Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Harry Potter.
Author's Note:
Hi all,
I'm not sure who's all out there, possibly only a few of you if the number of reviews is any indication. Still, I thought I would at least say hello, since you've made it this far. Also, I'd like to say a couple of things:
I know, I know, it seems like Harry's gone away, and he's kind of the life of the party, isn't he? I'm sorry to disappoint some of you. He's not coming back for awhile. Ron and Hermione have been conspicuously absent, and I feel it's time for them to be conspicuously present, at least for a little bit.
Also, I thought I would occupy some screen time to say hello and thank you to Shivakashi, for being a consummate reviewer. thanks
Chapter Nine
The Approach of War
From that point on, Ron and Hermione's summer took a turn for the worse.
September 1st.
Ron was quicker than Hermione and came up from behind, thumbing the hidden latch with one hand and thrusting her back into the wall that opened, revealing a secret compartment through which she fell. Ron kept right up against her, his hand ruthlessly clenching her throat, stifling a scream, and, as she recognized him, the light waning as the door swung gently shut, he released his hand and hugged her between the narrow support bars. They slid down until they were in a crouched position; their hands pressed to each other's torso.
"Oh, God, Ron. I love you," Hermione said breathlessly in the dark.
Ron tried to look past her, to catch the site of boots silently maneuvering across the floor boards, but he couldn't. His eyes kept falling on her. Focus, he thought. "Shh. Not now." His voice was a bare whisper, but the colonel would have heard him, despite the rumbling engine of the train barreling full throttle through the rock desert.
A squeal rose up from the floor, deafening them, overpowering all else for a minute before subsiding. So that's that, Ron thought. We've switched tracks. We're going East. He registered the fear on Hermione's face, her tension mounting, tears squeezing out from her shut eyes that meandered along all the beautiful curves of her skin. I love you too, he thought. Focus.
The whir of the magical engine of the train formerly known as the Hogwarts Express pierced the ground in a series of vibrations as the train accelerated. Despite the rise in volume, Ron's ears still picked up the distinctive click of the Colonel's boots, her gait slow and relaxed as though she didn't have a care in the world. Ron supposed that, in fact, she didn't. Or at least, she didn't have a care regarding any of the two remaining occupants of the train. She had proven on more than one occasion over the last six weeks that she was more than a match for Ron and Hermione. Funny, Ron thought as they tried to maintain absolute silence. September first and I'm on the Hogwarts Express. Must be fate. His ear pressed closed to Hermione's lips, Ron managed to make out a quiet sigh as they watched the boots that were visible through the slit beneath the compartment door continue past without hesitation. He could feel the sweat pouring off her in rivers, soaking the backside of her shirt and turning his fingers slick with the wet substance as he gripped her tightly, vaguely aware that, given the peril they were in, it may very well be the last time he ever had the luxury of feeling her body pressed against his. He doubted they would reach their destination before she found them. After all, she pretty much had nothing to do, and if she attempted a legilimantic perimeter scan - well - it would only be a matter of whether her skills at legilimancy trumped their skills at occlumancy. It was only sheer luck that a magical perimeter scan was disrupted by the heavy presence of magic in the train. If it had been a muggle one, they would have already been summarily executed. The colonel did not play around. She did not torture, she did not toy with people. That was Bellatrix's prime weakness, and they had managed to exploit it two weeks ago when the Burrow's wards had fallen. Death eaters had effectively shredded them like tin foil, scattering the Weasleys to the four winds as they fought and fled through the emergency floo line. Not that the whole mess had started there. Oh no, it had all started with the wedding, though none of them had known it at the time. No, it had only been a few days later before things had gotten kickstarted.
Ron could still remember Cassie's shrieks as she had jumped onto a chair, nervously scanning the floor. Ron had been home with Hermione and the pair were slowly coaxing the young girl into trying pumpkin juice. She had been more than doubtful at the time, making a face at the name and not being terribly impressed by the two teenage magicians when they'd tried explaining how it had tasted.
"Sweet," Hermione had said.
"Salty," Ron piped in.
Cassie simply sat there looking skeptical. "Uh-huh."
It had been Hermione who first understood what it was that Cassie had been scanning the floor for. She had seen enough muggle television shows to recognize the tell-tale fear of mice. Except that Hermione was clearly aware that mice did not exist at the Burrow, and, being the incredibly clever girl that she was, had quickly assembled two seemingly disparate events. Ron's preoccupation with a small hair on the ground the day of the wedding suddenly took on new meaning as Hermione situated it in the context of Cassie's wails of, "Kill it! Kill it!"
Ron simply looked bewildered. "Huh?"
Hermione wanted desperately to tell Ron her suspicion that scabbers had returned, but couldn't quite bring herself to. Instead, she tried to will Ron to understand. If the rat overheard her, he would have simply disappeared into one of the many crevices and that, as far as she was concerned, was unacceptable. The coward would probably know where Harry was.
"Drawing her wand, Hermione cast the area effects summoning charm. Spreading it out over the breadth of the kitchen was both draining and only created a minute summon, but, she knew that the rat would have little purchase to struggle against the spell. Surely enough, a rat began floating toward them. "Ron," she said, motioning to the squirming creature. "Stun it!"
But Ron remained paralyzed. Gobsmacked was probably a more apt description. In a flash, Wormtail transformed, his wand spilling out from around his silver fingertips and pointing directly at Ron.
"Obliviate," he said. Coming to life, "Ron tried to throw himself out of the way, but didn't quite manage it. Hermione, being quicker on the uptake, had drawn her wand and cast the protection shield. The memory charm fizzled against it. Hermione was distantly aware that Cassie had frozen in her place, looking wide eyed and terrified at the scene before her. Hermione could only pray that she would not get hit in the crossfire, though that seemed unlikely since she was a pretty large target, standing on a chair in the middle of the room.
Wormtail swiftly sent a stunner followed by a full body bind at Hermione, who he apparently decided was the greater threat. Hermione, not believing for a second that her shield could hold off two direct hits from an above average wizard, deftly levitated a chair into the path of the oncoming spells. Both were absorbed by the pine wood, scarring it magically in two places in shapes that looked like large, blotchy ink stains. Flicking her wrist yet again, Hermione sent two knives hurtling toward Wormtail at high velocity. He pirouetted expertly and sent another two stunners. Hermione was surprised to say the least. What the hell happened to that sniveling little coward from third year? Even leaving aside the fact that Wormtail seemed more agile and more collected. Even ignoring the fact that he had adopted a competent dueling posture, or that he was able to double fire curses or that each curse had a rich glow to the energy, indicating strong, focused spellwork. Even leaving all that aside, Hermione's mind was still trying to process one fact. Pirouetted? she thought wonderingly as she crashed clumsily to the floor to avoid getting hit by the incapacitating spells.
Ron seemed to have recovered from his ill-timed daze, because Hermione could hear a rapid exchange of spellfire that made her rather proud. Even without looking, she knew that he was holding his own against the death eater. She hadn't quite been able to believe that he had disarmed two criminals and saved the life of the young girl, which, even at the time, she had felt duly ashamed for. She had, over the years, developed a bit of intellectual snobbishness when it came to just about any subject. It had often reared its ugly head in the presence of Ron; mostly because she wanted to prove that she was good enough to be with a pureblood and that, maybe, just maybe, she was good enough for Ron.
When Hermione got to her feet, she saw that both duellers were getting desperate. Wormtail had resorted to cutting hexes and confundus charms, clearly realizing that the direct attack was not going to down his opponent. Ron absorbed the hex in a shield, which he seemed to erect almost lazily, and discharged a strong stunner that Wormtail managed to duck out of the way of, only to whip around and send another hex, this one unknown to Ron. Hermione, on the other hand, recognized the words immediately, as she had been obsessed for a time trying to figure out what curse had caused her so many nightmares after the DOM. The Mudblood curse, whose effect was to turn the victim's blood to mud, causing a swift, excruciatingly painful death. She was surprised to see that Wormtail had pulled off the difficult curse, as its minimum threshold for execution was higher than that of the cruciatus, but, more importantly, she was horrified that Ron had erected a shield instead of dodging. The curse was notorious for punching clean through shields, and, because of the nature of the curse, even a minor strike meant unconsciousness, and if not subject to treatment, would inevitably cause death. After all, even having five percent of your blood converted to mud would be lethal. Hermione wanted to scream for Ron to throw himself out of the way at all costs, but the logical part of her mind asserted itself forcefully and held her back. It would do no good to break his concentration, for he would no longer have time to dodge. She simply had to dispatch Wormtail as swiftly as possible and seek help, though even she had trouble tearing her eyes away from that eerie purple light that she herself had been victim to so long ago. The spell struck Ron's shield, which shimmered violently, the energy of the spell rippling across the surface of the blue light of Ron's only defense like spilt mercury.
And then, to Hermione's shock, and to Wormtail's also, the shield continued to hold, the only sign of the curse reflected in Ron's expression of concentration. He didn't even seem to notice that he had done something that was downright incredible. Wormtail's gaze remained fixed on Ron, as if seeing him for the first time. That's right, you son of a bitch, Hermione thought scathingly. You should have thought long and hard before taking on Ronald Weasley. And with that, Hermione hit him with the disarming charm, whereupon he was thrown off balance, his wand barely being torn from his silver hand and landing midway between the two. Hermione swiftly followed with the incarceration hex, which cause ropes to fly from her wand with the intent to wrap themselves around Wormtail and truss him up like a hog. However, Wormtail demonstrated uncanny speed yet again by thrusting himself to one side, simultaneously regaining his balance and aiming his silver hand at the ropes, which seemed to cause them to fall limply to the floor. It must have magical defensive properties, she thought irritably. It hardly seemed fair to her.
Ron sent a stunner at Wormtail, but, yet again, he brought his hand to bear and it simply deflected the curse to one side. Wormtail smiled cruelly and said, "You see, my master has rewarded me greatly for my services. Can you claim any such thing from your precious Potter?"
"You'll never understand," Ron said, shaking his hand pityingly. "We don't need or want anything. We do it because we love him. The same way James and Sirius and Remus would have done anything for you, because they'd loved you. Can you say Voldemort would do that for you, Peter?"
