A few days after Hermione had accidentally hosted an international Quidditch star, one who she had disliked only days before, for dinner, she faced yet another unexpected hurdle. The Dark Arts book lay quietly on her white quilted bed pane, and she stared back at it. The book was quite a...well, quite a surprise. Whether it was good that she had (quite voraciously) read a book banned in England remained to be seen, but it had been enlightening, and it had made her think harder than she had ever thought she'd thought before.
By the time she had turned the last page, she knew exactly what she wanted to do. The Dark Arts were both beautiful and deadly. Wield a spell with ill intent, and the wounds were gruesome, their scars permanent and often grotesque. Scars like Harry's and Viktor's. Scars that, in all likelihood, represented something acutely traumatic in someone's lives.
Scars that she could help get rid of.
When she approached Madam Lazarov that afternoon, Hermione felt like she was going into her final exams without revising for them. Her mouth was dry, her hands cold. "Madam Lazarov?" The words came out in a whisper, and she tried again. "Madam Lazarov?"
The healer looked up from her patient notes, those incredibly piercing eyes of hers meeting her own. "Yes?"
"I was wondering—well, I was hoping…" she paused, then rushed out, "can you help me learn to cure Dark injuries?"
Madam Lazarov stilled, then slowly put the sheaf of parchment down. "Why," she said deliberately, "would you want to know that?"
Hermione licked her lips. "It's just that my friend Harry has one, and then I saw them on the other players, and I was reading a book that the Durmstrand students read—The Arte of the Darke: Volume One?—and it told me about how those injuries can last forever and cause so much suffering on the ones who they are cast on. And so, you see." She shrugged. "I thought, well, if I am going to heal, I should heal those who might need it most."
During her explanation, Madam Lazarov's expression had slowly changed from that of someone evaluating a suddenly destabilized potion to one of open consideration. "Did you know," she began, lacing her fingers together, "that when Poppy Pomfrey approached me about taking an apprentice who had not even taken her first set of qualifying exams yet, that I told her no?"
At Hermione's surprised expression, Madam Lazarov nodded. "I said no, and Poppy insisted. She told me you were the brightest witch to pass through Hogwarts' halls in twenty years, and when I waved her off, she told me all about you. Yes, Miss Granger, I know about your encounter with the troll, and about your encyclopaedic knowledge about potions that let you get through the Potion Master's challenge. I also know about your ability to brew an illegal potion in questionable circumstances, as well as the..hm, unfortunate results. How Poppy managed to reverse that, I would be very curious to know about, but that is neither here nor there."
She arched a brow at Hermione, who was fidgeting slightly at her recitation. "I also know about the basilisk, and perhaps most relevant to this conversation, I know about the Time-Turner."
"You do?"
Madam Lazarov rose from her chair and prowled closer to Hermione. "I do. Now, Miss Granger, what can you tell me about a Time-Turner?"
It feels like a rush of euphoria when you use it. Every turn makes you want to turn again. Every hour used entrenches it in your psyche. Every stolen moment is a moment you give back in your magic, and you don't care because you feel like you can conquer the world, even though you are losing everything that defines you as yourself to the golden sands of time.
"It's considered Dark," she said at last, setting aside her own experiences and feelings, which she would never share. "The Arte of the Darke mentioned Time-Turners in its 'Objects Moste Vile' chapter, which confused me, considering I know the Ministry of Magic in England has an entire Department dedicated to it."
The older witch rolled her eyes. "Don't get me started on the hypocrisy of the English Ministry," she told her dryly. "Hermione, the reason why they study it is to see if they can rid the Time-Turner of its terrible and deadly effects. It is labeled a dangerous and dark object because it latches onto your magic and drains you of it while convincing you to use it again and again. It is fueled not only by your magic but the magic of other unfortunate witches and wizards before it. They are parasitic and often lead to the death of its users. Which is why I find it very curious, to put it politely, that the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress of one of the most acclaimed schools in the Wizarding world would see fit to hand it to you."
Although she had known the effects, and had, in fact, experienced these effects, hearing those side effects connected with Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall sent Hermione's mind reeling. "I'm not quite sure why they would," she said softly. Why had they given it to her when they had known its dangers? Furthermore, why hadn't they exercised more oversight? What had they been thinking?
