Narcissa was late to dinner, an absent face among an elaborate table placed for seven but only catering to five. Her chair, nestled beside Draco's own, seemed hauntingly empty, as if a vacuum existed where flesh and magic should. An effect magnified by their seating arrangements with Harry at the head as Lord Black, and Hermione and Ron across from Draco and the yet-to-appear Madam Malfoy.
"This is all so unnecessary," Hermione said as her fingers explored the decorative tablecloth of white and the shiny plates before her space, "We could take supper in the library."
"Mother is a traditionalist," Draco grunted, his mind on the absence of said mother, not on Hermione's whining. "Supper at the table, as a family, is very important to her."
"So important that she isn't here for it?" Hermione drawled.
There's a twitch of muscle in Draco's neck, "She must have been held up, Granger. I'm sure she'll arrive soon, perhaps with more wine? Since you've… consumed the table bottle."
"And who could blame her? It's all a bit much to take, isn't it?" Ron said smugly, drumming fingertips across the arm of his wooden - and horridly uncomfortable, Hermione admitted - chair.
"Being a Dagworth… being a Black will open a great amount of opportunity, Granger-"
"And I'm aware, Malfoy," Hermione whispered, her mind elsewhere, her heart still thudding despite the wine she'd consumed, "but I'm allowed to be overwhelmed."
Because it was so much more than that. So much more than the disturbing lack of guilt in the idea of fattening her prestige, her heritage, through the sacrifice of missing parents. So much more than the idea that she was now another cog in the machine of the supposed gentry - still chained by the Ministry, and yet blessed with new freedoms. It was in the howling wail that clawed at her mentality. In the urge to laugh that knocked upon her chest, pushing at her throat. The thought that she was, in any way, connected to her, the woman who haunted her existence, even after being bound so tightly-
Well, that was overwhelming.
"Are you fine with it?" Harry asked, his tone a careful mixture of introspective and concerned, "You will have holdings to account for, Dagworth is sure to have a great deal of untouched wealth, but as a Black you would become-"
"- Heir presumptive to your estate, correct?"
"Which is massive in its own right, and much older to boot."
"But tied up in the Ministry," Hermione cautioned, her mind an immaculate record of Harry's golden-spine account books.
"A vault or two, for a rediscovered heir, would be no issue for the Ministry surely, as an act of good will toward their precious Trio." Harry smiled.
And Hermione mirrored it, even if her mind was far from her upcoming wealth, and more on the impact of her supposed 'discovery'.
"Will they announce?" Harry shifted his attention, placed it upon a fiddling Ron who'd begun to obnoxiously clack his fork against the edge of his empty plate.
"I suspect," he grunted, "they'll toy around with the idea of it. An official announcement, an interview with the press, that could very well be in the future. But, a new Black? A reestablished Dagworth? That's the sort of news that shakes foundations."
The sort of news the Ministry might want to control.
"The Circle," Draco croaked then, "they need to know. First if possible. Everything... everything hinges on this one event."
They looked at her then, expectant and eager, because she was the planner, the logic, the brains. Whether her heart rattled in her chest and her blood hummed with something other was irrelevant. The ball was moving much faster than expected but not beyond their control.
Her control.
"What is my upcoming title," Hermione said, best to start there.
"Lady Dagworth-Granger Black," Harry offered, "Heir Presumptive - no, perhaps Apparent - to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black."
"And what if you have a child? What of Draco? Lady Malfoy?"
"I doubt I shall," Harry pondered, "but the title would not be changed, the Potter estate would need a heir first, as the Peverell bloodline takes precedence over the other. There are contracts to be sure of it. As for Draco-"
"My claim to lordship is not stronger than your own, I am Lord Malfoy first and foremost, under the Black House umbrella of control, through blood of my mother." Draco said, his gaze upon the door, his thoughts still upon said missing mother, "I am Potter's vassal, but not his replacement."
"So, my security is stable, through right of magic and blood?" She needed to be sure, that her reign would be absolute, that her political power would be indisputable in this one aspect.
"So mote it be," Harry said, with an undeniable firmness.
"And the Ministry cannot overturn that decision?"
"The Rites of Olde would not allow it, and such is governed by Gringotts, and we know how much they despise the Ministry."
"And should this all be wrong? If I am not a Black or a Dagworth-"
"Impossible," Ron interrupted. It was enough to bring her leveled gaze to him, narrowed with mild disbelief.
"How so?"
Draco snorted, "Do you remember studying the theory of to be?"
She leaned back in her chair, head tilted, "The study of reality and the potential of magic within it. If I believe I exist and if others believe I exist, then I exist, bound in place by magic. And yet-"
"-if I transfigure a desk into a pig, and I believe the desk is a pig, that doesn't truly make it a pig."
Hermione nodded, no novice when it came to transfigurative theory.
"But," Draco held up a finger, his lips pressed into a thin smile, "if Harry believes, that gives weight to the magic holding the shape of the desk into a pig-"
"-for a brief period of time, at most." Hermione huffed.
"But what is the difference between the desk-pig and yourself?"
"I'm real," she hissed, hands knuckle-white upon the arm of her chair as she pushed aside memories of screeching at dark ceilings, Dementors, and her complete absolute loss of time and self, "I firmly and absolutely believe that I'm real-"
"-and I believe that you are real, and Harry believes that you are real, Ron and so forth. The Ministry. My mother-"'
"I get it. And so, magic grounds me in reality. Fueled on the ideals and firm belief of a thousand or so others, is that it?"
"And that is anchoring. Making it truth. Making it to be."
"So," Harry softly uttered, "if I believe… and Ron believes…"
"And Mum and Dad believe," Ron supplied.
"-And the Circle believes, and the Ministry believes, and the whole of magical Great Britain believes…"
"Then I will become." She shivered.
Harry's twist of upper lip seemed wicked against the backdrop of their educational conversation. It was as if they had moved away from simple theory and had slipped into something much darker than intended.
"The Dark Lord was a very powerful man," Draco whispered then, a soft utterance she almost missed against the backdrop of her own rushing blood, "Most believed him a god."
"So, he nearly became a god." Harry said, "Blessed by magic, fueled by the people… but he burned. He burned and he burned until there was very little left to keep him grounded, stable."
"Sane," Hermione swallowed.
"Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and all that." Ron chirped, "But we're better prepared. Smarter. More ambitious-"
"You? More ambitious than a Slytherin? The Heir of Slytherin?" Draco interrupted.
Ron rubbed the back of his neck, "I can be ambitious too, you know."
Hermione didn't have the patience to sit through another squabble, "So what does this mean?"
"The Ministry will attempt to keep silent for as long as possible. With the case wrapping up and closing quietly, they may be reluctant to seek absolute proof of their affirmations. One can never be sure of the public's reaction to a near scandal. The last heir of Dagworth, unceremoniously rushed to prison for the betterment of society and yet still without a trial? That doesn't look good for the Ministry. So, they'd rather function on speculation. This has given us the advantage. Draco will meet with his friends, Narcissa will groom you, you will adhere to the Olde Ways and the people will wonder." Harry said. "So, we will give them fuel to feed their ideals and they will presume your birthright of royalty. Then their belief in your purity, in your bloodline, will become. Your power will be solidified, our control absolute."
Here Draco swallowed nervously, "And the vaults?"
