Warning: in this chapter thoughts and opinions are formed regarding euthanasia, though they are mostly questions without any solid answers. Then again it is not a major subject. Still, if you are triggered by this please consider skipping the chapter.
Flash. BANG!
Rain poured down in fast amounts, it created bizarre patterns on the windows. And whenever the lightning flashed - always closely followed by the thunder - the display was minutely drawn upon the floor. Like long paintings wherein someone's entire life full of misfortune and sadness was laid bare. It created a ghostly aura within the house. One that would scare many inwards, to the chambers wherein guests were invited to dine or be entertained, far away from the floor to ceiling windows. Where, no matter how many candles burned nor how many logs were thrown into the fire, the cold darkness seeped into the house, unbidden and creepy in its wake.
Narcissa paced around in one of the ballrooms on the first floor. It was vacant of any other living soul, for she had sent them all away if they had not left on their own accord already. A single cough could make her snap, her annoyance evident in every movement. Her eyes the epitome of calculated anger and yet it was still a gaze as cold as ice.
It had been days since she had last seen her. Days which were filled with worry, little sleep and, lately, mostly anger. All because of my 'honour-bound' sister, Narcissa thought darkly. One of the house-Elves had assured her that Bellatrix had returned for a few hours of rest, but Narcissa herself had been fast asleep during this period of time, thus not made aware at the time of the arrival and departure of Bellatrix.
Since then she had not even slept for an hour, and three days had already passed. Her eyes were red-rimmed from exhaustion, her back rigid from sheer determination, jaw set in foolish justness. For, as a sister, she was supposed to know where her older sibling went to and what kind of stupidity Bellatrix was about to get into.
But I do not, Narcissa huffed, disdain clearly evident.
Her eyes glanced at the windows and the darkness behind them, still nothing.
Ever since the failed containment of Undesirable No.1 and his looneys, Bellatrix had disappeared without a word - that is, after the meeting with their Lord. Voldemort had been furious hearing upon his arrival what had transpired in the house and had killed everyone present in the room. Lucius, Bellatrix and Fenrir, who had all the misfortune to be there, were the only ones to be spared. They had gotten away with some harsh words, but that was all. Their Lord was known for being a strict and unforgiving man, but what commoners did not want to acknowledge - for it was certainly no secret - was that the Dark Lord never disposed of trustworthy, loyal and (or) useful followers.
Her sister most certainly fell under the first two categories. Which was also why the Lord's words of disappointment hurt Bellatrix so terribly. Of course, Bellatrix was useful too, but that had not granted her the rank she enjoyed today.
Narcissa, on the other hand, saw the clever scheming of a master manipulator. She was awfully aware that their Lord had known his words would have exactly this effect on Bellatrix. And she despised him all the more for it.
What could her sibling be doing, what drove her to the brink of this madness? There had been said something during the time that the children had been held here. Something which should not have been voiced aloud. And she suspected, she knew, it had something to do with Bellatrix' vault. For she had heard the panic concealed in Bellatrix' screams as she had tortured the Mudblood, panic one could only hear if they knew what to listen for.
The woman took to stand at one of the windows again.
She needed her sister to come home, to be safe. Bellatrix had rotten away for far too long in Azkaban, for something she, Narcissa, could have prevented had she only acted faster. Her hands balled into fists. Why was it so damned difficult to keep her older sister from ruining her own life for a second time, no less? Bellatrix threw it all away for a man who was no longer even human!
Narcissa had an inkling what could have kept their Dark Lord on the planet of the living all these years; there were enough books about the darkest of rituals in the library of the family Black. And if her suspicions were proved true... An even greater part of her wanted to keep Bellatrix from following Voldemort every step possible.
Her eyes focussed again, for lightning and thunder had drawn her out of her thoughts and made her look upwards to the clouds. With their Dark Lord's absence of the last week, the murky sky had gradually disappeared to grant nature around here some much-needed sunshine. Yet it had not even been two days and this blasted storm had come from the Southwest. It is practically a hurricane, she thought bitterly.
She willed herself to scan the edges of the Malfoy estate, even with this heavy rain and darkness which blurred the sight heavily. And unfortunately, Narcissa had no such ability to see through it. Yet at some point, a shadow caught her eye and when lightning minutely lighted the surroundings Narcissa was sure of what she had seen. Someone had appeared from thin air and walked resolutely to the house over the gravel path. A female figure, clad only in black.
At the same time, a house-Elf appeared beside her and bowed with practised ease, though he did not receive the slightest form of acknowledgement. "Mistress Lady Malfoy, ye asked Buckles to inform ye when Mistress Lady Lestrange has arrived once more. Well, Mistress Malfoy, Lady Lestrange walks currently on the gravel path."
Narcissa had not acknowledged the Elf and still did not listen to a word he said, instead she made her way to the hall and descended the stairs to the front door. However, when she stood on the last step she called for Buckles, "Open the door."
The house-Elf did as he was asked with a bow and did not straighten up until Bellatrix walked past.
With her, she brought a trail of water and the cold air from outside. It did not matter to her and she certainly did not give the impression that it even crossed her mind. Nor did she bother with her younger sister who approached her, with all her haughtiness in place and eyes that could kill any filthy Mudblood given the chance. Bellatrix' own dark brown eyes were void of emotion and her mind was pondering about all which still had to be done. There was not a moment that she halted in her movements as she walked straight to the stairs.
The youngest sibling was perplexed, for Bellatrix answered none of her questions. She did not even look at her as she walked straight past her.
I am being ignored, completely and utterly ignored. Narcissa turned around in an instant; anger had replaced the haughtiness as she followed her sister to the stairs. She picked up her dress to enable her to move faster and walk beside, instead of behind, Bellatrix.
A formal approach clearly would not work, thus with a shrill voice Narcissa brought her wronged feelings in the matter up, "Have you any idea how worried I have been about you?!"
Silence.
"I am painfully aware that the chance of you sharing information about your occupation is close to nihil, but that doesn't give you the right to just barge in whenever you feel like it and to disappear for days on end!" They arrived at the first floor, but Bellatrix ascended another flight of stairs with Narcissa hot on her heels.
