Chapter Twenty-Three: As the Old Crow Sings, So Sings Its Fledglings.
Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by J. K. Rowling, or her publishing company, or Warner Brothers.
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'On a Monday afternoon two days ago the British Wizarding Community lost a pillar. Lady Shafiq, a witch of undeniably exemplary breeding and reputation, was murdered in a public, disgraceful manner by an unlawful, extant hybrid specimen from Albania. This all, of course, occurred during the Ceremony of Flowers. A timeless tradition in refined, Wizarding society since the 1740's. A member of the Witch's League, Lady Shafiq dedicated many years of her life to ensuring the preservation of Wizarding tradition. Her generous volunteering efforts at St. Mungo's, donations to the Ministry during the Blood War, and work as an Auror during Grindelwald's reign of terror will have a lasting legacy. Her final sacrifice only stands as a testament to that reputation.
Lady Shafiq gave her own life to save Hermione Granger's.
This hybrid beast, of a species officially known as the Anguigena, or the Snake-born, positioned itself beneath the podium. Allegedly, it managed to penetrate the Fawley's wards with an incredibly dark artifact imbued with the blood of newborn children. The magical signature was traced back to an Albanian Wizard whom Aurors reportedly found dead in a forest. Apparently having been subjected to immensely powerful, mind-altering magic. Per usual, the Albanian government has denied any involvement and refuses to provide assistance to the British Ministry in investigating this matter. Threatening, for the umpteenth time, to strike London with an elite team of Hit Wizards if any spies were found within the country.
When Hermione Granger-Pyrites, whose upcoming societal debut has been widely discussed by the social columns, arrived to collect her flower, an orchid, he revealed himself. Bursting into the air from below prior to murdering Lady Shafiq in cold blood. Miss. Granger might very well have shared the same grisly fate were it not for her friend, Daphne Greengrass, who fired a Stunning Spell at the beast. Though Greengrass was dragged away in the ensuing stampede of terrified debutantes, Granger managed to withdraw her wand. Pictures were taken by a remaining cameraman and included in the evening edition of the Daily Prophet. Since then they have taken on much prominence in the entire Wizarding World. Using Dark Magic, powerful Blast Curses, and a clever array of simplistic spells, Hermione Granger managed to remove both of the creature's arms prior to leaving nothing but flaming timber where the podium once stood.
The fight carried on in the grass below as the Snake-born attempted to lunge at Miss. Granger with his fanged mouth. In an impressive display of elemental mastery she managed to conjure a sizable orb of water. Freezing it solid in a split-second, prior to banishing it right into the beast's head. Executing it instantly and avenging Lady Shafiq in one, fell-swoop. Unfortunately, our heroine's triumph did not last long. The cameraman who still, bravely, remained on the scene (Read Page 7.B. For More on the Pending Order of Merlin Third Class Being Considered for this Hero), made the following remarks when interviewed by Rita Skeeter. "The chickie's [Granger's] eyes rolled back and she collapsed on the ground! The fire burned bigger than it was before, suddenly so bright I was thrown back a few feet! Nearly broke my arm and all… Then she glowed silver, stood to her feet, and started to speak in this… Hissing kind of voice. Like there was snakes coming out of her mouth or summat."
Generally, when Prophecies are conveyed, the Department of Mysteries places a stop-gap on all witnesses for containment purposes. Reporters were on the scene so quickly that the following was published in Witch Weekly despite Cornelius Fudge's best efforts. "The serpent strikes before nightfall… Enmity sworn with pact of blood… Twins in destiny, but not in path… One to succumb, the other to mourn… Bindings forgotten to be soon undone… The Mudblood Apostle shall be torn to bits and pieces… Fangs…. Neck… Paws... Scales… Eyes…' Many have been, justifiably, shocked to discover that Hermione Granger has suddenly developed prophetic abilities. The sort that might just rival those of the late Trelawney if honed properly.
Upon digging your faithful editor at the Daily Prophet uncovered long-forgotten information on the nearly-extinct Morrigan line. Many Irish Seers of repute have been born into this bloodline. All of them possessing the same silver hair that Granger has suddenly sported. A massacre of the Morrigan family occurred just before Grindelwald's fall, however, and any pertinent documents have been sealed jointly by the British and Irish Ministries of Magic. Recent mass uprisings by curious citizens may soon change that status.