"All that and so much more, Draco. Security. Respect. Revenge-"
"My mother-" Draco croaked, throat tight.
"Will not become a tool for the Ministry to threaten." Harry drawled, and despite the casual canter to his tone the green of his gaze seemed so much darker then. "They have used me, they have stolen from me, from the people, for little more than their own security."
"Built on the bodies of others." Ron finished.
Something tight in Draco relaxed and he nodded, soothed, "Then I'll deal with the Circle and those of olde who are starving on their regrets."
"Praise be the Sacred," Ron sniggered, just a tad cruel, "their royalty will be returned."
Hermione stared at her empty glass and wished she could toast to that.
"When Mother arrives, we can ask her to investigate the assume Dagworth fortune and those that came before him. You know, in terms of magical genealogy it was rumored that Dagworth was related to Salazar Slytherin, a possible descendant from the Irish branch of the now defunct Gaunt family. A much stronger claim than Umbridge to the line, though no one has stepped up to deny her. So, it would be interesting if-"
But Draco's words were cut short, abruptly silenced as Narcissa swept into the room with… company.
"I apologize for the wait," Narcissa said, her tone carefully devoid of emotion, her gaze steady with a practiced sort of emptiness. It was enough to draw Hermione's attention to the stiff-backed woman, who held herself with an unashamed amount of nobility. A mask wielded more like a sword. "I was held up by our guest-"
"Aha," the guest interrupted, "Auror Potter, I wasn't aware you were here!"
That guest turned out to be one John Dawlish, who looked somewhat heavier in the time Hermione had seen him. His uniform did little to hide a rounder older form and she had to wonder how much hair was left beneath the black bowler hat upon his head. Still, it meant very little, considering the man was standing in the dining space with his wand palmed and a sheepish smile upon his face. A threat, no matter how fat on Ministry gold he'd gotten.
"Auror Dawlish," Harry greeted, standing from his chair to meet the other man, "Or, should I say, Head Guard Dawlish? Congratulations are in order, I hear! The Pride of Ordinance has been officially commissioned!"
Hermione carefully filed that information away as Ron stood from his chair, motioning for Draco and herself to do the same.
"Yes, well, that is all true," the man smiled, flushed on the praise Harry delivered so effortlessly, "It was recently commissioned, just as we expected, but I'm afraid not for the reasons we all originally wanted, my boy."
Harry held careful control over his facial features, even though Hermione knew he despised being addressed by such a title. He wasn't anyone's boy, he never had been.
"Oh?" Ron slipped into the conversation, carefully maneuvering his bulk so that Narcissa looked less in the way of Dawlish carefully held wand and closer to Draco, whose expression had also become a mask of indifference. "What have you heard?"
The man in question seemed obvious to the careful manipulation of his space, even if he was a bit startled by Ron's presence. "I'm afraid I have some horrible news, just horrible."
"How frightening," Hermione said, finishing the wall of flesh that separated Dawlish from the Malfoys, "What's happened?"
The man blinked once, then again before he drew wide eyes to her, "Ms. Granger! You're here too? I…" For a moment he seemed baffled by their combined presence.
"Lord Malfoy and Madam Malfoy have opened their doors to Harry since he's become an important part of their family and their rehabilitation representative. They invited us all for dinner," Hermione answered pleasantly, hands linked at her front, the perfect image of demure and humbled, "It was awfully nice of them."
"Oh was it?" Dawlish grunted, his expression somewhat furrowed, his opinion on the Malfoys clear, "I didn't mean to… interrupt. It's just, my team and I-"
"Your team?" Harry said.
"They are… in the front gardens. I didn't want them in the estate disturbing you, Auror Potter."
Harry's soft hum was the only indication that he approved of Narcissa's decision, but it was clear his attention was focused fully on Dawlish and the fact that he had arrived with a team.
"Y-yes, well, you see Harry, the Minister had gone missing and-"
"And you came to look for him at Malfoy Manor?" Harry asked, his tone filled with boyish curiosity.
"W-well, we did find him."
"You did? At the Manor?"
"N-no, yes, well-"
Behind them Draco released an odd sound, a deep rolling curl of disgust that Dawlish caught with a downward twist of his lips.
"Harry, sometimes, when things like this happen, they might have answers and-"
"You found the Minister," Harry interrupted, backtracking so rapidly that Dawlish lost his train of thought, "but not here. But, you came anyway... To ask questions?"
"Where is the Minister, exactly?" Ron said, the perfect picture of ignorance.
"He's… ah… he's dead, boys."
Hermione gasped, lifting hands to cover her mouth in a display of horror, "Minister Thicknesse is dead?"
Dead and gone, thumping to the beat of her pulse against her chest, fueling her, feeding her-
"I'm afraid so, Ms. Granger." Dawlish turned eyes of sad grey in her direction, but Ron had shifted, moving to wrap his arms around Hermione to pull her close, to hide her face and calm her trembles - as a twisted need shifted through her, a thrill as she remembered, as she pulled on the memory of dulling eyes and so much blood.
"There there," Ron croaked, rubbing soothing circles among her back, "it's awfully scary. Why did this happen? How did it happen?"
"Is it…" Harry said in lowered tone, "Is it because he freed us? Do you think the people rebelled?"
"Oh no! Heavens no, my boy!" Dawlish barked as he shook his head in rapid denial, "Everyone's been pretty pleased you've been freed! Seemed wrong to punish our heroes and all! Even if they'd said it was for your own good. No, it certainly wasn't that. But, we can't be sure of why it was, you know, and sometimes it's just best to ask…"
Here his gaze shifted over Harry's shoulder to the woman and man behind them.
"But, Madam Malfoy and Lord Malfoy… surely, the Ministry doesn't think they had anything to do with it?"
Dawlish cleared his throat and lowered his voice, as if he could hide the venom of his words from the ears in the space, "Harry, sometimes their lot can be a bit sore about everything. You know how the last time, the second war, went. The Ministry is doing good things, great things - Praise be the Empire - but they aren't that happy about it. Selfish as they are, those who supported You-Know-Who could be involved."
"How dare you!" Narcissa broke, her tone emboldened and certainly loud enough to make Hermione turn from Ron to face her as all that Slytherin breeding warped into something grotesque and furious, "How dare you come here, to the home of my husband, who died for this Empire, to accuse -"
"-But how are we to know?" Dawlish interrupted, "It was also your husband who served You-Know-Who-"
"-The Dark Lord is dead! Everything that he stood for is dead-"
"And why should something like that would stop the lot of yah? Who else would be capable of killing so heartlessly? He was torn asunder, in pieces you know!"
Draco held balled fists at his side. His expression was flushed in his fury, his chest tight, his gaze a flickering twist of so many different emotions. Pain at being accused. Betrayal from the thoughts of those that governed them. Grief at the reminder of his father - tortured, dead, and gone. And fear, so much fear. Terror for himself, for his mother, for the lack of freedom that bound them in exhaustion and paranoia.
"You could still be misguided, you could still be practicing all sorts of things you shouldn't be. They'd talked of rehabilitation, how worthwhile it all was, but now look at what we have! Poor Pius killed in the most horrible of ways! He was too soft, I think! We'd all be safer if you lot were being watched somewhere and-"
But that was enough. Something welled up within her, something hot and heavy, something that churned through her belly and slipped up her spine. She felt it coming, some need for action, words and an undeniable beating urge. She didn't bother pushing down the soft whispers that swept across her mentality or the motions that carried her away, away from Ron and closer to the twitching whip like tendrils of stress and magic and familiarity.
