A/N: pedicides/multiple child homicides, genocide, mentioned racism and elitism, explicit language, implied/referenced torture.
Next update on 25th December, Friday.
*We've uploaded a companion piece to this chapter in "i'll trade you a memory", a little something from Hermione's perspective. Make sure to check it out!
Chapter Twenty Two: Love and War
oiling point. Voice it roars
Running down memory's corridor
Life's a game, it ends one day
And everything's fair in love and war."
Soroosh Shahrivar, Letter 19
…
The name stands above him, rusted metal, jagged and heinous, grim and pathetic, just as the day, he arrived in this place.
It doesn't surprise him, the lack of any substantial change in this mudpit, it's festering with muggles, of course, change and progress distinctively contrast that fact.
He lingers by the gates more than he should have, perhaps, but there's no need to hurry, they cannot see him, and he intends to take his time.
Wool's orphanage stands before him, gray and lifeless under the cloudy sky. It's going to rain soon, he cannot remember a single instance when it wasn't raining or about to rain in this miserable place.
Of course, he's biased, having deleted as many memories of this place as he could.
All the same, images start rushing in as he steps past the gates. Cruel images of those squirming leeches, picking on him, throwing rotten food at him, hitting him with their boots, all of them, before he knew he could fight back.
That's the thing about power, just like a diamond, it won't be discovered unless one is pushed off the cliff, beaten past a point of return, crushed and pressed from all sides. But just when the universe expects destruction, it shines, hardened and impenetrable, and not a moment sooner.
He walks to the steps, it's early in the morning, if memory serves, they should all be in the cafeteria right now, gorging themselves on rotten potatoes and bland rice.
They used to steal his meals.
The attendant always turned her back when they struck, he remembers her dog-like face with vivid clarity, pruned and pudgy, disgusting.
His hand clenches ever so slightly around his wand, but he won't hesitate to blast the doors open and stride in. He can smell it in the air, the pungent odor of orphans. Lonely and stale.
He used to be like that.
The thought appalls him, but also makes a smile stretch his lips. Oh, how far he has come. Tom Marvolo Riddle is well and truly dead. And what remains, is glorious, and shall live forever.
The death eaters behind him have started shifting restlessly, but know better than to voice their complaints.
It's time.
She's wearing her lucky pendant today. Just for this very occasion, she's dug into her barely touched jewelry box to find it. It was in Cissy's room, of course, beneath a drawer in a secret compartment where she kept the Black heirlooms. Bella already knew it would be there. Cissy used to have a lot of these rat holes in her own room back at their house as well. Bella used to drop dead roaches in some just to mess with her when they were children.
She won't be around to provide entertainment anymore, but Bella doesn't mind much. In fact, even thinking about why her sister and her husband aren't around in their own Manor shoots a spark of indignation right into her chest. Bella's fists clench as she looks down on the small knick-knacks. Her jewelry box in the very center and a stack of bound letters on the top. She carelessly snatches the stack of letters and turns it around.
To my beloved. It reads.
She huffs a laugh, Cissy was certainly getting a lot of it back in Hogwarts. If their mother had gotten a whiff of these letters… oh well she wouldn't. Bella tosses the letters away. She's dead. So is Daddy. And Cissy… and Andy might as well be.
She opens her box and briefly rummages through the content. A lot of rings, rare pearls, and shining accessories, Bella could care less. She wasn't always one for dress-ups, much to her mother's dismay.
"But who's going to marry you like this?" she would wail when Bella strutted around in rumpled robes and her curly hair unbound, tired, and worn out after intense dueling sessions.
No worries about that now. Bella thinks as her fingers finally close around the delicate chain.
"Ready yet? We're leaving in ten," a husky voice comes from behind and Bella smirks, turning around like a whip to face her husband.
"Ready, baby," she growls against his lips and teasingly draws away before he could dive in for a kiss. They have a mission. And Rudolph knows how much Bella hates distractions before a mission. He knows that he always comes second to their Lord's commands, knowing it from the start. And eighteen years into their marriage, he has yet to protest even once.
Bella thinks that's as close as one gets to love. But she doesn't particularly feel compelled to label it as such. Her relationship with Rudolph is an investment. A business deal.
He tugs at her waist but then lets her stride out of the barren room, her heels loudly clicking against the floor, the pendant cold and somewhat heavy against her breasts, she feels excitement bubbling in her blood.
Today is going to be such a good day.
Her team gathers at the gates, just a few yards away from the rose gardens and the peacocks, Bella always feels the urge to roll her eyes as she catches sight of those annoying creatures. Narcissa had forced Lucius' hand into her own brand of dramatic ideals, it seems. No way they would survive much longer. Neither them nor the rose gardens, Bella and her lord could care less about the exterior, about dead things.
Memento mori.
Remember that you must die. She has lived by that quote since the day she learned of it. It made life in Azkaban tremendously easier on her and Rudolph, any amount of suffering is made easier when one sees the end of the tunnel. Everything is transient. Everything dies. And so the suffering is redundant.
