The Mudblood's Logic

by Cervantes Diderot

Hermione Granger was a a plain mudblood. At least until one rash action leads to her battling Voldemort first year and miraculously surviving. Stuck in a whirlwind of political ploys, fame, wealth and power along with assassination attempts Hermione has a rather difficult path. But what is that saying, "The ends justify the means," and she will do whatever it takes...

24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four: A Pact Between Heiresses.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by J. K. Rowling, or her publishing company, or Warner Brothers.

OOOO

Hermione sat at an outside table of The Defiant Elf's Restaurant and Inn. People buzzed around all around her as the popular business surged. A summer breeze ruffled at the pages of her many papery objects spread across the metal table, though left her otherwise undisturbed. The Flamels had insisted she take some time off from any mental strain prior to her testimony the upcoming Thursday. Monsieur Flamel claiming that he needed to deal with the boring, shared patent rights for their Youth Cream anyways. Of course, Hermione Granger was no longer allowed by the DLME, in the absence of a sitting Minister, to travel anywhere unescorted by a guard of Aurors or an adult wizard. Unless she wished to hide at home all day.

She cast her gaze out towards the sunny sight of Diagon Alley. They were likely there, watching the general spot which she occupied boredly. Turning back to the table, the muggleborn witch peered at her work. There was the finance management of her three establishments on Diagon Alley. The Defiant Elf, proudly named with Dobby in mind, was already booming despite having been open for only a week. Many muggleborns and their families more interested in the tiny, clean business than the unfriendly environment of the Leaky Cauldron. Of course, the inn upstairs had not been as successful as initially hoped for. Hermione regretted her decision to immediately pounce at her well accepted competitor's dominance in the hotel industry.

There was also Glimpa's House of Haute Couture. Hermione agreed with Pleione Misselthorpe that she would do an entire season of modelling with Witch Weekly for free if they covered the new, Elf-run fashion house more than the established names. Again, many muggleborn families chose to purchase Hogwarts robes at the new shop instead of orthodox options. Half-Blood and Muggleborn socialites were more than eager to spend mountains of Galleons in a luxurious atmosphere where they were not judged by tittering Pureblooded matriarchs. The sales had been even more impressive than those of the restaurant. Comparatively, Madam Bluebonnet's Wand Boutique had been doing good enough to remain afloat. Promising, Hermione decided, given that Wandmakers had to earn trust from customers for generational rewards to be gained. In a decade or so the wand shop would likely be thriving.

Now that her sense for business on Diagon Alley seemed to have been validated, Hermione decided to spend a bit more of her wealth investing. There were books, both magical and non-magical, on cultivating grapes. Important knowledge to have if the Elves would one day rival the Ogden's incredible dominance in the alcohol industry. Dusty manuscripts borrowed from Gringotts which described their offered ward options, given that the Elf-run businesses had already been vandalized with bricks, spells, and vile words. The muggleborn peered across the street where the EAO offices still remained unopened. Finding people who agreed with her view on Elf rights was already shaping into a difficult task. Then there was the issue of when to execute such a politically motivated organization. Hermione had only truly begun to involve herself in Wizarding Affairs. People only viewed her as a rising potentiality. Only when the public was truly behind her could the witch dare to launch forth into controversial territory.

Many would be all too willing to pounce on any efforts dedicated to helping House Elves, let alone her other plans for Britain.

"Miss Hermione!" Dobby popped into existence, though she did not startle. Facing Voldemort, teachers, monsters, the Wizengamot, an Anguigena, and Cordelia Granger left her with a high tolerance for surprise. The House Elf was cheery as ever, and dressed in a neat, silk suit from Glimpa's. He had taken well to managing things while Hermione was busy. In fact, she often contemplated that their efforts to help distressed, rescued Elfs might have been moot without his dedication. He was a strong, proud role model who helped his species with issues ranging from alcoholism and drug addiction, to escaping prostitution. Nearly seven-hundred House Elves and growing were now under the protection of the EAO. She planned to double that number by Christmas. Though only so many could be saved from the streets. Most Elfs were trapped in Manors, production facilities, and offshore work camps. Thousands of them shackled beneath the cruel bondage of Purebloods.

"Yes Dobs?" She asked, shutting the Villis Malificus somewhat guiltily. Even though the book had helped yield a spell that would soon send wizards to the moon, she still did not trust it. Or herself, for that matter.

"A… Creature," He sounded dazed, "Has come to visit with you. Should I ask the Aurors to investigate first?"

"What do you think?" She asked, trusting his judgement fully.

"D-I believe that she would not harm you. She needs us to help her." He reaffirmed himself at the end with a convincing, confident tone.

"Alright," Hermione smiled, "Send her in." He did just that. Apparating away prior to returning beneath his own wards again with a pop. Standing beside him was a Goblin. Perhaps the only female Goblin Hermione had ever encountered. Her hair hidden behind a black veil that had been partially tossed over her head. Long limbs, sharp claws, a delicate face with a long nose. Though when the Goblin barred her lips into a smile the fangs beneath were no less dangerous than a male Goblin's. Regality oozed from her every mannerism until the air itself seemed to spark beneath her presence. Dobby was utterly bewildered, in an admiring sort of way, of the confident creature.

"You may leave us, Elf," The female Goblin rasped in a throaty voice.

"Dobby is my business associate, and is more than just your stereotyped perception of an 'Elf.'" Hermione snapped tersely, already feeling uncomfortable. "He will stay, or you may leave…?"