It was only once she was in front of Narcissa that the conversation - vicious and meant to wound, in Dawlish case - seemed to cease. She lifted her hands and placed them upon the woman in question, drawing her palms down the length of trembling arms as she carefully reached out to grasp the vibrant thing that made Narcissa Narcissa. The other witch, held firmly in grasp, grew tense in her grip but slowly closed her mouth, her attention and the intensity of her focus, all for Hermione.
Yes. Hermione liked that.
So, she wound her tighter, stealing away that stress and replacing it with the warmth of her ability, with the firm tight comfort of her authority.
"Quiet now," Hermione murmured, her voice almost loud in the deafening silence that covered them, "I don't think you've done anything wrong."
Draco trembled beside them, his anger present but leashed, held captive due to Hermione's sway, while Narcissa swallowed in a manner almost nervous, had it not been for the instinctive recollection of her self-control. "Yes, of course… I would… I would never purposely seek to harm the integrity of my family."
Harry made a sound of agreement, a ping upon her radar of focus, "Yes. It's a bit mean to accuse them, don't you think? The Ministry has put a lot of effort into the rehabilitation program, I'm sure the Malfoys haven't done anything untoward since their admittance."
"Yes. Of course. But Harry, you must realize it is still very possible -"
"Furthermore, the late Minister, may his journey to the Summerlands be pleasant, put his faith in me when the Malfoy House became ward of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black." While Harry's words were firm he never lost his smile, his careful jolly expression of innocence and far too much caring. "They helped Sir Thicknesse free us from suffering, murder seems like more of a… Death Eater thing."
For a moment Dawlish was quiet, red faced and sweat-slick, "And the late Malfoy… along with the current are -"
"- were. They were Death Eaters, but Mr. Malfoy died for his sins, willingly, to free his son and wife from Azkaban based on a deal made with the Ministry, didn't he? While also confessing…?"
"To... to manipulating his son into service, yes."
Whether any of that was true was irrelevant. It was what the Ministry had fed the masses, and so it was meant to be.
"Seems like a huge waste of time, don't it, Dawlish?" Ron said, hands upon his hips, "The Malfoys have their own pains to deal with and all those donations to those Ministry organized charities should say something, shouldn't it? Besides, Harry takes his job as their rehabilitation officer pretty seriously. He'd be the first to know if something odd were afoot. Starting an investigation here seems a bit… foolish."
Hermione only smiled slightly, her back still turned to the Auror in question, her gaze still upon Narcissa whose eyes was wide and shaken, steady upon the Turner about her neck.
"I… see. W-well, I am sorry for causing such a fuss. Awfully rude of me."
"Yes," Draco sneered, "It was. Supper will be cold by the time the elves serve it, thanks to you."
"Be nice," Harry laughed, a sea of calm in a storm of tension. "Auror Dawlish was just doing his job, I'm sure."
"Yes," His smile was strained, "I was."
"Then, I take it you've asked enough questions? You have to prepare to appoint a temporary Minister, and maybe, with the Pride of Ordinance, this one will… stay alive?"
With a hasty swallow Dawlish nodded, "They've already got one in mind. They voted 'em in this morning, so you are quite right, Harry, I best get going. We've a few more… places of interest to check for anything out of the ordinary before we convene for the night."
Harry nodded, 'tsking' in false sympathy as he began to lead Dawlish to the door, the other Auror's mumbles of 'you really should be careful with that sort' echoing back to them down the hall.
It was only then, once Harry and Dawlish had vanished, that Hermione laughed softly, a sound that ebbed from her chest like gravel underfoot.
"Bloody idiot," Draco hissed, but she could tell he was anxious.
Narcissa had gone incredibly still, her face slack, her mind…
"It's uh, it's okay. Thank you, you helped." Draco whispered then, carefully moving to uncurl Hermione's hands from around the arms of his mother, "It's the stress. She doesn't sleep much, and this happens so often. And… and Azkaban hasn't done her… either of us, really, any favors with our… well, you know."
Neither of them looked like they slept much, in Hermione's opinion, but she still relinquished her hold on the woman, slowly drawing the curl of her magic back into herself as Ron huffed at her back.
"How often does that happen exactly?" She said.
"Too often," Ron grunted, "I try to get 'em, the check-ins. Otherwise, it can get nasty."
While Draco carefully maneuvered his mother to a nearby chair Hermione glanced over her shoulder, "Was that the bad news you had?"
"Oh, nah, not that." Ron mumbled, suddenly restless, "We knew they'd find the body and all-"
Draco went stiff, but otherwise made no indication that he was listening as he patted his mother's hand and began to summon an elf to start their dinner.
"Then what is it?" Harry said, slipping back into the room with nose turned up, as if he had just dealt with the stench of trash - which wasn't far from the truth, "You never told us."
"Yeah, about that…" Ron grunted, "He wasn't kiddin' when he said they already picked the temp. What he didn't tell you was that there won't be an election, whether Kingsley wanted to run this season or not."
"And the bad news is the temp for the position, I take it?" Hermione snorted.
"Oh yeah," Ron smirked, "that and the decree they'll announce once they publicly accept it."
Now Harry frowned, his gaze flat, hard, livid, "A new decree, is it?"
"Oh yes, from the newly Elevated and Esteemed Minister Umbridge herself."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Supper was loud. Very loud. Filled with all the obnoxious Quidditch and political talk Hermione once despised at school. It was impressive how well the men around her were able to switch topics. One moment they were talking about Ginerva's ability for play being hampered by a lack of emotional range due to her prison tenure, then the next they were screeching about the lack of qualifications the newly risen Minister of Magic held to maintain their position. The whirlwind discussions were distracting and more than a little rambunctious, but her attention was captured elsewhere, settled somewhere in her belly where constant hunger warred with stirring madness.
Umbridge's elevation, while worrisome, was expected. She'd been Undersecretary for sometime, worming her way through political trenches until she was far too deep to dislodge. Her actions, wide and far reaching, had been praised as new-aged. It was progressive oppression, warped and barely adjusted to fit the Ministry's false ideal of equality and perseverance. Hermione supposed that placing half the population of Great Britain in camps for the Dark Lord was not an offense to those in power, especially when one claimed they'd been bamboozled into doing so. The people, bless their ability to forgive, had been more than willing to accept the Prophet spread excuse.
Just as easily as they'd been ready to accept her imprisonment.
So, it was no wonder that Umbridge had been picked for leadership. Interviews claimed she'd been humbled by her experiences, wise for surviving the Dark Lord's reign, and terribly brilliant for her innovative ideas when it came to the evaluation and reassessment of their now, so desperately loved and needed, Muggleborn brethren. They, those of the approved gentry, would no doubt back their new Minister with all the galleons they could afford to steal. After all, a campaign of control was an expensive venture to fund, in Hermione's experience.
"Think she'll want an interview with us?" Ron garbled, speaking around a mouth full of roast. "They usually do. Makes 'em look good 'n merciful. Pius loved it."
"With a beast? A literal filthy and starving animal? No, Weasley, I doubt the Minister will." Draco drawled, his lips pressed downward in a harsh cringe that Hermione might have echoed had she not been so used to Ron's ghastly habits and sense of self.