"I can only postulate why," Madam Lazarov continued, "but Poppy warned me in quite an enraged manner about what state to expect you in when you arrived. I did some checks on you when you showed up the first day, and I was unsurprised to see the holes in your magical stores. What I was surprised to see was that there were signs of healing. You, this little English girl had managed to break the addiction of the Time-Turner all on your own. Not only that, you managed to control and wield it, which I find very interesting indeed."
She paused for a moment, as if deliberating, then asked, "Did your text tell you about affinities at all?"
Hermione frowned. "Affinities?" It hadn't been in her text, so why did that sound familiar? Ah. The bookshop owner had mentioned it in passing along with intent, but she hadn't expanded on the subject as she had with the other.
Krasmira steepled her fingers together. "In Wizarding society, many families are considered Light or Dark, while a few are considered Grey, or in between. This is not a matter of inherent evil or goodness, as most like to say, but rather a matter of affinity. Some familial lines have historically been more aligned to Lighter arts, while others are more easily able to wield and manipulate the Darker ones. Traditionally, this Darker affinity, or ability, has flowed down Pureblooded lines without pause, while the Lighter affinities have been seeded out amongst Purebloods and half bloods alike. This may be due to the fact that the Darker lineages viewed the power and extreme skill needed to adequately channel the darker arts and remain uncorrupted as sacrosanct, and so did not marry outside of each other, while those who wielded the complementary skillset were less zealous."
Rubbing her brow, Hermione said slowly, "So some Pureblood families are totally Dark because they didn't intermarry outside of each other, while the Lighter families just went out and married whoever they liked?"
Madam Lazarov nodded. "Correct."
"But what about me? I'm not a Pureblood or a half-blood. I'm—" "just a mudblood, Granger!" "—just a muggleborn."
Standing, Madam Lazarov rested a hand on her desk. "I am well aware. Many half-bloods and even some Purebloods are inherently Grey, meaning they have no strong affinity either way. While that makes their skillsets more varied and thus their potential to work within the wider world greater, they likely won't be able to channel spells, work with objects, or interact with creatures at the extreme ends of the spectrum. They are, in a word, too firmly stuck in the middle. However, there are some half-bloods and some muggleborns who, even without a direct lineage to an ancient, 'unsullied' family," she used inverted quotes, "that are naturally affinitized regardless of that fact. You, it appears, are one of those."
She reared back in surprise, her hand touching her chest. "Me?"
"Yes, you. You see, Miss Granger, you should not have been able to master a Time-Turner as you did, due to the effects we have already previously mentioned, but you did. However, the fact of the matter is that you should not have been able to wield it in the first place at all. Time-Turners are inherently Dark due to their nature. I mentioned the Ministry has a department dedicated to understanding them. What I did not mention is that many believe they are trying to strip the Dark magic out of it and replace it with something more neutral so that all may wield it, not just those with Dark affinities.
"And so," she paused, tilting her head to the side, "that brings us back to you. A young, muggleborn witch, one firmly aligned with a slew of Lighter allies, that has a Dark affinity and wishes to heal. A paradox. Of course, witches and wizards with Dark affinities have become Healers since time immemorial, although I will admit it rare. I find it very interesting indeed that you have naturally been drawn to the area in which you are inherently stronger. I wonder very strongly indeed if you would be able to make breakthroughs because you are able to better understand the inherent complexities of Darker curses and spells and the like. And that, Miss Granger, is why I will allow you to not only work with me as a Healer's apprentice but to also work with me as my research apprentice."
Despite the fact that her mind was still reeling from the entirely new worldview that had just been set upon her, a tendril of excitement shot through her. "You're going to make me your apprentice and your research assistant?" she squeaked.
She smiled outright this time. "Yes, I am. I have seen enough of you in the last weeks to know you are capable, and I have seen your compassion. That, coupled with the fact that you desire to know for the sake of knowing and that you yourself have experience with the subject area in which you want to work with—as a victim yourself, nonetheless—makes you a viable candidate in my opinion. Besides," she sniffed, "at your age, you won't hardly have a bad habit for me to break you of. I find that exercise so very tedious."
