A/N: Here we are! It's Chapter 25! Read and review! Tell me your thoughts! Thanks and enjoy!


Chapter 25: Seventeen Again

Even locked away for seventy-two hours, Hermione believed her days of espionage and everything it entailed are far from over. Being ripped from her parents' graves and shoved into a twelve by twelve room where she was decidedly not killed or even tortured right away revealed something about her captors.

They need her.

Hermione wouldn't have guessed it was 54 behind her captivity and why the woman needs her has yet to be seen. And not in a million years would Hermione believe 54 spent her adult life tracking her down to save her from HYDRA. So instead of calling the woman out on her bullshit, Hermione's Red Room training kicks into overdrive. Stay calm. Gather intel. Enemies will reveal their truth sooner or later.

"I don't need hiding from HYDRA. I don't need to be saved. The reveal they talked about when we were kids. It's going to happen. I'm going to watch it happen. It's everything you and I ever dreamed of—"

54 snorts. "HYDRA is doomed, 17, and you can stop pretending you give a shit. You know they killed your parents. It's why you were there at the cemetery, wasn't it? Because you found out the truth."

Hermione doesn't rise to the bait. "HYDRA couldn't possibly flounder."

The woman shrugs. "Organizations like that are destined for failure. Their base is made of greed and power. A brittle and suicidal combination. The empire will fall in on itself, and I see that now because I'm not a fucking stupid eleven-year-old anymore."

"If you're not a believer anymore." Hermione gets in 54's face. "If you are a traitor and forsake everything HYDRA gave us, then why not saying anything?"

54 presses a hand to Hermione's sternum, and Hermione fights the urge to take her wrist and use it as leverage to break her arm. It's an instinctual move rather than one out of anger, so Hermione keeps her cool.

"I have a bubble. Stay out of it."

Hermione doesn't move.

"I was fourteen years old when I came to the realization of what HYDRA really was, and I. Told. Everybody." 54 laughs, unhinged. "And here we are. HYDRA is still a thing."

"Nobody believed you."

"Why would they? I was a child. Barely considered Half-Bl…" The woman lets out a frustrated sigh. "We'll get to that a little later."

"Someone would have had to—"

"You don't understand, 17. You don't understand what this world is like."

"This world," she repeats.

"You don't even have the slightest inkling." 54 almost appears emotional when she says that. Eyes glassy and features somber. Her eyes wander around the room, her lips pressing together thinly. "Apologies for the smallness of the room. It was a precaution, but I think you deserve an upgrade. And a more informative explanation. Follow me."

54 puts her hand on the doorknob and throws it open, revealing not a bathroom but a rickety wooden walkway and railing.

"What the hell?" Hermione whispers.

"Would you like to dress first?" 54 gestures to her folded clothes on the floor.

The air coming from the outside the door is slightly cooler than the room and smells of dust and droppings. "Do you plan on parading me in front of an audience?"

The corner of 54's mouth twitches, and she chuckles. "In a way."

Hermione arches a brow and goes for her clothes. Once dressed, she follows 54 out of the room, the warmth and smell more pungent. They walk across the rickety wooden walkway of what appears to be a spacious attic area of a large estate.

Leaving the room, the suffocating sensation she felt before disappears, and it's like having a bottle of cold water doused on her in the middle of a desert. Gingerly, she zeroes in at the back of 54's head who stops and lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Now, now," she says, her arms making a movement like she shoved her hand into the breast of her vest.

Hermione's hits a blockade so thick and sturdy, it almost hurts. She retracts, and 54 continues marching across the walkway.

"You blocked me," she can't help but say it.

"I take it that doesn't happen often."

"There was a boy who was sort of able…"

"In Kabul," says 54 knowingly, and Hermione wants to throw her off the walkway for it. "An Obscura. We found him with a bullet in his head. Unfortunate."

"We?" That is not her only question. Far from it.

"No matter. Lookout for the droppings," says 54.

Looking up, it's impossible not to gawk. There are at least thirty owls high above them.

"My ex-fiancé breeds them." 54 whistles, the sound sharp and abrupt. One of them, a Eurasian Eagle owl dives down from its perch and swoops to 54's shoulder, staying there contently. The woman removes a pouch from her vest and takes out a square piece of meat, feeding it to the owl and stroking her feathers after. "Lilith's mine. Good money in owl-breeding. Saved our arses, Theo and I. Especially now with the baby boomers going off to school."