Bella doesn't understand the people who don't get that. The boring kind who just writhe and scream and thrash and go insane. They're all wussies, especially the muggles. It gives her such headaches sometimes that she craves cutting out their useless tongues first. Get it done in the beginning.
Sometimes though, sometimes she loves it when they scream. Only the fascinating ones though. Like the Potter brat, oh she rejoiced in his cries. She could only remember one other instance of ecstasy, and that was the night she encountered Alice Longbottom. She screamed like he did. Except she did it for longer, never to scream ever again.
Bella's hand sweetly clenches around her wand as she approaches her group with a snarl fixed on her face, Rudolph is by her right shoulder. Her second in command.
"You know your orders already," she snaps, "As much havoc as you want. Our Lord didn't specify numbers. Steer clear out of our way or you'd be the dead corpse on the ground. Don't bring back any trinkets."
The masked heads nod and disappear in a dark shadowed swirl. Bella barely hesitates herself before doing the same. She knows that Rudolph is following. She doesn't wait around for the initiation, by the time she's in the main streets there are already screams and plumes of smoke crowding the air, stifling the narrow street.
She pays none any attention, with the grace of a long time trainer, she steps over the mangled body parts and dropping corpses, the whining ones she crushes with her heels and leaves for the others, like fragile snail shells, the spells, she easily deflects without a concern. Rudolph has her back.
"Don't wander too far away," she mutters to her partner as they come to stand before the tall crooked building. She knows this by heart. She won't fail. Not like Rosier did.
Rosier is nothing but a child trying to imitate his elders. It was an amusing sight at first, but Bella tired of it quickly. He has no originality, no gusto. Even Lucius had his own flair, his own style. Rosier was a copycat. The worst kind.
Not an ounce of pain that he had elicited from others was genuine. It wasn't a game to him. It was a poor imitation of enjoyment.
Bella pushes the thoughts aside and flicks her wand, blasting the glass door back to reveal the long marble hall, the Gringotts bank stands in its grace, suspended into stillness as Bella calmly makes her way into the vast hall.
Most of the Goblins are shocked into a dazed silence, the two guards standing near the swirling pillars are taken care of without a waste of breath. She makes her way to the head Goblin.
"Take me to my vault," she says, smirking and staring at the quivering creature, the end of her wand is trained on his heart.
The Goblin scrutinizes her for a beat, and then gulps, shakily dropping his Quill with a dulled sound. Bella rolls her eyes. "The more you keep me waiting, the worse off you're gonna be,"
These words propel the Goblin into frantic action. He scrambles off his high seat and extends a small quivering hand. "Your-your key, madam Lestrange?"
Bella frowns in annoyance. Key. Ugh, how she wanted to blast that puny little vermin into a hole in the wall. She does, carelessly flinging him to the nearest pillar with a single wave of her wand. The sound of chaos is blasting into the ghostly silent bank from the blasted doors.
"This one's out of commission," she pleasantly drawls, turning to face the horrified faces. "Come up with another before I lose my patience."
They're on a time limit here. Her team isn't the only one that needed to be finished by an hour. McNair and Yaxley were taking over the ranks they led into Hogsmead, the closest vicinity to Hogwarts that wasn't protected by the wards.
And their Lord himself, he is leading the mission over to a filthy muggle orphanage. Her Lord had said he had some business there and will reveal his plans later. Something to go back for. She didn't understand that. She could never understand attachments to the past or to places. But the Dark Lord always knows what he is doing.
And one more destination means fewer muggles anyway.
Their mission so far is going splendidly, by what Bella is hearing. The commotion outside the bank, the little pathetic Aurors and their useless skills. They're falling right into the honey-covered trap. Bella's smirk expands as the annoying creature scrambles to her and bows.
"I will take you to your vault, Madam Lestrange. Please this way,"
Just as she's about to follow, a portion of the wall crumbles by a shouted curse, and a few Aurors rush inside the building. Bella throws a smirk at her husband over her shoulder.
"Take your time, darling," she says and follows the Goblin, her wand trained to his worthless head the entire time. She could have his brains decorating the marble floors. She would, after she's finished with him.
"See you soon, beloved," Rudolph turns and whips his wand, lashing the hall into an uproar. Bella loves him when he's like this. Bold, and teasing.
They're going to have a lot of fun after this mission, she knows.
The yells turn into screams.
The air is unusually chilling today, even in spite of the warming charms on his robes and the closed window in his office, Wallwind still feels it in his bones, a cold unrelenting grip that's holding him down in his chair. The typewriter sits in front of him, innocuous in its blankness.
He cannot think of a single thing to write.
With a frustrated groan, he flexes his fingers and pushes his chair back. He needs a walk. Maybe a small trek to the lower offices to see what's up with his colleagues.
Yes. That and another warming charm would do. With a resolute nod, Wallwind stands and walks out of his office, noting with a sense of dread that the usual bustle of the publishing center is shockingly subdued. In fact, the loudest noise ringing in his ears is the sound of his own shoes. He pauses, looks at his huddled mob of reporters and the typers, all inspecting something.