"And look at you! You look as if you have been holed up in a cave for days - there is dirt all over you and your clothes - only to emerge when the rain decides to fall again! A drenched mole. That would be the best way to describe you." At this Narcissa halted as she stood at the middle of the stairs, expecting her older sister to turn around slowly with fury written all over her face - if Bellatrix had to be famous for anything besides her hatred for filthy Mudbloods, it would be her hatred for being compared to anything but the purest of pure. Yet another deadly silence was all that followed, only disturbed by the sound of Buckles who was cleaning the mess Bellatrix had left behind thorough the house.
All she could do was watch her older sibling reach the highest step and walk out of her sight on the second floor, though she listened as Bellatrix' signature boots - a combination of femininity and practicality wrapped in black leather - clicked with their heels on the wooden floorboards as she walked down the hallway to her bedroom.
The emotions that roared inside Narcissa were given a voice by several harsh bangs that thundered through the sky. She balled her hands into fists, her knuckles white from the tightness of the skin around the bones. When she surmised that Bellatrix should almost have reached her door something snapped inside her and she opened her mouth without a care for the other occupants of the house.
"Why won't you say something?! Defend yourself, scream at me that I am too young to understand! For Merlin's sake, act like you give a damn about life, about your life!" Her screams echoed down the staircases and through the whole hall. There was no doubt that everyone in the house had awakened after the screamed words had reached them.
Yet... Still no response from her older sibling. A soft click from a door being opened and closed was the only given sign that time had not decided to freeze to a stop. And it was Narcissa's undoing, angry tears appeared in her eyes and trailed down her cheeks as she stomped down the stairs and sought her refuge in the only place she could call her own in this forsaken house: her study on the first floor. There she would read every book about dark rituals she could get a grasp on. A wine glass filled with their finest liquid at her side at all times. Until the moment the exhaustion in her body would make her faint.
Hermione awoke to the gentle pattering of rain and for some precious minutes she lingered in the half-conscious state of being when one emerges from a deep sleep. She thanked whatever God was up there for the creation of the Dreamless Sleep Draught. Once truly awake her mind conducted that this must be the tail end of the storm. There were only a few raindrops left that danced against the windows. This is still the storm which I created. It was a strange thought. She stretched her limbs and back, her muscles sour from all the duels and exercises of the previous day.
As she looked sideways she was surprised to see Luna's bed empty. Until now it had always been Hermione who was the first to wake up, even when she had drunk the Draught. Without any further ado, she stepped out of bed. While she put on Fleur's clothes she wondered absentmindedly how late it was and was reminded of the old pocket watch she had lost. Along with her beaded bag. Within that old bag had been everything she had thought the trio had needed for their journey; clothes, potions, toothbrushes and other toiletries. And even more, for she had stored all her precious books within it, unable to part with any of them. She had stored her most important photos in the bag; of Crookshanks, her and Viktor - or Viktor alone -, of her parents and of her friends. All these photos were heavily charmed, of course, not a soul - except Hermione - would recognize these people, no matter how well the observer knew the people on the photos, the charm would prevent their brains from making a connection with memories or the rational part of their mind.
All those items were now gone, lost during their attempted escape from the Snatchers. I have lost all the objects that were dear to me. A heavy sigh escaped her lips, her mood gloomy once again and it was only the start of her day.
The Muggle-born noted that she had been sad and depressed more often lately, even before Malfoy Manor, and even when the Horcrux had not been around her neck. Not that it was exceptional in times like these, yet she felt the worry for her own mental health resurface. She promised herself for the umpteenth time that when this war was over - and if she would still be there - she would seek out professional help.
Unfortunately, for now, all she could do was steel herself for the day to come and make the best of it.
A tingling in her stomach made her uneasy. Where was Harry? She knew it would not be long anymore... The previous night he had that certain glimmer in his eyes whilst he had looked out of the window, completely immersed in his own thoughts.
The smell of freshly baked bread greeted her when she descended the stairs, she certainly would not mind a slice with some tea and a conversation with the lady of the house.
They sat down on the wooden bench in the garden, each with tea beside them and some toast. It was a bit too crowded in the kitchen to Fleur's liking, especially with Ron and Hermione not talking to each other. She had abducted the latter and taken her here to listen to the sounds of nature together. From their seats, they overlooked the garden, Dobby's grave sat beautifully between the flowers and herbs. And past the garden's fence, a scenery of the dunes and the pine forest was spread before them. The rain was still visible in the distance, but it no longer fell here. There was a gentle breeze in the air but it brought a chill with it, a warming charm made most of the cold bite vanish.
Hermione chewed as her eyes searched for something to observe. However, there was nothing in the garden that she had not already dissected with her eyes during the days she had been confined to the house. Except for Fleur; Hermione could never grow tired of watching other human beings. She had found her 'object of interest'. Her gaze never wavered as the French woman sat in silence, holding her cup of tea securely between her hands. Occasionally she blew off the steam, her dark blue eyes on the clouds above them or roaming over the pines in the distance.
The Muggle-born moved to sit sideways on the bench, with her feet on the wood as well, now she did not have to sit with cramping neck muscles. She did not make a secret of watching her friends, that would only make things awkward. Though she would, naturally, never watch strangers in such a blatant way.
"At times I forget that there is a war going on," Hermione muttered out of the blue, "we are so secluded here and no newspapers get delivered. There are moments I realize with a start that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could be even more powerful than a few days ago..." She trailed off, there was no need to continue, anyone would know what troubled her. They all felt the same.
Fleur nodded ever so slightly, as she watched the clouds pass them by. It was almost as if she was somewhere else entirely, yet her voice was as clear as ever when she spoke. "It is a blessing and a curse, don't you think?" It was a rhetoric question, she continued without waiting for a response, "This is such a small place, yet big enough for all of us - we almost resemble a small community, everybody does something in the household and for each other.
"And with the wards that surround us, we are literally cut off from the rest of Britain and the world. Just like so many other magical institutions and places that are hidden from a Muggle's view. We just take it up a notch by hiding even from our own kind. No one would think to visit a place such as this and if they somehow manage to get close they will stir off, get lost or think of something else they could or should be doing.