"So….you'll teach me how to cure Dark injuries?" The idea of being able to return to Harry and say a spell that would get rid of the scar that stood for one of the worst, if not the worst, days of his life seemed almost miraculous.
Giving an eloquent shrug, Madam Lazarov replied, "There are some things we cannot fix, but most things we can at least partially mend. That is what I will teach, and that is what you will help me discover. However, this is a hard road that you want to walk. Are you sure you do not wish to begin with something better suited to your age?"
Hermione huffed and tugged her over robe straight. "If you've experienced the things I've experienced, I feel as though my 'age' is irrelevant. Actually, it's also documented incorrectly after this last year. By my count, I'm nearly fifteen. But that's not particularly relevant, I suppose. I would argue that my maturity, however, is, and that, I think, is more than up for the task. I am willing—and wanting—to travel down this path."
"Very well, Miss Granger," Madam Lazarov said, "although, I suppose if we are to be formally Master and Apprentice, as this arrangement is working out, you should call me Mistress Lazarov."
Somehow, being granted that permission meant more than being told to call her Krasmira. She beamed, feeling as though her heart might burst.
"Mistress Lazarov," she rolled it around on her tongue, and felt it very fitting indeed. "Mistress Lazarov, what will we be doing today?"
"My Apprentice," her eyes shone with rare approval, "I thought you would never ask."
And with that, they went to work. Almost everything proceeded as normal during the morning, although when they broke for lunch, Madam—no, Mistress Lazarov disappeared into her office and returned with a stack of books and scrolls.
"Reading these will provide you with a basic idea of the current theories behind healing Dark injuries, "she told Hermione. "A lot of these will reference Healing charms, enchantments, and potions that you will not know about. Write questions that you have, and we will discuss them as you make your way through the texts. While I expect you to read these promptly, I do not expect you to read these in lieu of the other supplemental reading we have discussed."
Hermione nodded vigorously. "I would never do that, of course. Besides, the other texts are absolutely fascinating. I've particularly enjoyed Higurashi's A Treatise on Traumatic Injuries, although I did have some doubts as to whether his postulation about the use of a counter wand movement combined with Diedrick Rakowsky's blood clotting paste would produce a more efficacious and quicker clotting time."
Mistress Krasmira quirked a brow. "Do you, now?" She held out a hand as if to say, go on.
"Yes, I do!" She began rummaging around in her sack for the book in question. "You see," she continued, now enthused, "I read in Battlefields Most Bloody: A Healer's Guide to Treating Wartime Wounds, that using a figure eight wand movement is proven to be—"
"Kras! Kras!" Clara burst in the door, and both healer and apprentice looked towards the door, instantly on alert for trouble. Their caution proved unfounded only moments later as Clara bounded towards them energetically, braid swinging behind her. "Did you hear about Ivanka and Leonid," she asked breathlessly.
The Healer's eyes sparked, and she leaned forward. "No. Did they—?"
Clara nodded enthusiastically. "And they—"
Her eyebrows waggled and Mistress Lazarov's lips pursed together. "Apprentice Granger," she said, "I think it's best we revisit this conversation for another time. After all, it is time for lunch." She handed the scrolls and books over to Hermione, and after a brief admonition to take care of them, swept out of the room, head bent towards Clara's as they continued their tête-à-tête.
As they left the room, Hermione heard Clara say, "Oh, and Apprentice Granger, hm?"
Bemused, Hermione stared after them, her arms wrapped around the materials Mistress Lazarov had unceremoniously given to her. The fact that the Healer and Chaser were rather avid gossipers and rather good friends as well was something she never would have expected. It just went to show that she couldn't judge a book by its cover. Every day she discovered more and more about the people she was working with—and the person she was living with.
She bit her lip. Nobody was turning out to be who they seemed, and everyone knew more than they said. How she wished desperately that she had someone to ask for advice! It took several days for letters to get back to her, and she still had to use the International Owl Office to post her replies if Hedwig or Errol weren't up to the task of waiting for her to pen a response. She really needed to get her own owl.