More disturbing are rumors of a brewing scandal. Rita Skeeter quoted an anonymous source in an op-ed yesterday evening as saying that the Snake-born assassin may possibly have been hired by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The cameraman has not commented on the remarks he allegedly told Aurors the Snake-born made regarding his loyalty to the Dark Lord. Who may possibly still be at large, albeit in a weakened state. Further terrifying the British, magical populace are even more rumors regarding Hermione Granger. Stamped into the unconscious girl's arm, claims one anonymous St. Mungo's Healer, was the tattoo known as a Dark Mark. Only He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was reputed to know the spell for such complex Dark Magic. How did such a thing come to be branded on Hermione Granger's flesh?
Frankly, it begins to leave many questioning if Albus Dumbledore was not simply being 'paranoid,' as Minister Fudge claimed, when he confirmed late on Monday night that Quirinus Quirrell had been possessed by You-Know-Who. Of course, if that was the case, many are questioning why the Headmaster of Hogwarts spent so much time initially attacking Hermione Granger rather than sharing such concerning possibilities with the proper authorities. Regardless, Hermione Granger will likely be asked about this matter during her hearing before the Wizengamot at Gilderoy Lockhart's highly-publicized trial later this month. (Read Page 5.D. Credit Where Credit is Due: Lockhart's Healed Victims Give their Thanks to Hermione Granger.)
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Cornelius Fudge did not often get to make decisions of his own. There were those who had purchased his influence, telling him what to say. Those few who possessed pictures of him with the varied prostitutes in Knockturn Alley, most of them part-something, those somethings almost always being quite scandalous of sorts. Then there were the likes of Albus Dumbledore, powerful wizards who Millicent Bagnold had managed to ward away with her own sizeable magical core. Now here he sat in his office. Alone. Dealing with a fresh scandal that required such an immediate response that no one else had reported to the scene yet. "Leave," He almost snapped at Dolores Umbridge, prior to tacking on a sweetly spoken, "Please."
The woman was a political viper. Her present position in his administration hardly one of his own choice. Eyeing the seats in front of his desk, where Hermione Granger, her thrice damned grandmother, and muggle parents had sat only an hour earlier, he considered everything. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had allegedly hired the Snakeman. There was that nasty business of incredibly Dark Magic discovered in Albania by his Hit Wizards. Now this Prophecy which had been issued by the increasingly talented Hermione Granger. He rubbed his eyes frustratedly. No, the Minister for Magic did not want to believe at all that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named might possibly still be alive and plotting a return. However, that did not mean the largely unsubstantiated evidence could be swept away.
The public loved Hermione Granger like they did few others. Where Harry Potter seemed to have survived on luck she was proving a force of merit. Apprenticed to the Flamels, capable of murdering a Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, slaying Basilisks, Obliviating the Gilderoy Lockhart, and now taking on a fully grown Anguigena at thirteen. Now it seemed that more people than ever before were willing to believe that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was behind more than three-quarters of those events. Rumors had swirled the last summer that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had possessed that fool Quirrell. Most wisely chose to ignore such whispers and instead lost themselves in the spectacle of Granger's Honoring Ceremony. Fudge had looked at all of the reports regarding what happened in the Chamber of Secrets. Apparently a piece of Voldemort's memory had attacked the girl then too. A fact that would soon be revealed to the whole Wizarding World during Lockhart's High Trial as evidence.
Those two bits of gossip might have been easily ignored, only now there was a third nail in the coffin which held any denial of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's continued existence. The cameraman had recounted to the Aurors under Veritaserum exactly what had been said by the Anguigena. Then when Mind Magic specialists in the Department of Mysteries ripped his uneducated brain to pieces they reported that the cameraman spoke nothing but the truth. Perhaps Fudge could have blamed it on Dumbledore's many spies in the DMLE, all while moving to discredit Granger's golden reputation, but for the unquestionable levels of support shown to the girl. The political system of magical Britain was dominated by Half-Bloods, with the combined numbers of the Muggleborn and Pureblood minorities making up a smaller slice. All of the Muggleborns, many Half-Bloods, and some very powerful Pureblooded families were clamoring in her support.
Fudge had no choice but to back up the words of a Muggleborn, modelling whore who just so happened to be descended from the Pyrites, Morrigans, and Godelots. That was the only acceptable choice, apart from resigning. He stood and swiped everything from his desk in a sudden display of fury. Wand extracted easily enough soon blasting the chandelier, furniture, and tiled walls into fragments. Screaming louder than any fucking Banshee could ever hope to match. Then suddenly the man collapsed back down onto his arse. Years of serving as an underling to more promising figures wasted. Months spent edging out competitors like Dumbledore and Crouch negated by a single, stupid, Mudblooded bitch.
He wished that fucking Basilisk had murdered her like the Heir of Slytherin intended.