"What's going on?" he asks, the chill previously cloaking his bones is now seeping into his skin.
Henry, the photographer looks up from the trembling piece of parchment in his hands, the ones the others are all huddled around, inspecting it in a grim silence. He's silent.
Wallwind steps closer and then looks at Charles. "What is going on?"
It's not Charles, neither Henry who answers him, rather Edith, their secretary who stares deep into his eyes. "You're not gonna fucking believe this, John," she says.
Then their office erupts.
SYNCHRONIZED ATTACKS, LONDON, DEVON, HOGSMEADE, AND DIAGON ALLEY; MORE THAN NINETY DEAD, AND HUNDREDS INJURED
DEATH EATERS STRIKE AGAIN; NINETY-SEVEN DEAD, THE COMMUNITY IN TATTERS
THE RETURN OF YOU-KNOW-WHO; MINISTRY PARTIALLY DAMAGED
"SURRENDER OR SUFFER": HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED INFILTRATES THE MINISTRY
WIZARDING WORLD IN PANIC, WHAT COMES NEXT?
BLOOD RUNS RIVERS IN MUGGLE ORPHANAGE, CONFUSION ROARS!
Ron looks at each headline with dismay, the papers are strewn all around them. He and Hermione are in his dorm, sitting on his bed, surrounded by copies and copies of newspapers, creeping around them, crinkling as each of them twitched.
Hermione has her hair up, she's not dressed in her uniform, neither is Ron, there are no classes anymore. Nor will it be for the foreseeable future, the attacks have been hard on them. On everyone really. The only reason that most of the students weren't gone was because of the renewed wards and the Aurors around. Still. Without Dumbledore in the school, things were hectic.
Hermione crumples a tissue in her hand and sniffs, "Oh this is just…" she doesn't finish her sentence and looks away, subtly peeking through the drawn curtains at Harry's vacant unmade bed. That's how the boy had left it before he vanished. Ron follows her gaze and then swallows.
This is horrifying, it makes his stomach twist and the back of his mouth sting with bile. Hermione doesn't look any better.
They hadn't only attacked Diagon Alley, Hogsmead, Devon, and the Ministry, they'd, for some reason, also attacked a muggle orphanage.
Killing every single occupant.
He couldn't understand it, he could never understand it. How could someone lift their wand and do something so barbaric? To children? How could they look at themselves in the mirror ever again? Lift their own wands ever again after doing something so horrendous?
He feels sick with worry. Actually sick. As if he needs to empty his stomach the moment the gnawing sensation becomes too much. It usually happens when he's thinking about Harry.
These were helpless muggles that had nothing to do with you-know-who. Harry is someone he actively hates and seeks out.
Never before had the urge to grab Harry and hide him under the bed been stronger. Because if he had, then they wouldn't be here while he was away.
Kidnapped Harry. Then rescued Harry. Alone Harry…. Or the possibility of something worse, Harry with Malfoy.
Hermione's eyes catch his and he knows that she knows what he's thinking about. "They told us he's safe now."
They did. Although, the way they looked suggested as if they were merely skeptical themselves. Ron's mom wouldn't stop crying, Bill looked nauseous, and Sirius was beside himself.
"Albus says he's out," his father kept telling him and Hermione. Hermione kept asking questions, firing off one after the other at a rapid pace that only Ron could keep up with.
"Is he okay?"
"I don't know," his father had replied but she had already moved on.
"Injured?"
"I don't know, Hermione," he'd repeated, Ron's own heart sinking further with every question and subsequent answer.
"Well fed, alone? Does he need medical assistance? Is there any way we could send any letters, can he come back? Why isn't he here already? Is there still a threat? Why did they want him? Did he talk to you? Could he talk at all-"
Arthur Weasley had given up and just gazed at her, shaking his head slightly as each question wavered in volume before Hermione sagged back in her seat. Ron sat tersely on the edge of his own.
"Is there anything that you do know?" He had asked, he remembers how thirsty he was when he did. The worst three days of his life.
"Not much, Ron," his dad had said and the other adults nodded in unison, looking just as miserable. Remus actually hugged Hermione.
"But we know that he's alive," Ron had asked, confirming. He needed to.
"He's alive," Ron says now, looking down at the bold, terrifying letters beneath them. His blanket is shriveled up into a ball behind Hermione, a tiny bit of it had been dragged up and settled on her shoulders.
"Do we know that Ron?" she rubs her face with weary hands. "God, nighty seven people are dead! The children... More than a hundred injured… who knows where Harry is right now." Her eyes are red and puffy. She'd been absolutely devastated at the news, launching into a hysterical rant while Ron could only stare in shock.
Ron knows. He knows every bit of this. He's lost his footing in the game, and he's spiraling down and down an endless pit, with no pawns, no playing ground. Nothing. It's a shitty feeling.
"He could be anywhere,"
They could be lying. That's what she's suggesting. Not too far fetched, but not too likely. They wouldn't do that to them. Ron doesn't think his parents are above doing that but Sirius is. Sirius would be the only one who might tell them if the others were lying.