Well, being alone didn't really matter, did it? She'd been alone before, and she'd been okay. It hadn't been fun, but she had made it through. Besides, she had a lot of new material to get through before she could really begin on this new path she'd found herself on.
Books and cleverness, she thought, gripping her armful tightly. Books and cleverness.
Work didn't stop for Hermione once she left the stadium for the day, her sack bulging with her new treasures. It had been almost three weeks since she had begun working on the Polyjuice potion in the basement of the house and it was coming along, in her opinion, quite nicely. Tonight she had to add the second to last batch of ingredients, after which point it needed to sit until the last day, when she would add both the final ingredients and the benevolent Magellan Quickfoot's hair.
Carefully, she minced the lacewings before crushing them with an iron mortar and pestle. Setting that aside, she painstakingly separated and then skinned the boomslang skin using the edge of her very thin, very sharp knife. The more ragged the edges, the poorer the quality, and Hermione did not tolerate a less than perfect ingredient going into something so important as a potion; the poorer the ingredients used, the less efficacious the result. For something as important as the Polyjuice potion and the reason it was being used, she would rather discard expensive, slightly less than perfect ingredients than give Sirius vials that could potentially expose him due to lasting a shorter amount of time than he had planned on.
It really was a good thing she enjoyed potions, she thought, despite Professor Snape's utmost attempts to make every student at Hogwarts hate the subject by virtue of being a—well, a complete git at times. Not that she would ever admit that particular sentiment aloud, of course. All professors were worthy of at least the respect of their titles, and if she hated him a little bit for the way that he had tried to expose Professor Lupin's secret, and the way he bullied Neville, then that was between her and him, and damn if she was going to let him deduct more points from her for a simple lack of politeness.
She hissed as she rather energetically tried to separate the boomslang and instead accidentally cut into it. Placing it aside to see if she could use it for a later potion, she started afresh on the new piece, wedging the tip of the knife carefully between the skin and meat and beginning to cut through the membrane attaching the two.
Her neck began to ache a while later, and a check on the time revealed it was half ten. She'd been at it for several hours, already, and that after a long day at work. Almost against her will, she began to yawn as she stretched her back before returning to her task. After this, all she had to do was actually add the ingredients to the mixture over a period of seventeen minutes while systematically stirring and incantating a binding spell, and then she would be done for the night.
She yawned again and rubbed at the back of her neck. It was at times like this that she wished for more time. If she used the Time-Turner, she could take a nap and be fresh for the next step, which would make her feel less concerned. A single missed step or even the lack of a steady hand could ruin the potion completely, and then Sirius would be in incredible trouble.
Even the thought made her tense, and the urge to get the Time-Turner from its very hidden, very secure place upstairs grew ever stronger, the glint of gold seeming to wink in the corner of her vision.
"No, Hermione," she told herself firmly, gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white, "we don't do that anymore."
But it would be so easy, the logical side of her protested. A quick turn, a brief reprieve, and she'd be ready to go. What wasn't to like?
There was everything not to like about it, and she well knew it. She wouldn't—couldn't forget the feeling of unreality slowly warping around her as the year went on, and the slide into complete mental, emotional, and physical exhaustion had made her feel as though she were losing her mind.
She smiled humourlessly at the last thought. She'd almost lost a lot more than that.
So no Time-Turner, just Hermione Granger and pure determination. She'd done a lot with that before third year, and she'd do a lot with just that moving forward. Third year was the exception, not the rule.
"Hey, kitten."
She whirled at the unexpected greeting. Sirius had come down the stairs and was standing at the foot of the stairs, his appearance that of the man she had first met rather than the golden-haired wizard who was rapidly becoming an enigma. "You scared me!"
He shrugged a shoulder. "Sorry? I did come down the stairs pretty loudly. You must have been lost in your thoughts."
Sighing, she discarded another ruined potions ingredient and started over. "I suppose so." But she didn't want to talk about what she had been thinking about. He would most certainly not approve. "Come to watch me make your Polyjuice? A fan of watching cauldrons boil, are you?"