"How the mighty have fallen," Albus Dumbledore tsked, stepping inside the office. Disarming the squatting Minister for Magic as a precaution against any retaliation. "I warned you in the Fall of 1990, did I not, on the night of your inauguration. You chose to ignore me. To accept bribes from the Malfoys, Rowles, and all their ilk. You alienated the Muggleborns and Half-Bloods who helped elect you into power. Now they support a thirteen-year-old prodigy over you during a time of great turbulence." He stood tall, "The trouble with my advice is that it cannot be taken in halves. You did exactly as I intended, though your fall has come about far sooner than I ever anticipated, Cornelius."
"You expect me to resign?" He sneered, "Well. I. Will. NOT." His pudgy, old face grew red with defiant hatred while spittle seeped volcanically from his pursed lips.
"Suit yourself." Dumbledore repaired a sleek sofa nonverbally and wandlessly with a flick of his left hand. Sitting his stupid, magenta and royal purple colored, body down on the sofa. "Let us apparate right to the point. I have a deep interest in preserving Hermione Granger's reputation. Furthermore, I think we both know, albeit deep down in your case, that her trials have proven Voldemort still exists."
"Do not speak his name." Fudge snarled again. Eyes flashing with terrified revulsion.
"You are a tyke." Dumbledore spat in response, "Pretending to be a sufficient actor for the role of Minister for Magic. Nothing more, but perhaps much less. I remember when you were a student at Hogwarts. Sorted into Slytherin only for the sheer amount of ambition running through your veins. With only a pinch of cunning or common sense added in. A dangerous combination of characteristics, might I add, for a skilled wizard or witch. Let alone a lackluster, average, dare I say it, dishwater magician."
Fudge's mouth opened as though he were a minnow. Closing, then opening, and repeating again in that same repetition. He was a narcissist, though his limited brain capacity likely would not have phrased the realization nearly so succinctly. Believing that he had been liked by those who supported him, and gave him advice. Dumbledore, his favorite Professor at Hogwarts next to Old Sluggy, actually despised him from the very start? All of this was too much for the squat Minister to handle. "Now. As I was saying before your deluded blubbering started up. Too much corroborates that Voldemort did indeed try to have Hermione Granger murdered. All of this only strengthened by the fact that the public supports her. She has a grand role to play in what comes next, but you have outlived your usefulness."
"You can't get rid of me. The means are beyond your reach," Fudge gloated suddenly, imagining his formerly revered Professor exploding into ashes on the spot. "As you said before. I ran in dark circles and took payouts from wizards you do not associate with."
'I do not fraternize with those groups," Dumbledore smiled genially, eyes twinkling again, "But Cordelia Morrigan does. Her granddaughter is also on incredibly close terms with the young Daphne Greengrass, as you well know." He reached into the pockets of his robes as he continued speaking, "Madam Morrigan and I have formed a partnership. No doubt you remember very well all we put you through whilst reforming the quality of education at Hogwarts?"
Fudge felt his toes curl at being reminded of Dumbledore's recent closeness with the Grangers. Now after remembering that the Greengrasses held plenty over his head he wanted to scream in despair. The Headmaster of Hogwarts suddenly tossed a thick envelope at him. "You once served a purpose to me." The old man said in a disappointed sigh, "But that is no longer the case. You are now too divided, and too closely allied with Voldemort's sympathizers. When they inevitably deny that he somehow still survives you will be forced to agree." The fingers of his left hand winding over his wand-clasping right, the man nodded firmly. "In repayment for your generous assistance during these past three years of peace, I offer you a warning. Leave the country by the time the morning edition of the Daily Prophet takes to the skies. Nothing will be left for you in Britain but disgust and ruin."
With that, Albus Dumbledore left Fudge to stare into the destructive envelope of his own making. Bank statements, incriminating dossiers, controversial personal correspondences, and yes, even photographs of him engaged intimately with part-Hag, part-Banshee, and part-Goblin prostitutes.
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Cedric did not know quite what to make of the headlines when he arrived back in his apartment after a day at the forge. Master Oddson had declared that day that his apprentice was finally capable enough manipulating the Gubraithian flames with his wand to begin Charming melted metals. With pride the the young man had practically skipped back home that afternoon. Enjoying the French climate on his skin. All of that glee turned to concern and panic as he found the English news had finally circulated its way into the French papers. Learning that Hermione had almost been assassinated by an Anguigena left him leaning against the wall for support.