But she paid them very little attention and focused instead on the compartmentalization of the Umbridge announcement and all the nasty little feelings that accompanied it. In went her boiling sense of loathing, slick and slimy, along with a gnawing rolling resentment in exchange for the logical sweep of calm rationalization always granted her. There would be plenty of time later for fury.
One breath.
Then another.
And she slipped off her shoes, sensible and flat, to instead tentatively brush her toes against the ankle of a quietly eating - and rather apathetic - Narcissa.
The slow blink the other witch gave her, followed by pinched brow and the slight tap of her fork against her empty plate, was rather amusing. But it was the warmth of the other woman that Hermione wished to devour. Even now, as she sought to hook her heel around the back of Narcissa ankle, she felt some wicked sense… some need to control. Certainly, playing footsie with the witch would not accomplish that but she enjoyed the flicker of bewilderment inhabiting a once cool and closed off gaze.
"Hm," Hermione hummed as she fiddled with the shoe upon the foot she'd captured with her own wiggling toes.
Narcissa wrinkled her nose, leg twitching in a counter to an action she probably found more annoying than playful, "Is this the sort of behavior one can expect from the heir of my ancient house?"
Hermione's brows rose quite high, "You know of my blood?"
But it wasn't enough to stop her under table behavior. She was rather pleased when she was able to utilize both her own feet to pop one of Narcissa's lovely heels off, it's clack against the marble floor enough to make the other witch frown.
But she didn't attempt to stop the intimate and oddly possessive playing below them, "I am aware of the speculation, yes."
Because she was Madam of the house and the walls would not hold secrets from her, corrupted or not.
But Hermione figured it was something more than that, something that went beyond the flickering gold that inhabited the wards upon the ceiling or the hum of magic Narcissa wore like a mantle. It was in the careful shift of her gaze, in the lowering of her lids as she placed her attention upon Hermione's arm with such intensity that her skin prickled and tingled.
Completely aware of the focus it received.
She took a deep breath, ignored the slap of Draco's palm upon the table as he hissed something foul toward Ron, words that made Harry guffaw with abandon and Ron shake the table with a savage motion. It was all just noise, irrelevant and ignorable as that sense of otherness settled heavy and hot right behind her stuttering heart -
But then Narcissa blinked and Hermione remembered to breath -
"I…" Narcissa whispered, lost for words.
Hermione smiled, something… lopsidedand eager, "Harry would like you to take care of me. There's much I need to know if I wish to be a… proper heir to our ancient family."
And there was only so much she could learn in dreams, in the whispers of magic, and the heat of her scar.
"I will," she whispered, tone so soft Hermione had to strain to hear her over the others at the table, "once you stop rubbing your… feet against me."
And suddenly, as if sensing a great offense, Draco's attention was upon her. "What are you doing - what are you rubbing against my mother?"
She made a soft sound of displeasure at Draco's tone - and the interruption - but Harry cleared his throat soon after, a sign that it was time to move forward. Reluctantly, she released the leg she'd captured.
"Ronald," Harry said, hands linked before him, the plates vanished, the food gone, "This decree?"
He blinked once, twice, and then bobbed his head as if the entire reason they'd converged upon the manor in the first place had once been forgotten. With a grunt he pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from his vest pocket, pausing upon its reveal only to place the parchment upon the table between them as he sought to smooth it out. For a moment, Hermione wondered at the casual ease in which Ron carried such important information, but who would think them - any of them - suspicious enough to pilfer Ministry secrets?
They were well-fed pets, after all.
"This is it?" Draco drawled, unimpressed, "Important information wrinkled in your front pocket?"
Ron gave off an odd sound, indignant, "It's no easy job copying sealed records, you fluffy codger."
Draco's nostrils flared but one tap of Harry's hand against the table kept him silent.
In fact, for a time, they were all silent, contemplative of the scribbled words Ron had hastily stolen.
Finally, Harry spoke, "Where did you see this? Hear of it?"
"Prophet," Ron croaked, "Some willowy thing came in to get a preliminary photo. Dad called me in after Pius discovery, you know. Said the Ministry wanted one of us there, show our support, grieve a bit. Easy stuff."
Hermione swallowed a bark of laughter. Easy indeed.
He continued, "Got a few candid photos of Umbridge, none of them all that flattering, but afterwards…" Here Ron paused, thoughtful, "they started talking. Mostly nonsense, this and that, but the girl… she asked Umbridge what she planned on doing first, how would they catch Pius killer, that sort of stuff."
Ron tapped the parchment, his gaze half-lidded, his tone somewhat amused, "'n she avoided the question, of course. I figure they won't really look, just shift the blame, it's what they do. But then she says… there's a population issue. She knows that. I know that. Too much blood in the streets instead of in bodies. So, she came up with this, this right here." He crumpled the paper slightly, his fist set to tremble as he repressed the urge to grasp and squeeze and tear, "but I have a feeling this isn't the first time they talked of it."
Silence reigned after that, heavy and suffocating, and Hermione closed her eyes, oddly at peace, soothed by the presence of company despite the worry that furrowed their brows.
"We prepared for this," Ron wheezed, uneasy with the idea of their silence, "it isn't anything we can't handle."
"But," Harry began, cautious, "I hadn't expected them to move so quickly. Pius body is barely cold."
At that Hermione did laugh, a wild haunted cackle that ripped from her chest and hunched her shoulders. Across from her, though she couldn't see it, she could feel Draco stir - a jerk in his seating - while Narcissa took an audible breath.
Ron set his other hand upon her, let the comforting warmth and weight of his presence settle on her thigh, "It's always been, apparently, Umbridge said as much. They can call upon it whenever they feel the need, in any state of emergency - "
"And this is an emergency?"
"They've isolated too many of them, those who actually care, so - "
Harry made a sound of confirmation, but it was Narcissa who spoke.
"This is not unusual, a decree of this sort. We, the olde, have been doing this for centuries. It's a ritual, meant to keep our gold and magic - "
"But then it was done for blood," Harry interrupted, "do you deny that?"
She swallowed harshly, "I do not."
"And this time, it will be done to control. It is our duty to fix their mistakes, they will say, as they tighten their chains and rattle our bonds -"
"Unless," Narcissa interrupted, raising a hand. "Unless… we craft our own chains."
Hermione opened her eyes then, curious, as she swept them across pinched expressions, "Who does this impact?"
Glances were exchanged briefly at the table, but it was Draco who addressed her, "Everyone, everyone who was sentence to Azkaban for war crimes but released thereafter will be impacted. Not all at once, but it will trickle down, starting with - "
"- me," Hermione confirmed, "because I am newly established and without true responsibility. Harry is a Lord and beyond immediate ordering, only pressuring and Ron is one of many children - the eldest will be bothered before he can be. Is that it?"
"And it is your ultimate responsibility," Narcissa murmured, hands twisting up a napkin in a manner that was unfairly graceful, despite the act of it, "due to the need to repopulate the Dagworth line and reestablish once-lost vaults."
Ron snorted then, one shoulder lifted in a listless shrug, "And Umbridge never liked you much, either."
Which made it much more challenging.
