hugged her tighter.
"It's alright, I understand," She understood completely. Understood that the old man would kill her – and him – in a heartbeat if he found out who she really was. Understood the need for secrecy, until she could be reinitiated into The Fold.
"I've missed you," he murmured, stroking her dark hair. The strands were thick and silky, with a hue like melted chocolate.
"I don't get that luxury," she stated, squeezing her eyes shut. Pine trees. He always smelt like pine trees.
He said nothing. He didn't need to. "Why are you crying?" he asked softly, moving his hand down to caress her cheek.
"I'm not," she replied stubbornly. She hadn't let one drip of weakness pass her eyelids.
"But you're about to," He grinned, pressing her even closer. She was his stubborn mule.
She sighed. "I hate not knowing, deceiving myself like this...forgetting you,"
For a moment they just stood in silence, enjoying each others comforting presence. The he kissed her cheek gently and walked towards the bed, still holding her in his arms. They laid down together, fitting snugly like jigsaw pieces, facing each other.
"I expect I'll see you soon," he said cryptically, tendrils of breath skirting along her temple. He started stroking her hair again.
She opened her mouth to speak, but was hushed as his thumb grazed her lower lip.
"Sooner than you think,". He tangled both his hands into her hair, brushing it off her face. He adored her thick, glossy hair. Then he leaned in hesitantly, pale lips slightly apart, and kissed her lips softly, albeit very briefly.
She pulled back gave an unladylike snort, hitting his arm lightly. "Call yourself a man! What was that?"
He smiled, flicking her nose. "Just testing the water…"
"Well dive right in," she teased, before she captured his lips.
In the dream she had fallen asleep in his arms. Hermione sighed, remembering his hands, callused but gentle, conducting electricity that sent shivers through her soul with every stroke. But, she thought matter-of-a-factly as she swung out of bed, it was only a dream.
The mid morning sun kissed her back, lighting up her honey features as she put on her pale pink dressing gown and walked out of her room, to the bathroom around the corner. She yawned as she walked through the door, tossing her hair back. She brushed her teeth and washed her face, then set about attacking her hair with a comb. The teeth were arranged in a peculiar fashion, specially designed for thick, curly hair. Ron had bought it for her last Christmas in a sudden burst of intelligence. The wooden handle was engraved with her name.
After finishing her morning duties, she padded down the stairs for breakfast, wearing her Garfield pyjama pants and sleep shirt under her dressing gown. Her parents were still in sleep gear too. Lynn, her mother, was standing next to the toaster. She looked to be deep in thought, idly taping the butter knife on her plate. Her father, sat at the kitchen bench, reading the Sunday newspaper, glasses perched on his nose. He looked up at her as she walked past him to open the fridge, and smiled before resuming his read.
After pulling out a bottle of orange juice, she closed the door got a clear tumbler out of the cupboard, in which she poured the juice. The first sip was bitter, she remembered something her dentist parents once told her about how the toothpaste reacts with orange juice to make it bitter.
The toast leapt up energetically, and her mother was jolted out of her thoughts. "Oh hello dear," she said absent mindedly to Hermione, grabbing a tea towel and cleaning up a non existent mess.
"Happy birthday," she added, coming to her senses and reaching to grab the toast out of the toaster.
Hermione was quite bemused. Reaching over her mother to grab a bowl, she filled it with cereal and milk before sitting down next to her father on the bench. No one ever used the table unless it was a special occasion.
"Happy seventeenth," Graham Granger said proudly, putting down his newspaper. Lynn joined them, sitting on the other side of Hermione. They both hugged her, leaving Hermione very squashed and content.
"How much longer do we have the pleasure of having our only daughter with us, before you go gallivanting around the country, saving the world?" her mother asked, a hint of sadness in her voice.
Hermione smiled. School term had ended early after Dumbledore's demise, and she had been back for a week so far. Her parents had taken the news of their (her, Harry and Ron's) mission quite well, though had eyed Ron with caution when she mentioned that he was her boyfriend.
Boyfriend. She felt a twinge of betrayal towards the blond haired boy in her dreams, but dismissed the feeling quickly. Just a dream.
Her parents had then met and approved of Harry, and the entire Weasley clan, bar Percey, whose head prevented him from speaking to his family.
