Hello.
I know it's been over a month since the last update. I was sick and did not want to write anything. This chapter was written in an atypical state for me.
Music usually inspires me a lot, but not this time. I was looking for something new. In the end, I found the right music, for those who are interested, I will leave the titles. Music is my main fuel, but I never know what will inspire me to write further. If you have something to offer me for listening, write the titles, no matter what genre and in what language. I'm always on the lookout for new music.
I'm finally posting the next chapter. I haven't really read it yet, but I'll definitely look into it later. Perhaps it is written incoherently, it is difficult for me to judge right now. And maybe I need a beta.
I hope that we will meet again in a week.
Music:
Poppy - Choke
Skynd - Robert Hanson
Nostalghia - Cool for chaos
"I tried, but he wouldn't let me go," Hermione rubbed her hand. Yaxley's fingers were imprinted on her skin. Twelve days have passed, and the bruises have just begun to fade. "I had to move us here for the sake of safety."
"And you didn't come up with anything better?" Ron's every word was laced with contemptuous intonations. It's like he's been replaced. He was no longer the young man who smiled at her and showed timid signs of affection at the beginning of the summer. Exasperation became the main feature of his character.
"Looks like you came up with something?" — she herself began to simmer.
Everything was going in a vicious circle. She repeated the excuses dozens of times. Each time her voice cracked slightly, Ron took it as a sign of weakness. They quarreled almost every day while they were in the forest of Dean. Harry tried not to react to his friend's bad mood and often left the tent in advance. Hermione couldn't do the same. Ron should have realized that it wasn't her fault.
"I'm not that smart," — his face was distorted with sardonic mockery. Even his red hair seemed to be ignited by the fire of barely restrained rage. "You could get rid of the Death Eater".
She was shocked to the core and suppressed the urge to grab him by the collar and slap savory.
"Oh, tell me it was a stupid joke!" she demanded in an incredulous voice.
Ron turned away, jaw clenched. Slytherin's Locket flashed on his neck. Everything was clear now. They took turns carrying the horcrux. When it was Ron's turn, he completely lost his senses and lavished reproaches.
She swayed on her toes, wondering what was the best thing to do. Maybe she should have taken the horcrux from him and hung it around her neck, but then it meant that she would have to voluntarily plunge into darkness herself. Trying to reason with Ron — would be a waste of energy. Unlike them, Dolores Umbridge wore the locket without any apparent trouble and could still summon a corporeal Patronus.
It was always Hermione's turn to wear the Horcrux, after Harry and Ron. She allowed herself a little delay to gather her courage before the ice chain hung around her neck. The locket pulled her to the ground with it's suffocating weight. An invisible entity hidden in the depths of the cursed locket rose from the ground. There it was filling the world with a blackish haze, covering all the bright colors. The whisper of familiar voices pierced the silence: "It's about her… she's not like us." This was how Hermione's personal circle of hell began. Thoughts were unwinding and twisting—there was no end in sight.
It's always been about her. Saving the situation was her concern. Whether it was a gathering or a massacre of an enemy. It was her responsibility for the fact that the three of them could no longer continue to live in a warm house, eat delicious food and wait for something to change in the world by itself. The dirty work always fell in her hands. Ron didn't want to get his hands dirty. He just constantly grumbled, finding fault in every little thing. If she had gone along with it, he would have been the first to turn away from her. Previously, Ron was limited to carping about everyday troubles, like the lack of food and comfort, so even a delicate "get rid of" was like a slap in her face. Whatever Ron meant…
"To get rid of the Death Eater is to kill him. Killing is easy. What's so hard to understand about that?" she thought with a nasty laugh. If she were someone like Lavender Brown, she would take that thought as her own, but she was still herself, Hermione Granger, a runaway muggleborn witch. The idea of killing someone had never seemed easy to her. From now on, not all the thoughts that were born in her mind belonged to her. Maybe Ron was like that not by his own choice.
Harry had no complaints. Or even if he had, he didn't express it. She didn't know if it would also hurt her if he were in Ron's place, because she took his words without much sharpness. Ron became important to her not only as a friend, but he preferred to blame others than take responsibility. Due to the fact that he was wounded during the apparition, he saw himself as the main victim. He hadn't thought about what it was like for her to fight Yaxley.
"Yaxley would tear us apart!" — the thought was accompanied by a snake hiss. She clenched her jaw so that her teeth gritted. The image of the Death Eater itself was drawn by her helpful imagination, even more creepy than in reality. The ghost of his grip still echoed with pain: he squeezed her hand with irresistible force, either to keep the fugitives in reach, or to tear off a piece of meat from her. She would have sacrificed her arm if it had helped, but along with her arm she would have had to say goodbye forever to Ron she was holding. In the tightness of the apparition, bending with distortions of space in unthinkable ways, she found the strength to overcome the pressure and hit Yaxley in the face. His grip tightened, threatening to shatter her bones. It lasted a split second, but she remembered every detail. Caught in the cycle of a sinister look. A vision accidentally caught like a flash. The vision was imprinted in her memory in every detail. She felt sick. Her composure gave out at that moment, only fear remained with her. Another moment and the thing that was silently promised by Yaxley would have happened. There was no doubt. The only thing Hermione could do was succumb to the primal instinct to run. With a swift jerk, Hermione rushed away when she felt the Death Eater's grip loosen. All her thoughts were occupied with the desire to escape. The secret of the house on Grimmauld Place was not worth anyone's lives. So Hermione dropped everything and moved to the forest. Her heart, which had sunk into her heels, returned to its place.
She examined Harry, he was fine. Ron got a splinching, but he was alive. While she was giving first aid, trying to cope with the trembling, there was still a haze before her eyes. She still saw the vision: her friends were dying a painful death, while she, washed in blood, groveled before the enemy.
Many days later, this picture still haunted her. No matter how much Hermione rejected it, the vision kept spinning in her head. It became even scarier. The fragment of Voldemort's soul endowed it with special power. In nightmares or on particularly dark days of wearing the locket, it turned into a mystical glow, imprinting itself deeper into her mind. This continued until the Horcrux suddenly decided to switch to something else. It snatched the feeling of guilt about her parents from the depths of Hermione's soul. On days like these, she would rather scroll through the vision sent by Yaxley.
Of course, watching fake visions was better than finding out how terrible daughter she was. By raising wand at her Muggle parents, she declared their weakness. They were indeed powerless at the face of magic, but that didn't make them unworthy people. Horcrux wanted to convince her in that. But it delved not only into the idea of the worthlessness of muggles, it clung to something else: she violated the free will of her parents and bewitched them without consent. This is a fact. It was impossible to argue with this. However, Voldemort and his followers were to blame for everything. Hermione did it because of them and the danger they posed. She only wanted to protect her family. She might have behaved like an ungrateful daughter, but her father and mother were far away across the ocean in complete safety. Only she could not silence her conscience. She was burying her fingers in hair, as if she could get to her own thoughts that way. She had little choice.