"They will pick for you, who I do not know, but their best choice would be someone that could control you and the estates you may claim in the future, if you dare to claim in the future. Or, someone still in Azkaban, someone worth galleons and land that can be married off and then controlled by you - who the Ministry, in turn, will try to control by your proxy." Narcissa said. "Unless you do not allow them the time to pick, making a preemptive strike imperative. Pick the target, then influence the Ministry decision from there until they believe they've made the choice themselves."
"They have a few candidates already, wouldn't be surprised if they denied anyone not of this bunch," Ron started, rummaging about his pockets for more things he'd no doubt pilfered from some bureaucratic office. "Not all of them male, surprisingly."
"There are other ways, Ronald." Hermione fussed, "Ways beyond cock-"
"Language," Narcissa grunted, shifting a leg to kick - actually kick - her ankle.
The rolling growl that swept from her chest was surprising even to her but Narcissa's response was only a slow lick of her bottom lip. How cheeky for a proper witch.
Ron converted a snigger into a cough before sliding a folder out of his undetectable extended pocket and with a casual twist of wrist the folder opened, spilling several moving photographs onto the table. "The goal of the decree is to match powerful and fertile witches and wizards with one another to continue dying or almost extinct bloodlines."
"The Law of Marriage at its most basic core." Hermione said.
"Right," Ron chirped, "they want children to train. Tall-and-Willowy told her colleague that having one of us - and by us, I mean you, 'Moine - as the poster witch for the process would force others to feel obligated to participate when their turn came around. After all, if the Golden Trio can do it…"
"So can the average wizard, yes." Hermione muttered, "More heroism."
Harry gave them a slow nod, "Of course, a sacrifice for the people."
"Their doctrine isn't it?" Draco grunted, his lips twisted in disgust at the proposed wizards in the photos from Ron's folder - "Flint? They think you should be with Flint?"
"Yaxley's in there too, you know. The idea that they'd release him early - "
Hermione sucked on her teeth for a moment, swallowing a dizzying sense of annoyance. "An insult, he's twice my age!"
"Easier to kill that way, ain't they?" Ron said, lips peeled back in a smile most unkind.
"Yaxley is… was, a formidable wizard. His death would not be easy to orchestrate, no matter his age."
She sucked in a sharp breath at Narcissa's casual insertion into the conversation, even as Harry tittered with pleasure.
"How do you figure? We've been practicing you know!" He said.
"And while I'm sure Pius was the height of your accomplishments, he was lacking in various areas of prowess." Narcissa responded, a slender hand out to twist the folder around so that the photo's faced her. "It would be better to pair Hermione with a wizard," here she paused, if only to check for Hermione's reaction. "Or witch that could aid her, not be fodder for your…" Here she paused, if only to toss a glance to the Turner around Hermione's neck, "hedonism."
Ron took a sharp breath beside her, and Hermione was somewhat surprised by the casual airs in which Narcissa discussed murder and magic. But it was to be expected, she was a woman of Black.
And the widow of a politician.
"What about this boy? Zabini, wasn't it?" Narcissa mused.
Beside her, Draco grew stiff and awkwardly cleared his throat.
"No?" She muttered, distracted as she examined the next photo, "He's a very cunning boy, handsome. His mother is gorgeous, might I add, so the children would be-"
It was easy for Hermione to smile during their casual conversation of who she would wed, despite the odd surrealistic nature of the conversation and the dooming implications it brought. Still, she let them speak around her, knowing that ultimately Harry would decide who was best - to bond with or destroy, should the union prove… inconvenient.
"Let me see," Draco barked, perhaps uncomfortable by Harry and Narcissa's casual assessment of his friendship circle… or the idle talk of murder. She couldn't be sure, "Our best bet is not to kill any of them. Though, I doubt the Golden Trio is in the habit of such."
"No. Never." Ron deadpanned.
Draco rolled his eyes, his expression a mixture of disbelief and discomfort, though he was no stranger to dark action. "You want someone with a vault and pull among the olde families. Waning or otherwise-"
"And why not you?" Hermione said, brow quirked.
"Why not Harry, for that matter?" Draco said, "As if they'd allow such a union, we could be cousins-"
"And that hasn't stopped your family before."
To that, Narcissa snorted, a surprisingly unlady like action, "Draco is betrothed already."
Hermione tilted her head, "Betrothed?"
Draco made a limp sort of motion, a tired wave of hand in Harry's direction, as the man in question smiled a bit lopsidedly.
"Plans within plans," He sung, drumming fingertips across the table, "it's a good union. I assure you. Cute little Astoria needed a prince to save her - "
Draco sighed.
"- and what better prince than our dear Dragon?"
But Hermione knew it was more than that. Knew that the Greengrass position had remained stable, built on neutrality and careful manipulation. No matter how far the Malfoys had fallen, there was still power and gold in blood, in bondage and ancient magic.
In the whispers of political revolution.
The Greengrass daughter was more than just a way to keep Draco from Ministry mandate, a slave to a wife of their choosing. It was the careful handling of a precarious board. The unseen siphoning of a very hefty dowry and a promise to return the olde.
Hermione returned Harry's lopsided smile. "I see."
Because, she wasn't a fool.
"Who will influence the final decision?" Narcissa asked.
"Head of House, normally, isn't it?" Ron said.
"She has no Head," Draco muttered.
"She does now," Harry answered casually, head tilted before he placed a finger on one of the photos, "this one."
"They'll let you choose?" Draco seemed flabbergasted, surprised by the power Harry might wield despite his position. Or, maybe it was because of his position. "You think you can do it? Adjust the decision?"
"The way I see it, she is a Black, as guessed by the Ministry. I am Lord Black, the Head of her House. She is my ward, with guardianship provided though Madam Malfoy - "
"-and why," Hermione interrupted, "would I be in need of guardianship? I thought it was only guidance?"
"You're a young pureblood of Sacred heritage unwed. It would be inappropriate for you to be without a guardian before you've reached your fortieth summer. But don't you worry, Hermione. Madam Malfoy will take good care of you, after all."
She pouted, a moment of petulance, but she knew that to all be true. She had asked after all, to be taken care of. Still, it was somewhat fun to be combative, even as Narcissa huffed across from her.
"The department Head of Bondage, especially if it is to be one done through magic, is obligated to contact me. A contract cannot be signed otherwise. I'll work on it from there. After all, who would know Hermione better than her best friend? Furthermore, who would the Ministry listen to if not for the Boy-Who-Lived?"
Because, that had worked so well in the past.
"Me! Maybe me?" Ron pouted.
"Ah, because she has been living with you the last few years instead of me."
"She has been! She's been living with both of us!"
Just not in the eyes of the Ministry.
"So, who will it be?" Hermione said.
Harry gave her a look, something mischievous and all together a bit inappropriate. "Most of these candidates are all so droll and boring. We need a person whose family will have a bit more pull and whose vaults might still be untouched… just heavily sanctioned. A person who believes in the olde ways, and any new ones we bind them with."
Slowly he pulled a picture away from the bunch, out from under the watchful eye of Narcissa, and slide it over to her person. For a moment she was silent, gaze somewhat narrowed before she lips split in a smile more cruel than kind. Something excited and hungry and far too wild to be considered appropriate.
"But more than that," Harry continued, "We should pick someone who might be fun."
To oppress.
To control.
"And, the way I see it, a goddess needs a priestess first."