"I rest assured at night with the thought that not even that bastard could find us, as long as none of us lets him in on the secret. But it also has been days since I heard anything from my family and before that our communication had been sparse at best...
"Anyway, I am rambling... Yes, this place makes you forget there is a war going on, but don't be fooled, 'Ermione, because the threat is very real."
Fleur glanced at Hermione for the first time since they had sat down. Light brown eyes studied her with intensity, they made her avert her eyes at once. With her words she had opened up to the younger woman, which in itself was not something new to them, it was just that this was a side of Fleur most would label as pessimistic or depressing. Labels which had hurt Fleur in the past and she had no doubt that receiving such an opinion from Hermione would hurt her still. She questioned herself if she had been foolish by being this honest.
As she listened to the French woman Hermione was reminded of her own family, one that would not recognize her even if she stood right before them. Only 'their' cat would recognize her and maybe purr as he walked around her legs and rubbed his scent upon her.
The day Hermione had whipped her parents' memory was the very first time Crookshanks had ever hissed at her when she had tried to pick him up to apparate away. She had not understood his behaviour at the time, was hurt at the thought that he no longer trusted her after he had witnessed what she had done to her parents. But as weeks passed Hermione had realized that it was not unlikely that Crookshanks had wanted to stay with her parents in order to keep them safe, for as far as he would be able to. It would not be the first time her precious furball would make such decisions by himself.
Her voice was soft, for her thoughts were still in the past as she finally responded to Fleur, "Yes, you hit the nail on the head." She was unaware of the relieved smile her companion minutely showed.
A moment passed wherein neither said anything, too preoccupied with their own thoughts.
"You know," she began as Fleur took the first sip of her tea, "you are my favourite Veela." A cheeky grin adorned Hermione's face.
Fleur choked on her tea and had to cough for half a minute, her face was flustered as she covered her mouth with her hand. Hermione chuckled as she patted the French woman on her back, for which she received a glare.
When the older woman had recomposed herself, with her tea once more in her hands she deadpanned, "quarter-Veela. I am a quarter-Veela. There is a big difference."
"Still my favourite though," Hermione chimed and took another bite from her bread.
"It's hardly a compliment, for I am the only one you know," Fleur raised an eyebrow and shook her head slightly in disbelieve, but Hermione saw the upwards twitch of the corners of her mouth and recognized the sparkle of humour in those blue eyes.
"Doesn't matter, you are my favourite all the same."
They regarded one another. A playful smile on Hermione's lips, whilst Fleur's features had become quite serious, though her flustered cheeks made it less impressive. The Muggle-born could not help but wonder what was going on in her mind.
Suddenly Fleur straightened, her eyes widened as if alarmed. The change in demeanour made Hermione jump to her feet, her wand ready in her right hand and a Protego Duo conjured with her left. Light brown eyes scanned their surroundings feverously for any sign of danger. Then she caught the lingering smell of Fleur's Veela odour. It clicked in Hermione's mind; the sudden rigidness had nothing to do with a surprise attack. It was another 'slip up' on Fleur's part, she had lost control over her hormones again. At the same time that Hermione realized this a gentle hand grabbed her wrist, "I am sorry, my sweetheart," Fleur whispered, "I thought I saw something dark move in the shadows of the forest, but it was just a branch."
Hermione would have believed Fleur, for her voice was sincere and her features apologetic, but those dark blue eyes did not dare look directly at hers and there was suddenly a sort of static distance between them as if coming any closer could have a negative effect on them both. The distance would not be noticeable for an onlooker, for it was truly a minuscule difference, but the Muggle-born noticed it all the same. How could she not, after all their days of companionship?
What puzzled - and slightly hurt - the younger woman was that Fleur felt the need to lie about this. Why was this something worth lying for? Thereby came the fact that it also prickled Hermione's curiosity. She wanted to ask about it, about the sudden appearance of Fleur's Veela scent but decided against it. Just like all the previous times.
Instead, she inspected their surroundings one more time, to act as if she was not aware of the real reason for Fleur's behaviour, and slowly lowered her wand. The hand around her wrist loosened and let go. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Neither one looked at each other. Hermione's eyes fell on her teacup and toast which laid unceremoniously around her feet. In her haste to stand up, she had thrown both on the ground.
She sighed, this awkwardness had never been between them before and she wanted it gone already. Yet the Muggle-born chose the easiest way out; she picked up the cup and her bread, murmured something about getting a refill and disappeared into the house. Her Gryffindor bravery nowhere to be found.
As she walked inside she berated herself, for she knew that any normal adult would have stayed and said something, anything to make the awkwardness disappear. To have no uncomfortable silence linger between them. But she could not.
With slumped shoulders, she entered the kitchen to throw the leftovers of her toast in the trash bin and set the cup on the counter. She did not return to the garden to speak with Fleur, instead, she went out of the front door to take a walk beside the shore.
Time ticked on as the growl of the ocean surrounded her, seagulls screamed overhead and the wind brought the cold and the salty scent of the sea. Hermione walked over the sand and had a few moments in which she just stood there and watched the waves crash and topple over. All this time she made sure she was in sight of Shell Cottage, for she had no desire to hear that Harry, or anyone else for that matter, could not find her.
At some point she decided she could better spend her time practising difficult magic; since Bellatrix' wand still had moments that it would not listen during her use of non-verbal magic, which was inconvenient, to say the least. She had to figure out how she could best eliminate such behaviour.
With patience born from determination, Hermione practised non-stop for an uncountable amount of time, until the clearing of someone's throat broke through her bubble. She held the spell she had casted alive, it buzzed before her as if it was caged and wanted out - this was a practice to improve her stamina. Meanwhile, she glanced to her side and saw both Harry and Ron stand a meter away from her, they watched the magic in the air. The latter stood closest to her, he clearly wanted her full attention. With a sigh she lowered her wand and extinguished the magic with a small pop, then she turned to the Weasley who she had once considered one of her best friends. She was not so sure if that trust would ever return after all that had happened between them; in moments of harsh honesty, she even doubted a normal friendship would be manageable, considering his infatuation with her and the fact that they disagreed about far too many things.