Grave ornaments that teleport. A room with no door sometimes and magically appearing food. 54. We? Obscura. Owls. Ex-fiancé. Baby boomers. Information making no sense to Hermione. Still she must treat this situation like she's in the field. Gathering intel that are puzzle pieces key to her survival because Hermione's knows one thing. 54 may not want her dead right now, but it's only a matter of time she will.

They walk down a flight of stairs, each plank of wood groaning under their weight until their feet land on concrete steps which circle downwards around the circumference of the tower. The stairs lead them to a door and from there to a corridor starkly different than the attic.

Polished flooring and framed portraits rimmed with silver and gold. The hallway leads a lookout railing and when they passed it, Hermione looked down and saw a library. Her legs slowed, catching the whiff of paper and ink. There's a table in the middle of the area, on it a stack of old books.

"We'll be coming back here later," promises 54. "But let's get you comfortable first. Don't mind the paintings. I silenced them a long time ago."

"The paintings." Hermione then comes to a full stop and really look at the portraits. In her peripheral, they had appeared to be old but well-preserved paintings but holy shit. How could she have missed the movement? Many of the people in the portraits were doing one thing. They were pointing in 54's direction and shaking their heads and mouthing words.

Whore.

Filth.

Nasty.

Disgusting.

impure…?

The looks they give Hermione aren't better when they see her, too. Their eyes slide up and down her form, noses wrinkled, and lips curled.

Mudblood, one of them mouths to the other occupant in the portrait. The other nods.

"The paintings." Hermione clears her throat and rushes after 54. "What kind of screens—"

"You can clearly see the ridges of the canvases and whirl textures of the paint." 54 glances over her shoulder. "Very few things here are like the world you know it to be. Paintings move. Doors come and go. You can't read my mind."

"And where is exactly is here?"

"You're still in England. But way, way off the beaten path."

"And if I want to leave? If I don't want to be hidden from HYDRA?"

"I assume your rough compliance to be your training. You're sussing out the situation, and I don't think an ounce less of you for it. It's smart of you to be cautious but not so blatantly distrusting. There's no need for the charade. If you were really itching to get back to HYDRA, you would've taken advantage of my back being turned to you the whole way out of that room."

"Let me be clearer. If I want to leave, how hard would you make it for me?"

54 takes an old-fashioned brass key out of her pocket and inserts it into a door. The door unlocks, and she opens it. "I've made it impossible for you to leave the estate right now. You're in no condition to be happening across the neighbors, and they're not equipped to deal with you." She trudges passed the threshold, gesturing to the large canopy bed. "This is yours. Not far from the library which you and I will spend a lot of time in for the next while."

"I'm going to leave."

54 says nothing, just goes over to the bed and starts fluffing pillow. "17, do you remember the very first time you made something out of the ordinary happen? Don't feel obligated to answer, but I remember my first time. It had felt familiar, and I had forgotten why. When I attacked you when we were kids, you fought back by invading my mind. I remembered things I thought I had forgotten."

"I made you remember your mother's death."

"And the face of my father." 54 sets the pillow down. "Who killed her."

"I would think it'd be him you'd want to track down."

"He wasn't hard to find. You probably think I killed him which I didn't."

"But you want to."

"Not for the reason you may think. What else do you remember in that memory?"

Everything. Hermione remembers every single detail about it because the few moments provided knowledge on what she herself was capable of. "Teleportation," she said. "You and you father did that. Can you do it by yourself now?"

54 nods. "I suspect, given the gift Strucker gave you, you can, too. I don't suppose you'll tell me how he did it?"

"He didn't give me anything."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were telling the truth." 54 throws her an endeared smile. "But I do. You couldn't cause the chaos that you did without a little extra something. You can have that secret. For now. I see I'll have to earn your trust first." She gestures to the open door. "You're free to roam as much of the estate the wards will allow. Don't go below the main floor. It'll let you in but won't let you go."

Hermione frowns.

"Just don't. I had to learn that the hard way. This property is not our friend. We make one wrong step, and it sees us as an infection which must be cleansed by any means necessary. I've childproofed as much as I could, but the disgusting foundation the house was built on—"

"Are you hearing yourself—"

"I'm. Serious. You'll understand soon. In the meantime, stretch your legs. Have a nap. Take a shower. Tomorrow morning you're going to have a visitor who'll help with the transition. He'll take you out to get some clothes and other miscellaneous personal items you may require for your stay. And whatever and whoever you see when you two are out and about, don't gawk. It's rude, and these people are either easily offended or too dull to understand how freaky they come across. Another thing. Don't kill anyone."