"We thought we'd take a three week break to spend with family, then spend a week tying up loose ends, finances and the like, then one more week getting supplies. So four more weeks, though I don't think you'll see that much of me in the last two weeks,"
"Our little girl all grown up and saving the world..." her dad teased, eyes crinkling in a smile. "Here's your birthday present, by the way, along with some money that we'll give you later,"
From under a pile of magazines, her father produced a rectangular package, wrapped in silver gift wrap. Hermione looked at it curiously, wondering if it was book. Tearing the corner carefully, she saw a sliver of red. Opening further, it revealed a handsome leather cover, embossed with a silvery green dragon. Running her fingertips over the cover, she could feel the magic lying dormant within the pages, waiting to be unleashed. The dragon opened one sleepy eye, and Hermione gasped as it mewed a greeting to her. She should be used to these things by now.
"It's a diary," her mother explained. "We were at Flourish and Blott's, the clerk said that it's protected by the most stringent anti…well…everything devices and is virtually indestructible,"
"Yes, we thought it would be a good investment," his father said, beaming. He didn't get to see his only daughter very often and sincerely hoped that she knew how much he and her mother loved her.
"Thanks so much!" Hermione enthused, tracing a zig-zag pattern down the book's spine.
Her mother laughed suddenly. "I remember finding my diary from when I was about seven, in the attic. I had such funny handwriting and couldn't spell a thing!"
Hermione frowned, wondering if she had any relics from her childhood. She had always though it odd that she could never remember anything before the age of nine. Her father's next comment proved her point.
"I remember getting a notebook for my sixth birthday," he mused. "I swapped it with my elder sister for a box of chocolate,"
"I can't remember anything before the age of nine," Hermione piped up suddenly, frowning. "Why is that?"
All action stopped at her words, and the toast tumbled out of her mother's hand, landing with a dull thump on the bench. To her horror, her parents exchanged a Look. Hermione steadied herself on the chair, awaiting the bomb, the one that always followed the Look.
Her mother sighed, brushing a lock of greying brown hair out of her face. Her father took of his glasses and polished them on his sleep shirt. They both suddenly looked as if they had aged ten years.
Hermione gripped the kitchen bench. Everything had stilled, and all that could be heard was the ominous ticking from the kitchen clock.
A few more moments passed in silence. Her mother stood up jerkily, just as her father opened his mouth to speak. Exchanging another one of those Looks, Lynn walked out of the room.
Hermione turned from watching her mother retreating back when a warm hand enclosed hers. "Hermione," her father called gently.
"On the eve of your eighth birthday, there was an incident,"
"What kind of…incident?" she asked timidly, faintly aware of echoing footsteps in the background.
"We aren't too sure ourselves…but someone had attacked you, and left you…in the forest…" to die he added silently.
A plain brown box was placed in front of her. "These are all the psychiatrists notes, newspaper clippings and etcetera," her mother said, waving around her hand haphazardly, before sinking wearily into the chair.
Hermione lifted the lid off apprehensively and started to sift through the contents. There was a photo, cut out from a newspaper. The grainy quality of the photo combined with the yellow of age made the details hard to see, but Hermione could still make out the crumpled figure lying battered on the forest floor.
Her hand flew to her mouth. She dropped the cutting, as if it had burned her, and picked up the next photograph with trembling hands.
In startling quality, a heavily bruised face under a heap of brown hair, entrenched with leaves, was covered by a mass of machinery. Plastic pipes ran from a breathing apparatus into her nostrils, and a scrap of gauze covered her split lip.
"Two broken ribs, split lip, bruised kidney, twisted ankle, collapsed lung, head trauma and multiple broken fingers," Lynn stated in a flat voice, looking down at the image that would forever haunt her. She began to cry.
Graham offered his wife no comfort, too lost in his own thoughts; the endless search, growing more and more frantic every passing minute and the disgust. Absolute disgust at the person – still uncaught – who did this crime.
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by a strange noise. She closed her trap and listened intently, for reasons unknown to her at the time. At first she just thought it was the ticking from the clock, but dismissed this theory as the ticking grew louder and more frantic. Her mother, red eyed and distraught, did not notice anything, though the sound did seem to be nearest to her.
Slowly, realisation dawned to Hermione.
A bomb.
A dragon's fierce roar erupted through the kitchen tiles, uprooting them and shattering them on contact.
This same force then slammed Hermione and her parents onto the wall, before dropping them rudely back on the ground, thankfully avoiding most of the big chunks of tile.
