34 – Cold Spell
Hermione took an involuntary step back as she pulled out of Pansy's mind and stumbled. Harry reached out and steadied her. For a moment she thought she was going to throw up, then her eyes raised up and focused on Pansy's face. Pansy was glaring at her, a silent taunt in her eyes. Hermione stood up a little taller, and swallowed down the bile. She wasn't going to be weak in front of Pansy. She flipped her hair back, then stilled as a wave of dizziness swept through her. If she stayed here much longer she was going to do something embarrassing.
She needed to get away. Now.
"Harry, she's got a good reason to hide. I'll pensieve it."
"That's not for you to pass around for fun," Pansy snapped.
"Trust me, it's not fun. If you want out of this dungeon, I'll have to share it." Something passed over Pansy's face, then her usual snobbish look was back. Of course, she was mortified to have anyone see what Hermione had seen, let alone classmates who had hated her. Hermione relented. "I won't show it to anyone unnecessarily. Are you okay?"
"Just peachy," Pansy snapped, slumping down in her chair.
"Harry, can you finish up here? I'll meet you upstairs." Harry gave Hermione a questioning look, and she shook her head ever so slightly. He knew this was strange, to leave him here alone with Pansy, but Pansy wouldn't know. She had to get out of here or Pansy would be able to tell how shaken she was.
Harry cast a 'muffilato.' "Are you okay?"
Hermione just shook her head quickly. Pansy was watching. Harry understood.
"Any more questions you want me to cover?" he asked.
"No," she said and headed for the door, her hand pausing on the handle. "Harry, can you . . . just . . . give her some place more comfortable to sleep." Pansy wasn't her favorite person, but she didn't deserve to be sleeping on a rock hard dungeon floor. Hermione pulled on the door, then realized, it wouldn't just open. She squeezed her eyes shut. She could barely think. She'd never be able to . . . .
"Expecto patronum," said Harry. The spell seemed almost effortless to him now. His patronus spoke the password. Hermione fled through the door, grateful that she hadn't had to explain that she couldn't summon a single happy thought right now.
She stopped and leaned back against the door, trying to gather herself. One thing at a time. She reached into her pocket and felt the cold metal of the coin. She clutched it tight and sent a message – "Draco, what was . . . ." His face, snarling and feral, popped into her mind. It was etched into her memory, taunting her. She flung the coin down the dismal hallway, feeling filthy for touching it. The bright gold rolled off into the darkness, disappearing around a corner.
Hermione followed it, staggering down the hall, feeling smothered by the dark stone, the thick smell of underground, the air heavy with flickers of intense magic. Her stomach heaved. She forgot the coin and broke into an almost run. She needed a bathroom, maybe just a rubbish bin. She stumbled, caught herself, then she was vomiting, her stomach clenching with pain since it was pretty much empty anyway. When she finally pulled herself together, she was on her knees. She sat back and tried to catch her breath, knowing that would help to keep the dry heaves from returning.
She'd seen worse than that before. Why was she falling apart? She vanished the filth on the floor, but the smell seemed to linger. She stood carefully, one hand on the wall for extra support. She cleaned her clothes, just to make sure, then did a quick cleansing spell on her own mouth. That taste was so horrible.
The memory hadn't even been complete. Obviously, Pansy had been obliviated, so the worst parts weren't there. That was a bit strange. At least he was human enough to be ashamed afterwards, to want to erase the memory, even though what he'd done was obvious. In the memory Pansy's eyes had lingered on the red skin, already darkening to bruises on her own arms, her breasts, her thighs. She'd stood in front of a mirror, her lip bleeding, hand prints on her neck, her cheek with a darkening stain. What kind of beast could do that? Do that to a woman who'd been his friend, his lover?
Hermione took a couple slow steps, then paused. She was still wobbly. Where was she even going? She looked up at a long staircase. The Great Hall was up one more level. Did she want to go there? Would anyone be there? What time was it anyway? There were no windows here, but it had to be nearly dawn.
