"The good news is, I now have an idea of what these runes say. The bad news is, I still have no bloody idea how to get in."
The day had started well enough. With Hermione's standard set of wards up, in addition to the wards over Cad Gadu, the Trio had felt enough at ease to risk sleeping in for a few hours and having a lazy morning. For varying definitions of laziness at any rate.
Harry dug into the supplies that Ron had brought, and ended up cheerily making pancakes, while listening to the old Wizarding Wireless harp on about legislation that Minister Shacklebolt was trying to push through.
Ron had been practically dead to the world, sleeping off a bit of a hangover as he had opted to dip into some Firewhisky the night previous. When he did get up, it was with a surly demeanor, which brightened when Hermione offered him a Sobering Solution she had on hand.
Hermione, getting into the spirit of things, chose not to read through the Ogam reference book that morning, but rather an obscure history book detailing the rise of the Dark Arts, and the classification thereof.
It was only after lunch, that they got down to the business of decoding the runes around the library.
Harry rubbed his temples in annoyance. "Talk to me Hermione. What is keeping us from stepping over those runes? I'm not a curse-breaker, so try to keep it on my level."
"I think these are a different kind of magic," Hermione said, glaring at the chalk as if she could force it to submit by her will alone.
"Different kind of magic?" Ron questioned, nonplussed at the very thought. "How do you even have different kinds of magic? Like what, you use a staff instead of a wand?"
"I don't know," Hermione said, clearly frustrated. "This is still fairly new to me too. Ever since the Baron outright told us that most of magical history was a lie, I've been trying to read older books, ones which predate whatever event caused this censorship. And from what I've been able to piece together, magic is not at all unified. There were different traditions, some of which were lost, some of which were incompatible with modern wand magic."
"Magic is magic though," Harry pointed out, quite reasonably he thought. "Can't you simply wipe off the chalk?"
"Harry, I love you to death, but if you say that magic is magic, I will actually kill you." Hermione said, glaring at him.
"Alright, don't bite his head off," Ron said, not wholly unconvinced of Hermione's resolve to commit murder for gross ignorance. "Give us an example, so we can wrap our heads around it."
"Alright, here's one. What is dark magic? What links the Killing Curse to say, the creation of Inferi?" Hermione asked, seamlessly transitioning into her lecturing mode.
"Besides the fact that only evil tossers are liable to do them?" Ron asked jokingly. Hermione's unamused expression prompted him to move on. "Well, they both fuck around with death."
"I'll grant you that Ron, but what about the Imperius?" Harry asked, drawn into the conversation. His eyebrows were furrowed in thought as he pondered the question. "That one is about control more than anything. In fact, I imagine the only similarity is they're all taboo. Its against the law to kill people, or desecrate bodies, so the Killing Curse and Inferi curse are against the law too."
"Harry was closer." Hermione said, seeming to cool off with Harry's mostly correct deduction. "Here is the thing. The Dark Arts as a category is a horrendously misleading method of labeling, one which was applied mostly for legal purposes. There is absolutely no similarities between the Inferius creation spell, and the Killing Curse. In fact, the Patronus Charm has more in common with the Unforgivables than the Unforgivables have with Inferi."
"Ok, back the hell up and explain that one," Ron demanded disbelievingly.
"Take away the label of Dark Arts. Just ignore it for a moment, because it's a political term, which has nothing to do with magic theory," Hermione cajoled him. "Consider instead, magic by behavior. Can we group the Unforgivables together with the Patronus? Yes. They are all powerful spells, which are very difficult to use. And all four of them require a particular mindset to use, thematically linked to their effects."
"So what, because you have to use a happy memory when casting the Patronus, and you have to want to torture someone to use the Cruciatus, means they are alike in any way? Come off it." Harry said, a sour look crossing his face. His ability to cast the Patronus was one of the things he actually felt proud of and enjoyed. The idea that it was similar in any way than the worst magic ever known did not sit well with him.
"Yes Harry, that is exactly what I am saying. That is explicitly what happened in fact. The Patronus Charm was invented by a Greek witch named Theophania Merinita, in an attempt to make an improved Cheering Charm. The idea was to form a connection with the person being targeted, and create a spirit of happiness, as she was a known theurgist, or spirit caller. Her plan failed, since the Patronus does not make a true spirit, but the foundation of her work was sympathetic emotion. The caster must feel emotion to evoke it in another. The sympathetic resonance between them greatly strengthens the spell, allowing one to use it on powerful magic creatures, like dragons, or Dementors."