Hermione wasn't entirely clear what it was about Ron's comment that infuriated Wormtail so deeply, but whatever it was, she knew it wasn't good, if his expression was anything to go by. She supposed it might have been the fact that he had brought up their names or that he had presumed to understand their relationship. Hermione wondered if there was something deeper that none of them knew about; something about Peter that made him go to the Dark Lord that was apart from feelings of fear or cowardice. Had Sirius done something that made peter feel betrayed? Hermione had always wondered if Sirius's insensitivity might have played a part in more than just animosity between him and Snape. Surely there had been others who had been hurt by his antics and his callousness.
In a flash, Wormtail shot towards Ron, Hermione simultaneously sending out a cutting hex in the hopes of severing Wormtail's silver hand. Wormtail wrapped his hand around Ron's throat before Ron even had a chance to blink, while, at the same time, the cutting hex went wide and struck Wormtail in the bicep, causing a gush of blood to flow outward. Instinctively, Wormtail relaxed his grip, Hermione internally smug at the fact that the hex had caught Wormtail on the bicep. The harder Wormtail squeezed, the more blood would get pumped through his arm and thus flow out of the wound. However, Hermione's feeling of superiority died instantly as both Ron and Wormtail disappeared before her very eyes. It took several moments for her to process the fact that they were not there. She even looked around in the hopes of seeing them in some other part of the kitchen, the logical part of her mind having been sent to the backseat. Panic was slowly creeping over her. "Ron?" she asked aloud, her voice sounding unnatural in the new silence.
"Err," Cassie began, holding herself in her arms. "Hermione?"
Hermione snapped her attention back to Cassie, and then, realizing she needed to do some serious damage control, took Cassie and led her upstairs to Ron's bedroom. "What's going on?" Cassie asked.
"Shh," Hermione said, gently pushing Cassie into the bed. "I know you must have several questions for me, and I'll answer them for you in time. Or at least someone will. But right now I have to go and take care of some things. Please, just try to get some rest and we'll talk later, okay?" Hermione, meanwhile, hit Cassie with a calming charm and then a sleeping charm. Cassie's eyelids drooped shut and within a minute was fast asleep.
Hermione walked out of the room and cast a simple protection ward. Any of the Weasleys apart from Ginny would have recognized it and disarmed it easily. She then went downstairs and surveyed the kitchen. It was surprisingly undamaged, and Hermione guessed that there were magical protections that protected much of it from spell damage. Taking a deep breath and letting her logical mind reassert itself, Hermione began to construct a working theory of the past events and possible plans of actions. She supposed that Wormtail's silver hand had been used as a portkey, since sidelong apparation required a wand. The only question that remained was whether he had cast it himself or if it had been the work of someone else. If it were Wormtail, then presumably he had used his wand. She doubted anyone could create a portkey wandlessly. It was hard enough to execute a first year spell let alone something as arithmantically complex as a portkey. Her gaze fell on the thin stick of wood that rested at the foot of the table. His wand. Hermione knelt and tentatively picked it up, feeling the strange tingle of magic that she tended to associate with wands. She was surprised that she felt anything at all, since wands were so personal. Thinking about it, she realized she had never touched another person's wand in the six years of her magical education. It seemed a bit like sacrilege, somehow.
"Priori incantanum," she muttered, hoping to see something useful. All that happened, however, was the sight of the last spell that Wormtail had cast on Ron - the Mudblood curse. She had never studied up on the properties of wands and all their related uses. She knew the Ministry had ways of tracking wands and magic generally, and she knew many of them, though the specific details were hard to come by. Trade secrets, she supposed. Looking around, she also spied the blood that was congealing on the floor. Much of it had turned brown from oxidation. Hermione quickly cast a preservation charm and began extracting the liquid from the floor, careful to excise the uncontaminated blood from the rest of it. She summoned a vial from her bedroom and bottled whatever was salvageable. Well, now what am I going to do? she wondered, glancing over at the Weasley clock, which indicated that some of them were on their way home. You have about fifteen minutes before you have to break the news that Ron's been taken.
Hermione reflected on why it was that she hadn't thrown floo powder into the fireplace and simply called one of the order members. Surely somebody was at headquarters. This was their area of expertise after all, wasn't it? But from what she had seen over the last year, her heightened observational skills and keen intellect allowing her to glean far more than any others, they really weren't experts at all. Many of them fumbled along aimlessly, their only claim to cohesion being Dumbledore. With him gone, she doubted that the Order was doing much more than picking up the shattered pieces of Voldemort's terror. If Arthur's conspicuous presence at home was any indication, the Order had all but expired with Albus. This war falls on our shoulders now, she realized. Maybe it always has.
Determined not to let Ron down, Hermione carried her two supplies with her to her bedroom and began casting spells left right and center. When she was done, she had herself a passable laboratory for potion making. She then drew out a dusty old book that she had first encountered in second year - Most Potente Potions. Flipping to page three hundred sixty-eight, she settled the book down and began to work, slicing, dicing and stirring. Eventually, she had a frothy, milk-like substance that looked like a perfect addition to a classic cup of cappuccino. Not that she would have added it to coffee of any kind. The addition would have made the potion volatile to say the least. Considering that for a moment, Hermione bottled a small portion of the liquid and then summoned a large thermos, still quarter-full of the caffeinated substance. She quickly cast the drying charm, leaving caffeine crystals crusted to the bottom of the container, at which point she ladled a liberal helping of the whitish goo. Immediately it began to sizzle and emit a foul smell. Hermione quickly screwed the cap back on and cast stasis charms to keep it safe for later use. She had no doubt that she would be shortly walking into a hornet's nest, and, even if it killed her, she intended to take down as many death eater bastards as she could get her hands on. She was starting to realize that Ron and Harry were her entire social universe. That revelation wasn't a revelation so much - she had always known that. What struck her in that moment as she contemplated suicide was that she was angry they had been taken. She loved them both equally. Harry's disappearance had carved a hole in her, and while it was difficult, she still had Ron. Without him, she felt suddenly alone and bereft and lost at sea. She would go insane without them, all the while knowing that they were out there being tortured or killed. No, she wasn't going to let that happen, and she certainly would have no regrets sharing their fate. Such was the nature of love.
Hermione used the Memory potion in conjunction with a handful of spells and Wormtail's blood as well as the wand core of Wormtail's wand to generate a potion that would, in theory, relocate her to the last place Wormtail had used his wand to create a portkey. she only hoped it would send her to the right place.
She considered how she would approach the ensuing battle and decided that the makeshift bomb should be set off immediately. She took five minutes to make some simple enchantments on the thermos before drinking the potion that contained Wormtail's blood and wand core. She then aimed her wand at herself and said, "Priori incantanum ex portis." Praying her impromptu modifications were correct and that she didn't end up blowing herself to bits, which was a likely side effect of blood alchemy, Hermione crossed her fingers and waited for the tell-tale hook on her navel. To her surprise, she felt a pulling sensation somewhere behind her, as though the hook were jerking her backwards. In a flash of colours, Hermione left the Burrow.
"What do we do now?" Hermione asked as quietly as she could.
Ron shook his head. He really didn't know. Eventually the Colonel would finish making her rounds in the other train cars and return to pass by their little hidey hole. Ron felt a sudden urge to kiss Hermione, to breathe little puffs of warm air on her neck, and feel her shudder involuntarily from his ministrations. He wanted the last month or so to be a dream; he wanted to be obliviated and pretend that none of it ever happened. He never wanted to see another Dementor again as long as he lived. But those were all foolish dreams.
"Come on," he said finally. We'd better make a break for it."
Hermione turned around as far as she could to look at Ron's pained expression. "I'm scared," she whispered.
"Me too," he said. And, with that, they both quietly rose to their feet and climbed out of the small storage room. They both cast glances to either side and then, seeing nothing began moving in the direction away from the Colonel.
"How long do you suppose it'll take for her to sense us?" Ron asked.
"I don't really know the extent of her powers. If the battle on the plains of Abraham were any indication, then she should be able to catch us from about a quarter the length of the train."
"Let's hurry then."
Ron and Hermione quietly jogged to the back of the Hogwarts Express, Hoping against hope that they would find a way to exit the last car and conjure a way to escape the train. They doubted that the Colonel, even if discovering that they'd jumped and survived, would bother coming after them. From what they understood, the train was going straight for the Dark Lord's fortress, wherever that was, and the Colonel was expected to be there on time.
All the compartment doors were closed with the shutters drawn, giving the intrepid pair the eerie sensation that they were not alone. Ron voiced the question that was on both their minds as they made their way to the back of the car. "What do you suppose He needs the train for?"
"I can only assume that He's transporting something."
"yeah," Ron agreed quietly. "Makes you wonder what, doesn't it?"
Hermione stopped and gave Ron a scrutinizing look. "Do you think we should investigate?"
Ron stared off at one of the compartment doors, considering the question carefully. Who knew what they would find if they tried opening one of the doors? They could all be jinxed, though Ron was sure Hermione could at least detect any enchantments or wards on the area. He supposed that, whatever it was, it had to be mighty important to bring to His stronghold and to commandeer the Hogwarts Express, which had some of the most heavily fortified magical defenses in Britain. Not to mention placing it under the watchful gaze of the Colonel. With Voldemort's access to Gringotts cut off, Ron supposed he may have been transporting Galleons and precious stones. Possibly dark arts artifacts. "It could provide invaluable insight into what He is doing. Seems we should at least try."
Hermione nodded reluctantly. "All right, but let's just take a quick peek and then move on."
"Yeah, of course." Ron already moved to the nearest compartment door and ran the tip of his wand just over the edges of the door. Hermione meanwhile cast quick, successive detection and perimeter charms to see if she could identify any hostile agents on the door or beyond. They had learned the hard way that not all protections came in the form of spells. Voldemort had used parasites buried in the pores of wood to bombard intruders who alerted them. On this occasion, however, there didn't seem to be any kind of protections warding off the contents. "Suppose they didn't expect anyone to make it this far."