Sleeping Dragon, her traitorous mind whispered, as Hermione opened one eye to check the extent of the damage. Shapes were indistinct in the shroud of dust, but Hermione could see her parents' auras glowing brightly, much to her relief.
Another roar sounded from the living room, followed seconds later by one in the bathroom, then downstairs bedroom.
Sleeping Dragons never wait alone
The house was bucking on its knees, trying valiantly to hold itself up. Hermione pulled out her wand (she never let it leave her side) and levitated her parents, running to the front door with them in tow. She had to get out before…
The front door fell towards her and scuttling cracks appeared on the corners of the wall, racing each other along the ceiling. There was a deafening crash and the house imploded on her. She crouched down low, hoping beyond hope that they would survive as she closed her eyes and awaited the imminent pain.
Contrary to everything she expected, she felt no crushing weight of rubble, no shrapnel biting into her skin, just a constant ringing in her ears, the only reminder of what was happening. Clouds of dust buzzed around her face, each particle brandishing a spear, attacking her sensitive eyes and nose with vigour. She blinked slowly, each blink lodging more dust in her eyes rather than cleansing them. Eyes watering and throat choking, she stood up, hoping to get clean air. There was a thin blue dome around her, preventing the debris from touching her. As she stood, the dome pushed up part of the house's second storey, which had only broken in two, bending like a balloon under its weight. Unfortunately this dome also trapped in the vindictive dust.
Through streaming eyes, she saw a figure apparate with a pop onto her front lawn, dashing madly towards her. He grabbed her hand, wincing slightly as his arm passed through her shield. Her arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket as he yanked her forcibly, out from under the half decimated building. She landed on her palms, facing the ground, panting to breathe in more of the blessed fresh air.
Seconds passed by, and Hermione realised with dawning horror that her parents were still trapped. She scrambled back to the remnants of the house, inserting her fingers between the jagged base of the second storey and the crumpled remains of the first. Tears carved lines in her face as she tried desperately to lift up the top half of the house, roof and all. Her hands agitated the serrated rubble and were mercilessly butchered, the blood tricking down to paint crimson pictures on her broken home.
She shook with tears as she realised that it was all useless, that there was so way she could save her parents. Screaming with anger, she cursed the sun for shining so brightly and the earth for not swallowing her like it did her parents. Her neighbourhood had already been roused by the thunderous crash and were now tentatively watching her screams from their porches and through their windows. Her mother's slipper was hiding under a loose boulder and she momentarily ceased her screamed to extricate it. Clutching it tight to her chest, she howled once again.
Soon, her voice grew hoarse and she fell to the ground, the slipper slipping out of her hand also. Digging her fingernails into the ground, she willed herself to stem the flow of tears. She took a deep, shuddering breath, lifting her hand to wipe away the last few tears that refused to stay unshed. A few moments later, a shadow glided into view and her blond captor crouched down, to her eye level. Whatever semblance of control she had gathered shattered as his face slid into view.
Before she was fully conscious of her movements, her fist connected with the side of his face.
He looked at her incredulously, rubbing his smarting cheek. He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.
"Why didn't you save my parents?" she demanded angrily, rearing for a fight.
"I didn't have time," he said softly, evidently not taking the bait.
"Well…couldn't you try?" she wailed, tears welling up again.
"I had barely enough to get you out, let along you parents," was his reply. The damn logic of his words was unclouding her thoughts and she was loosing that unrestrained fury. He looked uncomfortable, and hesitated to speak his next comment. "Also…they had been killed instantly by the collapse,"
She pushed at his chest savagely, making him topple backwards, and then stood up. Standing with her hands on her hips, she glared down at him. "How did you know they were killed instantly?" she asked furiously.
That's my girl, he thought sourly. Never misses a beat.
"That's a good question, I'll explain later…" At this she grabbed the front of his shirt and raised her fist again. He put his hands up in defence, hastily retracting his comment. "I can't say in front of the Muggles…" he said lamely, not wanting to provoke her any further.
"I'll modify their memories," she growled, moving her fist closer to his face.
"With what wand?" he pointed out, raising one eyebrow.
Her grip slackened, and so did her face, taut with anger. Once again she was a little girl that had just lost her parents. He swore under his breath at his lack of tack, and reached out to comfort her. Through hiccupping sobs she knocked away his hand and ran away, still clad in her sleepwear.