There were the pictures, but he could only stand to look at the ones at the end. Where Hermione managed to murder the beast. Even from the photos he could sense the power of her aura. Cedric remembered being around her while she worked magic at Hogwarts. How the silver wisps around her were always accompanied by the perpetual smell of hot ink and ozone. Now her hair was pure silver. An indication, to him at least, that she was already growing into the powerful witch everyone always knew she would become. Slipping into a chair Cedric then allowed his eyes to follow the ensuing coverage almost rapturously. Minister Fudge fleeing London. His career in tatters. Dolores Umbridge, freedom in legal jeopardy after incriminating leaks of her involvement in corruption, scattering to the Albanian Ministry for safety from extradition. The idiotic Albanians, in turn, were threatening to make war with the British Ministry for the first time in five decades. Support for Grindelwald and the Dark Arts were still incredibly strong in that country after all.
Most important was the declaration that Voldemort still lived. Abroad and incredibly weakened, it was speculated, though alive nonetheless. Any Purebloods with the slightest ties to Voldemort or Purist ideology had been absolutely slammed by the Daily Prophet, for it appeared Fudge was closely aligned with You-Know-Who's old crowd. The Malfoys, above most others, had already been suffering after their shenanigans at Hogwarts that last year. Now it seemed they were almost totally beyond redemption in 'civilized' society. Cedric intermittently shifted between his Metal Charming readings and the news articles. Eventually heading down to a cafe on the end of the street to write a letter.
Dear Mione,
Do you want me to come home early? So that you can have a friend close by? I know Daphne is probably busier than ever with the Ministry and Luna is in Scandinavia. There is a Metal Charmer in Sussex who would be willing to work with me, I bet. Though that isn't overly important. Maybe we could both take a break from our apprenticeships and stay at Diggory Manor for a little spell. Don't try protesting about my work with Oddson. I am good at this stuff. Really good. No matter where I am I can excel at it. If you need a friend close at hand then that is where I would rather learn. France be damned. You are far more important to me than getting a bit of paltry Metal Charming experience.
Always yours,
Cedric Diggory.
He slipped it into the muggle post box before he had even gotten the chance to second guess himself. As the young man walked back towards his apartment he caught sight of a familiar face. "Morfin." The name tasted like lead on his lips, "Hello." They approached one another at the entrance to his apartments. A wizard clad in robes shoved passed them in the middle of the bustling crowd. Morfin Gaunt was handsome as ever. Dark-brown eyes gleaming with that red hue which only ever became visible in the late Afternoon. Black hair glistening beneath the hot sun like obsidian. As they slipped inside Cedric soon found a muscled arm wrapping about his waist as those supple lips captured his in a kiss.
"I have been thinking of you all day." Morfin sighed in a relishing tone. Hungry voice sending shivers down Cedric's spine. "Do you know how hard it is to hide an erection while replanting Fluxweed?"
"I imagine it was nicer to imagine me than think of the Dragon Dung," Cedric japed, shoving him back by the shoulder. Moving towards his apartment. He thought proudly of how Morfin had managed to secure an apprenticeship with a Master Herbologist at the drop of a hat. It was hardly every day that a talented, handsome, American wizard decided to pay a random Hogwarts student attention. They soon arrived in his apartment. Often the pair of them would come back to the space after their many dates. Sometimes enjoying dinner Morfin skillfully whipped up before the older wizard left. Other times, he blushed to think of it, they would wind up tangling in bed together. Discussing Magical Theory at great depth as Morfin betrayed just how knowledgeable he was.
Feeling somewhat sorrowful, Cedric sat at his table. "I think I have to go back home." He felt the lead coat his lips again.
Morfin's face transformed into the picture of concern as he sat near Cedric. "What is wrong?"
"Hermione is going through some really serious stuff." He answered, "I need to be there for her." Their eyes connected as he felt a fluttering kick up in his mind. "I don't want to leave you, Morfin. But I have to help Hermione out. I know she would do the same for me. For any of our friends."
A hand landed on his thigh. Kneading the muscular flesh reassuringly. "Go, Cedric. That is one of the things I like about you. How you push yourself to do the right thing. Stop questioning what needs to be done." He winked, "Besides. We can always write to one another, and I was thinking of heading to Britain after I graduate Beauxbatons anyways."
Relieved that Morfin was taking the news well, Cedric grinned. Daringly gripping the hand and moving it where he actually wanted. Eyes rolling momentarily, he finally said, "There are always cameras too…"
"What sort of pictures are you insinuating I should take, Diggory?" Morfin teased as they both stood. His long, elegant fingers making quick work of Cedric's belt. They French kissed, as they so often did, and were soon sprawled across the shabby couch. Any clever rebuttals long forgotten. Though Cedric Diggory was completely unaware of an arrogantly satisfied thought running through his lover's mind the whole while.