"You have to mean it," Harry said, echoing Bellatrix Lestrange as he flashed back to his fifth year. "The Killing Curse is unblockable because the caster needs to absolutely intend the target dead, and the target needs to, well, die. The Cruciatus can't be mitigated because the caster must want to hurt the target, and the more the victim feels pain, the stronger the curse. But the Imperius can be fought, because while the caster wants control, the victim may want to disobey, weakening the curse. Is that it?"
"Precisely," Hermione said approvingly. "And that is why they are Unforgivable. Not the effects, though those are horrendous as well. But because you can't accidentally cast them. The very act of casting means that you've as good as admitted your intent to break the law, which is usually a difficult part of legal proceedings."
"Here's a thought though," Ron piped up. "We all know that the Dark Arts, well, those Dark Arts anyway, twist you up until you're fit to be sent to the loony bin. So why doesn't the Patronus then?"
"It's an interesting thought," Hermione said, biting the nail of her thumb as she mulled over the question. "Consider context. I can't walk up to a child and cast an Unforgivable on them. Ethics aside, it wouldn't work. I don't intend harm to the kid. I could maybe get the Imperius off? But that's a difficult ask.
People who do 'Dark Magic' on a regular basis, are Dark Wizards and Witches. How do you cast the Unforgivables on a regular basis though? If you are anything like Bellatrix or Voldemort, you are able to cast at the drop of a hat. Which sort of implies that either Bellatrix wants to torture anyone and everyone she encounters, friend or foe, which I frankly wouldn't put past her. Or they can turn it on and off at the drop of a hat. Neither option screams emotionally stable. Bellatrix was a raving lunatic and a mad dog, and Riddle was a psychopath with delusions of grandeur and a god complex."
"I'd buy that," Harry said, thinking back to the strange calm that Tom Riddle had exhibited as his teenage self, interspersed with his mercurial rage in which he seemed ready to murder whoever he was speaking to. "Being capable of consistently casting the Unforgivables almost guarantees that you are in a dangerously unhealthy mental state, and practicing them to get to that point likely drives you round the bend."
"I can't really believe the Patronus has had any long term effects," Ron said slowly, side-eyeing Harry nervously. "I mean, sure we can all cast it, but I think Harry is really the one who can do it consistently. But even in the best of times, you can be a moody berk, and pessimistic as all get out."
"I wonder if the memory makes any difference," Hermione speculated, tapping her nails against her chin in thought. "You can use a memory which evokes negative emotions to power Unforgivables, but I doubt most dark wizards do that. But all of the literature surrounding the Patronus emphasizes that you need to use a happy memory. I suppose it might be a bit of a cheap shortcut. If you can't summon the sensation of happiness on will alone with Dementors bearing down on you, you can remember a time when you were previously happy. A mental crutch to be sure, but it might also protect you from having to will yourself to be happy."
"Not that I don't enjoy the conversation," Harry interjected. "But we seem to have gone down a bit of a tangent. Hermione, is there anything you can do at all?"
"No." Hermione said simply. She sighed after a moment, and looked defeated. "This isn't wand magic. Or rune magic even. This is something I've never seen before. It looks like the parts which are visible are from at least two separate magical traditions, never of which I have ever heard of. It is entirely possible that they are so different that they cannot be affected by wand magic, nor can wand magic even mimic it. If I came and fumbled my way in, I could well blow us to kingdom come."
"So you want to give up?" Ron ventured carefully.
"Ron, I know when I'm beaten," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "I can handle not exploring the library."
"Fair enough. I am just making sure you aren't going to take it personally and try to blast a hole in the outer wall. Or get sulky over it. Because I imagine trying to circumvent the door may well trigger the protections anyways." Ron said, a knowing look in his face.
"Ron, I am not going to blow a hole in the wall," Hermione said unconvincingly. The tinge of guilty embarrassment in her voice negated any attempt by her to make it convincing. "Why would you even suggest such a thing."
Harry coughed politely, not wanting to get into it, and Ron, in a rare feat of self-preservation, decided that perhaps discretion was the better part of valor.
"At any rate," Harry said, decisively changing the topic. "Shall we explore the other building now?"
