Shaken, and with all traces of her celebratory mood gone, she went with Lady Grindelwald to the ritual area instead of taking part in any further activities. Gellert had to remain behind, so they didn't get a chance to discuss the events, but he had squeezed her hand once in reassurance before she left.
The drummers were already waiting; two tall, willowy women with waist length silver hair. They seemed much older than Lady Grindelwald but moved with the vigour of people far younger. Brena and Zulma, they were called, twins from an ancient Albanian family. They were not particularly powerful, but Hermione knew twins held a sacred position in the wizarding world.
They went to where a blanket had been conjured on the grass, a simple meal of heavy, dense bread and a thick, substantial stew laid out for them. The others would be feasting soon, but Hermione had been told the heavy food of a feast would not mix well with the powerful ritual magic. They played cards to pass the time, sitting cross legged on the blanket as the two drummers speculated as to whom she would marry. Several unfamiliar names came up; Malfoy was decided to be of poor complexion and would make ugly children. Not to mention, one of the twins pointed out with a slight giggle, the name did mean "bad faith."
Several other names came up, only to be tossed away with disdain and frequent giggles. Notts were ugly, Weasleys were poor, Gaunts were weak and Goyles were stupid. The Blacks garnered some approving reactions, specifically two sons of eligible age - Arcturus and Sirius. Hermione spent the entire conversation blushing and trying to change the subject, but the while matter effectively took the duel off her mind.
As darkness fell, they moved slowly around the altar and lit the torches with non-magical fire. It took some persuasion to get the bull up onto the altar, but they managed it without soiling their dresses. Then, they all took off their shoes, washing each other's feet, hands and faces in a special 'cleansing'. The pumpkin and athame waited beneath a silky cover, and Hermione lifted them experimentally. The pumpkin was smaller than the ones she usually carved to go outside her door at Halloween; about the size of her head and the athame with wickedly sharp, curved at the tip and jagged along the back edge.
They finished dressing. Hermione let her hair down, taking out every pin and ribbon so that it sprung out around her head wildly. She wrapped them all in her cloak and dropped the bundle with the blanket, just outside the ring of barrows.
'Are we all ready?' Lady Grindelwald asked as the two silver haired drummers finished fastening the straps and arranging the hoods of their black cloaks. They nodded, and Hermione met her matriarch's eyes. 'Be strong, Hermione.'
The horn blast rang in her ears long after the real sound had faded. She heard the sudden hush fall beyond the barrows. Excitement stirred in her belly and quickened her breath as the drummers beat out the tattoo.
She could hear people assembling, flooding from the feasting to the ritual area, the horn rang out again, clear and loud over the sound of the drums. Something within her seemed to awaken and take notice. A hush fell, broken only by the rustle of robes and crunch of dry grass beneath many feet, the beat of the drums swelled, growing louder, then stopped as clear notes rang out from the horn again. She heard her matriarch greet the key, and remembered with a start that she was meant to be gathering her magic. She closed her eyes, tunnelling deep into the white fire of her core. It roared around her, surging brightly behind her eyelids as she burrowed deeper and deeper, drawing the hot magic along the path to her arms and hands and pooling it there.
A single drumroll came from the altar. Her magic twitched slightly, as if the deep sound had tugged at it. Distantly, she could hear whispering, the sound of many voices, calling to her. The unfamiliar magic of the witches beyond glittered like a belt of stars, viewed through the sun that was her own.
'Let it be heard, they would bless this harvest, that it may last the winter!' Her matriarch called. The clear notes of her voice pierced through the roar of fire and magic, sang over the crackle of foreign magic and sibilant whisper of voices, it echoed, soaking into Hermione's magic and the magic rose up to meet it.
Then, deep within her, something moved. It rose, soaring up like a phoenix from the fire, following Lady Grindelwald's voice. Panicking, Hermione desperately tried to hold it down, to prevent the carnage it would cause if released. She didn't know what it was, she didn't know where it had come from.
