A/N From now on expect shorter but more detailed chapters. Knowing me, that's a load of bullcrap and they'll get ridiculously long again.
I have mocks, starting on the 12th and finishing on the 22nd. Then I have the last day of term on the 23rd, and two weeks of holidays after that. This will be my last update before the exams. I'll probably update sometime during the second week of the holidays.
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Chapter Three:
Hermione woke with a very startling possibility.
She wondered for a second why she was wearing her pyjamas, and then she remembered that she had never taken them off.
Judging by the darkness and the nocturnal chatter, she assumed it was about two a.m. That wasn't too late.
She flung off her blanket, getting to her feet. The floorboard creaked as she applied pressure, and she quickly leapt off that particular area of the floor. Striding quickly to the door, she opened it and dashed down the twisting hallway, letting her instincts take her. Reaching a door, she wrenched it open. Hastily shutting the door, she jumped on the bed, its occupant turned away from her.
"Fuck off," he said drowsily, pulling up the blanket that she had pulled down.
Hermione frowned. He wasn't Artemis. But she was absolutely positive that the scent she had been following was Artemis'.
A gust of wind pushed the curtain aside, entering the room and huffily messing up their hair even further. Wild moonlight took this opportunity to light up the room. With business-like efficiency it coloured his messy hair light silver. Through curls of dark hair she saw her pale, luminescent, moonlighted arms, holding his shoulders. He was sleeping on his back, half turned to the right. One arm was under his head, the other at his side, near her thigh for she was sitting atop him. The spirits of the moonlight had certainly bewitched her, as she was slowly drowning in his image. His skin, paler than even hers, seemed as thin as rice paper. In a trance, she traced a perfect parabola, from the corner of his eye, around his cheekbone, stopping at his jaw. His skin on hers felt so familiar. His curved lips opened a fraction; she sunk a little deeper.
Agonisingly slowly, he opened his eyes. The moonlight painted the eyelashes silver, like his hair, though they looked dull compared to his iris; crystallised mercury.
Turning his head, he smiled languidly at her, re-arranging his features in a seldom used position.
She clutched his shirt, shivering as the wind whirled around her. Focusing desperately on his bright eyes, she tried to fight the black tide creeping up on the edge of her vision, hoping that he would save her.
But the wind suddenly retreated, taking the moonlight with it. She knew that she was dry as sand yet felt completely drenched.
She licked her lips nervously, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Seemed better to just forget it entirely.
"Sorry to interrupt your sleep, but I just had a thought," she said, starting to recapture some of the enthusiasm she had before.
He gazed up at her, sitting on top of him nervously. He smirked. She looked nervous the last time she was in that position too. Raising an eyebrow, he signalled for her to continue.
"Well since Voldemort doesn't exist…does that mean that everyone he killed is still alive?"
Demetrius sighed. He propped himself up, leaning back on his eyebrow, then ran a hand through his hair. "No. Voldemort doesn't exist, but Harry does, to some extent. Unlike Voldemort, Harry actually has a human form – it just doesn't look or act like the 'Harry' you know,"
Hermione frowned, thinking this new idea through.
He continued. "Have you noticed that the only person that has ever actually seen Voldemort was Harry? He was the only one that saw Voldemort's head on the back of Quirrels, the only one that saw him get resurrected in fourth year, and the only one that got a proper look at him at he Ministry,"
"But Cedric-" Hermione started, then stopped as realisation hit. Dead men don't talk. "But there were also heaps of eyewitnesses that saw Voldemort at the Ministry,"
He arched his eyebrow again. It was oddly comforting to her. "Yes, quite a few people saw Lord Voldemort for about three seconds before he disapparated,"
Hermione shut her mouth.
His abdominal muscles were moving under her, and before she knew it his cool cheek was against hers as he moved his lips to her ear.
"Hermione," he whispered. She shivered. "Female form of Hermes, messenger of the Gods. You may have noticed that we don't go by our real names – from now on neither do you. Welcome to The Fold, Hera,"
He took her left hand in his and traced a symbol, an 'S' with the two ends joined with a straight line. She felt a familiar tingle rush through her body as his skin made contact with hers again.
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Demetrius allowed himself to breathe in her scent, just for a second. Any longer and he would completely lose his mind. Again.
What was torture? Having your soul mate forget who you were, completely and totally. Watching her today, glowing with happiness to be reunited with Artemis, made him more than a tad jealous. They may have been best friends when they were younger, but she was his girl now. In her absence, Artemis had been quite lost. Demetrius had always been a loner, and preferred it that way. But The Fold was built on teamwork and trust – all that corny crap that sold millions of cards every year. So naturally they were teamed up.