Harry is alive. Apparently safe too.
But they're not with him. It's like summer all over again. This time without the stilted letters. Ron had no idea how much he should have appreciated those.
His gaze falls down on his bandaged hand almost on impulse, Ron regards it with a hint of hatred, petty anger before he notices Hermione doing the same.
"I cannot believe he didn't tell us," she says, nodding at his hand. Ron shrugs, he can still remember the stinging cuts etching themselves into his left hand as he wrote, and even though the pain then was a foreign, unexplored branch of pain Ron had never felt before, what hurt more than that was thinking about the fact, that Harry had been doing this almost every day since the start of the term.
It was nauseating, it still is the longer Ron thinks about it.
I shall remain respectful.
It's on the back of his hand now, and Ron barely cared. He had all but scrambled out of her office, fuming, and shaking with the realization that this was really happening before going right to Hermione.
"Me neither," he says, but in all honesty isn't surprised by it. It's just the way Harry is. He never admits his pain to anyone, even if it kills him, the whole pork incident drove him to sickness before Ron found out by himself. He'd walk on a broken leg before complaining.
"That vile woman...that-" she huffs, "That bloated toad!"
"We cannot report her, she's the headmistress," they don't know why Harry didn't. When Dumbledore was the headmaster, except for being a self-sacrificing idiot. Ron is so going to kill him when he's back.
"I know," Hermione says, "But we can at least mention it to McGonagall, I don't think the younger students can take these… torture sessions."
With the attacks though, Ron thinks that detentions and Umbridge are the last things on anybody's mind. The classes are out anyway, Hogwarts is more of a sanctuary than a school now. A fortress.
"We will."
She plucks up one article for the umpteenth time, the one with his speech in it.
The paper rattles in her hands. She's worried. Worried sick just like Ron. Honestly, if the security weren't so tight in the school right now, she and Ron would have sneaked out to find Harry a long time ago. Out there somewhere, doing something. Instead of sitting here, frightened like small children, sniffling and hiding in their beds.
"Don't do this to yourself," he warns her and she scowls.
"What else is there to do, Ronald?" she snaps. "We're trapped here with nothing else to do. Harry is gone, almost a hundred people are dead. We need anything we can get our hands on, and everything, even his words are worth something,"
"Read it aloud then."
She pauses. "Are you sure?" Ron might have had a bit of a strong reaction to hearing the speech the first time around. His father and Percy were there, among the crowd of confused ministry workers in the atrium when it happened, kneeling on the hard marble ground before that despicable monster. Ron had punched a hole through the wall accordingly.
Ron had never been so afraid for his father's life. He had actually hugged a shaken Percy in McGonagall's office, afterwards when they had all floo-ed over.
"Ronald," she says again, this time her face is considerably closer to his. Ron stifles the tiny urge to close in the space and kiss her tears away and leans back. Hermione rustles the paper with a small frown. "Are you sure?"
Not really. He's not sure of much anymore. The only thing he is sure of, is that he misses his best friend, especially now, with the attacks. He misses a lot of things that came with Harry and are now gone. They keep Hedwig in the dorm now, the owlery was too far away for constant checking, and Hermione had to have some evidence of Harry around them.
So they snuck Hedwig back into the dorms, no one complained about her presence and she's asleep in her cage now.
It's funny how nicer people become once someone gets kidnapped. Or dies.
"Just read it," he says and pushes some of the papers aside to extend his lanky legs, all cramped up and stabbed by tiny needles, they brush against Hermione's knee.
Ron very pointedly pushes the funny feeling in his stomach away. This really isn't the time.
"I am aware and saddened by the state of the wizarding community today," she starts. "Some of you may be alarmed by my abrupt presence, but I have been present, among you all for a very long time, I have been giving signs for those who have learned to listen, and see. I am disappointed in what I see, in what has been done to thousands of year's worth of culture, and pure talent, our gift that came to our ancestors with a heavy price." She pauses to breathe.
"All this muddling, all this filth that has been trudged around by our community for centuries is a devastating loss to our roots." Her lips curl in disgust. "I assure you all, that the great Merlin himself is weeping at the state of us. I do not ask for such a hefty price, I do not shed pure magical blood, what I intend to do is in the name of magic itself. I'm purifying the filthy, plucking out the unworthy, when I am finished only the best will remain.
"The vermin fights and rebels against me, as do all parasites, the unwanted, however, Lord Voldemort is merciful to those who ask for redemption. Those who recognize their wrongdoings. There is no need for a war, no need for bloodshed and tears. Not if you comply with what is a universal truth.
"This is a direct message to those who follow a corrupt government, oblige the likes of Minister Fudge, and Albus Dumbledore. Be warned and aware, or you will pay the price."
"Fudge is so screwed," Ron mutters.
"He's going to be indicted for sure," Hermione agrees. "I cannot believe he was hiding in his office the entire time this was happening."
"I can. He's a fucking coward. The Ministry with no minister."