"I thought I could make the first step towards a conversation, for a chance," he said lamely as he rubbed the nape of his neck, his eyes on the sand between them. The Muggle-born had no doubt that this was due to Harry, she saw it in his posture; he had a laid-back posture and yet, there was a determined look on his face which gave his act away. And Ron was too nervous to have come on his own accord. Nonetheless, she said in a neutral voice, "That is a refreshing change."
Ron shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. No further response was given. He had already completely barricaded his emotions.
Well, that did not last long. Internally she rolled her eyes at his behaviour, how difficult could he make this?
Harry was the one that broke the building tension. "Let's walk for a bit, shall we? Before my legs freeze off." As they made their way Hermione was glad that Harry walked between Ron and her.
Momentarily she could forget about their current situation, for her eyes were drawn to the waves again as they walked past to them. She did not care if her feet would be underwater, with the constant ebb and flood.
"Hermione, I am sorry... About yesterday, I mean," Ron said, he had - miraculously - found the words he needed to say. Though that was all he uttered, it had always been like that. Whenever Harry and Ron had argued in their years of friendship all they had to do afterwards was say that one word and all was forgiven and forgotten - most of the time anyway. With Hermione, it had, of course, always been different. She had been brought up with the idea that both sides should explain their behaviour and analyze where it went wrong, in order to forgo any of the same miscommunications or arguments in the future. Harry and she had learned and grown closer from these moments of honesty. Ron on the other hand... She had never gotten the impression that he wanted to forgo anything. He lived his life in such a different way as she did. And that was fine, really, it just did not make things easier between them. And it had taken Hermione until these days at the Cottage to truly realize it, how big the difference between Ron and herself truly was.
One had to pick their battles. And Hermione decided that this one would not be worth her energy. Thus, her response was simple and matter of fact, "Let's not dwell on the past, hm?" She tore her eyes away from the waves to see the flabbergasted expression on Ron's face.
Harry too was slightly surprised and he tried to read Hermione's body language carefully. Nothing told him that there was still anger in her, that her words were untrue. It looked more to him like she no longer cared enough about the argument, or maybe even going so far as that she no longer cared enough about Ron and tried - unconsciously or not - to put distance between the two of them.
He was not sure which one was the cause. What Harry did know was how he had seen and experienced slight changes in Hermione's behaviour, which had first caught his attention just before the start of the Horcrux hunt. During their months of camping, he had seen how annoyance would flash in her eyes, yet she would still try her best to keep the peace. And there was the fact that she had stopped to mother them altogether; these changes had not manifested themselves all at once, but gradually.
Since Malfoy Manor more drastic changes in Hermione's behaviour had shown. For example, she no longer rolled her eyes whenever she thought someone asked her a question of which the answer was painfully obvious - in her opinion. Nor did she participate in most conversations that happened around her, except when she was directly spoken to. Thereby came the fact that she seemed to have lost some of her inner fire. 'Inner fire' being her desire to prove others her knowledge and skill. Truth be told Harry was not certain these last few were such good changes, he was worried about her, knew that the torture may not have broken her intellect but had nonetheless broken something in her being. Then again, Hermione had glowed with pride when she had duelled him and the others. Maybe I have become too overprotective lately?
But he was not blind, nor stupid. This was not good; Hermione needed a form of help he could not provide.
There had been moments in which he had almost broached the topic with her, but somehow she had always known and send him a certain look which made him close his mouth and instead scoot closer to lean his forehead against hers or to wrap an arm around her shoulders.
Time will tell, I guess. That is, if we are granted such a luxury, he thought bitterly.
Harry's eyes went to Ron, who still had a shocked expression. He had clearly not been as observant, despite his feelings for Hermione. Love blinds people, Harry thought sagely. He had to keep himself from snorting out loud at his own thoughts.
Ron cleared his throat again, two pairs of eyes looked at him in an instant. He blushed slightly at the intensity of those light brown eyes and averted his gaze forward again before he said, "Let's talk about the other elephant in the room, guys. Our mission..."
Harry nodded, "Yes, the longer we stay here, the more dangerous it becomes for the others."
"Hermione?" Ron said.
"Yes?"
"Have you thought about it?" He referred to the plan they had told Hermione about once she had been stable for a few days.
"Of course, how couldn't I?" She said with a sigh, "Unfortunately I can't think of any alternative ways. Bellatrix has given us an undeniable lead. Whether this is a trap - which is likely, but we could never know for certain - or a slip of the mouth... We will have to see when we get there, I guess.
"And... what else is there we could do? Brood over what other objects could be a Horcrux? No, I think our situation is dire enough as it is. It's unwise to wait any longer. I feel fit and as ready as one can be in our situation." She took a breath, creating a pause to let her words sink in, then she continued, "But I don't like the idea in the slightest. We will, quite literally, be walking right into the lion's den.
"Bellatrix goes over the extremes to please her Lord... Which makes me believe that He is not informed of the fact that she has, unknowingly or not, slipped information to us. Her Lord would be so disappointed in her, otherwise." She drawled the last statement with heavy sarcasm. He would not be disappointed; He would be furious, murderous, and Bellatrix would most likely not be spared the consequences.
Despite everything that had happened to Hermione at the hands of the Death Eater, she believed that no one should be killed mercilessly, no matter what they had done. Someone's life was not something others should decide over. Who gave anyone the right to play for God?
She pressed her lips tightly together as she began to ponder about where one should draw the line. What about people with terminal and mental illnesses? Had they not the right to ask for death given in a safe form at the hands of a doctor? She doubted that euthanasia was truly as bad as some said it was. Then again, was it just another way for people to have the reassuring feeling that they are in control of something, of their own lives?
She considered a Dementor's kiss so much worse than euthanasia. People would still be forced to live afterwards, as hollow husks of their former selves, unable to form a coherent speech, unable to communicate how they felt and what they desired - that is, if there was any desire left in them. And, as if that was not enough, they were doomed to live to the end of their lives as these husks locked up somewhere in Azkaban. The mere thought made shivers trail over her body. Hermione had been close to Dementors on several unlucky occasions during the time that they had swarmed Hogwarts in search of Padfoot and she had no desire to imagine how it would feel to be holed up in barbarian conditions and in the constant presence of creatures who drained you from any happy memory or feeling one could have.