Exhaustion hit her so hard that she was tempted to lie down in the middle of the floor. Instead, she sat heavily down on the bottom step, leaning against the wall.
Despite the hideousness of Pansy's injuries, Draco's twisted face was the part Hermione couldn't forget. He'd looked inhuman. Fear clutched at the center of her ribcage again just from the memory of his rage. Who was that? She didn't know him at all. He'd stood like a statue, his face hard, as he crucio'd his mother, his own mother. That was an unforgiveable. It couldn't be faked. You had to mean it.
The coin. She couldn't just leave it down here. Anyone might find it. She summoned it. Her magic was off. Instead of landing in her hand it clattered on the stone in front of her. Just as well. She didn't want to touch it.
"Confrigo." There. It was gone now, or at least melted into a formless lump of gold. There would be no more messages.
She dimly registered the sound of steps approaching. A quick cooling spell on the coin and she slipped what was left of it into her pocket. She waved her wand, then felt the ice cold of her own disillusionment spell sliding down over her. At least she could still do that. It should be good enough for the dim dungeon light. She couldn't face Kingsley right now. She couldn't face any one.
It was Harry. She almost wanted to talk to him, but what would she say? How could she . . . .
"Hermione?" Harry paused, as he was about to walk past her.
She had to answer him. "Harry." Her voice was flat, still scratchy from being sick. She flicked her wand feebly, but it was enough to remove the spell.
Harry turned and sat next to her. For several moments they said nothing, just sat and she felt a strange comfort from having him there.
Harry's hands were clasped in front of him, arms resting on his bent legs. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No. I want . . . obliviate me." She sat up a little. At least Harry would know she didn't mean that. Ron was more literal. He might actually hold up his wand and at least consider doing it. "Take everything. Today. Last night." How could she? How could she have fallen so easily into his trap? Fallen so completely? "Maybe you should take the last month or so."
'"It was Malfoy," Harry stated as he turned to look at her.
She could hardly meet his eyes, but she did. It wasn't really a question. He knew. She gave him a small nod anyway, as a wave of shame for her own stupidity swept through her.
"He . . . attacked Pansy?"
She nodded again.
"It was bad, then?"
Another nod, then she paused. "Yes, although . . . most of the memory wasn't there. He . . . apparently he obliviated her when he was done."
This time he nodded.
She went on. He needed to know this. "There was more. She showed me more. I think it was out of order. She showed me . . . they were in a cave. His mother was there. It was awful. He . . . he crucio'd her. His own mother. I've been so wrong. Such an idiot. I never . . . ." A sob broke through.
"You don't have to tell me." Harry scooted over and put his arm around her. "I can watch the memories later."
She struggled to pull herself together, afraid that if she started crying she'd never stop. Harry handed her a handkerchief that he'd conjured up and she wiped her nose, dried her tears.
"You actually need to watch that part . . . the part in the cave. Something weird happened . . . something with Old Ugly." She shuddered at the memory of elegant Narcissa Malfoy dead on the dirt floor of the cave.
"When was the last time you slept?" Harry's voice was gentle. He'd always been kind, but lately, since she and Ron broke up, he was almost motherly. "Are you hungry?"
"I couldn't eat." Even thinking about it was making her nausea flair. "I slept last night, well, night before, I guess."
"How about some Dreamless Sleep? We can deal with this all later."
"But where? Are we supposed to stay here tonight? Or . . . weren't we supposed to be sent . . . somewhere? And I can't sleep too long. We have to get ready for the Gringotts thing. I have to . . . ." What was she going to do? She couldn't work with him again. The visit to Harry's faked Gringotts vault was important, but there was no way she was going back to that cottage, no way she'd risk seeing his other side.
"You need to get some rest before you can do anything. Let's go. We'll find out where they want us to stay now." Harry stood and offered her his hand. She let him pull her up. She swayed a little as she got to her feet, then closed her eyes and fought to get her balance back.
"Who do we talk to?" Harry was right. She needed to focus on just one thing at a time.