'Ce que chante la corneille, chante le corneillon.
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Daphne Greengrass was indeed busy. The 'out of her motherfucking mind' sort of busy. Not many fourteen-year-old witches could say that they held a prominent position in a campaign for the Prime Ministership of Wizarding Britain. Though here she stood. Stuck in the middle of what seemed to be her destiny. All of it had started out with her cousin lending her out like a whore to the DMLE as a one-bit paper pusher. Nothing more than a petty jibe after Daphne had gained much praise from Barty Crouch Sr. Then there was the Ceremony of Flowers during which she saved her best friend, Hermione Granger's life from an Anguigena. Whatever fame she had possessed before for contributing to a groundbreaking research paper was now skyrocketed. Rita Skeeter nicknaming Daphne the 'Blonde Stunner' in honor of her contribution to Hermione's nasty fight.
The so-named, Blonde Stunner frankly thought it all was bullshit. She deserved none of the praise. After all, Hermione was the one who had managed to survive by the skin of her teeth with skillful magic. Even Lady Shafiq had, in an admittedly surprising move, sacrificed her own life for her muggleborn charge. Now that was a hero if Daphne ever saw one. The witch felt admittedly guilty at having misjudged the prissy old woman so horribly. Shaking away the discomfort she forced herself to knock firmly on the door. It swung easily open to reveal a team of Aurors ripping Dolores Umbridge's offices to shreds. "Auror Scrimgeour," She forced her voice to sound older than it actually was, "Madam Bones requests your presence in her office. She wishes for Auror Shacklebolt to oversee the cleansing of vacated offices in your stead." Umbridge, to put it lightly, had not been the only official to have been arrested or to flee the country. Six others, so far, were already purged.
Daphne was lucky that her mother, Cordelia Granger, and Dumbledore in tandem possessed evidence that had destroyed Fudge, the Blood Purists, and such corrupt officials without tainting the Greengrass name. Otherwise her posh position in Amelia Bones' Ministerial campaign, and golden ticket to an Auror apprenticeship next summer, would have been dashed to hell. Boots already worn from running many errands all across the sleek Ministry, Daphne led the men back to Bones' posh office. "Please wait here," She indicated, ignoring the nearby secretary, a right snooty bitch, "I will inform Madam Bones that you are waiting."
Knocking on the closed door she slipped inside only to nearly jump in shock. Sitting at the desk was Bones, of course, but sitting across from the stately woman was Albus Dumbledore. "Professor Dumbledore." She managed to speak in a regal, glacial tone befitting a Pureblood debutante. Dipping her neck like a swan might in courteous acknowledgement.
"Miss Greengrass," He stared at her, eyes twinkling, though in a very deep sort of way. Almost as though the powerful wizard were evaluating the contents of her innards very thoroughly. "I was not only pleased to learn that you managed to save Hermione Granger's life, but organized the distressed members of the Witch's League into an orderly state. If we were at Hogwarts I would award you fifty points, at least."
She almost blushed, but such men feasted on their ability to flatter. Daphne knew Dumbledore wanted something from her, otherwise he would have ignored her very presence. "I simply did what I was able to in the moment, given that I was unable to return and help Hermione." That much was true. Caught in the masses of so many debutantes Daphne never had the opportunity to return to the fight. Lest she was fond of being trampled. Turning to Bones she folded her hands neatly in front of her, "Auror Scrimgeour is waiting outside. As you requested, Madam Bones."
"You delegated Auror Shacklebolt his new duties?" A coy arch of the woman's brow left Daphne in the rare position of backpedalling.
"Of course, Madam Bones," She nearly spluttered, "They were still… Sifting through Dolores Umbridge's papers."
"Blasted woman," Bones turned to Dumbledore with a sigh, "Fudge was bad enough. I have Auror Robards ripping his properties to pieces. Now there are six more officials who need to be investigated and replaced."
"The matter of corruption," Dumbledore responded, "Is a curious one indeed. Indulgence of the common man's hunger always rots deeply. Yet we must remember unfailingly that a true patriot can always fight onwards. A true patriot can always cut that rot away and build something better in its place." Daphne felt as though he were not just speaking to Madam Bones. Standing up, the man nodded at Bones genially, "Thank you for the tea, Amelia. It will please me greatly to announce my support for your campaign tomorrow. Many are attacking my reputation currently, but it should still count for something."