"Magdalena Goregalon," She continued to blast that vicious smile at Hermione whilst easily heaving herself up into the chair opposite. Dobby conjured a chair for himself with a snap of his fingers, and sat between them both. "Do you truly believe that Elves are your equal?"

"Definitely," Hermione answered back with an emotionless face. Goblins were analytical Beings, if Binns was to be believed. Her liberal muggleborn attitude would not do her any favours, nor would the usual Pureblood Princess pretense used for the Wizengamot. No, Hermione had to remain completely cool and level-headed. Dobby quickly snapped his fingers, causing the many books and stacks of parchment to bulge back into her satchel. Then with a wave of his hand all of the necessary materials for tea were produced. The witch wanted to roll her eyes at the display. He was clearly attempting to impress the Goblin with his magical skills.

"I sense no hesitation from you," Magdalena sniffed the air suddenly, "Not a single indication that you are lying." Her face suddenly became pinched and accusatory. "How? No creature truly does anything for the good of it. Especially not wizards. Certainly not Pyrites or Godelots for that matter."

"It must be all of the muggle blood in my veins," Hermione rebutted smoothly. "Is there a point to this all? Or have you just stopped by to insult me?"

"The rumours were true. A pure enough heart, yet you possess a will of steel." Her gaze flickered over towards the bulging satchel. "Of course I need not mention your intellect. That has been tediously dissected by the Daily Prophet."

"Your flattery is far more appealing than your criticism of my Wizarding heritage," Hermione said, "However, I find that I must reiterate. What is the purpose of your visit?"

"This empire you are building," Magdalena spread her arms so that the mugglborn's eyes were drawn to the bustling crowd of customers surrounding them. "Your investment portfolio is impressive, you are clever in the ways that count to me. Soon you will be powerful too. I want what the Elves are getting for supporting you." Her golden eyes sharpened, "I want your patronage."

"What?" Hermione could not help but splutter. "But you have Gringotts? What could I offer you?"

"Equality," Magdalena rolled her eyes, lolling her head lazily to the side, yet still continued to scrutinize her tablemates thoroughly. "I am the only descendant of the former Gringotts Director. In fact, my father's father was also the Director. Do you know much of Goblin society, Hermione Granger?"

"Only the biased drivel that comes from my History of Magic Professor who was born in 1809." She answered honestly.

"Goblin women-folk are second class citizens. I am merely lucky to still have my own wealth." She continued as though not having heard Hermione's admission. "My skill in the management of capital and finances is unparalleled. I can forge Goblin steel better than most. My powers are great. Though my society denies me the chance to contribute meaningfully because I am a female. So now, you should be able to see plainly what troubles I face. Too ambitious for my own good, yet not remarkable enough to fight for what I deserve."

"I thought that Goblins did not believe in ownership beyond the life of the one who earned that wealth. Why do you think differently in that regard?" She asked this in a curious tone.

"That is mere propaganda. Any society would fall apart if one could not pass on their lifetime earnings to their offspring one day. Where is the motivation to succeed? To strive for betterment? The class system in Goblin society is not only strict for women. The menfolk working in the bank control our kind. They decide who knows what, how wealth is distributed when everyone dies. From the most prominent to the poorest of the poor. How our young ones are educated, and what they should not be taught, is decided from the offices of the most successful accountants." She paused her throaty lecture for a breath, "Our kind does not publicly believe in ownership beyond life. Yet most of us know that stance to be a lie. Squirrelling away every possible Galleon into our hundreds of hiding places." That face tightened, "The alternative to such tyranny has always been domination by bloodthirsty wizards. Savages still eager for revenge after the last Goblin Rebellion."

"What has changed?" Hermione asked, feeling quite obtuse as she did so. One day her constant need for validation would most certainly be the end of her.

"Why you have, Miss Granger-Pyrites," She clasped her hands together whilst deep cunning shined through those eyes. "I have heard whispers of what you are planning to do for the House Elves. They are, after all, not the most secretive of creatures." With this the Goblin sniffed disdainfully at Dobby. "You are using businesses to build economic power for second class citizens. Soon the Elves will be just as independent as the Centaurs are in the forests, or us Goblins are in our banks."

"How exactly would I help you?" She wondered aloud, hoping for a clear answer. "The Elves have no social structure to speak of. Few opinions beyond the ones like Dobby. I cannot just dictate what must be done to you, and expect your full support."

"Correct," Magdalena nodded encouragingly, "You cannot expect such ease handling us."

"Miss Hermione does not handle us," Dobby bit out at the Goblin, finally affronted enough to break free of his little crush.

"Yes, she is a mother of sorts to your kind." The Goblin answered in a surprisingly kind tone. "I am a mother to my own kind. At least those that are willing to think for themselves. Though I do not have the same power that you do, Hermione Granger." She steepled her claws together, "What I do have is thirty-million Galleons stowed away. Enough to establish a bank of my own. One with closer ties to the Wizarding World. A bank which the muggleborns will flock to." Hermione was not proud of it, but her mouth dropped open. "In return for your vast network of connections to wealthy Purebloods, that successful stock portfolio you have so easily built up, and one day soon, your protection, I will support your EAO endeavors."

"By protection I imagine you mean politically." Hermione stated.

"Magically as well." The female Goblin corrected, "We both have read the headlines. Lord Voldemort is still out there. I have no sympathies with his cause. He killed my kind in the last war. Siding with you publicly, when he inevitably returns to power, will earn me his automatic enmity. A powerful witch will be needed for our protection."