He climbed to his feet, yelling out her name with desperation, but she had already rounded the corner. He still sprinted after her, turning the corner just in time to see her disappear into the woods behind the houses on her street.
"Hermione!" he bellowed again, stumbling into the forest after her. She knew the forest well, while he blundered along, tripping over roots. There was a sharp noise, like a whistle or a bird's call, which drew his attention up to the sky. Of course, he couldn't see the source of the noise, but this slight distraction caused him to fall flat on his face. As he lay there, listening to the chattering of malevolent squirrels, a sparrow flew over him and excreted on his head.
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Twirling a pencil languidly and leaning back in his chair, Art waited for Demetrius' entry. He had sounded very, very pissed over the intercom. "How'd it go?" called Art called out as Demetrius limped through the door, clothing rumpled and dirty.
Demetrius scowled as a reply. "What do you think, you fucking knob?" He gestured at his dishevelled clothing. At Art's arched eyebrow, he continued. "I twisted by bloody ankle chasing after her, and a bird crapped on my head,"
"Did she remember?"
Demetrius paused. "I don't think so. She was hysterical, I mean with her parents getting squashed and all, so may not have realised,"
Art smoothed a hand over his dirty blond hair. "The others get here at one o'clock," he announced.
"Thirteen hundred hours!" Demetrius reprimanded, deadly serious.
Art chucked his 2B Faber Castell pencil at him, hitting him squarely on the nose. "If you're such a rule abider, why don't you swear less like Augusta says?" he retorted over Demetrius angry yell.
Demetrius rubbed his nose irately, smudging the lead, much to the amusement of Art. "That's…different…" he insisted, shooting death glares at the other boy.
Art checked his watch again. 10:49.
"She'll come," he stated.
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The anniversary of her birth had to be cursed or something. She couldn't remember any of her birthday's before and including the ninth, and had just found out that someone had tried to kill her on her ninth birthday. She broke her arm on the tenth anniversary. On her eleventh, there was a disastrous birthday party, where everyone went home crying and full of salmonella infested chicken, brought over by her well wishing next door neighbour. She preferred to have quiet birthdays after that. Her dog died on the twelfth, followed by her cat on the thirteenth. On the fourteenth, she discovered that her best friend, Hannah, from when she was at Muggle schools had spread rumours about her, and past schoolmates would throw eggs at her when she passed. On the fifteenth, her old schoolmates found out the extent of Hannah's lies, and threw her a surprise birthday party. All was going swimmingly until Hannah decided to gatecrash and slapped her. Then on her sixteenth she introduced Ron and Harry to her friends. Someone or someones slipped a bag of Ton-Tongue sweets into the bag of snacks Ron and Harry bought.
A car beeped at her, and she jumped back onto the footpath in surprise, thinking she had been too lost in her thoughts and hadn't noticed the car. In contrary, it was just a testosterone fuelled joke. She could tell by their raucous laughter.
The last hour she had spent wandering, and the rage had been slowly worked off. She began to see it was not the blond strangers fault; she should have thanked him for saving her life.
She could get by without them - hell that's what she'd been doing for the past six years. Immediately she threw up, disgusted at herself for this thought, no matter how true it was. Her stomach contracted painfully as it forced its contents up her oesophagus, the acid burning a path up and through her mouth. Throwing up on an empty stomach was the worst. As she peered, slightly perturbed, at her vomit, images swirled on its surfaced.
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She was light as air – lighter even. In under two hours, she had made in into town. People were staring at her as she drifted past, but she paid them no attention. The Oblivate Charm placed around her allowed their eyes slide off her floating form and focus on more normal things. With acute sharpness she remembered everyone. Demetrius. Artemis. Augusta.
With remembrance, came clarity. Her parents unfortunate death, her predicament with Ron and Dumbledore's death, they all made sense now. There was only one thing left to do now.
She threw herself off the cliff.
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Art leaned on the table with his head in his arms. Around it sat four other people, three of them also in this state.
"It's been over an hour!" Chrys whined, looking pointedly at the clock.
Demetrius, the only alert one, made a hushing noise. "She'll be here soon," he insisted, looking at the screen which showed close circuit footage of all the rooms and doorways of their headquarters.
Chrys rolled her eyes at Patience, who smiled lazily.