"That's probably for the best," Ron said, turning away from the runes. Hermione looked torn for a moment, despite her earlier claim, but eventually followed Harry and Ron out to the other building.
From the outside, it was identical to the one they had just left, a stone building in a U shape with the entrance flanked by the two wings.
On the inside however, the central wing contained a great hall, similar albeit cruder than the Great Hall at Hogwarts. There were six long tables spanning the length of the room, with another six smaller tables at the end of the room. Everything appeared to be eerily preserved, right down to the tapestries on the walls, but it was empty of food, drink, or people.
The East Wing of this building held what Hermione posited were servants quarters, fairly small living spaces which appeared to be shared, with four people to a room. Nevertheless, it appeared to have the most signs of life of anywhere they had seen thus far. Dirty clothes, strewn about in several of the rooms, some personal effects including necklaces, instruments, and a prodigious number of wooden carvings.
The West Wing on the other hand held the kitchens, which appeared to be similar to the Hogwarts kitchens, but with several more enchanted fires coming from metal rings, similar to the first cottage they saw. No edible food appeared to be left, but there were several sacks of salt, the only thing which endured the sheer age of the location, despite the best efforts of whoever instituted the remarkable preservation charms which must be active.
Overall, the building was interesting, but ultimately useless. Disappointed, the Trio stepped outside and cast a critical set of eyes on the chalk path. The path forked, splitting into two seperate paths which crossed under the trilithons, and continued on, though the path past the standing stones was hazy, and hard to see.
"Right or left, do you reckon?" Ron asked, squinting suspiciously at the path.
"We flipped a coin before," Harry noted, privately thinking that without instructions on how to descend, random chance was as good as anything.
"We are going right," Hermione said, her tone not one to brook any dissent. "You may not have noticed, but the left one bears the sanctum marker. Which, to summarize a fairly complicated bit of magical history, is a sign which states to stay out, and denotes private areas."
"They told us to stay out of the Third Floor Corridor, back in First Year, and that's where all the action was," Ron pointed out cheerfully. "What are the odds that what we are looking for is down there?"
"Ok, I guess summarizing isn't enough," Hermione muttered under her breath, annoyed. "The sanctum markers indicate where a sanctum is placed. They were historically the most private locations of a wizard or witch, and were in such high esteem that trespassing was considered to be a massive violation. Such a massive violation in fact, that murdering trespassers was not only completely legal, but in fact encouraged, and with regards to traps and counter measures, anything short of near instantaneous lethality was considered either abnormally lenient, or abnormally cruel and twisted."
"So I take it we aren't going to run the gauntlet?" Harry asked, putting on a tone of disappointment.
"One of these days Harry, we are going to make you take up a hobby, which isn't as dangerous as running through a field of buried land mines. Or in this case, running head first into the private quarters of an archmage who went out of their way to curse every last tea towel so that anyone trying to 'run the gauntlet' as you put it, is liable to look like Mad-Eye Moody by the end, assuming they survive." Hermione said, as she gave a long suffering look to Ron, who was smart enough to give an agreeable nod when prompted.
Harry stood there with a playful smile on his face, and didn't offer any resistance when Hermione grabbed him by the arm and marched him to the right-hand trilithon, with Ron reluctantly following.
As they passed under the looming stone, the scenery around them changed again, now becoming a meadow which seemingly stretched out in all directions, without a building in sight. In fact, there was no sign of the lake, nor even the Welsh mountains which should still be visible. Simple a flat, unbroken field of green which stretched to the horizon and beyond.
"Blimey, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," Ron muttered in awe, an ashen look to his normally somewhat tan complexion.
"Shows what you know," Harry snarked, a forced grin on his face. "The middle of the US is flat as hell, with nothing much but agriculture and livestock."
"And how do you know that? Chumming around with Yanks behind our backs?"
"Benefits of a Muggle education before Hogwarts," Harry smirked. "Regardless, this could absolutely be Kansas. Look lively, don't want to be caught with your pants down in front of MACUSA of all people."
"That's almost worse, innit? Having a lark in an island in Wales, and then finding yourself across the Pond, in bloody Kansas of all places," Ron shuddered dramatically
"Will you two idiots shut up," Hermione hissed, clearly on edge from the sudden change in local. "We are still in the regio, we haven't been transported to America, Merlin forbid. But if something hears you and decides to investigate, we might have a fight on our hands."