Ron and Harry were unaware of her torment, and even more so of the visions. There was no point in bothering them with imaginary threats. This was impossible to put into words. It was possible to send a mental image with the help of mental magic, as the Death Eater had done. She could do it, though not with such brilliance. Mental magic required a Spartan order in the head. And her thoughts became a disturbed swarm of buzzing bees. This swarm raged worse when the horcrux hung at her chest and echoed to the heartbeat, imitating participation in her pulse.
When Ron defiantly snogged Lavender in the sixth year, it didn't hurt so much. He just fell for simplicity and took revenge on Hermione for allowing Krum to kiss her. This time he did not choose another girl. This time he rejected Hermione for real. He refused to share the path with her.
"He left because of you. You are weak. You didn't get rid of the enemy." one day the locket stopped pretending to be her inner voice.
She snapped back: "That's right! I'm not a murderer. There is always another solution."
"What's the solution? Tell me, mudblood" — she had nothing to answer when it tormented her with questions.
She used Occlumency techniques without success. Harry was right. Occlumency took a lot of energy. Even the seventh part of Voldemort's soul was many times more skillful than Hermione. Her weak mental defenses were demolished in an instant, leaving only a headache and complete helplessness. An itchy stream of thoughts haunted her. Evil thoughts were louder than the silence. It was her thoughts that pounded in her temples. She couldn't take it down. If she had had more time to think on that ill-fated day when they met Yaxley, she would have found another way out. The incident was in the past. She could put it out of her mind, but Hermione replayed that day over and over again. She gave in to Yaxley, completely unable to improvise. She acted the best she could. What other options did she have? None satisfied her. She got even angrier. As soon as the locket dangled around her neck, her thoughts went out of control. At night, tossing and turning from side to side, Hermione continued her mental run for long distances. She buried her face in the pillow, hating with all her heart the mental abilities of Voldemort, his damned Horcruxes and, of course, Yaxley.
"Try Crucio, it's nice to lust for pain" the evil artifact threw new thoughts, which she dutifully considered, getting lost in the labyrinth of consciousness.
She realized that if it continued to press on her, sooner or later she would forget how to distinguish between good and evil. The Horcrux in Slytherin's locket achieved this outcome. It pulled on weaknesses in order to erase the boundaries of what was permitted and forbidden. Hermione clung to her principles with all her might to survive that fight. There were a lot of things she could do, but there were three unforgivable actions in the style of the Unforgivable curses, which were forbidden.
Nevertheless, she could not deny that she had already violated one of them and sometimes crossed the boundaries of the other two in her mind. She imagined the worst version of herself. At such moments, she punished herself with more and more evil and cruel ideas. She teetered on the abyss of her own chaos, unable to stop even for a second. Her soul could burn in hell, but she deliberately trampled on her own feelings, just not to feel powerless. She tormented herself, bringing everything to the point of absurdity, covering everything with dirt, selfishness and evil, in order to prove to herself that she was not sinless. If she could accept this, she would be able to live with darkness inside. Hermione wasn't naive. She knew that one day she would have to choose between principles and survival. All her actions, every decision, every choice - all this had consequences. Sometimes she lost her own boundaries, not understanding where her will began and ended.
Now without Ron, she and Harry wore locket more often. This thing worked even worse for Harry than it did for her. It didn't take much intelligence to figure it out. If she really was as smart, as they said she was, she would never have brought her friend to the state in which he was now.
She broke Harry's wand.
He believed that this particular wand was the very weapon he would use to kill Voldemort. He convinced himself of it. According to his words: the wand came to life in the presence of Voldemort, reflecting any blows and protecting the owner. Harry attributed supernatural powers to the piece of wood that no wand could actually possess. It can be said that by breaking his wand, Hermione shattered Harry's chances of winning and deprived him of the ability to resist enemies.
She understood, no matter which wand would be in his hands in the end. It wasn't a wand that protected him the night Voldemort came to Godric's Hollow. It was Lily Potter who blocked the path at the cost of her life. There was no point in endowing the wand with impossible properties or giving it more importance than whose hands were holding it. Harry was deaf to it. And her own mind was deaf too. She was powerless in the face of guilt due to bad decisions and constant failures.
By the time Ron returned, it was too late to fix things. It was no longer about Ron or his words. It was always about her - there was no fixing it. She failed. During her years at Hogwarts, she was so proud of her academic success and the accuracy of her answers to professor's questions, she was proud of every point she earned for Gryffindor and her knowledge drawn from countless books, and she was especially proud of the spells that she got on the first try ... but she made mistakes where it was unforgivable.
Although the Horcrux was destroyed and the dark voice was silent forever, peace did not return to her.
Bellatrix Lestrange made Hermione dive into misery. Every moment that stretched to eternity, the yonger witch was accompanied by her restless mind. She was aware of everything. She lived the withering and clawing torment in its entirety. It was impossible to get used to these sensations. It became unbearable to continue breathing. The pain did not end even for a second. Hermione's body lived through the worst moments of her life, and her mind was involved in it with unnecessary dedication. She had to wait for her mind to break. It would be the most wonderful event in her life. And the longer the torture lasted, the more clearly Hermione realized that she couldn't even lose her mind. Perhaps this was the ultimate skill of punisher, allowing the victim to understand what was happening while the taste of iron accumulated in the mouth and the nerve endings ring from the intense impact. When Hermione's jaw tightened, Bellatrix squeezed her cheeks with sharp fingers, forcing her teeth to open so that the girl would not bite off her own tongue.
"I want to hear the truth! What else did you steal from my vault?"
Hermione swore stammering that she had never been in the vault, continuing to beg for mercy. But Bellatrix wanted to shake the confession out of her. Curses alternated with a sharp knife. The cruel witch carved some symbols on the girl's forearm. And at the same time, she laughed nastily at the weak resistance.
Voldemort and the Death Eaters filled the living room, Hermione noted their appearance through a veil of pain. Out of the corner of her eye she saw dark figures, and heard their whispers. She was frantically looking for a way out, at least a tiny hope of salvation, but she no longer believed that it was possible to get out of such conditions. That was the end.
She had to watch helplessly as Ron died at the hands of Dolohov, as Harry was disarmed, and as Voldemort killed him by stabbing him in the back with a curse. Almost everything was as she feared. The vision came true in the worst possible scenario. Fighting has become meaningless, and death more attractive than ever before. She would have just given up if Dobby hadn't pulled her, the only survivor, out of this hell.
The world was spinning with great speed, but history was repeating itself.
A callused palm squeezed her thin forearm smeared with blood. Someone was following. Hermione remembered Yaxley, he must have wanted to fulfill the unspoken promise. Demandingly pulled her back. Despite the blood flowing from her wounds, the enemy was not going to let go. She had no strength to resist, so all her attention was focused on Dobby. Luckily, house elf held her tight as well, even though her fingers were slippery.