He lazily transfigured a broom into a chair and straddles it backwards, resting his arms on the edge of the backrest. "I actually hated Potions. Couldn't stand the timing, and the rules, and the steps. Everything had an order! Merlin, it was boring." He rolled his eyes. "No room for creativity there. No, I actually really liked Transfigurations. It helped that I could get a rise out of Minnie easy as pie."
Her eyes bugged out. "Minnie?"
Snorting, he nodded. "Minnie. Just calling her that got her riled up. But the pranks we used to pull...legendary." Sirius closed his eyes in ecstasy.
"So….you really just like the subject because you could skive off."
Affronted, he drew back and looked at her with a pout. "No, I liked it because I liked the subject. Who do you think suggested we become Animagi so we could romp around with Remus?"
"You?" she asked skeptically, putting aside the last of her boomslang and measuring out some bicorn horn. Quickly, she referenced Moste Potente Potions to make sure what she remembered was in fact, the correct brewing directions, and then set forth to carefully add the ingredients.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, still looking indignant. "'Twas I, Sirius Orion Black. As if James ruddy Potter or Peter 'I'm secretly the scum of the earth' Pettigrew would suggest taking on extra study."
"James didn't like studying at all?" She chose to focus on Harry's father.
Looking thoughtfully, Sirius stroked his chin. "No, he was a fairly good student, actually. He had a hard time focusing in class, though."
She thought of how she often caught Harry doodling or staring out the window and bit back a smile. "Really? Harry's like that."
Sirius huffed. "Well, he got that trait honestly. Prongs was always daydreaming of something or other when he wasn't mooning over his Lilyflower."
The adolescent girl in her swooned at the nickname even as she checked the time left on her timer. "That's really quite romantic. Her nickname, I mean."
Sirius outright laughed, the booming sound filling the room and making her grin. "James certainly thought so! Lily, not so much. She hated the nickname. Said it made her sound like some wilting fragile thing when she really wasn't." He sighed, face growing sombre. "She really, really wasn't."
Sensing his shift in mood, she sought for another topic to lift his spirits. "Have I told you about what happened at work with Viktor Krum, that Seeker you mentioned?"
He perked up a little bit. "No, but do go on. I sense something entertaining?"
She shot him a look. "Entertaining is one word for it. A train wreck—er, a complete mess—is another one."
Her recounting of the saga lasted almost as long as she needed to brew, and the timer went off just as she was finishing up. She switched directions with the stirring rod, stirring it thirty-two times counterclockwise before removing it and peering critically at the mixture. As she watched, the viscous mix bubbled slowly and changed from a deep violet to a shiny pearlescent color. It was textbook perfect.
"Well," she announced, satisfied, "that's me done for the night. I'll come back in a week or so to complete the next steps."
"You make it look effortless," Sirius said, shaking his head ruefully. "I'm rubbish at brewing, truthfully." His tone grew dark. "I'm rubbish at a lot of things, it seems."
Unsure of how to respond to his sudden change in mood, she carefully cleaned up the station around the cauldron, stored the boomslang skin she'd nicked, and headed up the stairs in silence, Sirius right behind her.
Feeling exhausted as the adrenaline of brewing wore off, she headed for the kitchen to get a glass of water before heading up to bed. It had been a long day and she had an early start tomorrow as usual. "Want a glass of water?" she offered as he followed her.
He shook his head, instead pulling out a bottle of something distinctly alcoholic and pouring a glass. "I'm going to have to go with something a bit stronger." Shadows in his eyes, he raised the glass and then doffed the entire drink in one go. "It keeps the memories at bay."
That night, she woke up to a hoarse, sharp yell rending the still air. This time, instead of going to investigate, she closed her eyes and turned onto her side, remembering his comments from last time.
A few minutes later, just as she was starting to doze off again, her thoughts an amorphous shape with no clear meaning, her door creaked. The shadow of a giant black dog, its shoulders hunched and tail tucked, came slinking in. Still caught between reality and a dream, Hermione reached out, and he nudged into the palm of her hand.
"S'rus?" she asked drowsily. His tail gave a small, miniscule wag, and she shifted slightly. "Don't wanna be 'lone? C'mon, get up here."
He licked her palm and jumped up, the bed sagging a little under his weight, and laid next to her in a warm line, the heat lulling her back to sleep.