While her mind was occupied, Ron nodded quietly.
"Right," Harry said, determination clear in his voice, "we should head straight to Griphook when we return to the Cottage." His eyes followed Hermione's gaze to the sea and he said, suddenly with a lighter tone, "Let's get completely soaked."
Hermione looked at him, her face not showing the slightest change in emotion and said, "You are serious, aren't you?"
Ron clapped their mutual friend on the shoulder, shook his head with a disbelieving smile as if he was about to disagree to the odd notion, then he sprinted ahead and shouted over his shoulder that the last to have gone completely underwater was a prude. Harry dashed after him.
Hermione watched them go, she was hesitant. Her thoughts returned to their next step - the break-in into Gringotts. For a moment she wondered why Harry and Ron had changed from serious adults to goofy teenagers in the blink of an eye. Then apprehension dawned. Acknowledging the thoughts she had voiced aloud about Bellatrix and her vault, had been a difficult reality to all three of them. Their next step was something no one really wanted to do - who would? - and agreeing to Hermione's words would make their plan look like a suicide mission. Which it was. They just refused to accept it and instead indulged themselves in a moment of giddy, if somewhat childish, fun.
She ran a hand through her hair, a frown of worry on her face as she watched Harry dive into the water, Ron already emerged to the surface and turned around to beckon her with a big grin plastered on his face.
No, she would not follow them into the water. It was probably freezing.
Then she realized that she could be dead by tomorrow.
It made her sprint towards them at a dead run. As if Hell was about to swallow her up from underneath. It did not matter that she was last in the water, Ron had always been of the opinion that she was a prude anyway.
They splashed around for a bit, but the water was ice cold and it drove them out within a few minutes. Warming charms helped nothing against the wind that went right through magic and clothes and made goosebumps appear all over their body, shivers followed suit. If they did not go inside the Cottage fast their body temperature would become too low.
As they arrived before the house Harry said he wanted to see Dobby's grave before going inside. Hermione became rigid, fear of seeing Fleur rushed through her body, yet she followed him without any objections. Ron looked longingly at the house once, before he tracked their footsteps over the fence and into the garden.
Hermione's fears vanished for the biggest part when Fleur was nowhere to be found; that is, not in the garden.
The trio stood next to one another. Dobby's gravestone was carved with a clumsy hand, a sad amusement settled in Hermione as her eyes fell upon it. Her sight travelled downward. A few sprouts had come up near the stone. Which was rather peculiar, since the ground here was not very fertile - it was mostly sand. She crouched down and gently patted the small leaves. "I hope that these will bloom in beautiful flowers. That is the least he deserves," she said.
Luna's voice reached their ears as the Ravenclaw walked towards them and crouched next to Hermione, "I am quite certain these are flowers known by the name Phlox. Remember that I told you I was searching for seeds? Sadly enough I could not find any. Thus, when William went to the herbalist in the nearby village I joined him and the woman gave me some seeds from her own garden. A very sweet gesture, don't you think?" All nodded in agreement. Luna picked Hermione's hand that had just caressed the plants and gently pressed it with the palm flat upon the earth, "Do you feel that?"
Hermione closed her eyes and frowned in concentration. After a dozen seconds like this, she began to feel the slightest pulse of magical energy underneath her fingers. A smile graced her lips when she opened her eyes and it was mirrored by Luna, who elaborated, "That is the thrum of the magic that is bound to Dobby's body. Which is the cause of the fast growth of these seeds. His energy fertilizes the ground surrounding him and will do so for many more years to come, maybe even to times in which we won't be alive anymore. So it doesn't matter that the Phlox is a plant that normally doesn't grow in the dunes, for it gets more than enough minerals from Dobby's energy.
"Graves of magical beings are generally easily recognizable. Because they most often have an abundance of plants and flowers about them, unless, of course, there are charms placed upon the gravestones to keep that from happening.
"There was a period in which I often visited my mother's grave alone; it was a hard time for me and being close to my mother helped me understand."
"Understand what?" Ron asked at once.
Hermione shot him a warning look over her shoulder, he should not have asked, it was far too personal.
The Ravenclaw was silent for a moment and picked a bit of earth from Hermione's hand which still laid on the ground, then she continued as if no one had asked her anything, "Upon my mother's grave stood the most beautiful flowers, colours from the whole palette. It always gave me a sense of warmth, despite the fact that I was there on my own. I would imagine how all those leaves would create protection against the rain so that my mother wouldn't grow wet. That she could lay there in peace."
The Muggle-born wrapped her arms around Luna and hugged her tightly. Their position was slightly uncomfortable, but she had seen the tears appearing in Luna's eyes and felt two hands clutch at her sweater, they sat like this for a while. No one said anything. And the trio ignored the cold that still clung to them as best they could.
A soft chuckle made Hermione loosen her grip and she looked with a hesitant smile at Luna. Whose eyes had become red, yet behind her hand she hid her small smile, "I am glad that you can laugh again."
"You three have been in the sea, with all your clothes on, I only realize this now that my own clothes started to grow wet thanks to yours."
"Oh, I didn't think about it. I am s-"
"Don't be. I hope that the swim was as refreshing as rain can be?" Luna shook her head and looked up at Harry and Ron, who both nodded with slightly awkward smiles on their faces. "One can really enjoy the experience of soaking themselves when they know a warm home awaits them afterwards, don't you think? Also, Fleur has a small surprise for you, I helped with the preparation."
The Ravenclaw hummed as she led the group into the kitchen, with Hermione's hand in hers as if she had felt the Muggle-born's unwillingness to go inside.
"Eet ees good to see that you three are completely soaked, 'elps to keep one refreshed, non?" Fleur said lightly. "Still, I wouldn't like a puddle of seawater to form itself een my kitchen; run upstairs to put some fresh clothes on. Then, all you 'ave to do ees follow the scent of 'ot cocoa. Do take your wet clothes back down, they need to be washed."