There was a sound of the surf, there was the sea air that filled her lungs. Her body was still pounding after the torture. One of her hands remained tightly clenched and slightly sunk from elbow to wrist in the cool sand. The man's palm was strained to the protruding veins and tendons, straight firm fingers closed on her weak forearm. Because of this, Hermione couldn't feel or move her own hand. There was a sharp sigh in her ear and his fingers parted, releasing her. She turned her head, watching as a bloody palm pressed against his chest, and then her gaze darted up to his face. The wizard who haunted her wasn't the main character of her nightmares, Сorban Yaxley. It was Rodolphus Lestrange.
In those days, when wizard's face with a straight gaze was on the wanted posters, she could not imagine what he was like in reality. It was as if he was all carved out of sharp lines, marble curves and ringing tension. He was breathing heavily, slightly hunched over from the pain in his chest, but this did not at all reduce the feeling of mortal danger that emanated from him. His short dark hair was disheveled and fell over high forehead. A painful grin appeared on his stubbly face. Grey eyes were fixed somewhere over the witch's head. He slowly straightened up, shadowing out the sun. His smooth movements were fraught with superiority and inner strength.
Hermione got scared and backed away from him crawling. She looked around for the house elf and found him one step away from her.
"Dobby!" she called out, hoping that he would take her away from here.
Instead, she had to catch his body. The elf's thin, overworked hands hung limply, and the handle of a knife protruded from a wound on his chest. Blood stained the bright mismatched clothes. The green eyes faded, as did Hermione's hope of salvation. Hermione took out silver knife in an effort to change something, but the elf's face remained indifferent to this. The dark figure flashed in the reflection of his empty eyes. Strong hand closed on her again. She was pulled into an apparition once again. The house elf slipped out of her weak hands somewhere in the middle of the way. Hermione was helplessly reaching out to Dobby, who had melted into space.
Something was wrong. Instead of Malfoy Manor, they ended up in deep woods. Lestrange landed nearby and his fall was much worse, judging by his muffled groan. He was not in control. Taking advantage of this, Hermione took off. Her first impulse was to run as fast as she could to increase the distance between her and the Death Eater as much as possible. Lestrange instantly sent several spells after her, which she managed to elude. The wooded area inspired hope. Hermione was dizzy, every cell of her body ached, but despite this she ran on, forcing herself to move.
Lestrange was approaching. She heard the crunch of twigs under his boots. She could see spells rushing past from the corner of her eye. She could feel the relentless approach of the Death Eater and his gaze boring into the back of her head.
He caught up with her when Hermione either stumbled or hit something, her brain not registering subtleties. Of course, the dark wizard could not do without Crucio. Hermione accepted the pain without resistance. It was easier that way. She had something to compare. This pain was of a different nature than Bellatrix's curses. The evil witch inflicted torture with unbearable addiction: unnerving complex pain that brought deep anguish and the realization that torture could last forever. In the spell of her husband there was only a fierce passion that knocked out the spirit quickly and completely. The sharpness of the sensations was almost generous, washing away consciousness with its violent force. Hermione could only let go. All she had to do was let her screams go out. She could revel in her own suffering, hoping that the pain of her soul would turn into pain of her body.
And then she was released from the spell, almost mercifully. Echoes of pain irritated the receptors of her body. But she was able to breathe. Once again, her hands were tied. It was only then that she realized that her fingers were tightly clenching the knife. She could cut the ropes. Or at least escape from life.
"Gotcha." It was Lestrange's first time addressing her. It sounded almost playful, like he wasn't after her to kill her.
The witch looked up. The wizard came very close. One of his hands reached for her shoulder, and the other, the one in which he held the wand, was almost to her face. He looked calm, not at all out of breath, while Hermione struggled to control her own breathing. This pissed her off the most. His cool smile and greedy gaze added fuel to the fire. Hermione forgot her intention to free herself from the ropes. Her hands moved on their own, succumbing to deep-seated anger. One sharp movement, the blade slashed the wizard's wrist. He dropped his wand, she caught it.
"Stupefy!"
He dodged, then pounced on her, pinning her to the ground with his weight. She realized how hopeless her situation was. And yet, some rebellious part of her was not going to put up with this, forcing her to fight for her life, which she was ready to part with earlier.
Lestrange tried to pull the wand out of her hands. Hermione clung, skinning against the rough wand handle. She felt that she was about to lose her last advantage. He was stronger. She saw cold fury in his eyes. The wizard's other hand darted to her neck. Hermione panicked and released the wand. Well, sometimes you just have to give up in order to win. The wizard did not expect her to let go abruptly, and poked himself in the face with his wand. This made her laugh. Another trick lit up her mind. She lifted her arms above her head and scooped up as much earth as she could in her palms, feeling the hard grains clog under her nails. It was enough to blind him. Dirty muggle movie trick. Who would have told her that one day it would bring her salvation. The Death Eater was disoriented. Cursing, he tried to clear his eyes. Hermione pushed him, attempting to throw him off her, but it turned out that blinding him was not enough. But picking up the wand has become easier.
While he was blindly catching the witch's hands, she managed to cast a spell. The cursed wizard was immobilized and crushed her even harder, Hermione almost suffocated from the weight of the body that had fallen on her. She pulled herself out from under him. Lungs burned with fire, breathing became jerky, her whole body ached, limbs trembled from the exertion. She almost believed that she would die today.
But - she won... She defeated a Death Eater without a wand!
Hermione dissolved the ropes and wiped sweat from her forehead with long sleeve. Her gaze rested on the wide, tense back of the wizard. He was still face down on the ground. She turned him over and bent over him.
"Gotcha!" she teased angrily, but then thought in Ron's sarcastic voice: "And you didn't come up with anything better?" — which made her even more angry. Echoes of an old grudge still haunted her. After all the horrendous ordeals she had endured, she was still bothered by little things like that? She remembered everything what started this downhill path, and every mistake that caused the disaster. Hermione's agitated brain was active. It was too late to save Harry and Ron, but it was possible to save the mission so that the boys' deaths were not in vain. Life gave her a chance to do the right thing. And that was the moment when the erratic rumble of the bee swarm in her head organized itself into a cohesive wave, rolling in a measured surf. Her mind became clear.
Voldemort appreciated the Lestrange family for their loyalty. He entrusted Bellatrix with hiding something important in Gringotts. Something so valuable that the insane woman was frightened by the realization that she might have failed the task. She tortured Hermione, hoping to find out what else was stolen from her family's Vault. And it wasn't the jewels or the gold that worried her. What could be more important than the sword of Gryffindor and all the treasures combined, if not the Horcrux.
Rodolphus Lestrange could be Hermione's living pass to Gringotts. And sooner or later, when Horcruxes are gone, someone has to kill Voldemort. Lestrange seemed like the right person.