Draco swallowed audibly before her, but Narcissa nodded, apparently pleased with the choice as she stood from the table, only pausing to replace the heel Hermione had childishly taken off her foot, "I'll start the preparations. Shouldn't take too long. Dandelion has always been proficient, if not a bit rude, in her quest for prestige and power. There will be talks however, long and arduous, if we must deal with her frugality before the Ministry is presented with a decision."
And a decision they would have, carefully orchestrated and spoon-fed by their most gracious and humbled Boy-Who-Lived.
"Let's see how well we can teach Ms. Parkinson to worship."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Pansy Parkinson's abode was simple, a flat one floor building situated at the very edge of Charing Cross Road which had expanded over the years to include less Muggles and more wizards among the community. Hermione might have figured it was due to the natural yet uncontrolled expansion of Diagon Alley, which seemed to pulse with a suffocating sense of strangled magic. Yet, as she stroked her fingertips across the hot bricks of buildings as they passed, slick with something other and corruptive…
Well, someone or something had driven the Muggles off long ago, legally or otherwise. Hermione figured the latter.
Still, there was beauty in the heady press of otherness that possessed the crooked buildings, in the way it caressed her fingertips like so much heat and made her own magic arch like a cat starving for warmth and sunlight. So familiar, like a well-read book and a crackling fire… familiar enough for her to easily pinpoint the wavering ward that bubbled around Pansy's building - shoddy and strained, a poor protective don't-look-here charm - alien and unwanted among the more ancient and mysteriously placed forces surrounding them.
Once upon a time this space must have been used for something else, something that drove out the Muggles and made way for the wizards and witches that now occupied it. Something that might have had to do with life and execution, with pain and -
She sniffed. She could investigate the warbling force here later. Their mission hinged on belief, on the days spent with Draco's dwindled Circle, on the proud undeniable dominance of Harry and his power as he wove a tale of triumph about them. Only to later leash them to her newly discovered existence. Yet, while it had taken them days to convince young lords to bow, it had taken them weeks to find Pansy, who clearly hadn't wished to be found. It was only after several carefully orchestrated machinations - a walk with Theodore through Diagon, under the careful and judgmental eyes of the fully functional and strategically placed Pride. A dinner with Draco in a well-attended gentry-class restaurant - before they had received a rather stern but well-timed letter:
So, who is it then? You or Theo, who's courting the Mudblood?
But a return address had not been provided, and the owl that had given the delivery - thin and wiry and mean - had left abruptly.
It was only when Dandelion Parkinson, Pansy's current guardian and aunt, had returned Narcissa's missive with quite a few demands and very little words of cordiality, that they'd been given her location.
Which brought them to now. Hermione, dressed in cloak as snow crunched underfoot and Theodore, her escort, in all his pureblood finery.
Her acquisition of the Nott Lord had been swift - his convincing had been efficient, for Draco held an unusual fondness for him - and while he was skeptical of her heritage he did not deny her power. She'd made absolute sure of that.
But Draco had done most of the work, regaling great tales to his Circle of youthful Lords who no longer had dark imposing fathers to guide their minds. Now their hearts were open, ripe and willing and oh so ready to be handed over to her on platters of silver.
He swallowed beside her, she felt his magic shift and stretch, and she gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence -
"Lord Nott?"
He blinked, eyes fluttered, as she curled her magic around him, through him, stirred his blood until he was standing straighter and clutching the arm she'd looped about his own. "My Lady?"
And wasn't that just perfect? To hear her name rolling off his tongue with such reverence and the slightest hint of fear? There was still work to be done, taming to accomplish, boys to whip into strong thoughtless men… but she was fond of this one, Draco's precious seneschal, who had more reason to curse the Empire than he did her control.
One of many eager little nobles with dead or slaughtered fathers.
"I hope I'm not imposing," she said, the picture of demure, "It's just, she might feel more comfortable if a friend were present. But the boys…"
"At work, yes," he drawled, nostrils flared, "and you aren't imposing. I have a deep… understanding of the importance of our venture."
Of the importance of their entire mission.
She didn't miss his wayward gaze, how he drew it down from the twisting shadows that danced among flecks of hazel and gold that inhabited her eyes to the Turner situated around her neck, hot and pulsing against her flesh.
"We need to do something about those… eyes." He mumbled, distracted, drawn by the pull of the object, ensnared just as strongly as she was to the gravity of her own actions… but rituals had consequences and it seemed that creating a horcrux and dabbling in dark magics was not without its side-effects.
She licked her lips, "So long as the Pride of Ordinance is unaware of the change, I think we'll be fine. After all, we're only on a walk, nothing more."
"Yes, a walk to take you to see another potential candidate for marriage."
For this was not their first stop, nor their second. Since, for all Harry's talk of influence, it all still came at the price of… dating. Of seeing the various unwanted faces of unshaven crazed men - and poor Yaxley, with his ranting and raving - to the worthless, fat, and lazy of the gentry - as if she'd ever entertain the idea of binding herself to Zacharias Smith.
At least she'd managed to meet some of the Circle, for even Goyle was a better choice when it came to any of Umbridge's… other picks.
But there was only one person she wanted at her heels, one person to kneel and praise that fit their purpose. And that was their current wayward flower.
"Once we cross the ward she will not be happy," Theodore groused.
Hermione laughed, a soft and twinkling thing that drew a shudder from her company, "I have waited long enough, don't you think? She has not answered the call and it is her duty to obey. Don't we all have a part to play in our return to glory?"
Theodore swallowed audibly, his throat flexing, "I don't think she's very aware. She doesn't answer the owls - "
"Then, all the more reason to see to her ourselves, don't you think? Least she miss her chance to… participate."
For the hunger would not wait, the dark trembling curl that swam through her belly burning and burning would not be denied.
So, they broke in, ripping down the wards in such a vicious way Hermione knew Pansy would know who it was that had come to call.
Her scream, once they stepped past the rubble of a broken and smoking door, was simply adorable.
Theodore's snort of, "Oh hush up, it's easy enough to fix." even more so.
Her mouth shut with an audible snap, and with flared nostrils she lifted her wand, a spell on the tip of her tongue, something vicious and horrid trapped in her throat. But from one blink to the next that wand - aimed solidly at Hermione and her companion - shifted, flicked toward the door that began to reconstruct itself as if it hadn't been shattered to near literal pieces.
"You were not invited," Pansy croaked through a tight throat, her grip upon her wand steadier than the tremble of her gaze. She wouldn't look at her, at Hermione, dressed in her finest robes and soft smile and she certainly didn't look at Theo, whose harsh bark of laughter echoed around the pathetically bare flat Pansy had taken as her hovel.
"And for good reason, it would appear," Theo said, leaving Hermione to explore the near empty space with idle gaze so that he, himself, could stalk about with arms spread open and wide, "as if there's anything worth being invited too in your palace of garbage."
There was an audible swallow from the woman in question who stood, hunched and tense, over a long wooden table - various tools and a bubbling cauldron stacked upon it. There's a twist of something in that gaze, offense or shame Hermione can't be certain, but her neck flexes with unsaid words and a lack of denial.
And, Hermione had to be honest… the space was horrendous, small and cramped with the stench of long-boiled potions in the walls. The paint, once a cozy cream, appeared dulled and dirtied and the floor a nasty burn splotched brown that creaked with every step Theo took. There was little to claim as vibrant in the hovel and only a sad lonely bed was stacked up against the corner, mattress on the floor without a frame or box spring.