Stefan seemed to be asleep.
Without warning, Demetrius stood up and typed rapidly on the computer, his chair falling backwards with a sharp clang.
Neville leaned over and whispered to Stefan, who had been jostled awake by Demetrius. "I don't see why he gets to his feet to type when he gets excited,"
"I heard that!" Demetrius snapped. "She coming in one of the back ways," he proclaimed.
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Hermione knocked on the plain door. Immediately it was opened by Demetrius, who had saved her. "Thank you for saving me," she said politely. "Demetrius,"
His grey eyes widened at his code name, and his heart leapt. She remembered! He reached out to hug her, only to find that she had already walked past, and was reconciling with the others.
"Arty!" she shrieked, hugging the stunned male. He patted her back enthusiastically, making funny thwacking sounds on her wet clothing, before pulling back to look at her. "It's like I'm looking at you for the first time," he said quietly. "You seem taller," Sure, he had seen her millions of times in the halls of Hogwarts, but back then she was always overshadowed by Potty and Weasel. On her own, she looked slight different, more confident. Stronger.
She beamed at him, bouncing on her feet. "Oh but it is you who has grown!" she said, reaching up and ruffling his hair. "You used to be my height – your hair's gotten darker too,"
He smiled fondly at her, glad that he'd gotten his best friend back.
Demetrius stared at the pair, hands clamping the table edge. He wasn't jealous. Of course he wasn't. He tightened his grip even further. Suddenly all resistance from the table was lost and he fell, forehead greeting the table.
Dazed and confused, he lifted up his throbbing head.
"Smooth," Artemis laughed, conjuring up an ice pack.
"It's not funny," Demetrius said dejectedly, gazing at the two pieces of table he held in his hands.
Familiar hands enclosed his, and he looked up to see Hermione extricate the wood from his hands. He looked at her expectantly.
She lowered her gaze, staring blankly at the alien wood in her hands. "My wand was in the house,"
"Why do you need the wand?" Demetrius asked, struck by a sudden feeling that something was wrong.
"Don't need…can't fix the table with no wand," she replied, giving him a strange look.
"You don't need a wand to fix it,"
"Yes I do, if I want to fix it properly,"
Demetrius tilted his head to the left, looking at her from an angle. "What do you remember?"
"I remember you, and Artemis, and Augusta…and your blonde twin…some of the teachers…" she responded.
"No events? None of the teachings? Just the people?"
"Just the people," she confirmed, tilting her head also. "F…" she started, squinting her eyes in exertion. She was about to remember something, but an unknown force had stopped her.
He straightened up, and then clapped his hands together. "Right, she has to be de-wormed,"
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Hermione sat in the chair, trying not to squirm as her legs and arms were clamped down. She yelped, as the back of the chair suddenly reclined. It wasn't a chair after all, it was an operating table.
The brunette girl, Patience, brought over a faded blanket to cover her with. Machines whirred to life around her, the most disconcerting one being the claw like structure that had just pulled down the back of her pants and underwear, via a hole on the table. The cool metal fingers rested on her buttocks, the middle of the contraption hovering over her anus.
The rest of the team walked in, wearing latex gloves and facemasks. The small dark haired boy reached up and pulled down a clunky steel box attached by a wire to the ceiling. Hermione couldn't see the other side, but the side she did see looked like a giant compound eye, spherical lenses lined up all in a row.
It was placed on top of her chest, covering her from neck to bottom of ribcage, shoulder to shoulder. Again she yelped, as the table plunged suddenly.
"Sorry about that," said the dark haired boy, with a faint Russian accent. "I'm short, you see. Can't see up that high,"
She nodded nervously, narrowing her eyes to avoid getting full glare from the bright light above.
The lights dimmed and the machine jumped to life, hanging taut on its wire string. The others looked at the top side, faces sombre. Travelling down the length of her body, it stopped suddenly at her left knee.
"Ew!" Chrys shrieked, staring with gross fascination at the box. The underside emitted a green light, and then moved itself up to the pelvis. Directly over her anus.
Hermione squealed, as something cold and metallic was rammed up her backside. Eyes watering, she felt it move back down her rectum. The descent was jerky, like an impatient owner tugging on a leash. With a sickening shlup it exited with its prize.
Another claw pulled her pants back up, then brought a plastic jar in front of her face. Her limbs were released and she sat up, taking the jar, while the table became a chair once again.