"There is no telling that I will ever be powerfu-." She began to lie to herself.

"Hush, foolish girl!" The Goblin suddenly snarled, "At thirteen you shattered all of the windows in Hogwarts. You murdered a grown wizard your First Year at Hogwarts. We both are well aware that you have no choice in the matter. Voldemort will send more assassins until he realizes that he will need to finish the job himself."

Hermione could only nod tightly in response. Dumbledore had the same to her as well. Perhaps it was finally time to believe it. Prepare for it. "How much of the infrastructure at Gringotts can you bring with you?"

Here an uncertainty was betrayed on Magdalena's face. "Only a quarter. That includes accountants, clients, and resources. Many dissatisfied female Goblins are willing to leave with me too, however."

Fingers reaching up to rub at her temples, the witch tried not to lose herself to the many swirling thoughts in her busy mind. "I would gain many enemies for agreeing to help you. Miss Goregalon, you would be incredibly unsafe if we dared attempt such a controversial undertaking. I am only fourteen. Nowhere near powerful enough, at least not yet, to give you protection."

"Yes, you are a little witchling." The Goblin woman acknowledged emotionlessly. "Certainly still weak with all of the challenges that accompany young age." A pair of clawed fingers burrowed into her voluminous, black dress, and retrieved a rolled newspaper which was thrown onto the table. With nervous fingers Hermione pulled it open, hoping there was nothing that would trigger a flashback. Only to find that it was not even from that year. In fact, flashing across the front page was a picture of her alongside Rita Skeeter last summer during their interview. "I have followed you for a long time indeed. Can you guess why?"

"Whatever reasons other people started paying attention to me." Hermione spoke rhetorically rather than asked. "Who wouldn't be fascinated by a muggleborn First Year who managed to kill her Defense Professor, was best friends with Harry Potter, allegedly fought of Voldemort, and turned out to be a wealthy heiress?"

"Ha!" The Goblin snorted even as her face grew dark and overcast. "Your kind might be enamored with those things. Mine are not. We have gold in spades, and gore is such a common aspect of society that my surname pays homage to it. Not even how pretty you looked in that picture, albeit for a human, impressed me. I sensed a kindred spirit in you."

"Odd, considering that we seemingly have nothing in common beyond both reading the newspaper," Hermione retorted somewhat nastily.

"Anger." Magdalena continued as though not having heard the girl. "You hate the world. You hate men. You hate everything that is wrong with the living. Partly because of your obsessively perfectionistic tendencies. Mostly because of the latent brilliance flowing thick in your veins. We know better because we are better. That uncontrollable rage that flashes behind your words in nearly all of your interviews is merely a manifestation of discontent. Your own intelligence asserting itself even if you are not yet comfortable or prepared to do so."

Hermione was shocked into silence. The words in her mind regarding this topic had never been quite so succinctly structured. Yet all of it resonated with her very soul. "I don't hate all men, only the sexist ones," She muttered. Though her brain was still moving so thickly in response to the overflow of information that she hardly even noticed herself uttering those words. Peering into Magdalena's face for anything other than sincerity she thought carefully to herself. The Goblin was correct. Here she was offering a chance on a golden platter to assault the antiquated Wizarding World where it truly hurt. An opportunity to restructure the economy. "I am still too young to help you on my own. My grandmother needs to be permitted to look over whatever plan we decide to draw up."

"That woman will not be involved in these negotiations. You are sincere at heart, I can smell it thick as a perfume. She will attempt to subjugate me like the Ministry did to Gringotts for so many centuries." The Goblin's tone was cold, firmer than steel.

"I suppose you are right," Hermione agreed uncomfortably, "My grandmother would try to take away my autonomy in this matter. Still, entering into such a dangerous political partnership. This is further over my head than I am ready to handle." She paused momentarily, "You do not want my grandmother involved, at least not until we are established with need of her political influence. Do you object to an extraordinarily liberal-minded Ghost?"

"That depends entirely on who this Ghost is, Miss Granger-Pyrites," Magdalena purred in answer.

OOOO

Harry Potter woke up groggily. Not the sort of groggy after an unexpected nap. The sort of groggy that accompanied catching sight of Madam Pomfrey's concerned face and disappointed eyes. Already wondering what he had done to wake up in the Hospital Wing this time, he gasped in shock. This was nothing like the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. He found himself in a polished, disinfectant-scented, standard hospital room. Pushing upwards despite the painful tremors which accompanied such movements, he rested his body weight against the metal frame. Gasping for breath as pain swirled throughout all of his limbs. For a long moment he felt his vision turning red. The Boy-Who-Lived could have sworn he was burning into ashes.

Until a man gasped in surprise, lots of things loudy clattered to the floor, and something sharp was jammed into his shoulder. Slowly the red disappeared, and Harry slumped back against the sharp metal in relief. "Mr. Potter!" A Healer with skin the color of onyx smiled brightly. "You are awake far sooner than I anticip-."

"HARRY!" A loud, masculine, resonating voice boomed as Mr. Granger burst into the room. He wasted no time plopping himself onto the bed and placing a concerned hand against the boy's flushed forehead. "You said he wouldn't wake up for at least a month." His voice was angrily accusatory. Directed at the Healer who now, despite being a wizard, trembled somewhat beneath the intimidating man's glare.

"Mr. Potter must have a greater magical core than I anticipated. Typically a young man his age would be incapacitated for at least three weeks." The Healer spluttered.

"Oh well, who ruddy well cares." Dr. Granger smiled suddenly, "He is all right. That is all that matters."