"For now, there has to be some emergency measures in place, right?"
Ron shrugs. "Sure, but what good is it gonna be? That snake faced bastard just walked right in, without a single scratch, killed a dozen people, threw a fifteen-minute speech, and then just apparated out."
"The order is still working," Hermione counters half-heartedly, desperate to cling to some measure of hope, or control.
"That's our only hope," Ron replies, distractedly. This all seems very… on the nose. Almost too dramatic. Ron wasn't born during the first war, in fact, his mother had had him merely twenty months or so before the first war ended. A whole year after his uncles were tortured and then killed.
His family never discussed war much, when he was a child, Ron grew up alongside Ginny, hearing about the Boy who lived, the savior, and not much more. For the majority of his life, You-know-who was only a boogeyman in a ghost story.
Bill and Charlie were children then, and they remembered some bits, Charlie not as much, but Bill definitely did, as a nine-year-old victim himself. Mom and Dad didn't talk about it much, but apparently, some Death eater had taken Bill for a short while before just letting him go.
"They were terrifying," Bill had said many years later, in private as he and Charlie were conversing. Ron was eavesdropping then, his ear flat against the door. "I remember this muggle woman they had abducted with me and they were taunting her, and she kept screaming, I cannot even remember why. There were two of them, after a while, the Death Eater woman just… let me go. I couldn't talk for months,"
"Mom and Dad went mental," Charlie had said. "I remember that,"
Ten-year-old Ron who had not been privy to this information before, had not divulged it to another soul for a whole other week before Bill noticed his odd clingy behavior.
"It was ages ago, Ronnie," he had assured the small boy. "Charlie and I barely remember it now." He was kneeling in front of him, looking right into his eyes.
"One thing I can tell you though," he said. "It was nothing I had ever seen before. I don't think I'll ever see something like that again. They weren't putting up a show, even I knew that as a child. They just struck for the kill,"
Struck for the kill.
Then why would their leader put up such a power show? Something doesn't add up.
Find a random building, filled to the brim with Muggle children, and then massacre every single one for no reason. The location has no strategic value, it's nowhere near the ministry, the orphanage itself is unknown, and insignificant, the children inside… more so.
This doesn't seem like the type of move someone makes when they strike for the kill.
He leaps off the bed, hand throbbing and his mind whirling as he ducks his uninjured hand under the bed to fish for his playing set, Hermione cranes her neck and peers at his rummaging arm.
"What are you doing?" she asks in that squeaky high voice of hers when she's particularly agitated.
"I'm reading between the lines," Ron says as his fingers finally brush against the wooden board. He quickly crumples a few papers on the bed to make a place for his chess set.
"Ron this isn't the time-."
"This doesn't make sense." Ron cuts her off, setting the grumbling pieces with lightning speed moves that only came with years of experience. "That speech, the orphanage attack? It doesn't make sense. It's like trying to sell oranges and apples as the same thing-"
"Technically they're both fruit-"
" Kill a bunch of muggles? Sure. Kill a bunch of muggleborns all huddled together? Absolutely. But a random orphanage, not even near the vicinity of the ministry, with no known significance? If he wanted a way into the ministry he could have easily had another one planned out, he just waltzed out of it the moment he was finished with the speech. Then why, why attack the other places?"
The black king stares at Ron and the redhead frowns. "Four separate attacks. Three locations and one blind shot. Just to disperse the Aurors? Why would he?" It made no strategic sense.
"Why wouldn't he?" Hermione sounds exasperated.
"Because he doesn't need to! The Aurors wouldn't have known about the fourth location, it wasn't even reported in the first place!" Ron exclaims. And then quickly plucks more than half of the white pawns off the set. "Don't you see? His numbers easily outnumber the Aurors," he dumps the white pawns on his mattress. "If You-know-who wanted the ministry, he could have had it, the Ministry wouldn't have been ready for it. Instead, he sends his most loyal servant… Malfoy's aunt to break into Gringotts and take nothing out of her vault? And he himself attacks a muggle orphanage!"
Hermione slowly settles back in her seat, "So he had an ulterior motive."
"It only makes sense if he did," If the black queen is Bellatrix, then why would he send her away? She was the most powerful after you-know-who himself, if he wanted to make an image, or subdue people into obeying him he would have had Bellatrix with him. He sent her away, but she wasn't just leading the attack, she had another initiative.
This was a misdirection. Ron picks up the black queen and holds it above the white rook.
"What if this was all a sham?" he says and flushes when Hermione scowls at him.
"Ron, ninety-seven people are dead," she says hotly, swatting him with the paper in her hands.
"No, who cares about them?" Ron then groans and she gives him a look. "Alright that's really sad," he says, "But come on! Why would he do this and why now? Four locations, and one of them is completely random? What are the chances?"
'Always watch behind a pawn's back, Ron,' Uncle Morris used to say, 'More often than not, there's another piece at play,'
He's right, Ron realizes as he stares down at the pieces.