She followed him, and stood silently while McGonagall called the new secret keeper over. It was Flitwick. He told them where Headquarters was. Of course, it was Grimmauld Place. How odd that she'd forgotten all about it for a while. The fidelius must be working then. Hermione didn't look at any of them. They'd know something was wrong, but she couldn't handle any questions yet.
She let Harry lead her. She drank the potion he gave her, although just a half dose. She couldn't sleep all day. She snuggled into her bed, letting unconsciousness take her, vaguely aware of Harry and Ron talking in the doorway.
The sunlight was streaming in through the window when she began to stir. Images were floating through her mind, almost dreams – her bedroom at home, the Gryffindor common room, fiend fyre fingers reaching for her, an elf pulling her into apparition, then . . . Draco's vicious face.
She sat abruptly, gasping for air.
Pansy.
She'd seen the real Malfoy now and she'd never forget it, no matter how much she wanted to. How could she have fallen for his lies so easily? She'd kissed him. Her stomach rolled. For the first time she was grateful that she had no visual memory of that.
She slid out of the bed, grabbing her wand and summoning her shoes. She checked herself in the mirror to make sure she was decent. A quick unrumpling spell and she looked fresher. At least she didn't look like she'd been sleeping in her clothes.
He was an excellent liar, an excellent actor really. It had been so much more than just lying. He must have known exactly how to play on her emotions, known his mother's death would touch her, known she'd believe all too easily that he'd changed, that he'd seen the error of his ways.
The real problem was her arrogance. She knew he was a skilled actor, a skilled liar, to be able to fool Voldemort. Why hadn't she even considered that he could just as easily fool her?
She had to tell them. She'd been played. They'd all been played. Whatever his game was, they needed to know.
Hermione reached the kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were gathering things onto the table.
"Hello, dear. Get some sleep?" Mrs. Weasley's sweet concern somehow summoned a rush of tears that Hermione only just held back. She turned away and began to make herself some tea.
"Some," she answered. Where was the Earl Grey? She needed something strong.
"Looking for tea?" Mrs. Weasley asked, and Hermione turned to see her gesturing to several boxes on the table. "Take some. We're just packing up some of our things. Moving everything back into . . . back into our place at last."
How long had they been living here? Hermione hadn't even noticed that they'd moved much of their kitchen here. Now they could go back to . . . what was it called?
"They'll tell you soon, I'm sure." Mr. Weasley was being gentle too.
The kitchen fell into a companionable silence as Hermione forced herself to focus on the simple steps of brewing a proper cup of tea. She filled the tea pot with fresh water, using an aguamenti since she didn't trust the ancient pipes of the Black abode. She set the pot to boiling then poured a bit into her cup to warm it up. Her mother had always done that. Her chest clenched with a longing for her parents. Maybe, after all of this was over, if she could, she'd go done to Australia, to join them. Maybe she wouldn't even restore their memories. It might be better to obliviate herself and join them in their carefree life. She sighed. She couldn't leave Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna, so many others, but it was a nice dream.
Once the tea bag and water were in her cup, she covered the cup with her saucer and leaned back against the counter to relax while the tea steeped. Her eyes drifted over the various items, boxed and unboxed, on the large table – pots, pans, utensils, a large bag of potatoes, some loose apples, and . . . a pensieve? It was hard to see, partially hidden by the potatoes, so she stepped over to it and started to run her hand over the runes on the edge, then pulled back.
"It's okay. You can touch it." Mr. Weasley had noticed her curiosity. "I brought it over for you anyway."
"I didn't know you had one. It is a pensieve, isn't it?"
"It was my mother's." Mrs. Weasley turned from the upper cabinets she'd been double checking. "She was a Fawley."
"It is one of a number of . . . more delicate items which we've kept hidden away from the kids. Who knows what chaos . . . ." He had been about to say 'Fred and George.' She knew from the abrupt way that he stopped, the falling of his face, and the fact that she had cut off her words like that several times herself.
Hermione just nodded, then remembered. "Wait. You said it was for me?"
His head came up. She tried not to notice how much older he looked. "Yes, yes. Harry said you have some . . . memories you wish to share. I thought it might help."