"I hope so," Hermione said. they tentatively opened the door, both standing to either side to keep out of the way of any projectile objects. Once the coast seemed clear, Ron took a tentative step over the threshold. The first thing that struck him about the small room was that it was unusually dark. He at first wondered if it were nighttime but quickly discounted that idea, because he would have at least scene some sort of reflection on the glass from the hallway lights, or possibly stars or moonlight. Ron conjured a blue bell flame and tossed it into the room, using the light to scan for its contents. Hermione remained outside, keeping her eye on any nearby movements and maintaining a sensory perimeter charm, just in case the Colonel were invisible.
Ron moved further into the interior, spying only large crates and no sign of what their contents may have been. Ron moved right up to the nearest one, which he saw was rectangular and rather long and large and made of simple two by four planks tightly packed together. There were latches on one side like a treasure chest, and, still curious about its contents, cast several basic detection charms before whispering, "Allohamora." The latch clicked open and Ron sighed with relief. Now let's find out what you got in here, you bugger. Ron pocketed his wand and used his hands to shove the lid of the crate off. The first thing that struck him in the deep gloom was the smell of something old, like dust and the faint aroma of mildew. Ron peered close, making a quick assessment from what he could see. There weren't any flashes of reflected light, making him discount the gold and jewels theory. It could be potions ingredients he supposed, though he thought that they usually required better storage, such as ventilation charms and temperature control charms. Losing patience and not wanting to reach in and feel around, Ron drew his wand and lit it with an intense light. He shone it directly into the crate, the yellow light bathing the head of a pale-faced human, who lay peacefully dormant. Ron's breath hitched at the sight of the human body that lay sleeping in the crate. What the hell is this? Ron thought wonderingly. He's transporting people? It wasn't until the creature blinked, its sickly, yellow eyes peering up at Ron with malicious joy that Ron realized he was looking into the face of a vampire. Startled and horrified he stumbled backwards, realizing with dawning horror that the creature was rising out of what Ron now realized was a makeshift coffin. He let out a strangled whimper and scurried to the far end of the compartment until his back was pressed firmly against the cold wood of another crate. The vampire was issuing a muling sound and licking its fangs at, what Ron realized was the prospect of drinking his blood.
Ron raised his wand and croaked, "Petrificus-" But he could not finish that sentence, for the vampire had thrown itself at Ron with lightning speed, sending his wand clattering into the dark and pressing down heavily on his body, the smell of its decayed breath making Ron's insides squirm.
"Tasty, tender little virgin," the vampire moaned, and Ron was suddenly aware of the creature's erect penis pressing into his leg. Fuck me, Ron thought bewildered. The vampire maneuvered itself so that it straddled Ron more comfortably and then began slicing apart Ron's shirt with one long, extruded claw. Ron's feeble attempts to push the vampire died swiftly as he locked gazes with the creature. Suddenly, his will seemed to leave him and he went slack as if submitting. The creature turned up Ron's head to expose the soft, flushed skin of his neck, which the vampire bent in close to pierce. Ron only managed a quiet moan in protest before he began to feel dizzy. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was going to die. As the vampire's teeth touched his skin, he felt a warm trickling sensation pulse down his face and throat and he knew that his vein had been punctured, and so Ron simply waited to expire, dimly thankful that it wasn't painful. It seemed surprising to him that he would die like this, in some random chance occurrence in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Especially after he'd been through so much over the last several weeks. He had come to expect over that time that he would die fighting in some pitched battle, hopefully against a worthy adversary like Bellatrix, and that his death would at least mean the escape of someone he cared about, like Hermione. That would have been a Gryffindor death; not this accidentally wandering into a vampire's nest, the only thing killing him being his own stupid curiosity. It sounded like a Ravenclaw thing to do, only he supposed they would have figured out the vampire part much more quickly.
Hermione had expected the portkey spell to drop her in the middle of a windowless stone lair - possibly Lord Voldemort's throne room. In her mind's eye, she envisioned Ron standing about, possibly with Wormtail's hand still clutching his throat, his bicep still oozing blood as it slowly clotted over, a handful of Death Eaters standing mindlessly about as if waiting for her to appear. Instead, however, she found herself dropped unceremoniously in a junkyard; some sort of autowreck car disposal area, she decided as she picked herself up and brushed debris and roaming ants off her clothes and skin. The smell of dissolved metal was strong in the air, which wasn't a surprise since much of the metal lying about looked rusted and flaked away. A breeze blew a greased over yellow McDonald's cheeseburger wrapper at her feet. She kicked at it irritably, realizing in the dead calm that this was probably a midway point like a hub. Of course Death Eaters wouldn't portkey directly to their hideout. it would be too easy to trace the portkey, just like she had done. that meant there were probably secret portkeys laying about, or maybe apparation windows that you had to wait for. either way, Ron was not here and she was. Thought you were so smart, didn't you? a snide voice inside her head mocked. Now look at you, Geeky Granger. Stuck in Craptown with nothing but your brains, waiting mindlessly for the next Death Eater to wander in.
Hermione shook the nasty voice from her mind and tried to scan about for a portkey or any other useful items. It occurred to her as she picked up her first discarded piece of junk, an empty coca-cola can, that there may be diversionary portkeys that would transport someone to a hostile environment, like the middle of the ocean, or to a detention cell. That thought made her shudder, and she realized that she couldn't just go around groping for any old portkey that might be lying around. Sure enough, after casting several revealing spells, she found multiple portkeys buried in the rubble.
The sound of something deep and rumbling broke Hermione from her thoughts. She spied about for the source of the noise, using her hearing to identify its location. It was a constant thrumming like an engine, only it had irregular bits that could only come from something living. Sure enough a dog with brown, matted hair revealed itself from around a particularly large pile of junk. Except that, to Hermione's dismay, it wasn't something that could be classified as a dog exactly. Or at least not one she had ever seen before, and she happened to be quite the dog expert, having had completed a lengthy project on the species when she had been six. Her parents had asked her if she wanted a puppy, so naturally, she had researched and compiled every known fact in the Western world on the subject of dogs, after which she had decided they slobber too much for her tastes. This canine-like creature was certainly a quadruped, like dogs, and it had a snout like that of a dog - large and rich with olfactory receptors. The thing about it was that it's back seemed to dip a little, though it wasn't so much that its back was broken as it was that it simply had overly muscular shoulders. Its face had innumerable lines marking it, some looking like deep gashes and others were more like protrusions of extra flesh. it's eyes were pure black and seemed unfocused and unblinking. And when it snarled, it showed a mouth full of razor sharp teeth. Only they didn't appear to be white like tell-tale bones, or yellow even from decay. No, these teeth she had seen once before. It had been on a news program about police dogs where, because the dogs - bloodhounds, she remembered - had to use their teeth so often to retrieve hard objects like murder weapons and things, the police had decided to cap all the dogs' teeth with titanium to make their biting abilities that much better. This dog had that same disturbing gleam of metal reflecting off its teeth that pictures of those cyberdogs had had. "Er, hi?" Hermione asked uncertainly. The dog crouched low, indicative of its intention to leap at her. Hermione, with years of honed practice, drew her wand and picked it out of mid-leap with the full body bind. She was about to go to it and examine the creature more thoroughly when she heard another growl to her left. Whipping about, Hermione caught sight of the dirty, matted furball flying right towards her, metal fangs glistening in the afternoon light. she shrieked and raised her wand as if to spear it, which, to her momentary surprise, worked better than she expected it to. The wand tip, upon connecting with the dog's face, sparked bolts of stinging electricity that caused it to flail its head at the last moment before impacting with Hermione's torso. She grunted as her wand was ripped from her grip and she went careening against the gravel and dirt floor. The dog, snapped ferociously at her face with its jaws, but she managed to twist her hips and thrust it off, causing it to roll over to one side. She, on the other hand, scrambled aimlessly to the other, knowing despairingly that she was not going to find her wand in time. As predicted, the dog growled yet again and Hermione found herself backing into a corner, her eyes wide and fearful and watching the dog advance cautiously. After sniffing around her and determining that she didn't possess any more threatening weapons, it lunged. Hermione threw her hands in front of her face to protect herself, and also began bicycle kicking her legs wildly in the hopes of striking its face. She felt her heel give the creature a glancing blow against its side, but it clearly was not enough as the creature sank its teeth into the inside of her thigh. She let out a hoarse scream of agony as her arms flailed about, one hand trying feebly to push the head of the dog away while the other searched randomly the body of metals behind her for a suitable weapon. The dog tore free a hunk of her flesh, causing Hermione to convulse and jerk erratically under its weight. Her knee came up and batted the dog away briefly, though she knew in the back of her mind that it was not going to be enough. The wound was spilling blood rapidly and she would not have the strength to fend off an attack. The dog seemed to content to chew on the flesh it had already gleaned before mauling her any further. Hermione's hand fell on what felt like a thick metal rod that was protruding out of the side of the heap. Without hesitating, she yanked hard on it, dislodging it cleanly from the pile, only to have the dog strut forward to take another piece. However, before she could swing the curious object she had drawn, she heard the distinctive groan and snap of something giving way behind her, which, in short order, caused the hulking body of materials to come crashing down over top her and her bloodthirsty predator. She, as a consequence, blacked out.
Hermione lay unconscious for a long time, her body buried deep in the dark. Occasionally, the rustle of robes and footfalls on broken glass broke the quietude, but they would disappear as quickly as they had come, as one portkey was exchange for another. the dogs growled intermittently, prowling about, because they could acutely smell her spilt blood, which had pooled around her open wound. her breathing remained regular and full, as though she were quietly resting on her four-poster back at Hogwarts and not in the midst of a dank, chilled and abandoned muggle scrapyard. Hermione awoke sometime in the middle of the night, surrounded by the kind of inky darkness that existed only in the deep countryside, far away from the city lights. She groaned profusely as she tried to turn over, as her mind tried to process her location, well-being and other relevant things regarding her circumstances. Without thinking, she tried to sit up, which only served to remind her of the incredible stiffness in her legs and the pasty crackle of dried blood that flaked away from her waist, where much of it had settled down. She discovered that she had a killer headache, compounded by the fact that she managed to whack her head on some flat metal surface that was hanging over her body. With that physical jolt, the memories of her last moments of consciousness flooded back into her, filling her with a sudden panic. she whipped her head about in search of danger, but found that she could see nothing at all. Just stop and think, would you? her mind berated herself. You've been laying here helpless and vulnerable for God knows how long and you haven't been devoured yet. That probably means that you're safe at the moment. Hermione remembered the metal object she had pulled, the dog and the crash of tumbling metal that came down on top of her. She supposed that, somehow, she had managed not to get her head bashed in. Either the dog had been killed or it had been blocked from getting to her. She supposed that she must have been buried underneath the rubble and that it was by that fact alone that she had managed to elude death. Hermione blew out a long, suffering sigh. This is seriously not good, she thought.