Bones' face remained stately and calm despite the embers of victory which burned in her usually cool eyes. Daphne felt quite shocked to have caught wind of such a development. In the last election Dumbledore's support was what had gotten Fudge elected. While many people were attacking him for his support of the theory that Voldemort still survived, such critics were largely headless. Perhaps this would be the thing that vaulted Madam Bones over Barty Crouch's smug head. "Your support is greatly appreciated, Professor Dumbledore," She smiled genuinely, "I am sure that it will be of immense help." Then the woman turned to regard Daphne after he slipped out of the room. "You have done excellent work all week, Miss Greengrass. Even despite the circumstances you faced. It is clear that I chose an excellent candidate to serve as my assistant. Go home and take the weekend off."
Eager to do just that Daphne slipped out of the DMLE. Nodding to important people, and ignoring the others who hated her surname. Back in the tiled hallways again she found herself regarding Dumbledore who stood against the opposite wall. Waiting patiently for her to exit for the day. "I decided, Miss Greengrass," He said when she approached, "That I could escort you to the Floo." They began to walk after she acquiesced. "You make me think of another Slytherin. He was always working in unexpected ways. Breaking the mold like few in his House have done." A pause, "I doubt even he managed to master as much Martial Magic as you have at your age, however."
"What you said about corruption, Professor?" She asked, twisting the conversation back to a topic that troubled her. "How can you say that when you are corrupt. When my family is corrupt. When Hermione's grandmother is corrupt?" Her voice almost faltered, "Hermione told me about how the muggle world functions. How they divide power and try to promote freedom. Everyone in our world hunts power for personal protection, yet we then lambast people like Fudge for getting too much of it. If you believe what you said, then why do half of your actions contradict those words?"
"The Muggle world has always been far more advanced than our own. They are forced to fight three times harder due to a lack of distraction with magic, Miss Greengrass. Though Muggles also benefit from shortened lifespans." He started his answer with that preamble. "I have lived a very long time. Voldemort will live a very long time. Many other notably powerful sorcerers across the world will live a long time. How can a world change when, I believe your friend, Miss Granger, once said it best to me, when old farts like myself continue to exist?" He smiled down at her, "Simply put, change has been long smothered by legions of farts. I am set in my ways of corruption. After all, I am of the Old World. Though that does not mean I do not wish to see a change. The fact merely remains that that change will never come to fruition until I am gone."
They stopped near the Floo places in the Ministry Atrium. "Remember this one thing, Miss Greengrass. Your family is of the Old World too. Their methods corrupt and unconducive to change. Yet you are the future. A role model for your siblings. With much talent running through your veins." His eyes twinkled at her, "Maybe one day you yourself will be the DMLE Head. Then it will be your turn to dismantle the Greengrass empire in favour of creating something better." With that he bustled elegantly towards a fireplace and vanished.
Leaving Daphne to think about her future in a way she never had before.
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Harry Potter was happy and content. Two feelings he had experienced before at Hogwarts but never during the summer. There was the fact that he finally found himself travelling the Magical World. Gone were the days where he lived vicariously, and bitterly, through his friend's summer travels. Africa was beautiful and the young wizard had gotten to visit at least five countries so far. Apparently Mr. Scamander held much sway across the world and often the Ministries were eager to help his conservation efforts. Many officials were also pleased to meet Harry himself and assisted them thusly. In time at all, it seemed, the old Black Erumpent Horn farm had been transformed into a thriving reservation. Harry managed to learn much about the creatures in between mucking out stalls and performing other hard labors. He never felt right letting other people do all the hard work, and even Mr. Scamander's son joined in.
Already tanned beyond belief, the British youth quickly rubbed the sunscreen onto his face. Eyeing the Cairo Market excitedly whilst sitting on a bench waiting for Mr. Scamander to fetch him. They had been roused very early in the morning by one of the elderly man's associates who requested help in Egypt. Apparently a horrific slaughterhouse of protected animals had been discovered. Only, the perpetrators fled and were suspected to possess a string of other, undiscovered hideouts. "You can come in now, Harry," Newt Scamander called from the entrance. Shoving the sunscreen back in the bag, next to his many treasured letters from Hermione and her parents, Harry stood quickly. "We cleared out any possible tripwires and traps. Just… If it gets to be too much remember you can always leave."
Feeling nervous the boy slipped into the dilapidated building which reeked awfully of dung and death. Up the stairs he crept until locking his green eyes on an awful sight. Emaciated animals all trapped in cages. Some not moving in their crumpled, ball-like forms. Hanging from the rafters a dozen Diricawls had been plucked and beheaded. Large containers holding all of their drained blood resting below. "Over here, Harry," Mr. Scamander urged, "There is a Runespoor. I need you to ask if it can remember any important details. Many other animals may be saved if it can."