Harry and Ron dutifully fell silent, not wishing to risk Hermione's wrath for the sake of some cheap banter.
They passed through another trilithon, and another still. First it was a tiny island in the middle of the sea in a raging storm, charmingly reminiscent of the island the Dursleys had fled to, bringing back nostalgic memories of Harry's first birthday. Here though, there was no shack, and the group had to carefully navigate the chalk path, which proved treacherous in the uneven terrain, and torrential rain, intermixed with flashes of lightning and booming thunder which threatened to startle the young wizards and cause them to misstep.
But finally, as they made their way around the path, which seemed to descend and hug the cliff, a final trilithon led them to dark damp cave.
"Merlin's Beard, this is unsettling," Ron muttered, lighting his wand up. The cave seemed to be reasonably expansive, easily wide enough for the three to walk side by side with room to spare, and it seemed to descend deeper into the earth, though geographically, it was difficult to say exactly where that might be, given the nature of the folded space.
"At least we are out of the rain," Hermione said optimistically. Taking the opportunity to rest, she flicked her wand to apply Warming Charms to everyone, before working to dry out her clothes and hair, which cling to her skin, completely soaked through.
Harry didn't have as much use for optimism. All too well, he remembered the last time he had descended into a dark cave. Flashbacks of a lake, filled to the brim with Inferi. A basin, filled with a horrific potion. A locket, and a taunting letter signed RAB. Fires, bright and blazing as a weakened Dumbledore held back a legion of the undead.
"Keep your wands out," Harry instructed grimly. "We are in the depths of Cad Gadu now. Let's hope the Baron didn't send us to our deaths."
They proceeded cautiously down the tunnel. It was damp, with rivulets of water languidly dripping over the stones, a sheen of water coating the stones and stalactites which seemed to pierce from the ceiling like the teeth of some great beast.
It seemed like the trio had been walking for an eternity, but at least, the passage opened up into a massive cave, so large that one could not see the far side. And in the cave, was a massive cave, the dark waters reflecting the mottled stone around it. The light from the wands of the wizards seemed pitiful, unable to pierce the gloom.
Harry grimaced, as he moved closer to the lake. This was feeling entirely too similar to Voldemort's cave where he hid the locket horcrux.
"Ron, Hermione, keep your eyes open. I am fairly sure this is a different cave, but I am going to check for Inferi in the water. If they start swarming, we need fire, bright and hot, before retreating."
Ron gulped visibly, before hardening his expression. Hermione's face looked pale, but she too seemed to solidify her resolve.
Seeing that, Harry walked up to the water's edge, and held his wand up to see better.
"Lumos Maxima" Harry cast, and the light trailing from his wand brightened considerably, more akin to the light of day, than an electric torch. To Harry's faint surprise, the light revealed nothing. There were no bodies beneath the water, no lurking monsters ready to ambush him.
Still skeptical, Harry summoned a rock and threw it in the water, to no apparent effect. Frowning, he send a Bludgeoning Hex at the surface of the water, causing it to blast up in a mighty splash as the spell impacted. As the water settled, there was still no reaction, and the cavern became silent once more.
"Well, what do you make of that?" Harry murmured, sensing Ron and Hermione drawing up on either side.
"I have to say, you might be a touch paranoid mate," Ron said delicately.
"Inferi have a way of leaving a lasting impression," Harry retorted.
"The Baron said we would get answers here right? Maybe we should keep walking, trace a path around the shore of the lake," Hermione suggested.
Without any better suggestions, they began making their way around, counterclockwise. It was a difficult walk. By virtue of being underground, the lake rarely had waves, and thus the sand which might be expected from a beach on the sea was replaced with sharp broken rocks, which didn't seem to have worn down particularly.
"Do we actually know what the Bloody Baron's name is?" Ron asked out of the blue.
"No clue," Harry responded, shaking his head. He glanced over at Hermione, who noticed him looking and gave him a glare.
"Oh please, it's not like I know literally everything about Hogwarts," She said, exasperated. "It's not like it's in any of the history books, and the Baron usually avoids chatting with students."
"I'll bet Malfoy knows," Ron grumbled darkly. "I'll bet the bloody ponce was right chummy with that ghost."