Through the clear plastic she could see a small green worm, length of her finger and width of a needle. It writhed around in what seemed to be agony, heaving the top half of its body up high in hopes of escaping. Waving its head left and right, the green of its skin lightened and it shivered, collapsing back to the ground. It shuddered spastically, ends curling up and turning brown. With one final spasm, it died, completely blackened.
Dropping the jar, Hermione threw up.
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After a cup of green tea she felt much better. They had moved to yet another room, this one filled with numerous cushions.
Hugging a furry star shaped cushion to her chest, she waited for them to start talking. Since the removal of the bug hadn't refreshed any of her memories, they thought they'd best tell her themselves.
They sat in front of her in a semicircle. At the left was Artemis, then Demetrius, Chrysanthemum and Patience, rounding off with Stefan. Currently their heads were all put together, deciding on a plan of attack.
Trying not to think of the worm, she wondered what they would tell her. She was certain that they were some sort of club, though their purpose eluded her.
Artemis cleared his throat, attracting Hermione attention. "Let's begin at the start," he said, stretching out his legs and leaning back into the bean bag. "First of all, everything you have ever known to be true about magic or anything affiliated with it is a load of horse manure,"
He held up a finger to silence her. "Do you remember what happened when we sent you to rescue Demetrius about a month ago?"
Hermione shot a quizzical look at Demetrius, who didn't give even the slightest indication of a response. "No, I don't," she said, resting her chin on the cushion.
"Oh," He paused, then decided on another way of telling the tale. "Well, about fifty years ago, there was a powerful wizard by the name of Samseron. He wanted power, and would go to any lengths to obtain it. Over the course of a year, he designed magical worms – like the one you had – to implant into people,"
"What did they do?" Hermione asked, feeling nauseous once again.
"They made people see what he wanted them to see. Samseron started this infection in London. It spread with human contact, through kissing, sex, blood and the like. Within a month, everyone in London had got it, and it was travelling fast. By the end of the year, more than 95 of the country had got it,"
"What exactly did he want them to see?" Hermione asked. This Samseron bloke sounded an awful lot like Voldemort to her.
"Well, he had built up a small but faithful gang of followers. They would kidnap seeming random members of society. People would normally have gotten suspicious, but the worms made them docile. It made them see things as they always were. Nothing had changed to them, but in reality everything had."
"Seemingly random did you say?"
"We'll get to that. Anyways, with most of England under his influence, he made himself their leader and completely isolated the Muggle and Wizarding societies. Before Samseron, nearly half the Muggles, particularly those in rural areas, knew of our existence. He fed the wizards notions that Muggles couldn't accept them, that they couldn't possibly understand, via the worms. By doing this, wizards began to think that wizards and Muggles simply couldn't mix, and that's the way things had been for as long as time itself. He then created many of the strictly wizarding structures, like Hogwarts and Diagon Alley.
Since many of the Muggles had come across something magical, he slowly erased their memories of it. Dragons, elves, unicorns – all become folklore. The few witches and Muggles that still remember gradually forgot too. It's a funny thing that the mind does. Would rather accept the safer option. Now that he had completely segregated the country, his real plan began.
The people he had kidnapped, they were chosen for their stubbornness. Inability to renounce their beliefs and faiths. Now, Samseron had realised in his youth that the human body produces a particular ray, shall we say, whenever it is put under high level of emotional strain. He would mind rape his subjects, making them experience a spectrum of emotions and recording the emission of the ray for each emotion. Guess which emotion gave off the most rays,"
"Happiness?" Hermione guessed tentatively, hoping for a happy ending.
Artemis chuckled bitterly. "No. Fear. Hope. Grief. These were the top three,"
"Hope, that's good," Hermione said desperately, not liking the way this story was going at all.
"Depends how he used it. The exact reason he wants these rays is still unclear to us, but since then he has exploited the wizarding community, making them experience these three feelings plentifully,"
"Why just the wizards?" Hermione asked.
"Wizards on average produced five times more rays than Muggles. He still exploits the Muggles though, just when he is especially low on these rays, and some of them produce even more rays than us wizards,"
"In short, he's using us as batteries?"
Artemis paused. "I guess you could say that,"
"So how is he making us produce these rays?"
Artemis smiled sadly. "Oh you're going to love this, freshly de-wormed and all," he gave another painful smile, "Scare tactics. Ever heard of…Voldemort?"