"W-what i-." Harry had to pause, his throat ached mightily. "What h-h-appened?"

"You charged into a warehouse full of thugs like a dolt." Dr. Granger was angry again, like a twisting weather vane beneath a tornado. "One of those bastards hit you with a Blood-Boiling Curse. I got my mother to arrange something called a Portkey immediately," He paused to grimace disgustedly at that strange word, "I've been here with you since last week."

Harry, despite feeling so horrible, noticed a tug on his heart. Mighty and uncontrollable. Someone cared enough to travel to Egypt, he started to think happily. Only, the rational voice stamped viciously on the neck of such fuzzy notions. He listened to it sadly, for it had saved him from much heartbreak in Little Whinging. Hardening his sluggish brain the orphan tried to smile politely at Dr. Granger. The muggle stood up again, absentmindedly smoothing out his wrinkled button up and jeans. Harry noted that the man's hair looked greasey as though he had gone several days without bathing. "Hermione and Bryony sent some packages for you," He pointed awkwardly to the nightstand where indeed several bulky packages were piled atop one another. "They have to handle something in England tomorrow. We'll see them as soon as you are good enough to… Portkey." He looked repulsed at the thought again.

"I imagine Mr. Potter will be prepared for such a feat by Saturday night," The Healer waved his wand prompting differently coloured pinpricks of light to flash across the boy's body. "Yes. No sooner than Saturday evening, if he continues to take his potions and remains in good spirits."

"Good," Dr. Granger responded, "I will be back in soon. Need to call my mum and set up that Portkey." The tall, muscular dentist left Harry in the hospital room alone with the Healer.

"Dr. Granger is quite devoted to you, Mr. Potter." The Healer spoke even as he ran more tests. "He has not left since arriving here. Caused a horrific scene with the Scamanders. Then when that passed he finally allowed them to bring him food."

"Wh-what?" Harry spluttered, eyes wide with disbelief.

The Healer peered down at him firmly. "My assistants and I have seen the marks Mr. Potter. Apart from the one on your forehead and the few recorded in the notes sent to me by one Madam Pomfrey." He eyed Harry firmly, "I doubt that Mr. Granger would ever have beaten your back bloody with a belt so many times it scarred in such an awful way. In fact, he let slip to me that you are not technically his charge."

"I," Harry licked his horribly dry lips, not quite sure what to say. Blinking away buried images of… He bowed his head.

A firm, warm hand squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Mr. Granger is a very good man. I think he may care more for you than he lets on. It is his place to inform you of this but I will ask of you only one thing. When he recommends that you see a Mind Healer do not fight him. English wizards have never cared much for psychological wellness in general. Here in Egypt, at least, we do, and I suggest in no small terms that you pursue the help you need." Finally finished giving Harry his foul tasting potions the man left the room.

The Boy-Who-Lived finally picked up the packages sitting on his night stand. With weak fingers, he picked at one of the packages to find that it was from Hermione. Squinting mightily, due only to the light as his magically enhanced eye contacts were still in effect, he peeked through the letter.

"Dearest Harry,

I am so relieved that you are expected to recover, and I feel horrible that this whole escape to Africa was my idea. Furthermore I wish for nothing more than to be there with you, but as always I am up to my knees in the filthy political system of Wizarding Britain. However, I can just as easily impress upon you through this letter that no Erumpent or Runespoor means more to me than your life. In fact, you had better damn well remember that before you pull another stunt like this again. The next time you make such a reckless decision again it had better at least be when I am around to think for you. You are lucky Howlers are too magically volatile to make it through the international postal delivery system.

Now that my anger has been expressed in a somewhat healthy manner, I have of course sent the socially obligatory gifts intended to express my joy that you are somehow still alive despite your dangerously reckless antics. Hopefully I will see you again soon, though I rest well knowing my dad is with you.

Lots of love,

Hermione Granger.

P.S. Please give the books a try, considering that you have nothing else to do while you are trapped in the hospital. Our Magizoology books are quite temperamental, so I found some alternatives.

Smiling he reached into the box. There was the standard assortment of his favorite Wizarding candies. A moving picture of Hermione standing in her best finery next to Dobby, who wore an elegant suit, on opening day at her long-planned restaurant. Then he finally stumbled upon the books. Crammed into the package were magically shrunken copies of all his textbooks. Though he felt it unwise to use his own wand on them given recent health related matters the boy could still squint and read the titles. There were the regular course books with loads of muggle pens and sticky notes. Then mixed alongside those books he found exciting titles such as Magical Runes, Wizarding Studies, and Arithmancy. Finally came a very large assortment of books on Magical Creatures that left him grinning ear-to-ear. Harry sometimes wondered if his best friend had long known about his buried interest in Magical Creatures and cunningly stoked it with the Erumpents as an excuse.

'A Flagon of Dragons: Across the Globe.' 'The In-Depth Anatomy of Known Wizard Killers.' 'The Matter of Sentience Amongst Non-Humanoids.' 'A Detailed Guide to Magical Entomology.' 'An Official Compilation of South American, North American, and African Magizoology Methodologies.'

Wincing at the incredibly long-winded title of that last book he opened Bryony Granger's package somewhat nervously. There was a letter that left tears stinging at the back of his eyes. Then he reached into the box to find the promised, blue jersey. "Oh, good to see that Bryony sent that jersey like I asked." Dr. Granger grinned, returning only to plop into the chair next to Harry's bed.