Harry was used to speaking to snakes now. His discomfort largely disappearing as he realized that it was more important to help animals than worry about being called a Dark Wizard. In Nigeria he had even managed to use his ability to track down an unknown species in a long forgotten forest that had been made Unplottable. Serpents the size of birds with feathered wings. Given that they had been his discovery, he was allowed to collect a specimen for research. The article was nearly complete and would be published by August if Mr. Scamander approved it.
Squaring himself to speak with the damaged species, Harry opened the cage. The Runespoor hissed violently until he spoke. 'We are here to help you. What is your name?'
'A ssspeaker?' The middle head asked dreamily.
'Our name is Sssilya,' The leftmost had answered, 'Where are we to go now?'
'Fools,' The rightmost head hissed, 'We will never see home again. There is certainly no way for us to travel so far on our own.'
At that the other two reared up and began to strike at the third head only for Mr. Scamander to conjure a protective cone around its neck. "The rightmost head is the critical, the middle the dreamer, and the leftmost the planner. The critical head is often bitten off if it becomes too aggravating…"
Nodding his understanding, Harry turned back to the Runespoor. 'Please. Do you remember anything about your captors. What they looked like. Where they came from?'
'They took us from our forest,' The middle head sighed melodramatically, 'In a cage on a flying stick first with many others of our kind. Then in a roaring, silver beast. Killing most of our number the whole while. Before this place they brought us down a long road under cover of darkness from the last.'
'There was an ugly man with one eye,' Hissed the rightmost head, 'He had red hair and was very fat. A twiggy woman with short, black hair, and skin dark as night. Then a short, squat creature with long claws, and hungry eyes.'
"A Goblin," Harry deduced, "A twiggy woman with short hair, and a fat, redheaded man with one eye. They were taken from a forest and flown halfway, then driven by a silver car the rest of the way. Apparently another place like this is operating further down along the marketplace. The Runespoor remembers being transported here under cover of night." He had a sudden stroke of inspiration, 'Could you lead the way back to the old place where they held you?'
'Will you take us back to our forest in exchange?' The Planner asked cunningly.
'Yes,' Harry answered, 'You have my word.'
OOOO
"One wooden man, cut through the spiritual line. Seven stirs counterclockwise" Hermione peered at her notes carefully prior to tossing the figurine into the cauldron. What followed was a frenetic, blinding pace of movements. "Lavender crushed to dust with silver blade. Two dashes. Six stirs clockwise." In the background New Order played loudly on a transplanted boombox from Pyrites' Townhouse. Her father had always listened to Post-Punk religiously, and having been almost murdered countless times left the silver-haired muggleborn really connecting with it. The thumping music dulled her thoughts enough that she could focus only on the task at hand. "Three drops of Re'em Blood. Mixed with four Unicorn Horns. Stirred thirteen times clockwise." She mentally affirmed that that would indeed counteract the negative qualities of thirteen. Reversing such power in a positive way.
At least, Hermione hoped it would. Otherwise Mr. Flamel might lose his shit at her having wasted such precious ingredients. "Five mature Ashwinder Eggs, crushed by hand," She gagged at the repulsive endeavor she had undertaken only moments before. "Stirred twice in both directions." The pearly liquid turned a blazing sapphire. "Six fingers and six toes from a still-living Vampire," Her voice quavered a bit at that one. It was her own purchase, and had been very hard to come by. "Suctive Disc of a Ramora cut into seven cubes, coated in Dircawl Blood," Hermione intoned to herself. Then without pause she dropped the heat skillfully. Levitating the entire orb of glimmering liquid upwards. Setting a timer for exactly seven minutes she added chemical ingredients to the empty cauldron by hand. Eyes running down an ancient list penned into one of Nicolas Flamel's grimoires from 1654.
Mermaid urine, ammonium chloride, large quantities of combustible lead powder, as well as the very poisonous arsenic trioxide. Stabilizing the liquid sphere overhead so it floated on its own, she pointed her wand at the cauldron's contents prior to setting it aflame. Angry, yellow-green bubbles foamed to the top and sloshed somewhat over the sides. Settling moments later and leaving behind a black, mucky film on the surface. Noting how little time remained on the stopwatch Hermione let herself move with the Post-Punk which blared behind her. Pausing to tie her bushy hair back with a rubber band. She steeled herself. Moving another cauldron's contents, prepared earlier that morning, into the one before her.