The solution crystallized under the waves of thoughts. Smashing Horcruxes and then killing Tom Riddle at the hands of his loyal follower was an opportunity that could only come once in a lifetime. The only difficulty was that the price of the mistake was high. Lestrange is a wizard, unlike her parents, so the hardest part was yet to come. Changing the memories of another magician is a subtle art, dangerous for both parties involved in the action, but the risk was worth it. The man lay on the ground, watching her. If he had something to say, he didn't have the chance. Hermione saw her own reflection caught in an uncomfortably inquisitive greyness. Her palms were wet, goosebumps ran down her back, worry was useless.
She put the wand to man's temple. Then she concentrated and whispered a complex spell. The tip lit up with a white light, washing his mind and adjusting perception.
"You will help me, Mr. Lestrange," she began with difficulty, but then stopped herself, this man did not deserve respectful treatment, as if he were better than her in something. He and his kind treated her like dirt under their feet. There was no need to play polite. Besides, familiarity would be more appropriate if the plan worked. As if they had already crossed the threshold of friendship, "You will help me, Rodolphus. You will help me even at the cost of your own life."
The wizard's eyes expressed all the contempt and hatred that was possible when she called him by name. This did not shake her resolve at all.
Despite the fact that she did not prepare in advance, her imagination easily created a story that formed into mental images. It remained only to transmit with the help of mental techniques.
A few months ago, a Death Eater might have had ideas about betrayal for the first time. Most likely, he regretted the lost time or some ideal life that he had not lived. The spell, with a certain luck, could hook these disappointments on the hook so that thoughts of betrayal merged with them. The witch tried to take into account such nuances. She imagined him looking for a meeting with Harry to offer him help in overthrowing the Dark Lord. How he was haunted by failures, but he continued to search.
She felt a powerful wave of resistance, which reverberated in her head with a throbbing pain. Her parents were helpless victims compared to Lestrange. Immobilized and deprived of a wand, he could still throw the witch off balance. He controlled himself perfectly. The inspired images beat like peas against stone walls. Hermione was losing the inner state necessary for the case.
"It's so hard when you resist," — the words were full of despair and anguish, which she could not contain, as well as burning tears that fell from her eyes. No matter how many of them were shed, the tears did not end. Through her teeth, she hissed, "Listen! You can keep fighting me, it's useless! You can rot in prison or atone for your crimes. You-know-who is doomed."
He did not believe the words, it only caused a new outpouring of anger. Hermione felt his contempt for her kind transmitted by the thin thread that connected them at that moment. She didn't doubt it. He would never do her a favor. The tension grew, she tried to maintain the impact, hoping that at least one suggestion would penetrate the barrier and lead to others.
Having timed the moment, he struck a mental blow in order to break the delicate connection. Her own efforts backfired on her. Hermione made an effort not to lose control, she had to defend herself, trying not to let the wizard into her thoughts. When she felt the pressure recede a little, she breathed a sigh of relief. It was strange to realize that by resisting the horcrux, she had learned something. She could hold back the blow just enough to take counter-action.
"Confundus!" She jabbed her wand harder. The spell confused the man. The hex helped her finally push him out of her mind. Still, she had to break eye contact and inhale noisily. She knew it wouldn't be easy. Gathering her thoughts, she tried again, diligently, visualizing new memories.
Lestrange first found Ron when he abandoned his friends and got caught by the snatchers. He recognized Weasley immediately. Convinced him to talk. Only with Ron could Lestrange enter into negotiations. Under certain circumstances, pure-blooded magicians could always agree. The two of them had something in common: pure-blood origin, magical upbringing, the siblings with whom they had to compromise. They could understand each other. Among the three friends, Ron was the most flexible and not much principled.
But Ron wasn't stupid to believe a Death Eater. Memories had to be fixed with the truth. Someone left a Gryffindor sword. The boys did not puzzle over this riddle for a long time, but Hermione was worried about this fact. Someone found them in the forest without difficulty and, as if mocking them, threw the sword to the bottom of the frozen lake. If the Death Eaters had ever had a sword, it could be assumed that there was indeed a traitor among the enemies, but it definitely wasn't Lestrange's husband and wife. Hermione let the Death Eater think it was his doing. A decision backed up by rebellious actions would have convinced him that the bridges had been burned long ago.
The Gryffindor sword would have bought Ron's trust. Of course, they didn't find the way right away. The magic property of the deluminator put the two of them on the trail. Harry, stubborn and uncompromising, would not take Lestrange to his side with open arms. With a vengeful feeling, Hermione imagined how her friend would torment Lestrange with interrogation for several hours. She could imagine Harry's every gesture and facial expression, intonation and caustic words so clearly that a faint smile appeared on her face.
"We needed food, information and protection. That would be the right thing," this tiny fantasy appeased some inner need for humanity. In her imagination, her friends received a particle of kindness, although it was not real. "You have put a lot of effort into protecting us from harm. Therefore, you will continue to help Me. You will be by my side until the end."
She hoped he would. She imagined how he got used to her over time. But the spell could correct memories, not feelings. And now Lestrange was outraged by her attempts to change something in his attitude towards her. Her plan didn't work. Introduced mental images remained on the surface. He didn't let them in, even though he had trouble concentrating. The confundus weakened his mental abilities a little, but not his will. The wizard defended himself in an amazing way. She would have admired this, but in reality it was an obstacle in the way. It was impossible to complete the suggestion in full. If only she could convince Lestrange. If only she could sow doubt. If he opened his mind even for a second, just long enough for new images to take root in his memory...
"I need help." Her need to reach out to him, to explain everything, pressed from within. Her tears, just a few drops, fell back onto the Death Eater's face. She carefully wiped them off and pleaded softly, "Please help me. We... Together we can change everything."
She hated herself at that moment. She sank so low in her own eyes that she felt ashamed. How could she convince someone who saw her as less than human. There was no hope that he would accept any arguments at all. She closed her eyes, fighting the tension.
"You-know-who's a halfblood, you know? His name is Tom Riddle. And I know all the secrets of Tom Riddle. Even the way he tortured orphans. I know things about him that no one else knows! He will inevitably die." She struggled to find the right words.
"He's not human anymore. Have you seen him? His red eyes... his madness... He's dangerous to everyone, not just Muggle-borns like me. He destroys everything he touches. Did he ruin your life too? I bet that's right," Hermione opened her eyes again and stared at him as if she would die if contact was broken. "He must be stopped. I know how to stop him! But I need help."
She noticed how Lestrange's gaze changed, becoming distant. The magic must have found its way into the depths of his mind and it was already working, it just needed to be given time.
"We have the same goal..."
The moment of clarity broke suddenly. Her exhausted mind returned to its usual state of chaos. Thoughts did not fit one with the other, jumping from one to another. She was afraid that she would either drive Lestrange crazy or go crazy herself. She kept the contact to the last, giving the magic the time it needed. The spell thread was broken. Hermione recoiled, blinded for a moment. She was still sane, but she couldn't know what was happening to Lestrange. He stared ahead of him at the tops of the trees swaying above him for a few moments, and then his eyes slowly closed. Maybe he lost his mind because of her.