Even if she managed to crawl out, she doubted she could get to her wand in time before one of the dogs pounced. Even if she had managed to kill her assailant, surely there were others. The body bind she had put on the first dog would have worn off within minutes of her loss of her wand. And there was no way for her to spy it quickly in the dark. The dogs would have superior olfactory senses that would lead them to her, regardless of the darkness. Hell, she thought, they probably have better night vision than humans. Human beings, she had decided a long time ago, were rather physically weak creatures, all things considered. Deciding she should try and check to see what kind of damages she had sustained, Hermione went about feeling each of her body parts gently with her hands, and also gently flexing each muscle area in turn. Eventually, she deemed that she had come out relatively unscathed from the falling detritus. The wound left by the dog, however, was another story. Hermione couldn't tell in the dark, but she suspected that it had become infected, which wasn't really a surprise to her. The blood that had flowed so freely before had now dried up and crusted over the several gashes and chunk of missing flesh. It put her in a bit of a quandary, because she knew that it would probably burst open and start bleeding again if she exerted herself, but it also required medical attention, which meant that she had to escape her predicament quickly. All in all, it seemed like a bit of a dilemma.
So, with nothing for her to do at the moment and with little to plan in the dark, Hermione tried to make herself comfortable by propping a few loose odds and ends together to fashion a makeshift pillow. She then nudged herself onto her side to try and get more comfortable. It was hardly easy, and sleep came only in restless fits broken every now and then by a chill wind or an unconscious twitch that sent her headrest collapsing out from underneath her.
When Hermione next woke, she could tell from the pinholes of light peeking through from in between the medley of scraps that formed her cage that dawn had just broken. The sky was still a deep blue. Testing each of her muscles in turn and then trying to breathe life and energy back into them with small movements, Hermione quickly assessed her surroundings in the shadowy blue gloom. Just above her - the thing she had banged her head on in the dark - was the hulking mass of an upside-down, crushed Lincoln Towncar protruding out from the wall of junk behind her. Ahead of her was an array of miscellaneous objects, including a steering wheel and the remains of an engine block. From underneath the block of metal was poking out half the remains of the dog, its eyes still glassy and unfocused, dried blood and bone fragments and some sort of grey and yellow pus-like liquids still oozing around and down its dirty brown fur. She studied it for several minutes, the pinpoints of light slowly brightening as the sun rose to its zenith. Something about it disturbed and thrilled her, because it was unique and different and appealed to her intellectual curiosity. Having spent numerous classes over the years seeing what kind of monstrosities could be formed by interspecies breeding, compliments of Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures class, Hermione was able to recognize that this creature was unique because it was not part of any naturally created species. It was like a mule; a hybrid, a freak of nature that probably was sterile de facto its very existence. She was willing to bet that it was at least part Krup, and that meant one very important thing - it was magical. It had magical blood.
That thought made her instinctively shiver. What are you contemplating, little girl? that sinister voice inside her head asked. Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself? Twice in two days, you might be getting addicted.
Hermione hadn't really thought about it at the time, but she had, in fact, used blood alchemy to reverse the polarity of a portkey spell. one whose signature had been dulled over the passage of time and countless intervening spells. Moreover, the portkey spell was used without a catalyzing object. It was among some of the most complex arithmantic work she had ever done and dragged portkey reversion into uncharted waters. It could have won her the Nobel Prize for Potions, except for the simple fact that it required her to drink human blood. It suddenly hit her that she had drank someone's blood. Sure, she had been in a bit of a stupor from the loss of Ron - she hadn't been thinking about consequences in a very rational way. You knew that the Weasleys never would have let you get away with that if you contacted them first. They would have let Ron die before letting you experiment with human blood.
I'm not going to let Ron die because of some silly and arcane rule whose only purpose was probably to opiate the masses, she told herself. Good grief, what could possibly be wrong with dabbling in a bit of blood if it saves Ron's life? And Harry's too?
Hermione eyed the part-Krup with both excitement and fear, trying to recall a potent strengthening draft she had discovered in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. After a time, Hermione took to meditating and pulling the memory of a day of research from the middle of her fifth year OWL revision. She had taken a break and decided to do some leisure reading. Often it consisted of perusing, in a glancing way, advanced materials just to see what kind of stuff was out there. It had been then that she had run across the first uses of blood in potions. She had wondered why they went through so many hoops to create a restorative draft or other enhancing agent without blood, when blood was so potent for those kinds of things to begin with. Of course her mind had already visited and analyzed the argument that the prospect of using blood was deemed to be morally abhorrent to some people. She herself didn't regard that argument with much of anything except contempt. As far as she was concerned, as long as subjects participated voluntarily and with informed consent, then it was fine by her. It was the implied lack of voluntariness and the uninformedness of elves that had bothered her so deeply. Apart from that, ethics was merely a matter of taste.
With that doubt set firmly aside, Hermione edged her way closer to the part-Krup, all the while willfully keeping herself ignorant of the dark thirst that drove her to unconsciously lick her lips in anticipation. In the periphery of her senses, she heard the distinct growl of another one of the part-Krups, the dark side of her mind idly enjoying the vision of her ripping it to shreds with her own bare hands. Already in the faint light she could see the blackening wound of the dog where its back protruded from the sharp edge of the broken engine block. Dried blood had welled up through the gasoline in the block, frothing at the engine block's lip where it bubbled out and met the remnants of the gasoline. When she got pressed up close to the still cooling body of the dog, Hermione balked briefly at its rather unpleasant smell. There were so many uncertainties with blood magic. it didn't help that it was a cross-species creature, or that it had been dead for nearly twenty-four hours, its blood left to decay along with its meat. She only hoped that whatever internal magic it had in it would preserve its body enough for her to make use of it. With her elbows digging into the cement, skin scraped away absently as she pressed her face in close to its muzzle, smelling its rotting digestive juices as they wafted idly out from between its jaws, which were clenched in a feral look of intense pain, Hermione's eyes gleamed. She took one ragged fingernail and dug tentatively into the soft skin of its throat, applying more and more pressure until she felt the warm sticky fluid that titillated her so deeply. She punctured the jugular more fully until the red liquid was sloshing against her fingers. Quickly, Hermione slashed at her own palms, ignoring the pain in her fervor to get the substances mixed. Once her blood was flowing freely in rivulets, cascading down into a thin stream and meeting the various estuaries formed by the part-Krup's own blood, Hermione angled her hand a bit higher and laid her lips down underneath, tilting upwards to let the warm liquid flow into her mouth. She drank hungrily, the dog's blood seeping into her both through her palm wound and also through her mouth, coating her lips, letting her tongue flick back and forth along the edges of her teeth to suck and savour the bitter, copper taste. Something inside her told her to remain cautious, to not drink too much, but she found she couldn't help it. It was calling to her, an invisible melody in the air, thrumming to the rhythm of the earth, of all the life in the world - all beating in unison and in discord. Hermione gulped one mouthful after another, her breath turning harsh as she begged for more, the feeling of energy pulsing through her as the magic of the carcass before her merged inexorably with her own. A tingle of incredible pleasure ran through her, making the feel of the chill morning air, the cool gravel earth, the soft pit-patter of her pack just beyond the decayed metal, electric to her senses.
Her face and hands bathed in drying blood, Hermione maneuvered cat-like to the narrow opening at one end of the enclosure. Absently, she snatched the crowbar that she had drawn from the junk heap as she moved into the bright morning sun. The wind was swift and chillier in the open and the bright light of the sky blinded her momentarily, as she tentatively got to her feet, the wound from yesterday giving her a pronounced limp that had her clutching at one side of the Lincoln. Hermione looked around, curious to see if there were any signs of traffic since her last examination yesterday afternoon. She couldn't really tell one way or the other, probably because the miniature avalanche had redefined the main junction. Regardless of that, Hermione felt acutely aware of all her senses. Her ears seemed to pick up the exact tenor of rustling bags and the patter of footsteps of dogs that she knew to be too far away for her to reasonably hear. Her eyes seemed to regard things in different colours, there were fewer in her palette but each one seemed to radiate an aura like the colours were spilling out of their designated boundaries and casting an ethereal glow to each object. The most acute of her sensory improvements was with her nose. She could smell and taste everything from the bitter flavour of gravel and dirt to the intoxicating scent of rust to the taste of blood and summer leaves in the far off distance. It was like a new kind of knowledge that she could draw in at will, pulling into her and usurping for her own needs. it was, in a word, exquisite.
Hermione limped tentatively to the junction where the two dogs had effectively pincered her. It was probably the standard drop off point for portkeys. She didn't know how many death eaters there were exactly or what they did on a daily basis, but she suspected that it wouldn't take too terribly long before someone used the junkyard as a mid-point. Certainly if anyone got called to the Dark Lord's lair, they would be expected to portkey here or to some other midway point. She hoped this was the only one or at least the main one so that she could cling to the hope that it would not be too long. After all, she had a boyfriend to save. The thought of running across a death eater made her unconsciously lick her lips and infuse her eyes with a glint of unfocused black. She could feel the magic of the Krup worming its way through her, taking full effect as each minute ticked by, the chill slipping off her body as though she had a warm coat of hair, the sensations she was picking up telling her exactly where all the vermin in her pack were hiding. Her pack? she thought. Is that how I think of them now? Yes, she supposed it was in fact how she thought of them. She could no longer imagine ripping them apart for pleasure as she could any other creature, though she would happily do so if any of them got out of line. More importantly, she felt she could do it, with or without the crowbar. she would probably prefer to do it with her body and nothing else; no - the crowbar was simply for the next hapless death eater that got in her way. For them, she would spare no mercy, no sporting chance to survive.