Fingers crossed she momentarily allowed her mind to function at full speed. Golpalot's Third Law was complex, NEWT level stuff. Stuff that Mr. Flamel had only just taught her about the month before. If she did not pull this off correctly all of the ingredients would be wasted due to incompetence, and the Flamels hated incompetence. Especially when they took risks after certain snooty fourteen-year-olds insisted on having been struck with a brilliant idea. Complex poisons could not just be neutralized by adding the partial antidotes into a whole. An even more terrifying potential outcome was that she might just wind up murdering Nicolas Flamel.
A golden flash of light interrupted her thoughts. The black film had been absorbed into a light, yellow puddle on the bottom of the cauldron. Fiery wisps leaping up and down like small fish from the vapor every so often. Fingers shaking she lowered the hovering orb back down into the cauldron. Prompting a reaction to occur at precisely seven minutes. Wand flashing brightly she peeked at another book even though the relevant contents were already burned in her mind. Wand tip tracing Ancient Runes of great power from different parts of the world in a cohesive, well combined pattern. A blinding flash of white light left her blinking furiously down at a thick, glowing, white paste. Taking a specimen from Mr. Flamel's own months long brewing project she dropped it across the paste. Stirring firmly before transferring it into a large bowl.
Some Potions like Amortentia smelled strongly reminiscent of the purposes they were intended to serve. Hermione felt her nose burning beneath the wafting smell of babies, lilac, and something that was entirely unique but tangy. Marching up the steps of the Flamel home she exited the laboratory. Climbing hundreds of stone steps until finally arriving in the library. "I think I did it." She said, "Though it produced a paste instead of a liquid."
"Most Potions are pastes after initial discovery, Hermione," Nicolas answered, as he began investigating the paste with his skeletal, ashy hands. "Refinement yields products suitable for mass consumption." Hermione gasped when the man, without any hesitancy dipped a hand into the potentially corrosive substance. Only, when he pulled it out, she found herself staring at a large, youthful hand that glowed with vibrancy. What followed was a frenzied mess as Mr. Flamel eagerly slathered himself head-to-toe with her paste. Pasty flesh growing taut and tan. Vocal chords resonating deeply instead of squeakily. By the time he slathered his balding head a man of impressive stature stood before her. Handsome as daylight with hair like honeyed gold.
"We have done the impossible together," He smiled, "Hermione Granger. As I always anticipated we would. You will be my companion to the Alchemical Conference in New York this winter." Hermione did not pay much attention to his words. She had accomplished something with Mr. Flamel others far cleverer than her had spent lifetimes trying to do.
Youth had been bottled by her, and it caused the image of Lady Shafiq's ragged throat to, at least temporarily, flee her troubled mind.
OOOO
Hermione tends to overthink things behind the scenes, but I ignore those ramblings in favor of drama and speedy plot progression. However, she is definitely going to wind up explaining how she managed to pull together the missing part of Flamel's Youth Paste soon enough. There was a massive experimental design behind it all which I considered carefully. Also, though it might have seemed more boring, a LOT of important stuff happened. So pay close attention ;)
So, there is also the matter of Cedric/Morfin. I am working with a, largely, underdeveloped character. He might have served a grand purpose in the books, but we know as much about him as we do Seamus Finnegan, etc. That means I am fleshing him out based off of those core characteristics. Sexuality is often not some simple thing and was not explored, given that HP is a kid's series. My story is not going to be a kid's story, however, and will later cover more adult themes mixed with loads of dark material. Now, given that adult concept, I think it is fair to say that we all can at least empathize with the Cedric I have written. He is drawn to this Hermione's totally unleashed potential like a moth to flame. Furthermore, I like to think Cedric is in that rare position where he already knows that she is the love of his life. They compliment one another incredibly well. His loyal, nurturing, dependable nature matches all of her harsh, crueler and driven edges. (Speaking of, I have done a bad job of showing her mean streak. Like with Rita Skeeter and Marietta Edgecombe. But it is coming.)
It is unrealistic to believe that all Hufflepuffs are pure balls of fluff and blind devotion with no mind of their own. He is a young man. With dreams, desires, flights-of-fancy, and passions that even the best of humans struggle to ignore. The feelings he has for Hermione are not at all like the ones he has experienced in France. Morfin is the vessel in which all of these struggles are manifesting. He is manipulative, charismatic, charming, and for whatever reason has decided to sink his claws in Cedric. Until his motives are revealed, I suggest that everyone tamper down their criticism.
Next Chapter: The High Trial.