"But why?" The boy asked, trying desperately to hide the impact the other Dr. Granger's words had had on him.

"Well, my dad was an Everton man, and his dad too. I figured it was important you should get a jersey of your own. Even Hermione has one despite her hatred for anything football related." The man explained as though it were obvious.

"Why is it important I got a jersey too?" Harry, at this point, just needed to hear it for himself. To hear what he desperately needed to be told. Only, he was terrified that the man would not understand.

However, recognition gleamed in Dr. Granger's brown eyes. "Come on Harry!" He grinned, snatching the jersey into the light for a brief inspection whilst tugging the teenage wizard into a firm side-hug. "You are part of the family now, you know?" Neither of them said anything about the happy tears which started running more freely down Harry's face. The man simply slipped back into the chair.

"Thank you." Harry grinned, pulling the jersey on over his head to make sure it fit, at Dr. Granger's insistence. The fact that it did was shocking given the massive growth spurt prompted by the Nourishment Potions Hermione had forced on him. His heart was thumping too loudly with joy to properly process the fact that Hermione was likely clever enough to have predicted such a thing.

"Don't thank me yet," The man grinned in response, propping his arms behind his head, "Hermione doesn't like sports. That means you get to explain the mechanics of Quidditch to me in full depth. I also expect tickets to your games this fall and a Gryffindor jersey of my own…" The verbal explanations that followed only left Harry Potter feeling happier than he ever had before.

OOOO

She stood in the water. It swelled above her hips, while thick sea spray filled her silver hair. For that moment it all felt completely natural. Even though upon glancing down momentarily red swirled from her white-clad body into the Irish waters, and beyond. "You feel at peace because these are the traditions of our ancestors." Anne's chilling voice, colder than the wintery water, left Hermione tensing violently. Immediately the girl attempted to enact her Occlumency barriers only to feel that evil presence fill the spaces preemptively. Tinkling laughter rang hauntingly in Hermione's ear. The firm presence of a jagged chin forced itself down on her shoulder. "No, no, no, sweetling," The woman finally exhaled in a drowning, breathy voice, "You and I have much to talk about."

Hermione refused to engage, attempting again to focus on what Cordelia had taught her of Occlumency only for it to fail again. The force that worked in tandem with Anne was much too overwhelming. Eyes creaking violently against the freezing, repugnant entity, she hissed lowly against the trembling ocean. Only Voldemort's attempt to Possess her struck any familiarity to the present situation. Something utterly foul and loathsome was settling in her brain. These images, however, were prehistoric. Far older even than the things she had learned from the Villis Malificus. Much more consuming and all encompassing. "Relax into it," Anne sighed again, still behind Hermione, out of sight yet such an indomitable force all the same. "I see now how wrong I was to trick you before. When we are so much the same."

"We are nothing alike," Hermione spat in disgust at the thought of her grandmother's cousin. She focused on how foul and deformed the woman had been in her prior dreams. Riddled with Dark Magic by the Being that swirled about her even now.

"We are. My grandfather, your great-great grandfather, took me here when I was a bit younger than you. He travelled with me all around Ireland. Instructed me in the family lore, taught me how to use the Sight that coursed in my veins. Not Cordelia. I was chosen by the Crow to See things as they are. Not Cordelia." Her chin was lifted from Hermione's shoulder. "Turn around. Face yourself. I will train you, the Last Morrigan. Not some long-lived French dog."

"Why did you do it?" Hermione wondered aloud, acknowledging that they were quite similar. In that they both had been faced with the same demon. Even now the girl knew that it would be incredibly easy to let her desperately weak Occlumency shields fall entirely. To allow the mental sickness and derangement to take root beyond the scope of her dreams. It rumbled ravenously in response.

"My parents and their parents," She rasped in an Irish drawl, "Abandoned the fight. Cordelia's own father sent his children to Hogwarts. Betrothed them to English scum. The Cairn promised me what I desired. Independence from the English invaders. It gave me power, guided me to Grindelwald. We slaughtered those who dared contaminate Irish blood with that of the defilers. Others like Cordelia were exiled across the Irish Sea where they truly belonged." The wind whipped against them, striking every inch of Hermione's body with icy cold. "You are my Trojan Horse. We will break their society the same way they broke our own. England shall be rebuilt in your image. There is enough power in the Cairn to return the House Elves to their former selves, even. Dumbledore, Voldemort. They are all meaningless compared to the Blood of the Crow."

"Blood?" Hermione began to chuckle loudly, "Why does it always come down to blood? Never anything of substance. Pureblood, Half-Bloods, Mudbloods, English blood, Irish blood." She continued to giggle hysterically while moving in the only direction she could opposite of Anne. The witch dove forth into the roiling water.

She sat upwards in real life, still giggling violently. Brown eyes peering into the flames of the parlor room at Pyrites' Manor. Slowly the strangled breaths dissipated. Until only a serious, grim expression covered her face. "Are you alright, Hermione?" Byron asked from the other side of the room. He had been peering over the many pages of her agreement with Magdalena Goregalon which she spread neatly across the desk.

"No," The teenager answered stiffly, "Occlumency is incredibly difficult to keep in place at all times. Especially when you sleep." Her shoulders bunched tightly. Still, despite her callous words the fourteen-year-old still felt a spark of hope in her chest. Things were not as dire as they once seemed. The dark energy that had plagued her gift of Sight was not one that could consume her quite so easily. Anne, if it truly was the woman's spirit or what-not, had betrayed too much of her hand. The Cairn needed to be accepted, and Hermione did not intend to let such rotten energy into her body or mind. "Sorry, Byron," She sighed, "I just have bad nightmares when I don't take the Dreamless Sleep." The constant migraines Hermione suffered during the day did not need to be discussed.