"Don't kill any…" Hermione makes a face. "Do you think I just go around casually fileting people?"

"You're likely going to meet unkind people. If anyone insults you, just let Mr. Potter deal with it. Don't be giving anyone strokes because you think you can get away with it. You won't here." 54 darts to the door. "Dinner will be brought to you at seven. Typically, Theo and I do the polite thing and dine with our guests, but we'll be away. You'll have breakfast with us in the morning. There's a nightdress in the closet that should fit you well enough. Leave your clothes folded outside of the room, and they'll be washed and pressed for tomorrow. If you happen to see the help, be nice and don't freak out."

"If you point me to the kitchen and laundry room, I can cook and wash my clothes for myself—"

"Under no circumstance will you say that to them." 54's cheeks pink, and she ducks her head in embarrassment. "I learned that the hard way, too. Sometimes I do think we really are uncultured swine."

With that said, 54 leaves, closing the door behind, and yet there's no finality to the sound. The lock doesn't slide into place. Hermione's really free to come and go from the room and staring at it, she wonders what she's gotten into. What kind of weird-ass cult shit 54 has found herself in, to be more precise? And what kind of drugs are they taking?

It's entirely possible Hermione's food had been drugged, too, though it's not working because of the serum.

Treat this as job. Remember your training. Get the intel and survival is key. 54 has said a lot, even though nothing makes sense.

Finding the bathroom, almost smiling at the separated shower stall and bathtub, she removes her clothes and studies the latter. Not that she wants a bath right now, but the working mechanisms are different. There's a spout for water, and then several smaller spouts alongside it. Embedded into the polished tile against the tub has a series of bulbous tubes filled with different colored liquids.

How fancy.

This bathroom has a mirror, and she pays her reflection no mind. It's not terribly pretty right now. Her face has taken on an oily sheen, and her hair is wild and frizzing.

"I suggest a mild exfoliating potion and the Tress-Taming-Tulip serum," says her naked reflection who then studies the nails of her right hand with pursed lips. "And then a hair removal cream instead of using a razor since you haven't shaved your legs in over a week. Less risk of ingrown hairs."

Slowly, Hermione backs away from the mirror.


Not looking up from his Afternoon Prophet, Theo asks, "So it's her."

"I've set her up in the guest bedroom you suggested."

"And did you warn her about wandering?"

"Yes."

"How's her temperament now?"

"As I expected. Her training has instilled her to remain calm and gather information. She's playing the forced houseguest because she thinks I have an agenda outside of saving her." Soo-jin smiles sadly. "Not that I blame her. In the world she knows, everyone's got secrets and playing their own game."

"Mmmhmm." Nott turns a page. "Did you tell her this world isn't so different."

"I don't know what you mean by that," she clips. "But even trying to further explain this world and that world to her right now is out of the question. She'll understand more tomorrow which means we've got to pay Potter a visit as soon as possible."

"I'll send an owl."

"He'll take us more seriously if we're both there. Hit up the Floo and check if he's home."

With a groan and an exaggerated eyeroll, Theo closes the paper and sets it aside before whirling around in his chair and grabbing a bit of powder from its holder and throwing it in the hearth.

"Oi, Potter. Are you home?"

"Master is having tea with company," answers Kreacher.

"It's important." Theo quills down a note on a piece of paper and passes it through the green flames. "Give this to him."

Not five minutes later…

"Nott and Soo-jin! Get your arses over here now!" Potter bellows through the fireplace.

Nott regards his ex-fiancé with a frown. "Since when is he on a first name basis with you?"

"We have lunch meetings together."

"Uh huh."

Soo-jin rolls her eyes. "It's nothing serious, and you don't get to be jealous. We're not together anymore."

"We're not getting married, Soo-jin, but you still live here."

"We don't share a room anymore, and I remember with great detail how you said it was over. Those were the words you said which means we're not really together anymore."

"We still fuck."

"I can here you two!"

"He's my boss, woman," hisses Nott under his breath.

"And the bloody Chosen One," she fires back, stomping around his desk to get to the fireplace. "If you're so upset about it, I'll stop seeing him."

"If I'm so ups—" He practically growls out, "Bloody hell, if only I was so upset. We're talking about this later."

"Thank God!" Potter yells.