They did not need to be told twice. And before long Harry and Ron had reappeared. Hermione took a bit longer, for she had to wash the salty water out of her hair, but soon she too came back down in another set of Fleur's clothes. Warm and clean.
They all sat around the kitchen table, a light conversation filled the air. They were told that William and Dean had gone to Muriel's house. To prepare for the rehousing. The Muggle-born had no idea what to do regarding Fleur, so she did not say anything directly at her and avoided looking at her at all costs. It felt stupid to do so, but she got the feeling Fleur avoided looking at her just as badly.
Luna was the first to walk away from the table and disappeared back into the garden. Harry immediately pounced on the opportunity and focussed his eyes on the quarter-Veela, "If it's alright with you we would like to talk to both Griphook and Ollivander?" He asked this politely, yet in his eyes, everyone could see that he would not abide a no.
To his and Ron's surprise, the woman nodded and said, "I know." She took another sip, her eyes upon Harry's.
"Why don't you seem surprised, like, at all?" Ron asked. Harry wondered the same thing.
At this question, Hermione grew fidgety with her fingers and the mug in her hands, she cleared her throat, "Actually, that's my doing. I overheard William speak to Fleur about settling both Griphook and Ollivander in Muriel's a few days ago. So I took Fleur aside and asked if it was possible to wait a few more days." She had forgotten to tell them about this completely. Ron looked at her in alarm, it prompted her to continue, "And no, I have told her nothing else. Who do you think I am, Ron?" A silly smile appeared on his face as the Muggle-born shoved his shoulder lightly.
Fleur watched the interaction. Her mood had not been very pleasant since the incident in the garden this morning, but after Harry's question just now her heart was heavy with worry. This could only mean one thing: the trio would leave soon.
How was she supposed to let them go all on their own? What would they do if Hermione had another setback, what if she would collapse again? In the days they had been here she had gotten the impression that Harry and Ron knew few to nothing about healing spells and potions.
To keep herself from asking these and many more questions Fleur drank the last of her cocoa. She licked her lips and the corners of her mouth clean, during which she ignored Ron's blatant staring, looked at Harry and nodded her approval. She stood up and gathered the mugs to put them in the sink and said, "You know the way."
The trio did not wait. They ascended the stairs; Harry took the lead and knocked on the door of Griphook's room. A grunt came immediately afterwards, then a stumble and a few steps before the door was finally opened.
Hermione had not seen Goblins often in her life, actually only twice - thrice if one counted Professor Flitwick among them, with his Goblin ancestors, but he looked human with only the height of a Goblin. In the summer before her first year at Hogwarts Minerva had taken her to Gringotts to make a bank account, that had obviously been her first time ever seeing these creatures.
She had been too impressed and overwhelmed to really be aware of their appearance. The second time had been at Malfoy Manor, but Hermione had been too caught up in her own pain to be able to observe Griphook then.
Their current situation was a whole different story, now that she stood beside Harry and looked down upon a pair of black beady eyes, Hermione could not help but feel an unease grip her. Griphook looked at them with an expression akin to angry dislike, yet it missed that last dangerous flash.
Still, she made for the windowsill once they were allowed inside. To be as far from the bed, on which Griphook seated himself, as possible. She could not help but notice that the curtains were drawn tightly shut, even though the sky had cleared after her storm had completely flown over. Is this usual behaviour for a Goblin, to create as much darkness in a room as possible? Hermione could not remember seeing any windows in Gringotts, thus, it was a possibility. A soft sigh escaped her as she leaned back against the window, the curtains between her and the glass, her hands on the wooden sill on either side of her.
She studied the Goblin intently. The night of the torture was still vivid in her mind and she knew that Griphook had been brought into the ballroom when she had said the sword to be a fake, but she had not really taken interest in him to look at his features back then. Even so, she knew the gashes that adorned his face were not from his work in Gringotts and they looked too raw to be older than a few weeks. With magic, one could heal to a certain extent, but one's body still had to heal as well. These wounds had to be Bellatrix' doing.
Ron took a seat in the chair and Harry stood at the footboard of the bed, his eyes glued on the Sword of Gryffindor that was propped against the wall. A haughty sniff from Griphook made him look away from it, a frown slowly settled on his face.
The Muggle-born watched hopelessly as a strange sort of tension filled the air, there was nothing she could do about it.
Nevertheless, Harry asked about the Goblin's wellbeing before anything else. Ever the gentleman, she thought fondly.
A grumble, then Griphook spoke, "I am fine, at least I can walk again. Took damned long, though."
"You probably don't remember – " he began.
" – that I was the Goblin who showed you to your vault, the first time you ever visited Gringotts? I remember, Harry Potter. Even among Goblins, you are very famous."
The two eyed each other. And Hermione watched their exchange with rapt attention.
Griphook broke the silence. "You buried the Elf... I watched you, from the window of my previous bedroom."
"Yes."
Griphook blinked, Hermione noted it was the first time he did so since they had entered the room. "You are an unusual wizard, Harry Potter."
"In what way?"
"You dug the grave."
"So?"
The Muggle-born could barely keep from rolling her eyes at these two. She could not fathom why Harry and Griphook felt the need to prove each other something, and it puzzled her what this something was; it annoyed her, slightly. They made the conversation so much more challenging than it had to be.
Yet she did not interrupt, she did not even stir. Aware that this was something Harry wanted to do on his own, without her opinions voiced aloud. Thus, she listened as the conversation grew more heated. Mostly due to the argument that sparked to life when Ron mingled himself within it. Their argument being about whom of their species had more right to be upset: wizardkind, for they were denied knowledge about the Goblin Forge or Goblins, who were not permitted the use of wands nor anything else regarding wandlore.
However, at some point, Griphook went too far, " ...and who among the wand-carriers protests?"
"We do!" Fire blazed in her eyes as she continued on in one breath, "We protest! And I'm hunted quite as much as any Goblin or Elf, Griphook! For I'm a Mudblood!"