Before too long, the hybrids began to appear, snarling menacingly as they approached her, sniffing intently the ground at regular intervals. As they came close, Hermione standing tall and true and gazing back at them with the same unfocused, yet appraising expression that they themselves wore, they slowed and instead of baring their teeth in anger, they subsided and crouched down into a kneeling position, bowing their heads down and exposing the backs of their necks to her in a show of subservience. Hermione let out a wild grin and began to emit guttural sounds that instinctively beckoned them to her. They came, eternally grateful, it seemed, to have a true master at their disposal. One sniff of her, and they knew she was theirs to command. Such was the way of blood. And so, there Hermione stood, stroking gently the ragged fur that was a sure sign of a junkyard animal of the score of dogs that came to her silent call. She was their alpha, their pack leader and they were hers to command; she knew it, felt it deep within her bones. At the same time, she knew she now held a responsibility unlike any other for they placed their lives in her hands, and she, feeling the instinct to watch over them, made an internal promise not to lead them astray.
Before long, there was a pop of someone apparating into the area. Hermione stood stock still, her ears cocked and spying for the intruder. She had no wand, and she knew it, the way she knew that muggles were skimming the outskirts of the yard before running across the repulsion charms. She could smell the taste of the unicorn tail as it corroded over from exposure to the open air and all its impurities. No, her wand had been broken yesterday in the fight against the part-Krup. The Death Eater took one glance around and did a double-take. Hermione wasn't sure whether it was because the hybrids had all congregated or because she looked like the sight of death with blood and wounds festooning her otherwise virgin body.
The Death Eater wore customary black robes and a silver mask, but Hermione found that she could tell a lot from the person anyway. The person smelled male, though she couldn't quite describe in words what that meant. He smelled sweet and untouched and young, his face betraying his youth by the distinct lack of stubble. He was an aristocrat, she gathered because of the cleanliness that radiated off him the gentle yet persistent scent of light soaps, of mild foods and a rich morning tea. There was a distinct absence of sweat, and there was also fear, shyness, a kind of naive curiosity, as though he were wearing this particular form of travel for the first time. Yes, he was tender. He pointed his wand at her and said in a rather stiff voice. "Who are you?"
Hermione smiled, and from the twitch in his shoulder, she could tell that he was unnerved from the look of her smiling. I must look like a terrible fright. He didn't seem to concern himself with the dogs, though there was an underlying tension there as well. he's probably been told that they're docile to Death Eaters. If only he knew they serve a knew master now. One who will lead them to better things. With a tight nod and not one word spoken to the human, Hermione instructed her pack to pounce, leaving her to contentedly watch as they swiftly ripped him to shreds. Hermione's keen ears picked up the sound of another pop over the combined ecstasy of the dogs and the shrieks of agony of the wizard. Hermione edged into a dark alcove and watched silently as another Death Eater moved in more closely, wand raised and face clearly alight with shock at the sight of the hybrids having turned on the human. "bloody recruit," she heard him mutter as he took a step past her to get a better look at the dogs. Clearly he didn't think they would attack him; maybe he had personal experience with them. Hermione was hardly going to chance it, in the event that he had some sort of hold over them. Stealthing forward with unusual grace, Hermione drew near to the wizard from the back and swiveled her body in a twisting motion, her hips carrying the crowbar through and into the man's back, creating a sharp crack as it contacted the man's lower back. He let out a momentary cry before crashing to his knees. Hermione deftly brought the crowbar around for another swing and landed a direct blow on the man's wand hand, causing the carpal bones to crack and drive outwards into the skin, spraying blood across his wand and the roadway. He turned partly to try and gaze upon his attacker, his mask now askew, and, upon seeing the grim visage of Hermione, proceeded to whimper in fright. This only served to please Hermione on the inside, and she happily showed it to the man through her lunatic grin. I must look like the bloody devil, she mused.
Hermione cracked the man's jaw with the crowbar, sending bloodied teeth scattering across the ground. She then dropped the crowbar and picked up his wand, which was slick with warm blood. She considered drinking it - certainly there was a voice inside her urging her on. However, the greater voice of reason, her Ravenclaw side, told her that drinking blood from a magical being could prove to have highly toxic side effects. It was only the fact that the Krup's magical blood had been diluted that kept her from simply convulsing and dying in her cage.
Hermione instead aimed the wand at the wizard and bandaged his tattered hand. She then enervated him and looked into his face, fright and anguish still apparent in his otherwise smooth and unscarred features.
"Where's Ron?" Hermione asked in a low, dangerous voice.
The wizard moaned and his eyes began to flutter. Hermione hit him with a tickling hex, which promptly forced him to twitch uncontrollably - an action that put him in great pain due to his back injury. "Where is Ron?" Hermione asked again.
The wizard didn't seem to have much of a fight left in him, because he stated in a matter of fact tone that was touched with resignation. "He's in Parkinson Manor."
"Good. Now how do I get there?"
"Portkey," he managed.
"Which one?"
"Anyone."
"I don't believe you." Hermione motioned for one of the hybrids to advance. it snarled at the wizard and came close to its face, sniffing and tracing its sharp teeth along the soft exposed skin of his neck.
"Oh God, I'm telling you the truth. Any portkey. Just aim your wand and say Parkinson Manor before you touch it. Please, I swear. I'm telling you the truth. That's all. Works for all the portkeys, so long as they're used from here."
Hermione nodded. "All right. Makes sense." She really had no idea whether he was lying or not, and had no way of telling without veritassurum. She resolved to brew some, and also, possibly, learn legilimancy while she was at it. Certainly it couldn't hurt in the war.
Suddenly Hermione felt a rush of dizziness that forced her to take a step back and shake her head to clear her blurred vision. What the hell? she thought irritably, glancing around in search of another wizard. She sniffed the air to determine if maybe there was one hiding underneath an invisibility cloak, but, to her dismay, she found that she couldn't pick up anything at all. It was as though the scents and tastes that had come alive not a half hour ago were slowly being shut off. Hermione gazed down at the hybrids in her pack and saw that many of them had moved in and begun tearing into the Death Eater. Others were sniffing about her curiously as though they were in a daze. Her own energy levels, which had been renewed by the blood, were dropping rapidly. Crap, she thought in a burst of anger, as a hollow burning feeling swept through her. No, no, no. Whatever hold she had had on the pack, whatever energy she had drawn from the dead hybrid's blood was wearing off and with it was going that beautiful connection to a world without politics and without the moral sense that seemed like such a plague to humankind. She wanted to fall to her knees and sink her incisors into the nape of one of her kin, to draw its blood, to feed and feel that strength once more. the need was overpowering and she wasn't sure she could stand without that renewing energy.
You have to go, she thought, buckling down her baser desires and focusing on why she had ended up in that desolate place. Ron needs you. Hermione beat down the seemingly irrational spike of jealousy that tried to well up within her over the fact that Ron's captivity was depriving her of her desires.
Using the revealing charm, which was a derivative of one of the three perimeter charms, Hermione quickly identified a portkey. She aimed her wand at the gnarled hubcap and said in a clear voice, "Parkinson Manor." The portkey shimmered slightly, which was enough of a sign to Hermione that it worked. She thus took one lingering look back at the wasteland of metal and dogs and dead bodies, momentarily saddened by the feeling of her fading empathy to the hybrids and their plight. One of them had already cast its gaze upon her, its bloodlust taking over. She was no longer one of them. Hermione knelt and snatched the portkey off the ground, aware that the hybrid that had turned its attention to her had leapt into the air, its fangs bared and glistening in anticipation of her flesh. The jerk of the portkey as she travelled through space took hold, blending the world into a medley of liquid colours swirling about her for a brief moment before depositing her on the cold stone floor of what she guessed to be the anteroom of the living hall. The room was boxy, dark and silent. It was barren and colourless and had only one door. The portkey must have alerted someone of my arrival, she thought. Immediately, Hermione began casting revealing charms to see whether there were any wards on the door and whether somebody was coming. Her sensory perimeter charm was detecting slight movement, though she couldn't tell what it meant. Trying to effect a magic detection perimeter charm, Hermione wove together a network of magical detector spells and gently expanded them outward, the way she had learned to effect a sensory perimeter charm. Sure enough, she could tell that there were two magical beings just beyond the doorway. Their signatures were different, and she suspected that one of them was a house elf.
If only I could hear what they were saying, she thought. She simply decided to wait for someone to open the door, or for the pair to go away so that she could blow the door wide open. and continue moving onward in pursuit of Ron. After a time, her detection charms told her that one of them had apparated away, presumably the house elf, and the other had simply walked out of her range. Hermione counted to ten before trying the unlocking charm, which, to her surprise, worked in opening the door. Not much for security, she supposed, though it probably wasn't necessary since it would be difficult to get into Parkinson Manor in the first place. Moreover, from what she understood of the old pureblood manors, the Parkinsons were relatively low on the prestige scale, which was mirrored by the usually below average talent in the family. Hermione's source on the subject could have been described accurately as being dubious at best, since it was an assessment of the pureblood versus muggle-born debate, and it was told through the eyes of a muggle-born. Still, of all the articles she had read on the subject, it was clearly the best. Wizards and witches were sorely in need of a lesson on the scientific method.
"Oy, you there!" a voice called, breaking the silence as Hermione trekked down the carpeted hallway. She froze instantly, her wand at the ready, a curse on her lips before she turned around to face the person who had caught her. To her surprise, however, the arrester was not a person so much as it was an entity - a portrait to be exact. One of an elderly lady with a strict bun and black eyes and a pug nose that immediately identified her as a direct descendant of pansy the pug Parkinson.
"Er, hi," Hermione said, scanning her memory for everything she knew about portraits, and, more specifically, disabling them.
"What, may I ask, do you think you are doing skulking around the illustrious home of the most ancient and noble house of Parkinson?"