Soo-jin and Theo pass through the Floo, and there's Harry Potter standing in the middle of the room arms crossed behind himself. His glasses reflect the light from the small chandelier above him. The change from boy to man still astounds Soo-jin who should be used to it by now. He resembles little from the fourteen-year-old boy she first saw back at Hogwarts during the year Tri-Wizard Tournament. Wild, untamed hair. Uncomfortable in his skin and school robes, yet still confident enough to come across as an egotistical, judgmental jerk. He took quite a humbling that year and never really recovered the popularity with his classmates he once held.

How could he, given everything that had happened and would happen?

"You two," Potter pauses for dramatics, "better not be lying."

"We're not, Harry," she says. "The wreath on her father's grave worked."

"You're sure it's our lost witch."

"I've identified her."

"Have you contacted Clearwater yet?"

"No."

"Wait on that. I want time with her before going public."

"I've already told her she'd be going on an outing with you tomorrow."

"Have you?" Potter arches a brow. "It's too soon."

"She's not a fragile little flower who's going to faint at the sight of a goblin," Soo-jin comments. Her head cocks to the side. "I'll warn you about that pretty fairy face of hers. Don't let it fool you."

"Fool me." Potter snickers. "You think I've forgotten what she did in the Middle East. Both times." His features darken. "Weston caught wind of a magically-related death in Surrey. A former police officer found dead in that old Granger house. I believe this man was in your reports, Nott. When you approached me about this…" He waves his hand. "Thing you two came up with. He was over the missing girl case and then her parents' freak accident."

"So she offed a man who helped in the murdering of her parents?" Nott remarked. "I figure you can sympathize, mate."

"She turned the man's brain into mashed potatoes."

"You've would've done the same to Voldemort if you could've made him stand still long enough."

Potter dips his chin and starts to pace. "You got me there, Nott. Tell me, though. How's she taking everything so far? Have you at least told her what she is?"

Soo-jin shakes her head. "I haven't outright told her she's a witch. She already thinks I'm insane and on the express ride to join me given mysterious disappearing doors and appearing meal trays. Another warning. Most of the magic she yields is dark, and we already know her power level."

"She'll splinter a wand," says Nott, stroking his chin.

"She's a long way from getting a wand," says Potter.

"She doesn't need a wand at all. She can Disapparate without one which means she has no limits. For God's sake, she could probably figure out how to fly without a broom if she believed she could."

Potter's already fair skin pales. "Are you still set on schooling her, Soo-jin?"

"She's a witch and deserves the education of one. And what do you think I'm going to teach her? How to summon Dementors?"

"Durmstrang is notorious for teaching the Dark Arts," Nott pitches.

"That woman could probably kill a person by blowing a kiss, and you worry I'm going to teach her how to hurt people."

"Maybe we could bring someone else in," suggests Potter. He's stroking his chin now, too. "An actual teacher."

"You're not thinking Snape, are you?" Nott cackles. "Can you imagine his face when you tell him about this woman?"

"You'll go for a former Death Eater but 'fuck no' to a Durmstrang graduate. You're a judgmental asshole, Potter. Just like you were as a kid."

"Calm down, love," Nott tries to soothe. "He might have a point in bringing an actual teacher. I don't doubt your skills, but you still have work and so do I. Snape's retired."

"I wasn't even considering Snape. Jesus Christ." Potter runs a hand through his hair, and he might as well be fourteen years old again. "I was thinking Remus."

"Come now!" It's Nott's turn to lament. "He's got one year of experience for DADA. What's he going to teach her? How to safely pet a grindylow? Or put a Boggart in front of her and see what kind of monster the monster is of afraid of?"

Soo-jin's mildly impressed Nott didn't go for the easy target and bring up Remus Lupin's lycanthropy.

"Plus, he's a fucking werewolf."

Ah, there it is.

"I vote Lupin," she says. "But I will teach her on my free evenings and weekends."

"I vote Snape if he's up for it. He's not a bleeding heart. He'll put her down if necessary."

"She's not a rabid dog, Theodore."

"No, but you want one to teach her."

"Please do remind me why we'll never get married."

"We'll be here at Potter's until the turn of the century then."

"God, no, please," mutters Potter who rolls his eyes. "I'm discarding both your votes, children. After spending time with her tomorrow, I'll decide what's the best approach to properly integrate her into the community. Need I remind you, if I feel the best approach is Azkaban…"

Soo-jin flinches. "She was under their control, Harry. Hardly any different than the Imperius Curse."

"It wasn't just Muggle terrorists or sympathizers she killed. If civilians got in her way, she showed no mercy, not even to children. If I didn't have this…" Harry strokes jawline, looking at the floor in daze. "Feeling she was cheated. Sentiment, I guess Her childhood home wasn't more than ten miles from my aunt's house. She would've gone to Hogwarts. She should have gone, and I'll give her this chance to become what she was supposed to."