"Speaking of ghosts," Harry interrupted. "Do we think that bloke might have left one behind?"
He pointed, and Ron and Hermione's eyes were drawn to a nondescript stone chair, containing a skeleton.
As they approached, it became apparent that the skeleton was quite old. No skin or flesh clung to it's bones, which were a pale white. Curiously, it seemed to be sitting straight up, in a manner which really should have been impossibly without flesh or tendons, or at least a couple surreptitious screws holding the bones together. The skeleton appeared to be gazing into the water, and had a leather-bound journal lying on it's lap, with a quill and ink placed to the right of the chair, and a burnt down candle placed to the left.
Ron blanched at the sight, and Hermione looked rather disturbed.
"Blimey, who do you think that was?" Ron whispered, lowering his voice as if the skeleton could hear him.
"Answers, presumably." Harry replied, circling the chair to get a good look at the skull, in case there were any clues there.
"Harry, do we really think we should be doing this?" Hermione asked in a panicked voice, interrupting him reaching for the book.
"Relax 'Mione," Harry said, putting on a fake grin. "It's not like its desecration of the dead or anything. I reckon they would've had to bury this sorry blighter first."
Harry nervously reached out yet again, hovering over the skeleton, trying to retrieve the book without touching the bones. His fingers brushed against the surprisingly supple leather, before tightening, as he gripped the book precariously between his thumb and his fingers.
"Come on, come on," Harry muttered under his breath as he tried to extract the text. "Bastards got a tight grip."
All of a sudden, the book came loose, sending Harry stumbling back before catching his balance and righting himself.
"What do you reckon we take this upstairs and read it somewhere less spooky?" Harry asked.
No sooner than he suggested that though, the skeleton's skull whipped to the side of it's own accord with an audible crack, meeting Harry's gaze. The three friends stiffened in surprise and fear, and within a moment three wands were pointed at the skull, which appeared to be making eye contact with Harry, or at least as much as one could with hollow eye sockets.
"We aren't going to have a problem, are we Mr. Skeleton?" Harry asked warily, his wand dribbling an ominous stream of sparks.
The skeleton slowly raised it's left arm, in a seemingly deliberate attempt to not startle the trio, before very clearly extending it's index finger and pointing straight down at the floor.
"You want us to read here?" Hermione asked shakily, clearly freaked out by the disturbingly animate bones.
Said pile of bones merely curled it's finger back, before giving a thumbs up, signaling approval.
"Harry, I don't mean to gainsay you, or whatever plan you have here, but this is not a good idea. This is so far from a good idea it's not even funny. In fact, I daresay this is a bad idea," Ron hissed under his breath.
Harry waved his wand, and wordlessly lit the candle by the feet of the skeleton. A warm yellow light flickered and grew, casting new shadows, but adding a bit of warmth to the cold blue light emitted from the tips of their wands. The scent of grease began to faintly permeate the air, as the tallow began to melt and burn.
"Oh, blast it all, it's in Latin." Harry muttered in annoyance. "Hermione, you take this. My Latin is awful."
Harry transferred the book to Hermione's arms, carefully making sure he didn't take his eyes off the dead thing, and keeping his wand steady. Hermione for her part, gingerly accepted the book, and opened it to the title page.
"Dies Irae, a Book of Wrathful Days. On the prophetic visions of ruin and collapse regarding the future of the Order of Hermes." Hermione read out, squinting in her effort to read and translate without losing grip of her wand. "These are the recollections of Prima Immanola Ex Miscellanea. In order to use my book, verbally request the page number."
"What does that mean?" Harry asked tensely.
"Well, it means we need the bloody page number, doesn't it?" Ron snarked at him. "Immanola, please give us the page number."
"Ron, I think it needs to be in Latin," Hermione started, before getting cut off as the skeleton moved again.
It's hand lifted off the arm of the chair, and it extended three bony fingers. Then all five splayed. And then four again, as it tucked its thumb into it's palm.
"Well, there you have it," Ron said, sounding slightly smug. "Turn to page 354."
Hermione didn't look particularly happy about that, but dutifully skipped past until she was at the assigned page. Her eyes widened as she read the page.
"This is in English! Well, a very formal and archaic English anyways."
Unable to resist their curiosity, both Harry and Ron stepped back, still training their wands on the skeleton, and began to read over Hermione's shoulder.