Hermione repressed an urge to roll her eyes at the declaration of the estate, which was a verbatim replica of what Mrs. Black had used to call the Black estate. She wondered briefly if there was a distinct lack of creativity amongst purebloods that drove them to always use the same insults and pithy phrases. Hermione decided she would attempt to glean some useful information from the portrait before dispatching her. "I'm looking for the dungeons. You wouldn't perhaps be able to point me in the right direction, would you?" Hermione tried lacing her voice with as much innocence and naiveté as she could muster, schooling her features into bland hopefulness.
The portrait did not seem fazed however, because she merely scrutinized Hermione and asked, "Exactly what line are you from? That hair looks too bushy to belong to any of the families I know of."
Hermione instinctively pursed her lips in irritation. Will the bushiness of my Goddamned hair ever stop becoming my sole outstanding physical attribute? I have eyes too, you know. And nice breasts and a lean frame and tanned cheeks and a button nose. And let's not forget my incredibly perfect, non-bucked teeth, which happen to be pearly white, compliments of regular brushing and a strict avoidance of confections. Hermione curbed her instinct to start ranting at the prudish pureblood and instead, realizing that the jig was up, surreptitiously aimed her wand and silently executed an advanced countercharm similar to that of the homorphous charm that Lockheart had described in second year. This one was primarily designed to exorcise ghosts but worked on paintings nearly as effectively. Exorcisia, Hermione mouthed, careful to make a smooth, circular pattern with her wand as she deployed the spell. The portrait seemed to understand what Hermione was doing, because a look of horror crossed her face as she was slowly extinguished from the frame, leaving a blank canvas. Hermione cast about for signs of any other portraits in the hallway, and, thanking God for small favours, relaxed when she saw none. She quickly created an advanced illusion of the elderly woman perched in her portrait, eyeing suspiciously the area ahead of her. Hermione then tied the spell to the portrait frame, much like an enchantment, so that it would last for several hours after she walked away from it. While the illusion could only move about in the frame in a twitchy sort of way and while it could not talk, Hermione hoped that it would be enough to fool the occasional passerby. Preparing herself to go on, Hermione continued down the hall, pausing only momentarily to attempt the disillusionment charm. She felt a cold trickle as the spell washed over her and then conjured a mirror examine her handiwork. To her dismay, it was less than perfect. Already, the spell seemed to be wearing off, lines of her skin and colours of her various clothes were slowly reforming. Damn, she thought, clearly disappointed. Sure it was a complex spell to say the least and probably required multiple focal points, but she really thought she had gotten it after having read a theoretical account. Unfortunately, she had never bothered actually trying to execute it, since it was a spell usually taught to aurors and no others. Its primary application was defense, after all. After quashing down an irrational stab of anger at her own ineptitude, Hermione continued onward.
Parkinson Manor was probably the largest single family residence Hermione had ever been in. It had a total of five floors, including the two underground ones, and the house itself occupied over three thousand square metres of land. That didn't include the vast expanse of gardens and open fields that sprawled outward from its doorstep. As such, with hardly a plan to go by, Hermione found herself limping aimlessly through the halls, until she got lost. She assumed that, apart from any Death Eater guests that the Parkinsons may have been entertaining, she would only have to contend with Pansy and her parents. In theory, Pansy should have had a sibling. From what Hermione understood, of wizarding property laws, they were a bit medieval and purebloods tended to breed like rabbits until they generated a suitable male heir. The fact that Pansy did not have any siblings at Hogwarts suggested to Hermione that her parents were a bit different from the normal pureblood mould.
Intermittently, Hermione cast the magical detection scan, and was consistently amazed by the distinct lack of magical signatures in the building. The Hogwarts Express and castle were rife with magic and rendered any such scan completely useless except by those who were particularly attuned to magic signatures. Hermione herself couldn't identify more than the basics, despite her vociferous attempts to do so.
After what seemed like an eternity, it became apparent that Hermione was in a bad way. Not only was she lost, but she was a mess of blood and grime, which had been caked over her skin and hair, causing a chronic itching sensation. Every time she twitched a facial muscle, smiled or grimaced, she could feel the dried blood on her face cracking anew, sometimes sending flakes dangling tenuously from her skin. Worse yet, the wound on her leg was giving her serious troubles. Worse still, her spellwork was getting shoddier by the minute as her last reserves of energy dried up, leaving only a stale sort of persistent hunger-nausea combination in the pit of her stomach. Hermione found herself wandering aimlessly around on the third floor, having narrowly dodged two house elves who were busy scourgifying the floors. She knew she should be trying to make it downstairs, because that was most likely where Ron was holed up. Dungeons tended to be underground. Still, she couldn't seem to manage to muster up enough courage to actually open any of the doors that lined the halls of the Manor. That is, until she felt she were on the cusp of expiry and, at that point, driven only by sheer desperation, opened a non-descript, brown wooden door and stumbled through, only managing to close it barely before sinking down onto the hard grey stone and dozing off.
When she awoke sometime later, one side of her face chilled by having been pressed up against the cold stone floor, she became aware quickly of a sinister presence in the room. Hermione struggled to reconnect her mind to her body through the fuzziness of a restless sleep. She rolled over onto her stomach, unable to hold back a groan of pain and soreness and an omnipresent hunger as she wearily raised her head and squinted at the candelabras that had flared to life on the walls. It was then that she noticed the darkness that formed the distinct outline of a cloak, standing in one corner of the room, its breath visible in the chill air. Crap, she thought dimly, absently struggling into a sitting position so she could better assess the damage. However, her limbs still were not cooperating, and all she managed to do was make it halfway before collapsing and letting out another groan. Maybe I'm under a spell, she thought. Some sort of weight spell that's making it difficult to move. She knew, however, that that was not the case. The last twenty-four hours had taken a serious toll on her and she was simply not able to deal with this new threat. Wearily, she resigned herself to simply laying there, breathing shallowly and praying that her death would be painless. After several moments of inactivity, she chanced a glance up and saw that the person continued to stand at ten paces from her, remaining motionless. Maybe it's a trick of my mind, or some kind of illusion, she thought, her mind now beginning to contemplate the situation. She had stumbled into some sort of dungeon chamber, which she thought was rather odd, given that she was on the top floor. But then again, the main floor had had a room similar to this one. It had been an entry and exit point for portkey usage. This room may have served a similar function, or something entirely different. Before Hermione could take anymore time to regroup and muster some strength to move, the figure approached her, its gait deceptively smooth, like it were gliding and not really touching the floor. That's odd, Hermione thought. The only creatures I've ever known to float around like that dressed all in black are dementors.
Absently, she fingered her wand, barely registering that it was even there or that she could use it to cast a simple spell. The dark figure stopped next to her, towering over her prone form, its head cocked downward and gazing at her from behind the unfathomable depths of its black hood.
"Well?" she managed. "You have me. Now what the hell are you going to do? Torture me? Use me as bait? I assure you I know nothing and there aren't very many people who are going to care if I go missing. You may as well just get it over with and knock me off, put me on ice or give me concrete shoes or whatever it is you thugs do to unsuspecting victims of your nefariousness." Hermione sighed and slumped down on the floor in defeat. I'm going to die a virgin, she thought. Wonderful.
Still, the being that hovered over her did not make a move, did not gesture, did not even seem to acknowledge her words. It simply stared for the longest time, after which, from the depths of its hood, its black eyes flared with a glowing white luminescence. Hermione was too busy wallowing to notice this phenomenon, though, if she had, she would have known that it was an obscure power of dementors and that it meant that the creature was trying to communicate by deploying a focused form of legilimancy. Hermione, oblivious to this fact, merely screamed in fright when she felt the rush of images that the dementor was sending her way. She saw the blinding light that a dementor sees when it draws the soul from a body, the smoky taste of one's life essence, the sour taste of human fear. She felt water spilling off her charred and gnarled skin as it dips one hand into lakewater to poison the creatures that live there. She felt the taste of human despair and of the happy memories that nourish the darkest of creatures. She remembered seeing a mother bless a child, she saw that youth grow up, play Quidditch, go to school, fall in love. She felt her make love to the man of her dreams, the excitement, the sweat and the anxiousness of her first time. She felt her go to war and fight and kill, standing over her massacred victims, her body sunbaked from long days in the heat, her clothes grimy and tattered and rich with the smell of earth and blood. She watched her rise like a plague across the plains of Europe, delivering deathblow after deathblow to all who opposed her; like Napoleon, she demonstrated uncanny military strategy. Men and women, both magical and muggle were struck down under the beating sun and by torchlight in the dead of night. Absently she saw this once naive and innocent woman now turned monster direct her wrath North, through Norway until she could see that they had passed the arctic circle, where she slaughtered her enemies under the sheen of the midnight sun. I am a warlord, the dementor thought to her. I am the wrath of God.
Hermione watched as the soldier drove her forces further East. She watched as her men crumbled beneath the constant onslaught that she demanded they exercise on her behalf. Soon, only she and a cadre of her finest troops remained, the rest having been purged through their own weakness. She and her twenty captains reached the hot, arid lands of Asia, their skin having been permanently tanned by the decades they had spent under the sun. Hermione guessed from the look of the rivers that they had passed - the Tigris, the Euphrates and the Nile, that they had finally reached India, where they settled at the edge of the Ganges.
"We have come this far," said the leader. Hermione marvelled at her eyes, which had taken on a reddish quality, a tribute to her constant bloodlust over the last twenty years. "We have survived where all else have failed. And we will go further. Further until there is no one left to oppose us. We will draw life time and again,. The sun will make sparkle all the dead bodies of our foes. Soon, we will stand at the Gates to the City of God, and we will break down their doors and ravage those who sit idle inside."
And so they went, those twenty-one deluded souls, cursing every living human in sight until they reached the coast of Indonesia, where they had finally grown old and weary, their skin turned to charcoal, the once pink flesh having been sapped of its warmth and turned brittle and grey. They had abandoned their wands long ago, for their powers had grown so great, they could destroy a man with a mere glance. Their presence had become enough to strike terror into those weaker mortals upon whom they now fed for their very sustenance. Such was their power that they rode the winds of magic, having no more need of solid ground. such was their curse that they were immortal like God, and had lost all other purpose except one - to kill.