She had no compassion for Lestrange, which prevented the charms from gaining healing power. She dealt with minor injuries like a bruise or a scratch, but everything else was harder to heal. She tried, Merlin sees, but there were things over which no one has power. As well as her feelings did not obey her. She had to cauterize the wound on his wrist. Hermione overdid it with fire. Now Lestrange was in even worse shape than before. She had to resort to Muggle tricks.
When she had finished, she went to the trees and leaned heavily against the trunk. She did everything she could, it remained to wait what the outcome would be. The feeling of losing friends finally washed over her.
An hour or two later, Lestrange woke up. He was full of confusion, at first glance he seemed reasonable. He hardly remembered the last events, but the fact that he did not show aggression was a good sign. Hermione watched him struggle to collect his thoughts. She waited for him to remember at least something, it did not happen. Then she took the risk of pushing him in the right direction, holding her breath.
His emotions were sincere. She was surprised by the human emotions that reflected on the face of Rodolphus Lestrange. Sadness. Sympathy. Embarrassment. Hermione felt a little relieved, but even when Lestrange believed her and didn't try to attack, his gaze strained her. He caught her every move. He studied her as intently as she studied him. He seemed to be overcome by a hunger for understanding, for comprehending something hidden, an insatiable study that made him peer into her deeper and deeper.
Lestrange seemed to be able to sense her terror on an instinctive level, like a predator. His eyes lit up, his movements were filled with hidden energy, his breathing deepened. So he reacted, sensing obvious weakness. It was not easy for Hermione to keep her presence of mind. It was right to be afraid, but it was wrong to show fear. She learned this lesson.
Or maybe Hermione had gone mad after all and was imagining it all. Not surprising. First the company of the Horcrux, then the attack of restless nightmares, and then the "close" acquaintance with the Lestrange spouses, and in the end the death of her friends - all this played a certain role. Hermione wanted to keep her inner core, to become strong against all odds, but it required a huge amount of willpower.
She had once thought about escaping into the Muggle world. If only now she had a chance to forget about everything. But the escape would be only a small delay of the inevitable. Voldemort intended to live forever. His followers could change generation after generation - servile, brainwashed. They will always help him to crush more and more territories under him. Sooner or later, he will conquer the whole world and destroy everyone who tries to stop him. His servants amused themselves by hunting Muggles. Things will go far if she doesn't stop it now while she can.
The consequences were felt everywhere. Hermione had only one goal left - to get to the Horcruxes at any cost. She hoped to reach the end and understood that her chances were meager before, but now they have become even more ridiculous. There was always a fear inside her that the secret would die with her and her friends, and then Tom Riddle would win. So she had to make sure someone else took over if she couldn't do it...
Maybe that's why she told Lestrange about the Horcruxes. She needed someone to share this burden with. To her relief, his attitude towards Horcruxes was written plainly on his face. He was disgusted. Surrounded by magic from the first days of his life, he must have understood how monstrous the very idea of tearing the soul into two parts was, not to mention seven parts.
Her whole body ached with dull pain. During the conversation, her voice sounded surrendered. She had to make an effort to open her mouth, move her fingers, keep her eyes open. She tried to remind herself of the world around her, distracted by the running of ants, then by the feeling of the frozen ground under her dirty palms. She held her breath more than normal. Like strength, emotions flowed away. It became easier and easier and at the same time harder. She wanted to lie down and close her eyes. Only the presence of Lestrange, who still seemed dangerous, helped her stay focused.
She still had doubts after they agreed on the murder scene. Hermione didn't trust the wizard. He justified this distrust in one fell swoop. It seemed to her that the memory spell did not work, and all the time that they talked, he only pretended to laugh at her naivety.
He once again turned into a ruthless Death Eater, revealing his true nature. Power gave him pleasure, he liked to play with it.
Burning paths pierced Hermione's body. She tore at her skin, hoping to tear it off along with the pain. With her nails, she tried to scrape off every fork of the paths under her skin, a river of fire burning out the wormholes inside.
Lestrange just watched. Rage flared in him, almost the same as that of his wife. Almost, because in addition to cruelty, it had more facets. Hermione could read the extreme range of feelings as clearly as runic formulas in books, there was admiration there. She wouldn't confuse it with anything else. He liked the reaction she was forced to show.
"And now you're going to die," — that was what she feared and wished for at the same time.
Hermione was dying painfully.
A thin string stretched to the limit broke, erasing her personality into nothing. There was no light for her. She fell into oblivion and instantly disappeared. Did her soul yearn for just such peace?
Then he shamelessly pulled her back to life.
All of her body's sensors went crazy with a ton of information. Her skin tingled with millions of invisible needles. The air whipped and tore at her chest, her lungs refused to process the oxygen, she wanted to spit it out like something alien that had clogged into her body. The world burned with blinding clarity, but worst of all... brighter than anything else were the dark gray eyes of the man who met her at the edge of her life.
Everything about her was broken. She swayed in the endless movement of the pendulum, finding a false calm, on the verge of screaming and silence.
He stopped her heart, the thought drove her crazy. How easy it was for him. Avada Kedavra killed people irrevocably, they didn't fully realize, but it... it was like Lestrange could crawl under her skin and muscles, under her ribs, wrap ruthless fingers around her heart, hurriedly tapping its rhythm, and squeeze and hold in fist, controlling every blow. He had power over what was beyond her control, erasing the boundaries of the personal. He showed how few secrets she can keep to herself when it's easy for him to crush her heart.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, as if it hurt him.
She half listened. She had neither trust nor forgiveness for him. Nothing.
"I had to hurt you." For such a terrible person, he had a soothing tone. When he lowered his voice to almost a whisper, she felt uncomfortable, as if he violated her boundaries with his voice. "You must understand the difference between what my wife did and what I did. I was almost gentle with you."
Of course! So he roughly held her, not letting her go. He hovered over her like a vulture waiting for her death. And he watched with greed as she arched herself in pain, tore her skin with her nails and cried. All because she implanted new memories, but could not change the nature of his personality. He remained himself. He is a Death Eater. A murderer. He is as crazy as his beloved wife. He could say whatever he wanted, but he wanted Hermione dead, even if he didn't understand it himself. She hated him with all her heart. But even more she hated her own impenetrable stupidity. How could she forget who was in front of her?
"This spell is used only by healers, it is unknown to non-professionals." He found a terrible use for a spell that was meant for good purposes. She listened to his words, but reminded herself who he was.
She needed to gather her strength and drive away unnecessary emotions. Lestrange is unable to see his own madness. What else was she waiting for? She herself climbed into this mousetrap and doomed herself to his company.