Ron shifted a bit in his chair as he muttered, "Don't call yourself – "
"And why shouldn't I? Mudblood and proud of it! I've no higher position under this new order than you have, Griphook! It was me they chose to torture, back at the Malfoys'!" She pulled the sleeve up her arm to show the bandages, blood spots were visible (swimming in the ocean had not done any good to the wounds). Then she pointed to the scar on her throat, it was not as prominent anymore as the first few days, but it was likely to remain a line visible for the rest of her life. "Did you know that it was Harry who set Dobby free? Did you know that we've wanted Elves to be freed for years? You cannot want You-Know-Who defeated more than we do, Griphook!"
She looked straight into the Goblin's eyes and silently dared him to protest again. There came none, instead, she was given a curious stare, as if he saw her for the first time. It was gone in a second and he abruptly turned back towards Harry and asked him what he sought in the Lestrange's vault.
It did not go unnoticed by Hermione that Harry rubbed his lightning scar in an absentmindedly manner, whilst he asked Griphook about other possible objects within the vault. Is Harry having visions again? Or is it his fidgety habits kicking in?
Distrust oozed from Griphook as he told them that a certain code from Gringotts kept him from telling them anything about the content of any vault.
And again, as if a switch was turned off and on, his demeanour changed and he averted his eyes back to Hermione. She looked right back at him, her face void of emotions except for a sincere interest. Black beady eyes turned then to Ron but soon glided to Harry. When he spoke again it was with a sort finality to it, "So young, to be fighting so many."
"Will you help us?" Harry asked. "We haven't got any hope of breaking in without the help of a Goblin. You are our one chance."
"I shall... think about it," Griphook said as his eyes landed on the sword propped against the wall.
"But - "
The Muggle-born kicked one of the legs of the chair to draw Ron's attention, to stop him before he would say something foolish again.
"Thank you, we will no longer bother you," Harry said and lead the other two to the landing. Hermione turned around to look at him as Harry shut the door behind them, the Sword of Gryffindor securely in his hand. She was impressed by his mostly cool nature during the conversation and said as much. Which made him smile slightly. Ron did not share the moment, instead, he muttered darkly, "Little git, he's enjoying keeping us hanging."
Hermione countered, "Maybe he does, but don't forget that what we are asking of him goes against his code of honour, by helping us he breaks laws which he has vowed to protect for the rest of his life. Not to mention the dangers we are likely to face." She had not snapped this at him, nor did she sound bossy. Her voice was fairly neutral, despite the fact that she clearly hoped that Ron would try to see the situation from the Goblin's point of view. And it was likely the difference that made him keep quiet as he put his hands in his pockets.
Harry nodded before he knocked on the other door. He had to do so a second time before they heard something happening in the room. Ollivander grinned at seeing them and beckoned them inside. Hermione transfigured the same vase into a chair and sat down, Harry took Ollivander's chair and Ron sat carelessly down on the carpet. Whilst the old man made himself comfortable on his bed. When he was settled with his cushion between his back and the wall he asked, "How can I help you?"
Harry did not respond and his eyes were unfocussed, in fact, Hermione was quite certain that he was still with his head in the conversation with Griphook. She nudged Ron with one foot though he had already seen it and gave Harry's leg a tap. The latter blinked.
"Harry, show him your wand," Hermione said.
He nodded and got from the pouch around his neck his own broken wand. He handed it carefully to the wandmaker and asked if he would be able to repair it. Though the moment after he had asked it, he felt regret blossom in his chest, for Ollivander's facial features told him everything he needed to know.
"Holly, with a Phoenix feather as the core. Eleven inches. Unable to mend this. I am very sorry, but I don't think that any wandmaker could be capable of such a feat," Ollivander whispered dejectedly. He muttered on, but it was too soft and rapid for the trio to understand his words.
There was a moment of silence wherein Harry debated with himself whether he should or should not ask the next question and if he should then how could he best formulate it. At some point, he decided that the answers to the questions were not important to their cause and he feared they would only distraught the old man, unnecessarily so. There was only one more question he really needed an answer to, though this one was just as likely to upset Ollivander.
"Mister, do you know if You-Know-Who is after the Elder Wand?"
Hermione watched with a pang of regret as all the colour was drained from Ollivander's face with this single question. The man's hands tightened around the broken wand as if it would still be capable of protecting him if need be.
"H-How –"
"It doesn't matter, sir, please, give me an answer. That is all I need to know."
Hermione understood Ollivander's fear, for Harry had told them about the visions he had gotten from the Voldemort as the man had tortured the wandmaker. She thought it tactless of Harry to ask about this so blatantly, but then again, was there any good way to ask it? In all honesty, she doubted it. Other, softer approaches to the subject would just take longer and would distract them all. Which made Harry's direct approach the best he could have done.
"I... I... Yes," Ollivander whispered, his eyes were as round as saucers and were filled with fear. "He t-t-tortured me for information..."
"Thank you, we know enough then," Harry said and tried to smile reassuringly before he stood up and left through the door. Ron followed him after he had nodded respectfully at Ollivander.
Hermione did not follow at once, for she did not want to leave the old man in such a state of shock. Instead, she sat down on the edge of the mattress and looked at Ollivander with the same warmth in her eyes she had gotten from him the day before. He looked at her for a dozen seconds, in which she thought he slightly calmed. And she was about to reassure him with a kind word, when he grasped her hands and whispered, "Be careful, sweet girl. You-Know-Who is an evil man. And I want to honour my promise to you; I want to reopen my shop and have the pleasure to help you with the search for your own wand."
She smiled and nodded, "Thank you, Mister Ollivander.
"And don't mind Harry's direct approach on the subject, he is troubled by something. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Of course, of course, the boy has a lot on his mind, I can imagine." He said and squeezed her hands, the sad smile was unable to reach through the fear that was still evident in his eyes. "Do stay alive, Miss Granger."
"I will try my best, sir. Have a good day." She stood up to join her friends, but Ollivander would not let her hands go before he squeezed them one last time. It felt to her as if his manner was one of a parent, it made a lump form in her throat, one she could not swallow away. She nodded and gave a last wave at the door.
Ron was not on the landing when she closed the door behind her, he had likely gone downstairs, but Harry had waited for her and together they went to the first floor and sat down in Luna and Hermione's room. Each sat on the edge of one bed, so they could face each other.