Hermione's mouth slowly opened, as she realised the implication of his words.
"Voldemort doesn't exist. Never has. He was just a figure that we could fear,"
It felt as though a corset was being pulled tighter and tighter around her torso, robbing her of breath. "But…but…what about Harry?"
"Harry Potter doesn't exist!" Chrysanthemum screeched suddenly, face going splotchy and red with anger.
"He was just another stimulant, something for us to focus our hope onto," Art confirmed, hating the look on Hermione's face.
Though she wished that none of it was true, Hermione couldn't deny herself the truth any longer. More present than her initial denial was a feeling of déjà vu. She had heard all this before.
"So is everyone still enslaved by the worms?" Hermione asked, dreading the answer. She couldn't stand the thought of everyone she had ever cared for being controlled.
"Yes and no. Things have changed since fifty years ago. We're the third generation," he made a circular gesture, encompassing all of them. "We've built up a resistance, to the worms and to his crusade,"
"Why me?" Hermione asked suddenly.
"Truth be told, you caused a fluctuation in the ray emissions. We had a mole in their laboratory, you caused quite a stir. Everyone's rays are emitted at a particular frequency. Yours was at 1.618. A magical number. The most magical. From the moment your brain was fully developed, you were different. He had tagged you, wanting to take you and do who knows what. We got there first,"
"Were the rest of you at this frequency also?"
"No. Some of are at other magical frequencies though. We've had several successful intercepts since yours. The rest of us were found by chance. Children that were particularly imaginative and perceptive,"
Hermione swallowed, trying to take it all in. Her mind was swirling, and her head hurt, but she had the most amazing feeling of completion. "I think I need some water," she breathed, light headed.
Taking the offered glass, she drank slowly, every droplet sharp in her mouth.
"Are you okay?" Demetrius asked, detecting a change in her behaviour.
"I think I need some sleep or something," she said faintly, already lying down.
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Demetrius sat in a chair, watching Hermione's even breathing. They had moved her into a room, and he had offered to take first watch. The door creaked, and Artemis slipped through.
He sat down on the chair next to him, looking at his other best friend in concern. "Look mate, I've never asked you this before, but what did you talk to her about when you checked up on her every year?"
"Everything," He elaborated no further.
Artemis shifted in his seat. "I've always wondered this, since you two didn't get along very well…but why were you chosen to check up on her?"
Demetrius leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. His light blond hair fell in his eyes. "I asked Augusta the same question when I was picked to go…she said that she originally intended you to go, you were her closest friend. But at the last minute, she decided she should let fate decide, and fate picked me. I'm guessing she rolled a dice or something," He then propped up his head with his hands.
"Did she remember back then?" he asked, brown eyes focusing on Hermione's sleeping figure.
"Yea. The first time I went, before her tenth birthday, she remembered that my birthday was two weeks before hers, and gave me this silver chain for a late birthday present, not wanting to fight with only connection she had left with the world," Demetrius tugged on the collar of his shirt, revealing a thin chain.
Artemis noted that it was obviously well cared for, not tarnished in the slightest. "So you two made peace?"
Demetrius nodded. "She remembered last night too, painted a picture for me,"
Artemis nodded also. He had seen the picture. It was a portrait of his family, showing them as they were. When he had asked Demetrius earlier, he had mumbled a reply about it being a gift. "You're not telling me something," he realised. Demetrius never talked about his parents. He had thought that he was the only one who knew about them, but apparently so did Hermione.
"I fell in love with her," he replied simply, staring entranced at Hermione through his fingers.
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A/N Okay, yea, the ending was corny and stupid. Wait, I mean ending for this chapter, the story's nowhere near finished. Yea…well I had no other way of saying that in uncorny ways. Please accept my lame excuses; there shall be no further corniness. I will try my very hardest. In this chapter there was also my lame attempts at humour, say the word and I'll stop.
If anyone gets knows the identities of Augusta (HINT: Real name used), Demetrius, Chrysanthemum and/or Artemis, I will be very pleasantly surprised. Chuffed even. May even send you a prize (virtual, unless you live in a country that I can post to with under $2.40 worth of stamps)…no I probably won't bother with a REAL prize, but get your hopes up anyways. Yea…a review will be much appreciated; I go into fits of happiness when I get them