"She thought she was doing good," offers Soo-jin.

"She hasn't a moral compass. I figured as much."

"As a son of a Death Eater, Potter, I'm going to point out that's an obscenely oversimplified accusation."

"Theo's right, Harry."

"Am I?" The man giggles sarcastically. "Want to run that by me again, sweetheart?"

She brushes him off and takes a step towards Harry. "The girl's conscience was stripped from her. It wasn't her place nor her concern to question what was right or wrong. Her purpose was to serve and strengthen her master. By any means necessary. With her showing up through that portkey shows promise she's has snipped the puppeteer's strings from herself. The hard part is over."

Potter chuckles. "She's been deprived of her rights as a witch and even as a functional human being for twenty years. The hard part is just starting."


The house, Hermione concludes, is weird. Paintings move, and her reflection gives advice. Food magically appears, even by request. Last night, she sat on the bed and asked her surroundings for a glass water. With a gentle pop, on her bedside table, a glass of chilled water appeared.

With the morning sun hitting the stained glass, Hermione has yet to get out of bed. She maybe got a few hours of sleep altogether. Soo-jin's possible motive keeping Hermione alert. For now, Hermione is somewhat certain Soo-jin has no immediate plans to kill her, but the playing along until the woman shows her hand makes her anxious. Hermione used to be like Natalia in the sense she could patiently string anybody along for an unlimited amount of time, milking them for all their worth.

The last few years, Hermione's been spoiled in the sense she's been allowed to use her powers to interrogate. Even now with her bracelet off, she can't read Soo-jin. Maybe she'll try again but slamming into that wall had hurt. Like driving banging a metal rod on an iron pipe. It left her ears ringing.

At the foot of the bed are her clothes, washed and pressed, and there's a note on top of her shirt from 54 inviting her for breakfast. On the back of the note is a map and a warning not to tread anywhere but the pathway. Hermione quirks her lips and remembers 54 believes the house is biased or something. She can accept conversational reflections and moving paintings but an overall haunted house?

Monsters and magic, Natalia would say. And maybe she'd be right.

Hermione hops of the bed, thinking back on giant green men, gods from other realms, Loki and that scepter—which HYDRA has, damn it—the alien invasion. She thinks of herself and 54 and the abilities they both have and share. She thinks of that boy in Kabul she had to kill and then pauses because maybe she's figured some of it out. Certainly not all. 54 wants to her know there are others.

Dressing quickly and twisting her hair up into a bun, she takes the map and navigates the house, going down stairs and passing the library, a ballroom, drawing room, and a dining hall. On the way, she does her best not to linger on the sneering paintings and finally comes to a Victorian tearoom. 54 is by the table, hunched down and speaking to…

Monsters and magic, she hears Natalia say.

In front of 54 is a tiny, gnarled looking creature with skinny limbs and flopping ears, the color of warm ash. The thing is donned in teeny butler garb, and its eyes are bulbous and nose like a grape tomato. The thing is both hideous and endearing, the latter probably because the small stature. No bigger than a four-year-old.

"It's rude to stare, 17," says 54. "This is Lilo, a house elf. He's been taking care of you. Washing your clothes and arranging your food platters. Lilo, this 17. She'll be staying with Master and I for a while."

Aliens. Hermione reminds herself she's seen aliens and wriggling spaceships. Elves are okay to acknowledge, too. Hermione can make room for it.

Maybe?

Crouching down, Hermione offers her hand to him. "It's very nice to meet you Lilo."

The creature takes her hand, and the texture of its unnervingly clammy skin makes her insides shudder. Like old, saggy skin on a toddler.

"Lilo is very pleased to make Miss 17's acquaintance," he speaks. The pitch is high and soft. "How does Miss 17 take her morning tea?"

Caught off guard by the elf's use of the third person, Hermione stutters out, "I-I prefer coffee in the mornings."

"Cream and sugar?"

"Black is fine."

The elf lets go of her hand, bows so deeply, Hermione's surprised he doesn't topple over and then, and then he disappears with a pop. The sudden disappearance nearly makes her fall over, so she stands straight up and frowns.

"And that's just the beginning," says a man.

Hermione turns around to see two men entering the tearoom. One of them wears glasses and has jet-black hair, and he's moving fast towards her, hand stretched out.

"Harry Potter. You have no idea how good it is to finally meet you, Hermione."

To Be Continued...