"I understand," The ghost smiled with his kind, understanding voice. "Regardless, this contract does not seem to be quite so unfair to you. Ironclad, yes, which is to be expected of Goblins. Mutually beneficial though is something one does not generally expect when dealing with the masters of Gringotts. I can see much in your favour here." He paused, "Of course, that is only if this venture works. Which I do not believe you are in any way prepared to do. You are busy enough right now. Between the Occlumency, Flamels, EAO campaigns, planning for your Societal Debut. You are powerful, and you will likely live a very long time. Perhaps longer than Dumbledore, but that is still too difficult to predict until I can get a better understanding of your full potential."

"I doubt Magdalena Goregalon will much like being shunted aside temporarily in favour of my Societal Debut." Hermione remarked dryly.

"I agree with you," Byron answered, "Which is why you must keep her interested in a partnership." He stared firmly at her, "What are Goblins most impressed by? Think deep. I have taught you all that you need to know."

"Wealth," Hermione answered easily, but decided that was too simple an answer. "Removing Wizarding interference and Ministerial barriers within their bank?"

"You are thinking in terms of the overall schematics," Byron said encouragingly, "Remember that we only care to win over Magdalena Goregalon."

"Directness without any frivolity." Hermione pondered it for a moment before speaking. "Magicals, humans in general, lace their interactions with societal niceties. Goblins hate us for it."

"You must be direct with her. Express your interest in working towards the shared goal, but only pouncing when you are both equally ready. In the meantime convince her that she is not stagnating by providing meaningful assurances that you are leading her on the path to success."

Hermione was no slouch and knew exactly the sort of things that Magdalena needed for success. "I can invite her to my Societal Debut," The girl agreed with him, "Introduce her to Cedric and his grandmother. They aren't incredibly wealthy but Madam Diggory is alleged to possess much political capital. Then maybe the Greengrasses could be convinced if I can get Daphne to tell me just how much must be sacrificed in exchange. They are, perhaps, the wealthiest family in magical Britain."

"You can ask your friend, Potter, to help you as well," Byron ventured carefully. He had gleaned from her very recent teatime meeting with one Andromeda Black that Harry stood to one day be quite wealthy indeed.

"I do not want to use him as a tool." Hermione disagreed, "Though it won't hurt to see if he will want to be an equitable investing partner in this venture." Harry's wealth and reputation would likely be enough to bind Magdalena to her permanently. Especially if she managed to convince the Diggorys and the Greengrasses to sweeten the deal. Already her plans were spinning wildly ahead. The Temporary Youth Serum Hermione had helped Mr. Flamel create would unquestionably be a wild success. She already anticipated her share of the patent being an incredible monetary influx. Magdalena did not need to know that Hermione secretly planned on donating any and all of those profits to creating a society for Free Elves.

"Ventures?" Cordelia remarked haughtily as she breezed into the parlor room. Spreading three dress-sized bags on the high-backed Dragon Hide couches. Hermione moved to inspect her newest clothing fresh from Glimpa's. "Are matters of coin not the concern of the living, Hermione?" The old bat wasted no time at all pouring herself a whiskey. Internally, the girl sighed, before moving quickly to put the documents splayed before Byron back where they came from. Due to the fact that Gilderoy Lockhart's High Trial was scheduled for tomorrow, Cordelia was staying the night at the Townhouse.

"No, Cordelia," Byron bit back acidly, "You are sorely mistaken. Hermione is to come to me regarding matters of coin. Your purview of expertise is matters of the flesh."

The greying-blonde haired Irish woman grinned back at him with sweetly disguised venom. "Hermione, darling," She snapped towards the couch where her elegant tote had been dropped alongside the dress bags. "Could you be a dear and tell Byron what the green folder in my bag says?" Rolling both eyes the teenager elegantly withdrew the mentioned folder. Only, when her eyes glanced upon the contents she tightened up. "Yes," Cordelia smiled cooly, sipping from her tumbler, "Feel free to confer with me when you need to find a suitable locale for your Societal Debut."

"Am I supposed to be impressed you poured half of your savings into repairing the Fortress of the Crow?" The girl fired back with a red face, "Why would you do something so frivolous? I already made arrangements to rent out the Gauntlet." She blamed her reckless words on the unsettling nightmare. Rarely did Hermione lash out at her grandmother so easily. Masterful politicians, which Cordelia Morrigan had proven herself to be tenfold, could effortlessly temper fiery tongues with freezing water.

"I can recall three other debutantes who squeezed Wizarding Britain's most powerful into that dingy little ballroom for their debuts. All of them thinking they were quite clever for securing a location apart from their pitifully small ancestral homes." Here the woman's sharp, brown eyes roved disdainfully about the Townhouse's walls. "The first was dreadfully poor, and quite desperate to find herself a young husband of at least middling wealth. Of course, the venue served to remind any suitors only of her unfavorable circumstances. She was wedded to a wealthy man in the end, of course, only he was thrice her age, fat, and carted around on a litter by a party of ten House Elves. Need it I tell you what fates befell the rest?"

"You think this matters so much," Hermione bit back, again cursing her thickheaded state, "But all the Witches League has gotten me is a pint of blood splattered on my face. The Purebloods still detest me. Why should I care what they think? I am Hermione Granger-Pyrites. A spell of my invention will send men to the moon. I have helped Nicolas Flamel craft a Youth Serum."