No chairs.
No receiving area.
No grand manor.
Only a lingering sense of embarrassment and what had been great loss.
Pansy glared at the table, white knuckled and breathing heavily through flared nostrils. She was the only thing in the sad little home that seemed alive – if only due to her bruised pride - and even then, by just a thread. She was pale and thin with stringy greasy hair cropped in bob and black. And while her face had grown into her nose, it's refined, and almost regal look did little to help her overall appearance - dressed in wrinkled blouse and stained with only Salazar knew what. It was a sad sight to behold, this vision of her childhood bully, brought to ruin. It was enough to make Hermione wonder if this had been the right choice...
But she also knew that some of the fallen had taken to ruses, to desperate and haggard appearances so they could maintain privacy when the Ministry came raiding, sniffing and searching for anything of value. Pansy might have been filthy but the fierce loathing within her gaze was still noble and clear.
"And how nice it must be," Pansy hissed, gripping her wand tight enough Hermione swore she heard the wood begin to protest from the pressure, "to live redeemed and refined-"
"-and clean," Theo barked suddenly, not even pretending to entertain Pansy's whining, "and don't toy with me, Parkinson. As if it's nice to be a dog - well fed or otherwise."
"And yet you judge me for my resistance?" Pansy practically snarled, all beast and pureblood.
And idly Hermione wondered just how many vaults had been snatched from the other, what had resistance given this woman - her poorly kept flat and little else.
"You could have lived with your Head, this is nonsense and lunacy-"
"-I won't be in that place, in that house, where the night screams!"
And a portion of Hermione understood that, understood that shadows and walls ebbed with agonies that could not be flushed with the passing of years. Nightmares lurked in corners, burrowed within foundations and magic. And they, the children of Death Eaters, had not been any luckier when it came to avoiding Azkaban. She had no doubt that Head Parkinson, the last Parkinson, Dandelion, had given up a great deal of their overall wealth to keep her ward from true madness, but in the end, Pansy had fled - pretending to lead an independent life, free the judgement of the people and tradition strangled but still secretly maintained – to drown in muck.
"And why here?" Theo asked, twisting the conversation away from nightmares and lingering darkness, to suit his needs as Hermione, still ignored and left to her own, began to draw fingertips across the walls that sung, "In this place, behind all those wards? We've been looking for you for months, Pansy! You'd buried yourself behind all these wards and secrets as if you had something to lose—"
"And I didn't want to be found, for months or these most recent weeks or the years that would have passed if you'd minded your own bloody business."
The silenced that followed Pansy's yell was thick and sudden, an emptiness filled with a lack of things to say and a raw amount of emotion. It was enough to make Hermione glance over, a coy gaze tossed over shoulder. She felt like a voyeur, witnessing the pressure of things that just couldn't be said, and she didn't dare break the odd spell that had befallen them, both with red faces and heaving chests.
"After the war…" Pansy stated, voice controlled and soft, as if her whisper talked of forbidden subjects and unwanted memories, "they came for them. Father died trying to run, screaming his innocence in the manner most cowards do and mother was silenced in much the same way, trying to beg bravely for time to prove it. And then, they came for me."
Theo's mouth snapped open, then abruptly shut. Words set to die before they were born.
"And I, proud as I am, refused to beg. I had already known something would happen. Whether He won, whether He fell. Suffering for all, for everyone, but it was so much worse than that. I had already done my part of cowardice, trying to hand over Potter," and she spat his name with all the hatred one could muster for the person they blamed for their woes and suffering, "before an entire generation of would-be light soldiers. And if children and peers and professors could point their wands and sneer with disgust at me, then I knew the Ministry wouldn't be much better."
She took a sharp breath then, hands opening and closing, rhythmic as her eyes finally twisted away from Theo to land directly upon her, "But they didn't kill me, they just took me, stumbling and sobbing over the corpses of my parents who I'd never really wanted much to do with."
And yet, Hermione knew that on some level she had loved them. Death Eater supporters or otherwise. The gentry were programmed that way. To obey. To worship. To adore their blood despite abuse and suppression.
"And I wasn't the only one. You," Pansy snarled, pointing a finger at Hermione, "and you," she moved, stalking around the table, glare now upon Theo, "and so many others. All in Azkaban for crimes against wizarding-kind. All of us, tortured and lobbed together in the same little category. All of us-"
Pansy paused for a moment, lips twisted upward, head titled, "-just mud. And when my aunt, now Head, came with bags of gold and little to show for it... When all our precious hidden relatives from France and Germany and Italy and elsewhere slid from the shadows to be our rescuers… When the dust had settled, and vaults were empty and I needed something other than screams in the dark… where were you?"
Now Theo swallowed harshly, now he spoke with wheezing voice and downturned eyes, "You were in a bit longer and after Father was killed in the square I… It was in my… in our best interest to separate for some time. Draco… even Blaise agreed. There were mind-healers to see and accounts… what was left, we had to get those in order and-"
"'Course," and in that one word the emotion seemed to leave Pansy, and she exhaled slowly, drawing fingertips across the dusty surface of her cauldron prep table. "'Course. And I came here, thrust from my own house by the magic and my aunt, who wanted me to do more than shame our name and curse the Empire-"
"-and after a time, we did try to find you!" Theo hissed. "But you didn't want to be found and certainly nobody could." He paused for a moment, but quickly wheezed, "but Draco and I tried, after, when our fathers were buried and… the dust had settled."
Hermione could see Pansy tense up, could practically trace the line of muscle that bunched in her shoulders and neck as she held a trembling fist against the table she'd been drawing shapes in that very dust with.
"Pansy," Theo sighed, "please."
She didn't respond. Didn't move. Trapped between selfish indignation - though perhaps, that was earned - and the loneliness that often accompanied the shunned and forgotten.
"Listen to me," Theo tried again, stepping closer, forcing the floor to cry out with each move. "It doesn't have to be… it never had to be like this. Before… before we were afraid, and it was fear and preservation that kept us all apart. The Ministry was watching, they're always watching. But Draco... Draco is recreating the Circle, reviving the bond we once shared. Pansy, please, we have plans. Ideas-"
"-to get you killed before the eyes of all the Empire." Pansy snorted, and while her face was still twisted in trademark sneer, some of the flame within her had been soothed by Theo's admission. Still, "I want nothing to do with it."
"The Ministry won't allow you to be free." Hermione said, finally interjecting, with hands clasped at her front and brow raised. And Pansy, almost comically, seemed to suddenly remember again that there was an audience to her pain and her past and the years she didn't wish to remember along with the childhood she regretted. "Your best interest is to entertain those ideas and plans our Theo put so much effort into."
"Our Theo, is it?" She snarled. "I want nothing to do with him, our dear Theo, and I certainly want nothing to do with you, Granger."
And, emboldened, Pansy approached her, ire and fury worn like a shield, and Hermione, with lips set to tremble in repressed smile, enjoyed the stalk and played the game. She took one, then another step backwards, relishing the brief flare of twisted delight in Pansy's gaze as thought herself the scarier witch. Theo swallowed nervously, frozen in his place, trying to stuff all his regrets back beyond the rattling of his chest.