"Well, Dumbledore is gone, the ministry was in shambles, this was the perfect time." She wildly gestures at Ron's side. "The white king is gone,"
Ron drops Bellatrix. "Yes, but-" he says. "Dumbledore wasn't the white king. Harry is. But that's not the point. He didn't need to organize three attacks, he didn't even need to march his death eaters to the ministry… but why did he? He needed something from those places. It's a queen's gambit!"
"Ron you know I don't know chess terminology-"
"He averted people's attention away from what he really wanted. Everyone is going to think that the attacks were carried out to draw out the Aurors and kill a bunch of children, just because. I was just thinking the same too. But why would he? Do you remember Hagrid… the Philosopher's stone in our first year-."
She looks like she's catching on, "Hagrid checked up on the vault but took-" she says, slowly as something dawns on her face.
Ron nods. "He did. What if Bellatrix did the same? What if he did the same thing? Nothing was taken, not even money. So why would she go there? Because he ordered her to go, why would he do that? Because she's the black queen, the one that holds the most power after the king, and she has something…"
"Something that she took from Gringotts," Hermione says, her eyes widening.
"Something that she and you-know-who have in common, something that wouldn't be noticed if missing. He didn't send her to draw out the Aurors, he sent her because he needed that something back," Ron leans closer to Hermione.
"And he attacked that orphanage to retrieve something? What could he possibly hide in there?"
"I don't know," Ron rubs his chin.
"But we do know one thing," Hermione says. "Whatever Bellatrix wanted, she got it. They all must have targeted these places for a reason."
"But we have no idea what for. This is frustrating." Hermione continues, wringing her hands.
"We don't need to know, now we know what he really wanted. We should… we should focus on each location separately. Why attack Hogsmeade when he could have attacked Hogwarts?"
"Because of the wards," she says slowly.
"But then how were Harry and Malfoy taken?"
"What are you implying?"
"If Harry is kidnapped from the school, and Voldemort is involved then that means he can get into the premises. If he didn't," Ron says, leaning forward excitedly, feeling that maybe, just maybe they were getting somewhere, "Then that means he doesn't want to. Same as the ministry. Remember that the wards were breached recently."
Hermione frowns. "But the wards are still in place, people saw Harry in the hallways on his way to her office-."
"There's someone from the inside, in Hogwarts. There has to be." his face darkens, and his hand seems to throb in tandem to his thoughts, "And I think I know who,"
"Don't be ridiculous, Ron," Hermione says, a little exasperated even as she too, throws a concerned look at his hand, "Just because she's an annoying toad from the Ministry and has cruel means of punishment it doesn't mean that she's a death eater."
"Who else is there?"
"Malfoy himself?" Hermione quirks a brow.
"Alright yeah…" Ron mumbles, "That makes sense too-."
"You just really want Umbridge to be a Death Eater. She works for the ministry. She's an awful person, but I don't think she's a death eater. How would she even kidnap Harry? She's the headmistress, she runs the school now!"
"It wouldn't make sense." Ron sighs. He has a feeling that he's just missed something vital, Something that was just- right within his grasp but slipped away.
She's staring at him, with that look she gets when she's trying to solve a difficult puzzle. Ron sort of loves and hates that look at the same time. "I think you're going about it the wrong way, Ron." she finally says, then starts picking up the numerous papers around them into a thick bulk.
"How so?"
She looks up at him, "You only have one chess set out… this is clearly a layered problem."
Layered. That word rings a bell in his head. Layered problems, layered moves… layered chess.
Uncle Morris never lived long enough to teach Ron how to play three-dimensional chess, but this situation clearly calls for it.
If the universe has just stepped up the game, then Ron needs to step up his.
"You're a genius." he breathes and dives under the bed to fetch his other sets.
Ron can hear the smile in her voice from above as she says, "I know."
They're alone in the common room, have been about two minutes after Hermione's indignant ranting started, the third years scrambled into their dorms right away when they saw her frown, throwing pitying looks over their shoulders at a resigned Ron who has just settled in the worn armchair in front of the fireplace.
"This is outrageous," she seethes for the tenth time in the last thirty minutes.
"I know," Ron replies, his head resting on his hand, his elbow propped up on the armrest of the chair. His rage has simmered down since the class has ended, it seems as if Hermione is having enough for the both of them, and as a general rule between the trio, only two members are allowed to have a freakout at the same time.
"It's only been four days!" she rages, her hands thrown in the air, "And she wants to start the classes already? I mean, I understand that this is important, our O.W.L years are the most vital years of our lives but still!"
Ron hums. "I know."
He wonders if he should get up and fetch a bunch of snacks real quick, but he doesn't have it in him, and Hermione is in no way done. She turns to stare at him, and he nods. He knows all these things, he was thinking the exact same things during her joke of a class.
"I know, 'mione,"
"Ugh!" she fists her hands and turns away from him, her hair frizzy around her face, like a magnificent mane. Ron wants to tangle his fingers in her hair and work out every knot, he already knows that it smells amazing, some sweet flower that he cannot quite name, and it feels soft but frizzy at once. He's thinking about things like that a lot recently. Weird things that make his chest tingle and his face to heat up.