Demetrius also preferred to have no attachments, and now he had two major ones hanging on his back, weighing him down. He had learnt the hard way why not to get attached, and now the Hermione situation just added to his numerous list of reasons why. He was a soldier dammit, didn't need sissy feeling holding him back.
He was still holding her hands in his, her body inches away from his. He leaned in, comforted by her presence. She immediately tensed. "I have a boyfriend," she announced. "And even if I didn't, I wouldn't start a relationship with someone I barely know," she said, drawing back, though a terribly traitorous part of her wanted to stay.
He looked into her eyes, holding her gaze firmly. "I know you better than you think, better than anyone else,"
She frowned. "From what I remember about you, we were never particularly close. We were always bickering,"
"Things change," He paused. "Do you honestly not remember anything about me from the age of nine upwards?"
"What's there to remember?"
He searched her eyes. Last time they had met, three weeks ago when he had finally broken free of that old mans curse, she had started to remember immediately, and he had to stop the trail of memories. Now, she couldn't even remember to remember. What had changed?
"Go get some sleep," he told her gently, picking her up off his lap and ushering her out the door.
She left quietly.
Climbing back into bed, he was left to ponder his rather complicated thoughts. Ever since he had been confounded by the other side, he had the distinct feeling that someone in their group was a traitor, and had erased their memory of something very important in the recovery of Hermione's memory. The question was what?
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Hermione slipped back under her sheet. Demetrius and her had not conversed much, but it was what was left unsaid that bothered her the most. He hadn't answered her when she had asked what was there to remember.
They obviously had some sort of history.
But she was with Ron.
Ron. How did he fit into this complicated new world? Making a mental note to ask someone tomorrow, she tried to get some sleep.
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When Hermione arrived at the main kitchen in the morning, she had remembered several things overnight.
Demetrius and Art were sat, side by side, eating their breakfast in silence. "Bread's on the counter, apricot jam in the first cupboard from the left, middle shelf," Demetrius said absently, stirring his soggy cornflakes.
She paid no attention to his words, though spared a brief thought to wonder how he knew of her favourite jam, and sat across from them on the table, large enough to fit at least 10 people.
"Ron," she stated, looking at them for an answer.
Artemis swore. "You tell her the bad news this time," he told Demetrius.
"Ron's what we call a puppet," Demetrius started, making no effort to sugar coat his words. She was a big girl, she could hear the truth straight up.
"One of the few identified ones. They're people who are unusually submissive, so the worms dictate their behaviour, and are literally human spies for Samseron,"
Hermione unconsciously wiped her mouth, thinking about how she had kissed Ron when he was just a robotic droid.
Funny, did that mean that he didn't really like her, that it was just the worm? She has spent the majority of her time at Hogwarts pining after him, wonder why he didn't like her, and the other half denying that she ever did. Well, looks like it was out of her hands now.
Slightly alarmed by how little it took to accept that and move on, she asked the next question that had been bugging her. "Where is everyone?"
"Your turn now," Demetrius said, resuming the playing of his food.
Artemis sighed. He always got the harder ones. "Remember, three weeks ago, that big fight between 'Harry' and the Death Eaters?"
She nodded.
"That was really a big battle between us and The Circle. The Circle are the enemies," he explained, thinking back to that dreadful night…
Artemis rushed out into the entrance hall. Demetrius was collapsed on the ground, freshly unconfounded and in no position to fight. An all out war was breaking out between the Master of The Circle, Samseron, and his oldest disciple, and many Circle members were storming into the castle, uncertain to which side to take.
Suddenly the protégé lunged forward and stabbed Samseron with his wand. In slow motion he seemed to sink to the ground, before shrivelling up, much like his worm creations.
"Attack!" the protégé snarled, glaring at the crowd building up behind him.
They had not yet spotted him, but it was just a matter of time before they did. Levitating Demetrius, he turned tail and ran as fast as he could to the Room of Requirement. The battle was beginning.
Dumping Demetrius in the room, he noticed that it was empty. The others must have already gone out into the fray. From the ceiling hung a swing stick, glowing a light yellow colour. This fight was serious if all the troops had been contacted.
The smell of blood overwhelmed him as he stepped back out. Wishing that the blood was not shed on his side, he ran down the corridor, not stopping to check the identities of the bodies littering the ground, fearing the worst.
Monsters, bodies insufficient as shadow, brandished sharp weapons at him, hollow eyes staring through him.
Cries of the injured formed a melancholy melody.
Serrated cuts, bleeding daggers, reminded him that it was all very real.
Noticing her staring at him with concern, he swallowed. "They were all killed," he said thickly, looking down at the brown coloured milk, once pure, but tainted so easily.
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A/N A review would be much appreciated