Hermione, understanding that this dementor was showing her a tale the likes of which could never be found in any reference book, was terribly intrigued. She had unconsciously managed to pull herself into a sitting position and was now looking up wide eyed at the dementor like a child being told a bedtime story. She locked gazes with its luminescent eyes and thought out to it, Why are you telling me this?
It responded by flashing images in front of her - recent ones from her own memory. The image of her hungrily licking the blood of the hybrid dog-Krup as it coursed down her palms. Hermione quickly began assimilating all the facts that she knew about the significance of drinking blood and trying to tie it in to everything she knew about dementors. However, she came up with nothing and merely gazed questioningly up at the creature.
It knelt down so that its chilled breath tickled her eyebrows, and it issued two very important words. Free us.
With those words, the dementor employed the same information dissemination technique that Harry's conjured snake used back at the Red Cherry, the one which had caused him excruciating pain. For Hermione, the feeling was no different, except that she could make out and absorb the rush of images and feelings that bombarded her psyche at high speed. When it finished, the dementor stood up straight and waited for her to rise.
Hermione took several long minutes to collect herself and to assimilate the data that had been forced upon her. When she finally managed to gain control of her senses and stop the otherwise uncontrollable shivering that had accompanied the mental violation, she peered up at the creature and said, "You're her. You're the one. The first dementor. That from which all others have spawned. You have existed for millennia, and you want me to free you from your age of bondage to this mortal world. In that regard, I will help you. I will free you, even if it kills me."
The dementor gave a nod that would have been imperceptible to anyone else. You are the Dark One, it said. You are Atma. Go and find your mate locked here in this place. I will give you strength long enough to flee. And so, when you have done this and are back amongst the feeble creatures of this world, you will follow the paths of energy that whisper along the wind and you will do as you have promised. Go, then.
Hermione scrambled to her feet, her leg wound partly healed and her fatigue and hunger momentarily sated. She responded to the dementor with that same sort of imperceptible nod and wound her way through the manor with a new, practiced ease borne out of the dementor's acute memories.
Ron awoke to the ever-present whirring of the engine of the Hogwarts Express. He blearily looked up into Hermione's brown eyes and smiling face. At first, the only memories that came to him were the dark days he had spent locked in the dungeons of what he would later discover to be Parkinson Manor. he had been tortured from time to time under various dark spells, though there had not been any lasting damage. The Cruciatus had been applied only once and, as far as Ron was concerned, it was plenty enough that he'd never want to experience it again. He had tried everything under the sun to escape during that time, including wandless magic, feigning illness and astral projection. Nothing had worked. Only a couple of times did anyone try to interrogate him and it had been, oddly enough, about Harry. This line of questioning gave Ron hope that the Death Eaters did not have his best friend, but it was short-lived when he found out they were simply waiting for the next batch of veritassurum to pump him for information before disposing of him. This gave him the queer sensation of living on a deadline. He couldn't say he had liked it very much, except that it did give him a healthy appreciation for all the little things in life. He had sworn at some point in the darkness that if he ever had a chance to live past his imprisonment, he would not begrudge a life replete only with the absence of pain.
He had been surprised when he saw Hermione approaching his cell. it had seemed like a dream come true, not that he fancied seeing Hermione in a dungeon - well, there had once been a particularly sadomasochistic erotic dream of his, but that had been shoved hard and fast into a locked room more fortified than Azkaban. At any rate, she had come to save him, and it had been the most wondrous feeling in the world, watching the love of his life break him from his captivity, minus the small feeling of emasculation for having to be rescued by "his woman".
It took Ron several moments of grogginess to realize where and when he was. He managed to get to a sitting position and peer around in the gloom, which seemed darker than he remembered his cell to be. "Hermione? Where are we?"
"We're on the Hogwarts Express," she said, flashing a light into his eyes as she checked both for signs of vampirism and signs for shock. "It looks like we found out what He's carrying."
Memories of the vampire flooded into Ron's brain and he instinctively glanced around in search of the predator. All he found was a thick layer of smoldering dust coating his pants and the surrounding floor. Vaguely, he acknowledged that Hermione had stood and was now holding his wand out to him expectantly. A vampire, he thought. Crap, that's worse than gold. How many are there on this thing? And what other dark creatures is he calling to him.
As if reading his thoughts, Hermione answered, "I doubt there's only vampires on this train. Moreover, it's hardly his complete army of them. Most likely this is just the few he's deploying for his fortress, or possibly it's the executives of all the different races. That would better explain the extensive precautions."
Ron took his wand and stood, still eyeing the dark. He absently vanished the vampire remains and looked at Hermione directly. "If that's true, our lives would be better spent taking this thing down and dispatching all the creatures on it."
Hermione shook her head. "You and I both know that we've got a snowball's chance in Hell of taking down the Colonel. You saw what she can do. She'll return this way any moment. She's probably already sensed us and is moving in for the kill. If we had any kind of ace up our sleeve, believe me, Ron, I would go for it, but we've got nothing. Neither of us have occlumancy shields strong enough to deflect her legilimantic perimeter scan, and you know she'll be deploying it on full alert in search of us. She doesn't play around."
Ron nodded. "I know. It's just such an opportunity."
Hermione nodded in agreement. "You're right, and that's why we need to keep our heads and not give into it. In the end, none of it really matters anyway."
Quietly, they made their way to the back of the train. Once exiting the final door, they found themselves on a small metal balcony, the wind curling in from either side of the train and attempting to drag them into the airstream. They both took a moment to relish the freedom that lay before them in the rolling hills of grass and rock, the sun setting on the horizon, turning the sky into a mixture of reds and yellows and oranges, all underscored by a ridge of black cliffs in the distance, golden light cresting them from where the sun touched. "I guess this is it," Hermione said, her words blown away like dead leaves in the wind.
Ron seemed to understand because he nodded. Behind them, the door was blown apart by the arrival of the Colonel, but neither of them took notice, not even heeding the flash of the door fragments as they flew by them in a heap of scarred metal. Ron and Hermione both cast cushioning and protection charms on their bodies before hurling themselves off the platform and letting their bodies get buffeted about by the wind before slamming into the ground below. Ron was the first to get up, brushing dirt and grass and confused ants off his shirt and pants and staring off into the distance, watching the retreating back of the train, where the Colonel stood watching them. We'll meet again, Ron thought grimly, the memory of their first encounter with her fresh in his mind. The battle had been a sore point with him, because he had been put out of the duel exceptionally quickly, and it reminded him uncomfortably of the battle at the DOM. Hermione came and stood next to him, watching the train as well. She clasped his hand in hers and began speaking, breaking him from his reverie. "Where to now?" she asked.
"Let's get back to the flat. I need a drink." With that, they disapparated.
It had been two weeks since the Parkinson Manor affair, and Ron and Hermione had been busy, to say the least. It was through a convoluted set of circumstances that they found themselves running through the halls of Malfoy manner being chased by something that looked suspiciously like Fluffy. They managed by a hair's breadth to avoid the Cerberus by throwing themselves through a large, ornate doorway. One quick look around told Hermione that they were in some sort of banquet hall, if the size were any indication. All about were strewn chairs and large round tables. There were several lights hanging from the ceiling, all of them lit, including a large chandelier with over a hundred magical lights. It would have been rather elegant looking if it weren't for the stacks upon stacks of crates that were piled in rows like shelves in a warehouse. Hermione and Ron managed only fifteen steps before they turned a corner and saw a figure standing in the center of the room. Whoever it was, the person was lean and decked out in some very serious battle attire. Hermione pursed her lips and chanced a glance at Ron, who was also looking very focused. Neither of them had any illusions about who it was that they were standing in front of. This was the infamous Colonel. One of Voldemort's topmost lieutenants; a silent member as it were, who had been part of his elite vanguard. They had both heard rumours from prisoners and from Death Eaters themselves about her. None of it was very good.
We can take her, Hermione thought, mentally digging her heels and preparing for a fight. They always underestimate us, and we're not exactly the fifth year fresh out of OWLs flunkies that we were back at the DOM. How tough can one person be, anyway? Still, it didn't help that the stranger was dressed in rather imposing clothes. She wore basilisk hide boots, a dragonhide holster and a nundu combat shirt. Hermione noted that the figure's identity was only occluded by deep shadows from one of the tall stacks of crates.
If she takes one step toward us, we'll know who she is, Hermione thought, and then, idly, she seemed to realize that their adversary was also aware of this fact. Hermione made a mental note that the Colonel kept a good watch of her surroundings.
Just then, a door opened in the far corner of the room, revealing none other than Bellatrix Lestrange. This made Hermione inwardly groan and want to start throwing curses. However, she held back, knowing that the first person to throw a curse in a direct, frontal attack was usually the first to go down.
"Well, well," Bellatrix cooed in her ever irritating voice, still scratchy from her days in Azkaban. "What do we have here? Kiddies coming to play?"
"Hello, Trixie," said the Colonel, her eyes never wavering from Ron and Hermione, who stood shoulder to shoulder.
"Ah, hello," Bellatrix said, smirking as if sensing Hermione's frustration. "What say we dispatch them?"
"You have a job to do, if memory serves me correctly. The Dark Lord is waiting."
Bellatrix shrugged. "You just want to have a bit of fun with the kiddies on your own. Be careful though, the mudblood packs a punch. Can't say much about the boy though." She then turned to Hermione and said, "S'pose I'll see you around. Maybe in the dungeons if you survive that long." Bellatrix then promptly left.
"Well," Hermione said, somewhat surprised. "I didn't think you'd refuse help. I've been told you had more sense than that."
The Colonel shrugged and then took that fated step into the light. Hermione's jaw dropped, to say the least. "Narcissa Malfoy?" she asked aloud. It wasn't so much that Hermione was surprised that Narcissa was an agent of the Dark Lord. No, that was painfully obvious from their encounter in the robe shop prior to the start of sixth year. No, it was a surprise that her name commanded fear and respect from Death Eaters for something other than her ability to throw a soiree. Don't underestimate her, Hermione's mind screamed, knowing that revealing her identity was probably part of a feint to draw one of them to fire first. Certainly, from the look in her cold blue eyes, Hermione was not taking any chances. Even a poodle could do some serious damage if it were backed into a corner.