In fact, Hermione didn't know if she should expect another surprise attack if the hatred for her suddenly rose again from the depths of the Death Eater's soul. It was an unpredictable process. Bewitched or not, Rodolphus Lestrange remained a bad man. His true nature was only covered for decency by politeness, upbringing and, of course, false memories. But sometimes even magic could fail. Hermione stepped on the throat of the desire to hide from Lestrange when he was near. She could speak measuredly, did not stutter, and almost did not get lost, overwhelmed by conjectures and fears. She lived under his roof almost like in a powder keg. Plus she didn't have a wand, if he wanted to kill her, she could die this time. Although he took it upon himself to provide her with everything necessary and was going to help in the case, this did not change much. Lestrange remained Hermione's enemy.
Sometimes he looked like a normal person, doing routine things. The difference was actually small. Even the worst people in the world ate ordinary food, read books, needed rest and knew how to joke.
Lestrange turned out to be a healer. It only dawned on Hermione in the evening, when his magic began to caress her wounds. The care and delicacy completely bewildered her. Because being a healer meant more than just waving a wand. Such magic required abilities, or in other words properties of the soul, which did not combine in any way with the activities of the Death Eater, in Hermione's view. At the same time, his healing spells were flawless. All this was unnatural.
In the evenings that followed, he visited her again when she pretended to be asleep. She felt an attentive gaze on her and the delicate sorcery that he renewed, like a kind healer saving a sick patient. So he could know what was going on in her body. It was so stupid to feel embarrassed that he saw and knew too much about her, freely observing the whole ins and outs of her body. He shouldn't have done that. A few days ago, he would have killed her without a twinge of conscience, but today he sympathized with her.
An unexpected display of humanity.
Hermione didn't want to see that in him. The Death Eater was supposed to remain bad in every sense. But she had to come to terms with it, she had already made a choice. Perhaps the most terrible thing was that no matter how Lestrange was, he was still a human. Against her will, she had to get to know him better.
And he had to get to know her. He did it much more willingly than she did. Sometimes it began to seem that he wanted to know her to the last drop. Behind this, one could see a thirst for knowledge, but not at all the kind that distinguished Hermione at school. The flair seemed to be sewn into the basis of the wizard's personality. An unquenchable abyss searched for something unknown in her. Guarded her every move to... What? Maybe he didn't know himself. She noticed it more than once or twice. She didn't understand any of this. And she couldn't hide from it. All she wanted at such moments was to rudely rebuke him.
Every day he left a dreamless sleep potion on the bedside table in her room. She couldn't help the feeling of gratitude that involuntarily arose at the same time. The potion helped to forget about grief at least for the night. Every time she found that she had nothing to do, heaviness fell upon her, a feeling of injustice. Hermione tried to keep her courage and bury all the most depressing feelings deep in her heart, not letting her out, because grief could not help her. She wanted to remember the boys as they were at school, but the memory naughty palmed off the last minutes of their lives, then it was difficult for her to hold back her tears. For this reason, she tried to occupy all her time with business. Books, plans, diagrams, studying a house filled with witchcraft. She compared this place to places she already knew.
For example, the Muggle house of her parents was bright, she returned there during the warmest months of the year. There was no magic there, but for her, her home was imbued with the finest and purest magic possible. It was her home and she missed it very much. The memory of the house was intertwined with the feeling of soft sunlight coming through the large windows.
Hogwarts became her second home, but it was there that she had to grow up and learn that the world is not as bright as it seemed to her. Burrow, filled to capacity with household witchcraft, looked like an illustration to a children's fairy tale, Hermione would like to return there. The Black house, soaked in darkness and closed in its small little world, still evoked anxiety. Regardless, the worst place in Hermione's memory now was Malfoy Manor. The mansion absorbed horror, grave cold and pretentious arrogance into its walls. It was also inextricably linked to the dark-haired cruel witch, not to the cold and downtrodden members of the Malfoy family.
The house of Rodolphus was different. Fundamentality and austerity soared in the space, but at the same time there was comfort in this house. The interior is covered with warm colors and simplicity. She felt how many interesting things are hidden in the walls of the mansion. Hermione was able to move freely around here, because she often remained alone, but she felt that someone was watching her, even when the wizard left.
Rodolphus himself invited her to explore this world.
He seemed to enjoy bestowing her with symbolic favors in the form of food for thought or small things that meant nothing. Sometimes it looked like taming a small animal. Hermione bristled inwardly, but involuntarily gave in. She reassured herself that she understood his motives. Actually no, she didn't understand.
Contradictions coexisted in him. She convinced herself that he was insane, but Lestrange was able to remain adequate most of the time. With rare exceptions when his essence broke out. Then his habits changed. Composure and inner peace receded into the background. There was pre-storm tension in the air. The witch began to feel like a tightrope walker above the abyss: stumble and then you will fly down. It frightened her greatly, but all she could do at such moments was to keep her composure. She did not yet understand what exactly caused all these changes. To be honest, she would have preferred not to know, but it was wiser to find out beforehand. From time to time she took a calculated risk, carefully feeling the ground. Thoughtful words and actions could be a trigger, she dropped them casually, but most of the time it didn't work properly. She wanted to find some boundaries of what was permitted, but so far she did not see any system. Rodolphus was sometimes so reasonable that she began to doubt that she did not imagine all these signs of madness. While she did not understand him at all, but she always remained wary.
Somehow it was because of Rodolphus that she was still not lost in dark thoughts. Next to him, she had to maintain her tone, keep herself under control and not become limp, be calm and collected, while heaviness hung on her heart.
She used to call him by his first name, but at the same time she herself wondered what her friends might think of her. Would they be disappointed in her again?
They returned late from their trip to Crouch's house, having found nothing worthwhile. Hermione didn't expect this case to succeed. She was sure she wouldn't find anything, but she still wanted to take action as soon as possible to stop her sinking into the depths of apathy at least for a while.
Face to face with the Dementor, she found herself even deeper than she had originally been. The world began to crumble before her eyes. Grave cold penetrating under the skin revived all the pain and sorrow, all the most terrible visions. She saw Harry and Ron, it broke her heart. And she drowned in tears and felt how her soul was called by the bottomless blackness. Her soul resisted this, because endless sorrow awaited her there. But the throat of the dark creature drew her into itself.
What a relief it was when the Dementor left her. Rodolphus distracted him. Saved her.
Dementors hadn't scared her this much before. They were terrible creatures that had the ability to destroy the soul of a person, but there was always something worse in the world, as it seemed to her before. Now Hermione fully understood and felt for herself why Harry reacted so intensely to their appearance. Those feelings to which the creature appealed were many times more complicated and deeper than anything that had happened to her before. Despite the fact that she constantly got stuck in stories along with Harry and Ron, only now did she know the whirlpool of feelings that could drag her to the bottom.
Hermione was not very good at fighting off the coldness that was piercing through her. She couldn't warm her soul. The heat of the fireplace and the strong firewhisky did not banish the chills, did not alleviate her mental pain. She seemed weak to herself. And she couldn't feel herself letting go.
Opposite Rodolphus must have drunk enough to relax, and it was reflected in everything, in the way he sat not far from her, how his eyes were hazy, how deep his voice sounded. As if he hadn't been within a hair's breadth of death a few hours ago. He followed her every gesture with a thoughtful look. Whenever he looked at her like that, she felt like he could see right through her.