"You also have secrets," Cordelia snarled, "Of such a dark, illicit nature that you may very well one day be chained to a bench beneath those Purebloods. Foolish, arrogant girl!" Her face was tight with fury. "Do not forget that I can peer into your mind during our Occlumency lessons. You have no idea the things that have been revealed to me." Hermione was finally gobsmacked into silence. "Accordingly, I have been forced to pour half of my savings into an ancestral seat which contains nothing but memories of the small-scale genocide which eradicated my entire bloodline. All so that you can perhaps impress those scornful Purebloods. Mayhaps one day saving yourself a stint in Azkaban when your golden reputation is utterly devastated by the nasty lies your pretty mouth has been spewing."

"What secrets?" Byron interjected, as Hermione crossed her arms tightly together.

"Not mine to share, Ghost," Cordelia hissed with taut lips. "Although all I will say is that the Pyrites' proclivity for mental derangement truly is genetic."

"Or perhaps," Hermione suddenly snarled in an icy tone, the fire in the hearth diminishing down to a quarter of its former size, "I simply take after my lying, coward of a grandmother. Maybe that shared weakness is why I told no one that another voice hid inside of my mind after Voldemort tried to Possess me. Why I went along with it when he taught me things, befriended me, thought of lies for my pretty mouth to sing." The temperature dropped further, ice crawling from her mouth, silvery hair sparkling. "That weakness must be why I cast my first Killing Curse. Because no matter how I try to rationalize that I had no idea what that spell was, I know that I knew all along precisely what I was doing. Now Ron is dead, a FUCKING PUDDLE IN THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS! BECAUSE I WAS WEAK. JUST. LIKE. YOU." The fire blasted back so mightily into existence that it left scorch marks on the mantel. Chairs flipped, and papers stacked neatly inside the desk which Byron sat at ripped violently outwards into a swirling cloud. "What else do you call a woman who let her granddaughter think she was a mudblood her entire life only to thrust all of this," Hermione's hands whipped violently about in the air, causing several portraits to fall off the walls, "Shit to wrap around her neck like a cinder block?"

The girl, silver aura snapping about her body, ozone and hot ink permeating the air thickly, grabbed the bags from Glimpa's. "You can plan this Societal Debut. Since you are so good at it. I have a trial I need to be preparing more lies for." With that the girl stormed from the parlor. Leaving other people to clean up her messes, she thought, swiping furiously at the falling tears.

OOOO

Hermione for once allowed herself to do nothing. It was the early morning on the day before her testimony in Gilderoy Lockhart's High Trial. Instead of frantically revising her rehearsed lines the muggleborn sat with a cup of tea in a muggle cafe. "I thought I might find you here," Cordelia sighed, sitting across from her granddaughter gracefully. The woman was not yet dressed for the trial either, though Hermione supposed it was likely because the older witch planned on wearing robes. For a long while they said nothing. Merely looking everywhere but at each other as muggles milled about.

"Do you think that if I had not gone into that dungeon my First Year that Ron would still be alive?" She finally spoke, hands wringing underneath the table. A stout brunette shot them both a subtle glance prompting Cordelia to wave her hand. Nonverbally and wandlessly producing a Silencing Spell as well as a Notice-Me-Not Charm. "Voldemort never would have left that bit of himself in me. There would have been no reason for you to get involved in my life. My Sight never would have manifested."

"You also never would have invented a spell that could send wizards to the moon, or helped Nicolas Flamel invent youth in a bottle. Nor would you have become a glimmering savior for those House Elves you love so much." Cordelia smiled tightly as ever. "Don't be daft you silly girl. Your potential always would have been discovered and extracted into the open no matter what. Despite popular opinion talent always brings trouble to those who have it. Especially for prodigies." There was a pregnant, heavy pause. "Harry might have died if you had not gone into that dungeon. Then you would have felt just as guilty as you do now. Either way tragedy was written into your cards. That is the way for us Morrigan women."

Hermione shook her head violently only to jump when Cordelia kicked her in the shin. "Listen well, girl. I saw your memory as a third party witness. Ronald Weasley was as good as dead. There was no life left in his eyes."

"They could have-," She gagged suddenly talking about it, "Healed him."

"When you were young and your parents were just finishing school turned me babysitter, I noticed all sorts of little details. The fact that you were magical, of course. How precocious and witty you were." Here she rolled her eyes, "Your parents both became doctors. Those were hardly surprising qualities in their child." She leaned close, "I know your weaknesses. How you blame yourself for every little thing that goes wrong. When you were a babe you threw self-pitying tantrums after knocking over glasses of water. Now you fancy yourself a murderess because it feels better than doing nothing. Because you are a neurotic control freak. Your father is guilty of it, as am I, and you too." Cordelia reached under the table like a striking viper and seized hold of Hermione's hand. Their eyes connected deeply.

"You sent a spell at a deranged madman who deserved it, and he managed to deflect a green explosive towards your friend. That is hardly your fault, so stop with the melodramatics." There were no eye rolls, Cordelia was intently serious. "I am disappointed however. Tom Riddle played you like a fiddle. He managed to fool some of the greatest wizards who ever lived, but you are better. At least," She sniffed, "You will be. However, this Riddle is saner than Voldemort and he knows your potential too. Wherever he has gone off to I daresay we should be preparing. That is why I spent so much of my wealth repairing the fortress."

"You don't have to share your plans with me just because of my tantrum last night." Hermione began to protest.