Unfortunately, Ron took the bait and, with a look of incredulity that told Hermione he was clearly unimpressed, cast a simple stunner in her direction. Cissy batted the spell away with an arcing motion, which, on the return arc, issued another spell. Hermione wouldn't have even noticed if she weren't scrutinizing her adversary for signs of weakness. As it were, Hermione was helpless to do anything, because the spell was invisible and had only been noticeable by a short glow of the wand tip, signalling a particularly powerful spell. Worse yet, it was cast wordlessly and travelled extremely fast, for Ron found himself only half a second later buried waist deep in solid objects. It wasn't even that Ron had bit hit with things. No, the spell had struck him, and from what Hermione could tell, simply apparated him three feet into the ground, effectively splinching him.
Can people even do that? Hermione asked. She had heard of sidelong apparation, but this use of it was ingenious to say the least.
Focus, Hermione thought, taking careful aim with her wand and considering her options. Cissy, with a slight shift in her direction, prepared to duel and began circling her. What's she looking for? Hermione wondered, though not inclined to find out. Hermione sent a simple stunner followed by a blasting hex and a summoning charm, which brought a chair flying between the two jus in time to intercept a curse that Hermione couldn't even see coming. Judging from the way the invisible spell crushed the chair like a vice, Hermione guessed it was the Constriction curse. Crap, she thought, I'm seriously out of my league here. Both her spells had been thwarted, which wasn't so much of a surprise. The fact that Narcissa had managed to send off another curse in the interim without Hermione even noticing was what unnerved her.
Think of it like chess, she thought. Remember what Ron told you. It's like squares. And it doesn't hurt to be a little creative, either. Hermione raised her magical perimeter charm, and kept a constant feel for any incoming magic. It wouldn't give her much time to dodge a spell, but she hoped it would be enough to raise a shield. Hermione deftly evaded a spell that blew apart a wooden box behind her. Through the dust that was swiftly fanning out, she managed to cast several quick stingers in attempt to ward off Narcissa, whose movements were fogged by the floating debris. Before Hermione could get out of the way, however, the dust seemed to thicken around her, and she found herself being bombarded by the wood shrapnel from the exploded box. Hermione turned tail and ran from the area effects charm that Cissy was using, throwing herself to the ground as she caught sight of the green light of the killing curse sail overhead. She rolled over, accidentally dodging another curse and bolted behind another wooden crate. Now what the hell do I do? she thought, searching for something to use.
In a flash, Cissy was present and Hermione found herself exchanging rapid spellfire and quickly being worn down and backed into a corner. Hermione caught a burning hex on her left arm and was forced to ignore the flames as she continued defending herself from the onslaught. Before long, the smell of her own burning flesh began to draw her attention and it was all she could do to throw herself out of the way of another set of rapid fire spells, and simultaneously roll around to snuff out the fire. She was already conjuring a transparent granite wall to take whatever punishment her adversary was going to dish out. As soon as the thing was erected, it exploded in a shower of granite shrapnel that was slashing at her skin and clothes, forcing her to skid back and collapse in a tangle heap. Hermione raised the gravel shards, which were fading out of existence as is the fate of all temporary conjurations with a remote focus summoning charm, causing the dueling area to be littered with debris. Sure enough, four pieces of granite intercepted incoming spellfire, causing them to vanish out of existence along with the offending magic. Her face still schooled into a mask of neutrality, Cissy advanced forward, slowly closing the gap between her and her prey. Hermione was keenly aware of the fact that there didn't seem to be a single thing she could cast to slow down Narcissa. It's because you're soft, Hermione thought bitterly. For God's sake, you've been dubbed the Dark One. Do something dark for a change. With that thought, Hermione mustered up the feelings she had used to catalyze one of the unforgiveables and whispered, "Crucio."
Narcissa's eyes widened for a moment in realization before she made a complicated motion that looked like the letter 'q', which, to Hermione's chagrin, absorbed and stopped the curse. Not willing to let up any advantage she had, she continued casting it again and again, oblivious to the drain the execution of the spell was causing, and trying to keep at bay the rising feeling of uncontrollable anger that she was letting loose within her. It is consuming you, said a voice inside her, one which she had all but forgotten about over the past two weeks. It felt both familiar like a half-empty bottle of Scotch and tired as though it were left to grow stale. You are failing, Dark One. Cease and desist.
No, Hermione responded fiercely. She continued to cast the Cruciatus, occasionally intermingling her spellfire with the killing curse, and simultaneously scrambling on her knees to either side in an erratic fashion to avoid any offensive spells that Narcissa may have been able to counter with. Whatever shield she had used to absorb the Cruciatus clearly did not work on the killing curse, or at least she was not prepared to try it, because Cissy simply dodged as best she could. Hermione, if she saw herself in a mirror, would have died of fright, for her eyes had turned into chips of obsidian black and her hair was sporting charcoal roots. Her skin was growing paler by the moment. Not even the Dark Lord Voldemort is fool enough to cast the unforgiveables like this. Please, Dark One. Desist.
Before Hermione knew what she was doing, she was driving Narcissa backwards, albeit at a snail's pace. Narcissa sent a blasting hex at Hermione, who rolled to one side, letting a crater form where she had once rested. Still, Hermione countered by continuing her barrage of killing curses and pain curses. She was hardly aware of the fact that she had managed to cast the killing curse fifty times and the cruciatus over one hundred in less than five minutes - a record Lord Voldemort would have been impressed with. She was hardly aware of the fact that blood was dripping down her nose and she was starting to sport a headache to go with her new look. all the while, despite her impeccable aim, Cissy did not once get hit, a fact which spurred Hermione's growing hatred for the damnable woman. Managing two quick, successive killing curses, Hermione paused for a brief moment to enjoy what she thought was her inevitable victory. Cissy threw herself out of the way of the first curse, only to find herself in the path of the second, which hit her full on in the chest, dropping her like dead weight. That's right, Hermione thought, her eyes glittering with satisfaction. A satisfaction that was short lived however, for when she looked down at herself to assess her condition, she saw that her fingers were trembling uncontrollably, the skin having turned to a flaked granite colour. Worse yet, her wand was oozing something oily and slick from the pores of the wood and the once pristine, white unicorn hair had shriveled up and become black. What have I done?
Hermione limped over to where Ron was splinched, his body racked with shudders as the splinching slowly affected his bodily systems. She knelt down and hugged him, closing her eyes and enjoying the scent of his skin, all the while a part of her mind was trying to figure out how to reverse the splinching. "Hey," she said.
"Hey," he managed, though she could hear the pain in his voice. "You should get out of here."
Hermione shook her head. "Not without you, Ron."
"Hermione..."
""Shh," she put a finger to his lips to silence him. "You know I won't leave you, so don't waste your breath. Let's just figure out how to get you out of this predicament. Then we can make our way to the apparation point and get out of here."
"You'll need to apparate me," Ron said. "Dad said it's how you have to fix a splinching."
"I've never done that before," Hermione responded, frowning.
"I have faith in you."
She stared down at Ron's weary form, aware that she herself was horribly dishevelled. She doubted she had any strength left to fight another battle. She wasn't even sure she could cast a stunner at this point, if her wand and her wand arm were any indication. Still, she resolved to try and, with that, Hermione stood and took a step back, critically surveying Ron's position the way a curse breaker would survey his quarry. Eventually, Hermione tried calling to her the feeling that she normally associated with apparation. As she felt the tight ball of energy in her chest loosen and begin to expand out, Hermione, tried redirecting that feeling through her wand and out towards Ron. At first, she didn't think she had succeeded, for she could not see anything spilling out from her, but, after a moment, she saw that Ron was slowly disappearing from head to toe. forcing herself to maintain the connection in order to complete the reversal, Hermione remained fixed, keeping that flow of energy open until Ron was completely gone and reforming next to her. Once he was completely solid, she let herself collapse, whereupon Ron snatched her up and held her in his arms, whispering comforting words that she could not quite make out through her exhaustion.
They both proceeded to the exit on the far side of the room. However, before they made it halfway, the sight of the Colonel rising to her feet caught Hermione's eye. At first, she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "No," she said, it can't be. You're dead. I killed you." However, as clear as day, both Ron and Hermione stood watching Cissy awkwardly get to her feet. Hermione cast a stunner at her, but she merely waved it away with one hand.
"How?" Hermione asked. "It's not possible."
Cissy smirked. "anything's possible with magic, child." Cissy raised her wand, and Hermione could now see that Cissy was holding it by the tip. The handle was burnt to a crisp.
"You threw it in the way of the spell?" Hermione asked, surprised. She had to admit it was pretty clever, though she didn't understand quite how it was done. The killing curse could travel through a wand tip due to its unique properties.
"Draco never did give you enough credit, I think. That's what I did, though I didn't throw my wand. I simply pointed the handle outward and caught the curse with it. Pity though, as it has rendered my wand useless. I will simply have to commission a new one from Olivander."
"Olivander?" Hermione asked. "You have him? Where is he? What have you done to him?"
"I assure you, he's quite comfortable in his new abode."
"Tell me where he is," Hermione said, brandishing her wand and preparing to hex the elder Malfoy.
"Nonsense. I would do no such thing, even if you tortured me. Not that you will."
Hermione sent a burning hex and an incarceration hex at her, but she waved them away with her hand. She was itching to cast the Cruciatus. She knew she could hit her now, especially if Ron laid down a suppressing fire, but she couldn't really do that front of him, could she? He was a pureblood and had been told from birth all kinds of horror stories about the use of the unforgiveables and the dark arts generally. Stories which Hermione was only now starting to take seriously. You can't use those, she thought. They won't help you. In the end, they will only serve to bring you down.
"Come on, Ron," she said. "We don't have time. We'd better go."
Ron agreed, keeping his gaze on their surroundings and trusting that Hermione would keep an eye on Narcissa.
Having survived Malfoy Manor and the Colonel, Ron and Hermione made their way to the apparation point without any further complications and apparated away.