When he left, Hermione was restless.
Voldemort summoned him. Perhaps Rodolphus will participate in the attack. But he said he hated the Dark Lord. This fueled her fragile hope. She thought he told her the truth. She wanted to believe it with all her heart. He was with her at the Crouch house when she was scared. He protected her from the Dementor, although he did not wield the Patronus spell. He didn't back down. He took Winky to his house despite the danger of exposure. He walled up the soulless creature so that the two of them could search the house. He was heading towards the same goal as her - the defeat of Voldemort. Is this not enough? In fact, it was more than she had hoped to get. She did not expect complete dedication from him. Of course, he did everything in a peculiar manner, but even so, he put in so much effort. So she could only admit that she really didn't really know anything about Rodolphus Lestrange.
Hermione had been waiting all evening for his return. She paced the living room and watched the clock impatiently. The minute hand moved insanely slowly, the measured swing of the pendulum as if mocking the witch. She bit her lips, fiddled with the sleeves of her jacket. Passing by the window, she froze peering into the darkness. Rodolphus still did not appear. Wherever he went it was bad. Hermione couldn't change anything. She could only guess what was happening at that very moment. She vividly imagined how he, along with other Death Eaters, hunted her friends. As his hand rises to someone familiar. For example, Professor McGonagall. Imagination drew before Hermione's eyes how he tortures an elderly witch, who had once become her guide to the world of magic. How long will the Head of Gryffindor last? Rodolphus Crucio was better than Bellatrix's, it helped you to forget yourself inside the cocoon of pain and passed in an instant, leaving only a spasmodic aftertaste. However, it was still an Unforgivable Curse.
An eternity passed when a silhouette emerged from the darkness, walking from the gate to the house. Hermione jumped up looking at him and realized that it was Rodolphus. She looked at his approaching figure with growing unease. There was something about the way he moved that bothered her.
He was already at the entrance. She hurried down the hall, hoping to question him about everything that had happened. Rodolphus entered without even noticing her, she did not even have time to open her mouth, he lost his balance and powerlessly sprawled on the floor.
She waited for him to return with his hands covered in blood, and his eyes burned with a greedy fire, as always after he used dark magic. That look of a predator that gnawed on a victim caused her disgust and primal horror. This is how she saw him, mired in vice and madness. That way she could hate him more. And she never stopped looking for flaws in him. Instead, there was no living space on the wizard's body. Dirty and torn in places, his robes were soaked with blood. Hair stuck to forehead. His chest heaved in ragged breathing, and his eyes were mortally tired.
Fear gripped Hermione. She rushed forward in an unconscious impulse. Hands wrapped around his face. Her voice trembled: "Rodolphus! What happened to you?"
She wished she'd hardened, reacted differently, but instead repeated his name and tried to get through to the wizard. She shook him by the shoulders, but he didn't seem to hear her. He lay in semi-consciousness, losing blood rapidly. Hermione didn't have time to think.
"The wand, Rodolphus! Where. Is. Your. Wand?!" She practically screamed for him to hear.
His hand pulled something out of his pocket and weakly reached for her. The wand wasn't there, but Hermione snatched the object out in the hope of discovering the solution to all problems - some kind of potion or artifact. His hand fell helplessly, and his eyes rolled back. The wizard's body went limp. Hermione looked down at the thing in her hand.
It was a chocolate frog. Nothing else.
Deep in her heart she despised herself for being afraid of the death of Rodolphus. She whimpered and closed her eyes. At the same time, she understood that it could not be otherwise. Today he ceased to be her enemy. No, he didn't become her friend, but she certainly couldn't hate him as much as she used to. She did not know how she felt about him, her emotions left her in complete disarray. A little earlier, she stated that she knew what to do if he suddenly died. She lied. She knew that she would not have the strength to repeat that trick. She herself held on only by a miracle and only thanks to the care of Rodolphus. And now, all she's left with is a goddamn chocolate frog? What was he even thinking about?
"I hope you haven't lost your wand," she pleaded, fumbling in his pockets.
His blood-drenched robes cooled her cold hands. Her palms turned red. The wizard's body still retained vital heat, which was a good sign. Hermione could feel it even through the dense layers of fabric and prayed with all her might that it would stay that way. Finally, she felt something in the sleeve of his robe. Something oblong, but it did not succumb to her immediately. She had to tear the fabric into shreds, exposing man's wrist. The witch noted that he had healed the burn, revealing a thin red streak. What he thought and how he explained it to himself? Her wound, made with the same knife, remained on her arm with barely dried blood, sometimes it began to bleed if the edges were accidentally touched. The same must have happened to him.
Soon the wand was in her hands.
Hermione took it in both hands as if for the first time in her life. Doubt crept into her soul for a second. Does she have enough empathy for Rodolphus, will she cope with so many wounds? Last time, healing was given to her with difficulty. Unlike her, he could be compassionate, for all the evil he did, he healed her with ease. If he could do it, then so could she.
"Vulnera sanentur," she said carefully, as if pronunciation might enhance the effect of the spell. Still holding on to the wand with both hands, she tried to put something into the spell, repeating over and over again, "Vulnera sanentur."
The blood was slowly returning to the wizard's body. It happened painfully slowly. If he dies, she will be left alone.
Hermione kept whispering the spell, over and over. Until there was not a drop left, but as soon as she was silent, the wounds were opened and the blood flowed with renewed vigor. It was hopeless, she couldn't do it.
The witch dropped her hands with force and looked into the distance, thinking about how she hated all this. How tired she was of looking for a way out of hopeless situations again and again. She was angry at herself for being weak and at Rodolphus for not being able to remain unharmed. And she wondered which of the Order of the Phoenix had managed to curse him so hard. Maybe it was Professor Lupine or Kingsley. But they won't take her to Gringotts. They can't help her, no one can but Rodolphus. She had won enough battles to keep fighting for his life now. If she had to heal each wound ten, twenty, or even a hundred times, she would do it. She must.
The beaded bag was always with her. Hermione called for Essence of Dittany and bandages. She mentally prepared herself for the difficult work of saving the life of Rodolphus.
"Vulnera sanentur," she said much more confidently. She had to rip off his tattered clothes, along the way treating the healed wounds with essence and tying bandages on top, all this had to be done quickly. It took a long time anyway. She exhaled when she finished most of it. It wasn't perfect. Many wounds were still opening, but not as quickly as before.
Hermione could move Rodolphus' body without putting him at risk.
Without hesitation, she lifted him into her bedroom, which was closer. She understood that she would have to be on duty at the bedside as long as the wounds continued to open.
Lestrange lay in front of her almost completely bandaged.
Hermione took out a Blood-Replenishing Potion from her bag. Deciding how to pour those potions into his mouth without him choking on them. There was some kind of spell. Due to fatigue, she took about a minute to remember. After that, she figured out how much Lestrange might weigh. Definitely more than she herself at least one and a half times. She decided to pour two shots of the potion into him to be sure.