Harry came in, just as the tea was finished. He told her that she could just put her memories in the pensieve. It had been decided that he and Kingsley would view them.
"Mr. Weasley might want to see them too," she noted, remembering that he had been Narcissa Malfoy's contact. Narcissa's lifeless face flashed into her memory and she flinched. Without a word, she touched her own temple with her wand and removed the memories. Luckily she didn't have to see them again. She could just start when she and Harry entering Pansy's cell and end when she left.
As soon as the silvery essence was in the Pensieve she spoke, to no one in particular. "Do you mind if I . . . I think I'll wait in the library." Hermione didn't wait for a response. She couldn't bear to see their judgment when they finished, plus it was time to get back to researching, although what she most wanted to research now was whether she could somehow cleanse her memory, something to help her deal with the horrid things she'd seen, the stupid things she'd done.
She slipped into the outer sitting room, relieved that she'd avoided waking Walburga. The door to the library was there. At least it was still appearing for her. One fewer complication was appreciated today.
As soon as she entered the library the portrait of Hyacinth Black broke into a large and uncharacteristic smile. "Miss Granger! What an unexpected pleasure."
Hermione jolted, taking a small step backwards. Miss Black had apparently been missing their interactions. "Oh. Miss Black. It has been too long." The rote pleasantries fell easily off of her tongue.
"Delightful to see you again. What brings you to my little corner? A message perhaps? Something you wished to inscribe for . . . your contact."
Hermione began to reply, then her mind seized. What could she say? How could she explain everything that had happened? Did she need to warn Miss Black? Could he hurt her, hurt a portrait? Didn't she have a right to know what a monster he was? Otherwise she could make the same foolish mistake Hermione had made and trust him, even allow herself to . . . .
Without any warning whatsoever Hermione found herself letting out a hideous sob. She was suddenly crying, shaking. There was a low sofa behind her and she tried to sit on it, but missed and ended up crumpled on the floor, sobbing into her hands, wishing she could sink into the floor and disappear.
She wasn't sure how long she'd been crying when she became aware that Hyacinth was crooning over her, murmuring "Dear, dear, it's okay. Let it out," and other nonsensically comforting things.
"A tissue? Is there any tissue here?"
"Tissue?" Hyacinth didn't seem to know what she meant. "No, but there is a clean kerchief on the far table."
Hermione rose to her knees and wobbled over to the table where she proceeded to try to make herself at least somewhat presentable with the delicate little cloth. Luckily for her, Hyacinth didn't seem to need any further details.
"My poor dear. I hold myself responsible. I should have warned you to keep far away from that family. All of them, the men, they are despicable. Nothing but uncivilized beasts, capable of anything."
Her words burned into Hermione, reminding her again and again of her mistakes, but at least she didn't need to relive what she'd seen. Finally, she gave Hyacinth a watery nod, pulled herself together, and said, in a shaky voice, "Thank you so much for your kindness. I do need to take a look around, finish up some research."
"Not to worry. Please do let me know if you need any assistance, well, any of the sort that I could provide."
Hermione gave her a grateful nod, then stood and pushed back her shoulders. She needed to get a hold of herself. There was work to be done. A few minutes later she was growing very frustrated. She'd never been able to discern any meaningful pattern to the books here, but it hadn't bothered her too much before. She'd always been able to find something interesting. Today however, her emotions were too raw and she didn't have the patience to just putter through completely random titles. There was the "History of the Latter Goblin Rebellion" shelved next to "Dangerous Love: Avoid the Temptations of Forbidden Potions." Just below that she found "The Early Roots of Quidditch," "It's a Charmed Life," and "A Giant Genealogy." Maybe she'd be better off going back to the Hogwarts library.
Should she ask Hyacinth for help? What would she ask her though? For a book on how to forget things? No. If that's all she wanted she could simply have someone obliviate her. That wasn't quite it. She needed to remember. She needed to learn from this, to never be so naïve again. Did she want something to take away the sting? Was there such a thing? Ron would recommend a stiff drink of firewhiskey. Maybe that wasn't a bad idea.