"I do, actually," Cordelia crossed her arms. "One day you will recognize just how similar the two of us are. Even though your bleeding heart may be much larger than my own." She took a sip of her tea. "To even begin preparing for the Tom Riddle you released onto the earth we must neutralize our present enemies. Anne is most concerning to me. Byron spilled the beans regarding your nightmare yesterday. We need to regain our familial prominence in Ireland to neutralize whatever is on the fucking Cairn. Permanently. This Societal Debut is an excellent way to begin such plots."

Hermione quickly intuited what her grandmother had hoped to achieve. The Irish and British magical societies were largely separate. Roman and Norse interference driving large wedges between the two communities. There were the occasional overlaps like Seamus Finnegan, but they were rare and often left their community entirely behind. Few wizards and witches straddled the line between both countries. Only strengthened by the fact that Irish magicals tended to homeschool. "You want me to begin building connections in Ireland." She thought of her nightmares and shivered. To go so close to the Cairn's influence was a truly unsettling prospect.

"You will soon be old enough to assume your role on the Wizengamot in Britain if need be. It is time for me to go back. Back home and reaffirm our holdings in that country." Cordelia's tone was firm. "The British position is stable. Dumbledore is our ally. The Malfoys have been defeated. Fudge is done for. Madam Bones will stamp out corruption, so long as that cunt Temperance Travers does not win. Voldemort's position, if he ever returns to strength, has been deeply weakened. Now we must use our footing in Ireland to finish off the demons that haunt your dreams. I can only do that with the last Morrigan Seer well settled as my heiress."

"I have no more scandalous secrets I am hiding from you," Hermione spoke carefully, "So perhaps I am ready to stomach the awful things we must now do together."

"Not quite…" Her attractive grandmother frowned, brushing at one of the long strands of grey which marred that tamed mane of gold. The sharp-tongued woman was obviously struggling with her words. A rare occasion at best. "You cracked. Violently after what happened in the Chamber. Voldemort murdered half of the talented magicals in Britain. The Cairn destroyed my family and set Ireland back decades. Now the Ministry is a clean slate which could fall either to the Purebloods or Amelia Bones, and another Tom Riddle roams the earth."

"What point are you trying to make?" The muggleborn asked in a tense tone.

"Murder is a part of war. It is a part of your future that you need to come to terms with. You accidentally performed a merciful execution in the heat of battle. That is not murder, yet I promise there will soon come a time where you must murder an enemy in cold blood. Such an act will rip your soul more viciously than Ronald Weasley's death ever did." Her eyes glittered with a deeply set emotion. Something between malice and wistfulness. "I am a murderess. One day you will be too, even if I somehow manage to shield you from the wars to come. Powerful women attract powerful enemies. Have you heard whispers of the time I spent in Paris?"

Hermione shook her head even though she was well aware that something had happened in France. Something bad enough that the elderly Madame Lefebvre hated her grandmother. "After Grindelwald was defeated things were not roses and peaches. It took hard work and effort to clean up the evil he left behind. Many supporters were left behind, though no one knew quite who had actually could be trusted, or who should have been given the guillotine." Her lips curved, "I was tapped fresh out of Hogwarts to serve as an agent. To penetrate the anarchist insurgency. Most men were dead, I spoke French, and it did not hurt that the Ministry threatened to revoke my parent's refugee status. There was no time to obsess over my moral compunctions. This transcends magic. In the muggle world when you live in war it does not matter who you are. Either you kill and use, or you are used like a kleenex and then killed."

"Why did you not kill Jasper Pyrites? Why did you let him use you, and throw you away?" The girl asked boldly.

Cordelia reached out passing her hand over Hermione's head. Much to the teenager's shock her hair turned back to its former brown color. "What makes you think I didn't?" Now she did not smile. "Perhaps it is time we acknowledge what we are. Sappy words, I know." She scoffed. "You are clever enough to be trusted to make the right decisions without worrying over them afterwards. I am as certain of that as I am of the fact that Cedric Diggory looks like a lost puppy."

Hermione spun around to find that her friend was indeed standing outside the cafe indeed looking very much like a wizard surrounded by muggles. Despite the fact that she had repeatedly instructed him not to leave France on her account. "Go, spend time in London today. Relax." Cordelia nodded commandingly, "Forget the Flamels and tomorrow. Enjoy yourself for once."

With a small smile the younger witch nodded her head in answer. Striding from the cafe as though she owned the world once more.

"A heart-to-heart and a change in hair colour?" Remarked a strident, American accent from behind. "That was all it took to set your little Seer back on the right track?"

"I've watched her carefully since she was a babe," Cordelia sipped from lukewarm cup, betraying no emotion. "Prodded her, taunted her, challenged her. My granddaughter is an exceptional young woman. Coddling does not work. Only the blunt truth."

"Half-truths," Her companion settled into the chair that had been occupied by Hermione Granger moments earlier.

"One day she will not be so easy to handle. I can guarantee it. Yet at this moment she can still be managed." Her brown eyes flashed with venom. "Tell that to your masters. My end of the bargain is sealed. They should begin with their end soon."

"Aren't they not your masters too?" The other woman asked in a condescending tone. Her hair black as midnight. One leg crossed in such a way that her slate grey suit still appeared sleek and unwrinkled.

"One cannot be a slave by choice," She retorted, finishing her tea, "You inane, little cunt."

OOOO

Wow. School has been taxing, and this was a long ass chapter. So mic drop, I somehow finished.