By ten in the morning she was overtaken by sleep, but by this time the wounds had almost succumbed to treatment.
When she woke up in the middle of the day, she found on the bedside table a tray of food for two and a chocolate frog, which she had dropped somewhere in the hall. The house elf left it. Hermione never saw him. That's how it is in the wizarding world, but Rodolphus mentioned something about the poor state of this creature. But the elf at least changed his master into pajamas while she slept, saving Hermione from difficulties.
Rodolphus was alive. But just in case, to make sure of this, she put her hand to his chest. The rhythmic tapping beat in the center of her palm was very close. Her fingers slowly closed around the imaginary organ with an effort to squeeze the void. She imagined her fist clenching his heart, fluttering in agony. To pain in the joints, to trembling, to unhealthy whiteness. She imagined what it would be like to decide to kill. Checking her own feelings. Will these thoughts frighten her as before?
She looked at her own fist and exhaled. Someday she will stop asking such questions. She will never do at least two forbidden actions. She hoped it would stay that way.
Hermione checked, only a few particularly deep wounds had opened. The rest took a good drag and almost disappeared. So it wasn't dark magic, otherwise it would have left scars.
Three days of vigils passed as one. Almost nothing has changed. The house elf would appear silently, performing his duties such as fetching food, changing linens, all without Hermione noticing. She wanted to ask the house elf for a little help, but she could not catch him doing business, she went around the house in search of a room in which house elves should live, but she did not find anything.
Rodolphus remained unconscious all this time. She continued to keep him alive with potions and spells that were easier for her now.
In addition to food, Rodolphus' correspondence began to appear in the room. Three letters. She did not touch them at first, looking at them for a long time. Not daring to open the envelopes. She needed a good reason to get the nerve to do something like that. Perhaps Voldemort's threat to the entire world was justification enough.
"It's for a good cause." She opened the first envelope.
"Either you open the entrance for me or I will break into your house in other ways.
Rabastan
P.S. I'm serious!"
She dropped the letter on the table as if it might bite her. His brother was dissatisfied with the silence of Rodolphus and promised to break in. The witch hurried to lock the door of her room with all possible spells. But that didn't seem to be enough. She propped up the door with a chair and even though it was useless, she became much calmer.
She again drew attention to the remaining two sealed envelopes and the desire to read them became stronger. It was necessary to quickly find out what was inside, maybe someone else was going to take the house by storm if Rodolphus did not answer.
The second letter announced the death and the upcoming funeral.
"Amicus Carrow is dead?" Hermione asked Rodolphus.
The Order of the Phoenix, as she knew it, preferred to wait and defend. The members of the Order always had something to lose, they could endure to the last, not daring to strike at the enemy. What has changed now?
The next letter, decorated with silver monograms, was from Matthias Nott and addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange. It was an invitation to the celebration of the victory over Harry Potter. Hermione's hands itched to burn it, but it was a good excuse to get into Nott's home.
The next morning, Hermione found that the door had fused to the walls. At first, she looked at it without understanding why it happened all of a sudden. Whether it was the magic of the house or the strangeness of the house elf. Rodolphus' house elf was definitely very strange even compared to all other elves, but maybe he had nothing to do with the state of the door.
She picked up Rabastan's letter, still lying on the table. After sleeping and clearing her thoughts, she realized that she had succumbed to panic. She just needed to answer. She had a pen enchanted by Rodolphus that still wrote in his handwriting. It's a shame not to take advantage of this opportunity. The witch unfolded the sheet and placed a pen over it.
"Dear brother, I would gladly let you in, but I have to close myself in the house due to illness. It seems to be something contagious..." - no, he's a healer. His brother will understand that something is wrong. And the tone of Rabastan's letter suggested that the brothers communicate in a more free form. Besides, Rodolphus was going to talk to him about Tonks. But did it happen? It was necessary to come up with something simpler and shorter.
"Evanesco."
The ink has disappeared from the sheet. She paced the room as she considered her answer. Rodolphus spoke of his brother with warmth, the family meant a lot to him, which is not surprising, it was their families that the purebloods wanted to keep. At first glance, their goals were noble, but they chose very cruel measures to preserve their heritage, without even considering more peaceful ways. The answer in the letter should be simple, as with a person who can understand at a glance, calm, like Rodolphus himself at his best moments. The younger Lestrange will think of everything himself and, if possible, Hermione will get at least some information from him while he thinks that he is corresponding with his brother.
"I didn't have time to answer. You know. Any news? Let me know as soon as something changes. Rodolphus," she considered this as the most vague answer, prepared the note for sending by folding it with a spell and tying it with a green silver ribbon. There were two more unanswered letters.
Rodolphus has mentioned that his relationship with other Death Eaters is not always friendly, but did not specify with whom. A formal polite tone should be appropriate.
Carrow. It was necessary to express condolences and promise to be at the funeral. Rodolphus had a few more days to spare before the funeral.
Nott's letter should have been replied that Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange would be happy to come to the celebration. These letters were easier to answer than the first.
The invitation was signed for Rodolphus and his wife. Did this woman receive the same invitation, or did Rodolphus have to inform her of the invitation? Hermione still did not understand what his relationship with his wife was. The fact that they were both Death Eaters who went to the Longbottoms together and were then caught together said a lot. But for all these days, Bellatrix has not appeared in this house. Hermione was apprehensive at first and tried to move around the house as quietly and discreetly as possible so that she could hide. She hadn't witnessed the day-to-day life of a lot of wizarding families, in fact, she'd only seen the Weasleys in that vein, but the Lestranges obviously had their own quirks. Rodolphus accepted this as normal and seemed neither upset nor bothered by the fact that his wife was not showing up at home.
However, right now Hermione was most interested in the upcoming events. Each of them was a perfect opportunity to sneak into the Death Eaters' homes, and she wasn't about to miss the chance. She urgently needed to start planning and getting ready. She hoped that there were no surprises waiting for her, she had enough other tasks.
"And if you don't wake up, then what should I do?" she asked aloud, looking at her comrade in misfortune, but of course she did not receive an answer.
She stepped closer, completely unaware of what she was about to do. It seemed to her that she had never submitted to something so vague, without fully forming an idea in her mind.
"Diffindo," a few strands remained on the pillow, "diffindo."
She collected his hair in a bottle and sealed the lid tightly, and then she fixed his hair with magic. She got much better after that. Of course, she didn't have that much Polyjuice Potion, but Rodolphus had a lab where she could brew the potion. It was only a precaution, because she really hoped that Rodolphus would come to his senses and she would not have to pretend to be the man. But first she had to send letters with owls. It looks like there was an owlery in the attic. In the mornings they returned from hunting in the forest, which was visible from the windows of her bedroom.
She walked to the door and pushed the chair back. She really did not want to break through the passage.
"Please open up," she muttered, and tugged on the handle. Luckily, the door detached from the wall with no problem.