Two heavy thuds of the drum, then a roll that became more and more rapid as if mirroring her battle with the beast that had formed within her. The whisper of the witches grew to a chant, calling to the magic, strengthening it. It thrashed against her control, then burst free to the tune of a long blast on the horn.
Magic whipped out of her, howling through the field and extinguishing the torches. Hermione couldn't control herself but her feet found their own way up to the altar, guided by the magic that had taken control of her. Light seemed to spill from her, gently illuminating the steps and setting her dress glittering. The magic held between the key's arms glowed like a star, calling out to the surging wildfire within Hermione.
'I have come.' A voice, deeper than her own and echoing with power, spoke through Hermione's lips. 'I will bless this harvest, that it may last the winter. What will you give me?'
'They will give you this bull, that it's life may sustain you. They bring their magic, that it may support you.' She could see the surprise in Lady Grindelwald's expression - wide eyes that told her that this was not how events usually occurred, that something was different. Nothing, however, hinted that it was wrong.
'Then I shall bless this harvest, that it may last the winter. Bring me the life.' Her body held out it's hands, lifting the athame and hollowed pumpkin as though they weighed nothing. If she had been in control of herself, she might have dropped them; her hands glowed, as though the flames of her magic were real and burning just below her skin. Lady Grindelwald took them, careful not to touch her, and carried them to the bull. With a cry, the older witch slashed the blade across the bull's throat and it bellowed in pain to the beat of drums. Glowing blood splashed into the pumpkin which was then passed to her. Hermione balked slightly at the thick, crimson liquid but the magic that was controlling her didn't, eagerly draining the fluid in a couple of long, deep draughts.
Each swallow burned like acid on the way down, igniting her veins and searing through her limbs. She had felt detached before, but this hurt. Tears pricked her eyes and sweat broke out on her skin. Suddenly she was no longer detached, she was hyper aware of everything. The brush of the night air against he skin, stirring the tiny hairs on her arms. The smoothly worn stone of the altar beneath her bare feet, and the slight grit of dirt that had settled on the ancient surface. She could hear the crackle of magic, the stirring of the men beyond the coven. The beat of the drum had slowed right down, each beat in time with the thud of her heart, rolling deep down inside her and echoing back. She stepped forwards in a daze, overwhelmed by the thousands of sensations. Everything moved in slow motion, her skin was lit with crimson, reflecting in the pooling blood of the bull carcass and shining in the eyes of the assembled witches.
She found herself stepping forwards, up to the edge of the altar, then beyond. But she didn't fall, instead, her feet kept treading at the same level, as though the air had solidified beneath her. Her arm reached out and touched the bright orb of magic that the key held out.
There was a blinding flash, a crack like lightning and the foreign magic merged with hers. Fire roared out from her as her hands were thrown open, and she screamed as it felt like she was ripped apart. Hurricane strength winds roared through the barrows, whistling and snatching at the dresses and hair of the assembled witches. The wind didn't touch Hermione, and her skirt continued to stir gently against her skin as the flames that licked her skin grew brighter and brighter. The face of Frau Tunninger was brightly lit in front of her, unharmed by the fire, eyes wide with shock and concern.
There must have been sound, as she turned she could see the beating drums, she knew the wind couldn't be that strong yet remain silent, but all she could hear was the pounding of her heart, the roar of magic and the laboured sound of her own breath. Burned grass broke beneath Lady Grindelwald's feet as she stepped down off the altar and approached Hermione cautiously. She held up the athame hilt first with her head bowed and Hermione reached down to take it.
'I bless this harvest, that it may last the winter.' That ancient voice spoke through Hermione again. The athame rose and fell with a flash, slicing deeply into her palm. White fire spilled from the wound and Lady Grindelwald deftly caught it. It felt like her ver soul was being torn out, dragged form her toes, sucked up through her legs and torso, down her arms and out, into the bowl. It hurt, but it was sweet relief. As the magic rushed out of her like water from a broken dam, the wind quietened, the light that glowed on her skin dimmed and her heartbeat seemed to grow louder until it was just her and the drumming of her heart.
The drumming grew fainter.