Hark, and listen well. Thou art Hermione, Harold, and Ronald of the House of Gryffindor. If thou art reading this, know that the Order of Hermes has crumbled, and the legacy of Bonisagus is unrecognizable.
I have Seen thy struggles. Great pain and suffering, at the hands of the one you call Voldemort. More pain and suffering than many a grown magus or maga should ever endure, and yet borne by apprentices without a parens to guide them.
I was born too late. The seeds of thy struggle were cast in fertile soil centuries before even my time, and they have grown into a twisted thorny bramble which resents all attempt to cut it down.
And yet, hope still remains, young apprentices. If thou hast the wish to excise this tumor, and prevent the suffering you have suffered, I offer you a choice. Leave now, forget this place, and live long full lives without my advice. If you do this, I assure thee that thou shalt live, in relative comfort, but the underlying ills which plague thy world shall spread unseen, akin to the cursed blood which spreads from a sickened wound.
But, if thy wish is to stop the madness, I offer thee a chance. A champion sleeps neath Glastonbury Tor, the Isle of Glass which was once called Avalon. Thou hast the power to awaken her, after these many years. Long ago, a dread curse was placed upon that spot, such that none who do not know to look, may never see it.
When the Champion wakes, she must seek out the last Criamon, in the home of the first. There shalt thou meet thy final decision. If thou shalt choose truly, it is the last I am able to See.
Good luck, Hermione, Harold, and Ronald, of Gryffindor.
"You know, I think we ought to have a chat with the Baron about what exactly constitutes answers," Ron said, irritated at book giving them yet another task to do.
"You say that as if it wouldn't be a futile undertaking," replied Harry.
"Are you Immanola?" Hermione asked gently, cutting past Harry and Ron's annoyed muttering.
The skeleton's head swiveled slowly to make eye contact with Hermione, and slowly nodded. Harry and Ron fell silent, watching the interaction between Immanola and Hermione.
"You obviously aren't alive. Are you awake? Intelligent I mean, like a ghost?" Hermione pressed, her brow furrowed as she tried to understand exactly what was interacting with them.
The skeleton began to shake her head no, before pausing and tilting her head as if in thought. Instead of the firm denial, Immanola raised her bony hand, holding it level in the air, before tilting it back and forth.
"Somewhat intelligent then? Could you give us permission to take the book out of the regio?"
Immanola shook her head no.
"What about copying? Could I copy this entry?" Hermione continued.
Immanola nodded in affirmation.
"What if we take it anyways?" Harry said coldly, a suspicious look in his eyes.
To their surprise, Immanola shrugged, before flipping Harry the bird, causing Ron to burst into laughter.
"Oh come on Harry, the bag of bones is alright. We'll just go ahead and copy that page, and be out of here." Ron said mirthfully.
"But what if it's lying to us?" Harry snapped, a paranoid edge in his voice.
"Come off it mate, the skeleton just threw you a rude gesture because you were being a twat. You deserved that and you know it."
"But-"
"But nothing Harry. If we need to read the book again, I am sure we can come back and Immanola will still be here, right?" Ron asked the skeleton. It nodded in the affirmative, and gave a thumbs up to boot.
Harry clearly didn't like it, but he knew when he was outvoted. He stood around, lips pursed, as Hermione fetched some parchment and a quill, before tapping the book and the parchment with her wand. To Harry and Ron's surprise, the quill picked itself up, and began writing on the page, copying the entry from the book.
"Since when have you been able to do that?" Ron asked, eyebrows raised. "I don't think I've ever seen that spell. Kind of reminds me of the Smart-Answer Quills, you know, that George sells these days."
"Third-Year actually," Hermione said, paying attention to the quill to make sure it didn't miss anything. "You know my schedule was beyond packed that year, so I had to find shortcuts. The spell merely copies text, and it does so in a fairly distinctive font, so I couldn't use it on the essays I was writing. But it was useful for copying something down from the library so I could quote it later."
"What book did you find it in?" Harry inquired, taking his eyes off of Immanola for a moment.
Hermione blushed with a guilty expression on her face. "Madam Pince actually taught me. She was very put out with me when I tore out the entry on the Basilisk our Second Year, right before I got petrified. Said that she was disappointed that I would damage the books, never mind that it was a life or death situation. She banned me from checking out books for a month, and with my schedule, I didn't have the time to actually sit in the library and do my homework, so this was the solution."