Her eyes fell to a lower shelf – "Purification – Spells to Cleanse Your Soul." A shiver ran down her back. That sounded . . . ominous somehow, but also . . . it might be what she needed. She pulled the book out. Its deep navy cover was spotless. Of course it was. It was probably just a dirt repelling charm.
She opened it up and ran her finger down the table of contents. At least it had a table of contents. A lot of the books, the older ones, but even some of the more recent ones, didn't have a table of contents. Almost none of them had an index. The wizarding world could be so strange. The chapter titles were intriguing though: 1. Aquinas and the Immortal Soul, 2. A Tattered Cloth, 3. The Heavy Price of a Damaged Soul. No wonder the book sounded eerie. This was horcrux territory. Still, she tucked it under her arm. If nothing else, it would be a distraction. Hopefully, nothing she'd done was serious enough to have actually damaged her soul. Not like that.
A little while later she'd added "Put It Away for Now: Using Your Pensieve to Manage Your Thoughts," "Advanced Calming Charms," and, just because she couldn't resist, "House Elves Through the Ages." A deep bong from an ancient clock in the corner, drew her eye and she was amazed to see it was already two o'clock. She never meant to spend more than an hour in the library, although it was all too easy to lose time here. With a sigh, she bid Hyacinth goodbye and headed back out to the hall. Hopefully, no one had been looking for her. She'd forgotten that the others couldn't reach her while she was in the library.
Sure enough, when she reached the kitchen, Harry and Ron were sitting there, munching on a plate of Molly's cookies. Judging from the aroma, they were fresh made, but Hermione's appetite hadn't come back.
"We knew you'd come out eventually," said Ron. One look at him, and Hermione knew Harry had filled him in. That was a relief since she wasn't up to it. Judging from his calm demeanour he hadn't figured out exactly how involved she'd become with Malfoy. Fine. He never needed to know then.
Hermione sat down at the table and Harry gave her a gentle pat on the arm. "We've got a meeting with Kingsley at 4:00."
"Who?" she asked.
"You, me, Ron, Bill and McGonagall."
She gave him a questioning look. "It's to decide what to do about Gringotts."
She bit her lip. Everything was such a mess now. "What are our options?" she asked.
"Do it or don't do it."
"How can we do it? I'm not going to . . . ."
"Don't worry. They're not going to ask you to talk to," he glanced at her, then continued, "be the contact anymore." She knew he was coddling her, avoiding even saying Malfoy's name. She couldn't decide if she was grateful or resentful. Maybe she did need to be coddled a bit, just for a while.
"You're not going near that bastard," Ron growled.
Hermione slumped back into her chair and let out a deep breath.
"Did you, did you watch the . . . ." Her voice faltered. How many people had seen those memories? She'd told Pansy she wouldn't let just anyone see them. Was Ron 'just anyone'?
"No. Harry told me about it." Somehow that, knowing he hadn't actually seen the memories, was better. "We oughta grab the creep. We know he's going to be at Gringotts. We could throw him in a cell. Give Parkinson his wand and let her . . . "
"We won't get another chance like this," Harry interrupted. "We can plant ideas in Snake Nose's head, give us the chance to finally confront him."
He said 'us,' but Hermione knew he meant himself. Harry was aching to face his nemesis.
"Ron, Harry's right. We need to see if we can still make this work."
"Fine," Ron said, standing so that he could pace. "We give it a go. Maybe we can still make it work. If it doesn't . . . the worst that can happen is Old Ugly finds out he was a spy, trying to set him up, then he kills him slowly for us."
An image of Draco lying unconscious and battered on the floor of his cottage jumped into her brain, his hand hardly human, his face squeezed in pain. She shouldn't care. He was a monster. She should want him to suffer.
Ron hadn't been there. He hadn't seen his pain. Despite everything, she couldn't let that happen to him again.
AN – Since these chapters are coming so far apart, I wanted to mention that rereading Chapter 5 – Execution could be helpful, since the memories referred come from that chapter. Or don't. However, one way or the other I always love to read your reviews.