She carries on, oblivious to Ron's inner turmoil. "I'm not saying the classes should be out indefinitely, but… nighty seven people died, Justin's mom is dead, Hannah's aunt is in the hospital, everyone is terrified, wouldn't that Toad think of this stuff?"
Ron huffs a breath, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Hermione, you're talking about Umbridge," That seems like a valid point.
"I know!" she exclaims. "Why is she even around? She was working under Fudge, and he's getting indicted. Why is she working?"
"Because she's from the Ministry,"
She groans. "And with You-know-who showing up at the ministry no one's thinking about Hogwarts anymore." she ruffles her hair. "We need Professor Dumbledore back."
Ron thinks that they don't necessarily need the man himself, as opposed to that woman gone out of this place. As a prefect himself, he's surprisingly protective of the younger students. He cannot even imagine any of those brats writing with that torture device. "Or more importantly, we need Umbridge gone."
Hermione gives him a look. "We cannot just commit murder, Ron," she says, in spite of him not mentioning murder as an option at all. "Everyone will know it was us,"
Ron gulps down the last of his tea with a forlorn frown. "So… we attend the classes."
She sighs. "We attend the classes."
"Thomas Adams,"
The man looks disorientated, but somehow awfully frightened at once. He's in his day's old work robes, his hair is a mess, and his eyes sunk in. He, along with two other Aurors were found after the attack, aimlessly wandering around the ministry halls, unaware of the date or their surroundings.
He sits in the interrogation cell now, his hands attached to the tabletop with a linked chain, looking haggard and nauseous. Kingsley somewhat pities the poor sod.
"Yeah," The man nods to his name, thickly swallowing as he glances into the dark. "Thomas Adams, that's me."
"Born to Marian Adams née Scotts, and William Adams,"
"Yes," Adams spits out, clinking his chain with a restless groan. He has been held here for three days, he's been fed and watered, but not allowed to rest much out of fear that his mind had been tampered with by a trigger. Sleep could ruin some of their evidence. Kingsley could see how that would frustrate the man.
"You have been employed by the ministry for…"
"Six years now. Recruited right out of Hogwarts, I used to work for Baggins in the magical care for exotic creatures. Yes, we've been over this at least a dozen times,"
"Not with me, Mr. Adams." Kingsley mildly replies, flicking through the man's file. It seemed bland enough, almost too bland. His records were absurdly clean, not a single sick day, no promotions until two months ago, not a single vacation leave, it was infuriatingly cleansed. He slams the file shut and leans his chin on the back of his interlocked hands, inspecting the twitching man sitting in front of him.
"Six years in the ministry," he muses. "Your record is clean, you're a very ambitious young man,"
Adams sneers. "Can we get to the point? I'm really tired, is the Legilimens here yet?"
"It would really benefit you to comply, Mr. Adams. I understand that you're fatigued and frustrated with the situation, but your case is not to be handled lightly. Are you aware of your charges?"
Adams squirms, looking down at his slightly trembling hands. "Imperius," he mutters. "I was under the influence of Imperius," there's a slight pause. "I think I was."
Kingsley leans back in his chair. "You think?"
"I cannot-" Thomas pauses for a deep inhale. "I cannot remember much. The last thing I remember is waking up on August the tenth, and heading to work. Then...well you know the rest."
"We don't," the Auror says. "Whose voice was commanding you?"
Thomas groans, his shoulders tensing as his head drops down, as if unable to handle the weight it's putting on his neck. Kingsley mulls his lips together for a moment before reaching for his wand. He waves it over the table in a slow circular motion, and the table as if suddenly liquefied ripples in the center.
"Get me a light dose of pepper up potion. Mr. Adams is in desperate need of one," he says and the rippling fades, the table turning solid once more. Someone should be bringing it by now.
"There has been a slight delay with our specialist," Kingsley explains as someone knocks on the room's door and then gingerly opens the door, letting in a harsh ray of light as they quickly drop the gleaming vial in Kingsley's hand and scramble out, Adams is wincing.
"There you go, Mr. Adams," Kingsley watches as Thomas downs in the foul-tasting potion in large, desperate gulps.
"Thank you," Adams says, sighing as the vial clinks down against the table.
"Now, let's revisit my last question. Whose voice did you hear, while being under the influence? Was it someone you knew?"
Thomas shrugs, "Not that I can think of, I don't remember much, just… flashes. But his accent."
"What about it?"
"Really posh," Thomas says, "Sounded really classy, you know, just something about it. Foreign, but not really."
"Are you sure it was a man?"
"I'm positive. He was enunciated, his voice was smooth, I don't remember much else."
"What did he say? The day that you called for me to meet Fudge, was it his voice telling you to do so?"
Adams shakes his head. "No, that was minister Fudge himself, ordering me to summon you to his office."
"After you delivered this letter?" Kingsley pushes the unfolded parchment across the table, then slides a second parchment that was fished out of Adams' monthly report on his project. The handwritings perfectly matched.