The quill finished shortly afterwards, and Hermione swiftly took the parchment and rolled it up, before stowing it in her bag. She eyed Immanola with a disguised aversion, and picked up the leather-bound book, before gently laying it on the skeleton's lap. Immanola lifted her hands of the arms of the chain, and placed them on the book, gripping it protectively.
The three made their way back around the lake, and began to exit the regio. It was an easier walk this time, as they knew their way, and weren't pausing to admire the scenery, or more often, look for traps left by the ancient wizards of Cad Gadu.
Once they emerged on the surface of the regio, they collectively decided to regroup at the tent.
"Right then," Hermione started, laying the parchment on the table. "First we decide if we want to keep pursuing this. Thoughts?"
"I'm game to keep going," Ron said with a shrug. In fairness, he was having a pretty good time. Exploring ancient ruins, and adventuring without the looming threat of Death Eaters was proving to be fun, and fairly rewarding.
"Don't get me wrong Hermione, learning this stuff is interesting and all," Harry said, some trepidation on his face. "But I am worried about how committed we have to be. If we can believe the skeleton what wrote that book, there are really only two options. Either give up now, and live long happy lives, knowing that the underlying problems of blood status will never get fixed. Or risk it all, and follow the corpses instructions."
Hermione was silent for a time. "I don't think I could live with myself, knowing that my inaction preserves the status quo. A status quo which is monstrous in it's own right. Blood purity? Superiority over Muggles? Hatred for other races? Voldemort did not invent them, and he isn't to blame. They were there before his birth, and after his death. I don't think I can actively preserve the injustice. Not when I know if I can fix it."
"Hermione, we don't know that is what will happen," Ron started, looking concerned. "What did you tell me our Third Year? That Divination is rubbish? That it is naught but fraud, perpetrated by charlatans? Don't put so much stock by it."
"Ronald, stop. Just, stop." Hermione said, an uncharacteristic waver in her voice. Her eyes gleamed with a sheen of unshed tears, and both Harry and Ron had the startling realization that she was very close to losing it. "Trelawney may as well have been a hack and fraud, at least when it came to teaching. But she gave two True Prophecies. Prophecies which came true, no matter what people did to avert them.
And now, we have Dies Irae. A book written a thousand years ago, by Prima Immanola, whose skeleton sits by the lake in the depths of Cad Gadu. It calls for us by name. She knew us, knew what we have done, knew that we would come for her book. The page was in English Ron! She should not have known English. There is no possible way she could learn a dialect of English, from a thousand years in the future, save for true, reliable Divination."
"Hermione, the future is not written in stone," Harry said soothingly. "If we work with the Ministry, we can make change, real change. Would they dare deny us? After Voldemort?"
For a moment, it looked like Hermione was wavering, unsure. Like Harry was breaking through to her. And then, the moment was up, and her face hardened into a terrible resolve.
"Yes," She said softly. "They would deny us."
With a violent, jerking motion, she pulled up her sleeve. And as the fabric exposed the pale skin of her forearm, it also exposed the ugly, ropy scars which wrote the word MUDBLOOD. Bellatrix had taken the effort to write a permanent reminder into her skin, so she would always remember what she was.
"They denied that Voldemort was back. They stumbled, they floundered, they had to be dragged, kicking and screaming to the point of doing anything even marginally useful. And that was the step too far. The charade collapsed, and Voldemort took the Ministry.
Tom Riddle was a violent, disturbed youth, but he was merely a seed. Seeds do nothing on their own. It was the rich fertile soil of the rank prejudice of this society which allowed him to grow into the poisonous thing which became Voldemort.
The Ministry failed. Over and over, again and again, and they did not learn from it. I can't trust that they will finally learn this time. I am not that naive."
The words were painful to hear, but at the same time, relieving. Like lancing a wound grown infected, the venom was drawn out into the open air. A potent mix of venom, made up of fear, doubt, disappointment, and pain, oh so much pain.
Harry sighed, and gave a long glance to Ron. Ron looked grim, but unsurprised. Harry hadn't particularly been coping with the end of the war, but neither had the others. When they slept, they knew that Malfoy Manor awaited them.
"A champion beneath Glastonbury Tor," He said out loud. "Very well. Lets find this champion."