"What do you think about Griphook?" asked Harry, whilst he looked at the sword in his hand. The light that came from outside gleamed down upon it and made it shine as if there was electricity within it.
"Not so much, to be honest. He is a person with his own quirks. What we asked him is not something to be considered lightly, so is it really that strange that he needs to ponder about the plan?" Hermione shrugged, then she tapped Harry's foot with her own and said lightly, "You can't expect others to jump at the opportunity to help fight against You-Know-Who, even though you would do just that. Don't you know that by now, Harry?"
"Yeah, yeah." He said non-committedly, "Yet you and Ron pushed yourselves on me at the start of this blasted hunt."
"And I am glad I did, the amount of times I have saved your ass with one spell or another is ridiculous."
A barky laugh and a thrown pillow were the answers she got. The Muggle-born threw it right back. Harry grinned and set it back on the bed as he asked, "What about your Beaded Bag?"
"What about it?" She asked and then continued, "You know I lost it. I don't know who has it now, if it wasn't destroyed."
"I know, but is there a replacement? I mean, we need a place to keep all that we have together."
A glimmer appeared in Hermione's eyes as she grabbed blindly underneath her bed. And as she got what she needed and brought it up for Harry to admire she could not help but smile. In her hands, she held a small shoulder bag, made of black leather and with a barely visible pattern of flowers upon it. This was an old bag from Fleur, which she wanted the trio to use during the rest of their mission. The Muggle-born told Harry that she had enchanted the bag with the same spells as the previous one. Even though there was not that much to put in it. Currently, it contained a small stash of potions, a new tent and enough canned food to last them a few weeks if they eat sparingly.
Harry perked up at the information, the tension in his shoulders grew slightly less obvious. He nodded his head to the door, "Let's go downstairs, I need a drink."
In the kitchen, Hermione rummaged in the pantry to look for a Calming Draught, not for herself, but for Ollivander. The old man had clearly still been unsettled when she had walked away, a little calm would not be unwise for his health. She found it and set it on the counter, then took a glass from one of the cupboards and filled it with water. Only when that was done did she hear the stomping sound on the stairs. Hermione turned around with a question evident on her face, Harry - who sat on a chair at the kitchen table, with a cup of tea in hand - looked up as well. Ron was somewhere in the living room, talking to Fleur.
From where each sat or stood they could see the stairs and they watched as Griphook appeared. The Goblin stayed in the hall and let his eyes travel to the living room, then those beady black eyes travelled into the kitchen and looked from Hermione to Harry. At last, he croaked, loud and clear, "I'll do it." And without another word, he walked to the front door and disappeared from view.
There was a moment of total silence in the house, in which Harry and Hermione looked at each other. Then suddenly the trio began to gather all their stuff. Hermione hastily scribbled a note to go with the glass of water, telling the wandmaker that she had dripped a bit of the Calming Draught in it and banished it upstairs, to land upon the bedside table. Afterwards, she summoned the shoulder bag and their few toiletries that were scattered in the rooms upstairs, all whilst she put on her boots.
When they had everything the trio stood in the hall, gazing at each other in bewilderment. That had gone a lot faster than expected. "I... Luna," Hermione whispered and started to walk to the garden. A hand around her wrist held her in the hall for a moment longer, she looked at Harry expectantly.
"Be quick," he said, "and say goodbye for me."
She answered in a whisper, "Only if you thank Fleur for me as well, for everything that they have done for us."
Harry nodded, a glimmer of sad confusion in his eyes as he did. He wondered for the second time what had happened in the morning that made Fleur and Hermione act so indifferent towards each other. It was like their friendship had never existed. He made a mental note that he would ask about the reason for this change.
As she had suspected she found the Ravenclaw in the garden. When Luna saw her a smile appeared on her lips, though it vanished once she saw the seriousness on Hermione's face.
Luna stood up from her spot and was halfway turned to face Hermione when the older one threw her arms around her. She hugged her friend with a certain desperation. And she was glad to feel two arms tighten around her with just as much strength.
"You are important to me," Hermione whispered as she hid her face in Luna's blonde hair. Knowing that she could be facing her death within a few hours spurred Hermione to voice what neither of them had dared to say all these years, "You and Harry are my dearest friends. Please take care of yourself, don't let Death Eaters - nor anyone else, for that matter - capture you again."
The Muggle-born could hear the smile in Luna's voice, "Don't forget that Death Eaters are humans too, Hermione. Forgetting such a crucial thing could make things worse." The Ravenclaw began to loosen her grip, as she did she planted a kiss on Hermione's cheek and caressed the other cheek with her hand. Her eyes held sadness in them, but it was smothered by the appearance of conviction, "I believe in your triumph."
Hermione nodded, glad to hear the words, "I've to go now." And with that, she went into the kitchen, walked tentatively to the hallway, debating for the last time if she really should not go to say goodbye to Fleur in person, and finally made for the front door. Too late did she realize that she had forgotten to pass Harry's goodbye to Luna. Outside, Harry, Ron and Griphook waited for her. Together they made their way to the dunes, Hermione did not look back at Shell Cottage, afraid she would not be able to go through with the plan.
William returned to the house to find his wife seated in the living room, she sat in a corner of the couch whilst she stared at the fire. In her lap laid her own journal on the Cruciatus Curse, open at the last written page. Clearly, she had intended to continue writing on it, yet no quill was near the paper. In fact, it lay uselessly on the ground. The inkwell unopened and toppled beside it.
The house was eerily quiet in comparison to what he had grown to expect and had even gotten used to. He knew at once what had happened.
He sat down beside her and put his hand on her knee to garner her attention. She stirred and blinked. There were no tears in her eyes, but he saw that they were red-rimmed and slightly puffy. Her dark blue eyes showed fear, fear of what was to come. And he could not blame her, only a fool would live without fear in times such as these.
"They will be alright, honeys," he said and smiled reassuringly.
His words did not work, for she said, "You don't know that, no one does... What will 'appen to them?"
She took in a shaky breath and steeled herself. The words that followed were said like a promise, "We 'ave to do something. I can no longer 'ide. I am a Delacour, for Merlin's sake!"
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