Still, there was only so long that Hermione could play the mouse and only so much space in the apartment shared. It wasn't long before her back hit the pulsing warmth of the wall, the taste of Pansy's desperation and corrupted agonies oozing in the magic there. "And why is that, Pansy? Why is it that you hide here?"
Her brow furrowed, as if she hadn't expected the question, and despite Pansy's invasion of space as she closed the last of the distance between them, she did little else - as if her very presence was enough to force Hermione's surrender.
"Have you forgotten who I am? What I've done? The crimes I've seen, the people I've allowed to be hurt?" There's no regret in the low tone of the other witch, only that rolling loathing, as if the world were to blame for her circumstances, not the darkness that lurked in her being, reflected in the crack of thunder in glazed eyes, "The Ministry named me a degenerate, a supporter of His madness and death despite my lack of a mark. I tried to give up your precious Boy to save us all from slaughter and was thrown in the cage with the lot of you as if I'd committed murder. The people, this Empire, don't appreciate the former highblood. And why should they? When they blame the Sacred for their own squalor? That is what the Ministry tells them, after all, and the sheep love their shepherd."
Slowly Hermione lifted a hand and set it upon the tea stained lapel Pansy's blouse. "So, you hide away in here? Devouring sadness and dread-"
"-and waiting to die when they come for my head."
Theo went statue stiff behind them, his gaze somewhat wide at Pansy's proclamation, and Hermione tilted her head in mild introspection, surprised at Pansy's easy confession.
"Because they will come for it," Pansy uttered, tone-high pitched with strangled fear, and sudden intensity, a heat that Hermione found painfully familiar. "Come for all of us, eating and eating until nothing is left but the people and their hate - sharp, so sharp."
She trembled with the strength of her speech, staring at Hermione with the passion of the crazed and broken, a look Hermione knew well, a look she shared as her own lips parted and bubbling laughter ripped from her chest- "And so you'll die here, consumed as the eventual scapegoat, instead of out there, ablaze?"
And Pansy blinked as if struck, her cheeks flushed red down to her neck, but she snarled all the same with a wild shake of her head, "I'll make the choice to do so. I won't be controlled by them. By my aunt. By propriety or gold or cages-"
The heady rocking thud, thud, thud of Hermione's heart was loud and wild, pushing and shoving and forcing action. She raised her hands but scarcely noticed, not until they swung together, grasping Pansy's head between them with enough force to strangle her words and created a meaty smack as flesh met flesh. She held the hissing girl there, trapped between her grip, drowning in the magic that spilled off her body in a sweeping wave. And she watched it, enjoyed it, when Pansy's gaze - once alight with fury and pain - began to falter, pulsing with terror and need and longing as Hermione pushed upon the core of her very being with the intention to dominate.
"Then I'll give you the choice to die for me." Hermione purred, "Drown and suffer for something more. If gold cannot control you. If Heads and traditions and blood no longer sway you. Than power will."
And slowly, while Pansy trembled and gurgled and moaned, Hermione leaned forward, gently blowing stringy hair away from an ear, so she could whisper- "The Olde Ones are calling, and magic demands your meat and flesh. Not the Empire. Not your aunt. Not even Theo."
On the floor, upon knees, and bowed as he was, consumed by the demand to serve.
"-The Ministry will skin you, use you until nothing is left. And I'll be honest, there's little difference between it and I…"
For she wished to do the same thing, to everything. To everyone.
"But they are content on their throne of bodies and I need sacrifice within my palace. You shall provide them."
Pansy wheezed confirmation, pupils small within a sea of white.
"Pansy Parkinson, the Lady of your household is providing preliminary contracts for a possible betrothal between us. Are you aware?"
Pansy managed a nod, despite her head being trapped within Hermione's grip.
"And yet you still avoided me, ignoring the owls from my guardians and in turn insulting my station. I am Lady Hermione Dagworth-Granger Black, as seen in the eyes of the Empire, and the lords of our Circle. And I am pissed, Pansy," Fingertips hooked ever so slightly, and Pansy winced from the motion of it, an action that had Hermione licking her lower lip, "If you ever call me a Mudblood again, on parchment or otherwise… I'll punish you, Pansy. You'll hurt and hurt and hurt… until you know nothing else but the gospel I provide."
And that something, feral and wicked within her cried out at the chance to be free.
"You've ignored your born duty to the Circle, to the Sacred… long enough. You make us weak Pansy, and I don't do weak."
Never again. Never again,
"So, you're going to get cleaned up, remove yourself from this… filth, and return to your Head, as is appropriate for someone of your station."
Pansy winced, but she did not speak, could scarcely breath past the weight of Hermione's magic.
Perfect.
"And you are going to stop hiding. We see you Pansy, you will not be abandoned again and in return, you will not make the poor choices that brought you to be."
She'd make sure of that.
Despite their situation, there is something within the captured witch, something that was once tight and rigid, that slowly relaxes at that admission. Pansy's magic feels heavy beneath her control, but no longer some live writhing thing. Yes, that's… much better.
Slowly, Hermione released the other witch, missing the warmth of her flesh beneath her palms and the pain that had dwelled in her eyes. She wasn't sure if Harry would have approved of her little display, but he would certainly be pleased with their progress here.
Slowly, Pansy took a step back, trembling from the pressure of the magic that still held her, but more under control, as she squared her shoulders and twisted on the heels of her feet, away from the now ruined thick spitting potion, with her pride as her armor. "If I'm doing this," she croaked, "then we're doing it right."
And though her voice was meant for Hermione, she sent a vicious glare to Theo, who began to struggle to his feet, though it was missing most of the earlier bite. "I'm not courting you like some muggle."
Hermione rumbled off a low laugh, pleased. "Then I look forward to experiencing the tradition. Do be a good Slytherin and don't run away. I really don't want to go on another date with Zacharias Smith."
The other witch made an odd sound on the back of her throat, something between 'insufferable know-it-all' and a quickly uttered 'right, 'course', but it was enough for Hermione, who drew in her magic and swallowed down the urge for more. It wouldn't be proper to… keep pushing her future betrothed.
Theo, now upon his feet, did move to grab Pansy's wrist however, and in a tone that seemed terribly sincere he whispered, "We are sorry Pansy. In that mess… after the war, everyone was so scared, and we were all so busy playing politics and licking boots that we forgot to be…"
Friends.
"We all suffered, in different ways," Theo continued, "but avoiding each other never made it better. When Draco called us… Pansy, this plan, I really do think it will work. Granger really is…" He swallowed harshly. He didn't say it, couldn't compare her to Him, but she knew he wanted to. "She's strong, but still sane. We have a chance. The Ministry cannot continue to run as it is. I'm not too proud to say I'm sorry and Draco really does miss you, we all do. We won't let them break our Circle again. We'll destroy the entirety of Great Britain before we become their fodder."
For a moment there was nothing but silence. Silence. Emotion. Contemplation. Forgiveness…
Pansy's shoulders slumped, her exhaustion evident, but it was clear she was no longer enchained by her worries and woes. Hermione intended to replace them with a different sort of bondage.
"Thank you," she whispered, then stronger, she repeated it. "Thank you."
Before she turned to them both with a sneer and snarled, "Now get out of my house."
I write other fiction too, next update will be for Reign Down, and you can learn or talk about it on my Discord Server, where I'll give updates and chill around with the gang. Discord code: bxhZ9cr