Thomas looked disturbed. "I didn't write this," he says, gulping.
Kingsley flicks a brow. "Your handwriting is a perfect match. You've written this under the influence, sent it to Fudge anonymously, and then were sent after me."
"I don't remember writing this,"
"But this is your handwriting?"
"Apparently. But I swear I have no idea what this letter is talking about. I didn't even know that you knew Harry Potter, or were following him or whatever. It's none of my business, I don't even follow the Daily Prophet." Adams huffs a little, "I could care less about a teenager, sir,"
"Well, it seems that the person behind this was interested. Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?"
"I don't know, maybe? He had a very specific accent, as I said."
"Alright. If you don't remember him telling you to write this letter, word for word, do you remember anything about him telling you to write these?"
Adams' face falls as a stack of discriminating parchments are pushed across the table.
It's going to be a long session.
"I know we're not gonna kill her, but I cannot take this anymore! She's insufferable and insufficient, and... And," Hermione flounders around for the perfect word, and Ron is all too happy to supply her.
"A bitch?"
"Language, Ronald," she says, although even the reprimand feels half-hearted.
"Admit it, Mione, even you can't handle reading and memorizing this crap, "
"It's nonsensical! Awful, absolutely and unequivocally awful! There's going to be a war, and this is our defense against the dark arts book? There's not a single spell in this book that tells us how to actually defend ourselves! What if we were in Hogsmeade that day? It would have been catastrophic!"
"I know." Ron sighs, and then slams the book in front of him shut, pushing it away with a disgusted look, "It's bloody awful. I just wish that we weren't so helpless. With the toad still as headmistress, there's not much we can do without there being a new degree or something."
"We need to be able to defend ourselves," Hermione scowls.
"Yes, obviously. This cannot go on, but short of getting rid of her, I'm not seeing any solutions. We already wrote to the Order, we already spoke with McGonagall-"
"Professor McGonagall, Ronald," she interrupts again.
"Yes, her. There's nothing they can do, so…"
"So, we just have to do something about it ourselves."
"Revolt?" he asks, only half-joking.
"Of course not! We need to… if she's not going to teach us how to defend ourselves…" she looks around the common room suspiciously, as if waiting for Umbridge to pop out of nowhere. Perhaps under the couch. Pity they don't have a tank in here.
Ron stands up, and Hermione looks at him for a moment before she too puts down her quill, and closes the inkpot. Ron is surprised when she doesn't insist on putting everything away, neatly and staying organized and simply says, "I don't think I can look at those words any longer, Ron. Let's go."
Grinning a little goofily, they both make their way out of the Gryffindor tower. It's not quite curfew yet, but the halls are still deserted. Probably because no one wants to be caught out after curfew by that bitch. Although the teachers have been more than lenient lately.
After walking down a few corridors, Hermione speaks again, low and determined, "What to do, what to do… hmm. Pretty limited options, bleak outlook, unless, unless we bend the rules."
"Do it. Hermione Granger? Break the damn rules."
"We'll teach ourselves! We could start a club!"
"A secret club?" he pauses, "Who's gonna teach us?"
"We are going to teach them, Ron," she says, casting her eyes back towards a portrait at the end of the hall, before she turns back to him. She's gripping his arms and speaking rapidly, "I'm good at charms, you're good at offensive spells now that your wand is actually your own. I can make a trip to the library, we can teach each other and then to the others!"
Ron blinks, "That is… actually brilliant. Hermione, you're brilliant."
Hermione looks taken aback for a moment, and then goes pink, releasing his arms, "Oh, Ron, it was just an idea…"
"No," Ron says firmly, feeling something bubbling up in him as he grabs her shoulders back, "Don't undersell it, you're brilliant Hermione Granger." He grins, and then, just because they're alone, and he can, and because maybe they might finally be able to do something about their Toad problem, all because of the girl standing before him, Ron leans forward and plants a kiss on her lips before pulling back.
"Oh!" She's completely red now, and if his heating ears are any indication, he is too. There is a slightly dazed smile on her face.
"I hope that smile is because of me," he says, and his voice most definitely does not come out high.
"That was… really nice. Really nice." She blinks and refocuses back on his face, then her eyes flicker down to his lips and back again, "Can we do it again?"
They do.
When they pull apart, they're both flushed and slightly breathless. Hermione is beaming.
"This is so exhilarating!" She bounces on her heels, and hugs him tight, her arms are surprisingly strong, "Breaking the rules!"
"Err… I don't think us kissing was ever illegal…" He pauses at her expression, "Oh you meant the club."
"Yes, Ronald." Her eyes crinkle, "But for the record, you're a great kisser."
"Zabini?" Blaise had been wondering how long it would take the Granger girl to notice that he'd been following her since she entered the library that afternoon. He maintains an aloof expression, his hands in his jeans pockets, as he comes directly into her line of sight.
"What a coincidence, Granger," he drawls.
"You were following me," her eyes narrow.
"Oh well," he shrugs, "I suppose we might as well talk now. There's a lot to discuss."