Summary: SSHG, AU, Hermione was always a survivalist. They all thought her a mere Muggle. Unwise to the ways of the Wizarding World, Hermione's family has always been exceptional. They may not have been "magical" in the usual sense, but they gave their daughter the ultimate gift in survival.
Beta Love: Dragon and the Rose, Dutchgirl01
A/N: Hermione's pack: East London
Upstart pack: West London
Sorry for any confusion from my sleepy brain. The demarcation was chosen by random. No offence to either side (or even that there is a side) of London or implication of bias. :)
Survivalists
Chapter Two
I'm not always a rat. Sometimes it just comes out.
Brad Marchand
I decided that if Pudgy was going to try and out-rat me, he could come do it out in the open where the owls were watching and the cats prowled. He could bloody well come face me like a real man.
Erm, rat.
Alas, as much as I blatantly frolicked under the moon on the Hogwarts' green, he didn't show. I was starting to think that unless it was a place with loads of crisps on offer, he wasn't going to show at all.
The rat must have horrible teeth and unhealthy bones. I liked crisps as much as the next rat, but there was food and there was the food that kept you alive for longer without rotting your teeth just by staring at it.
I started to pay more attention to where empty crisp wrappers were turning up. Pudgy had a rather distinctive lack of scent save for the occasional whiff of male musk, which was strangely muted. I could clearly smell the cheese powder and crisp flavours on him, but tracking down the smell of crisps could lead me right to Ronald Weasley or Gregory Goyle instead of Pudgy.
So, as I nibbled on a raspberry jammie dodger that someone had considerately dropped in the hallway (closed package and all, thank you teeth) I considered my options.
A soft squeak nearby alerted me to an interloper, and my whispers twitched and my nose worked as I bobbed my head back and forth to focus on what was zeroing in on me.
Oh, it was him.
He was looking a lot better than the other night.
He was eyeing my packet of jammie dodgers with nothing short of wistful nose twitching, and my tail moved back and forth as I decided if I wanted to be the arsehole or not.
Manners winning out, I shared again. I didn't want my mum haunting me from the rat-afterlife after she died of shame at my behaviour and then resurrected herself as a ghost to haunt me for the rest of mine—no, thank you. I didn't want to be expelled or made out to be an arse to my mum. There was only so much a successful doe could take after raising her pup to be—well, not a heathen barbarian rat.
The black rat munched on his biscuit alongside me, and I went back to considering my Pudgy wrangling options.
There was always the chance that Pudgy was just a very fat Rattus norvegicus. His muzzle had been a bit too blunt in the nose and small of ear to be a Rattus rattus, and he definitely hadn't had the larger ears and snout of the wererat species.
Thanks to Professor Snape, we had some reading material on werewolves, and they said werewolves had shorter muzzles and tufted tails to make them different from "natural" wolves. Wererats, from personal experience, were conspicuously more rat than a naturally born rodent. We practically screamed rat into the universe.
Brown rats tended to be a bit more round in the girth, too, so if Pudgy wasn't a rat Animagus, he was a portly old brown rat, or a domesticated fancy rat. There was always the wait and see method—ordinary wild rats died in about two years tops if they didn't get eaten by something—but that would be a lot of time to wait around just to find some old rat's hopefully not half-eaten corpse. Domestic—you could see that time stretched to upwards of six or seven years if you treated them right—but if that unhealthy diet of crisps and well-fattened body was any indicator, well, he was probably going to have a coronary long before old age set in.
Lord snapped his jaws, narrowly missing a perturbed hunting owl that was hoping for a quick rat dinner. He was definitely the best friend a rat could have. Three heads of surveillance above my own couldn't hurt.
Still, no sign of Pudgy, and I was going to have to do some serious pondering to out-rat the other rodent.
After sharing the package of jammie dodgers between us, I scrambled up the side of the rubbish bin and wasted the wrapper. I was never quite sure where the trash went in Hogwarts, but it wouldn't be good to let the wrappers blow about in the wind. My mum would be so appalled.
Lord stretched and whine-shook until a rain of fur and debris scattered in the wind, and then he tail-wagged, ready to go. I hooked my claws into his fur and climbed up to perch on his middle head.
I looked down to see the black rat staring a hole into me with his black eyes. He seemed a little unsure whether clambering over a giant dog was a wise thing to do, and I could certainly understand that if Lord hadn't been bonded to me. There were times when Lord took me into his mouth, and every single instinct began to scream imminent death by a thousand gnashing teeth. My dad would tell me that canines had forty-two teeth, not a thousand, but did it really matter when they all meant death?
It all felt a bit like Watership Down, when every animal could be my death, much like the rabbit with a thousand different enemies. As if to make up for it, wererats tended to live a long time. We had fertility issues, unlike our wild, natural ratty brethren, so nature balanced it out with a long life—provided, at least, that we didn't die to everything that wanted to snack on us. Or, in the case of the West London pack, themselves.
From what I knew from the stories, werewolves lived shorter, painful lives thanks to the traumatic transformation. Werelions—they died fighting amongst themselves most of all. They could be immortal beasts for all I knew, but nature (their nature most of all) ensured they would likely die young if they were male. Females, if they survived the violent male take-overs, might live a little longer, but it was usually a shorter life thanks to the stress of raising their cubs—cubs that were at risk of immediate death if their dad couldn't hold onto his throne for the entire two decades or so that it took a human to mature into a functional, respectable adult.
It was way too much drama for me.
At least I wasn't a werepigeon. They didn't exist, at least as far as I know, but I think it was because they all died off. Everything wants to eat pigeons—even rats.
My black-furred friend made it up to where I was on Lord's head, and I demonstrated by hooking my claws into his undercoat. It didn't hurt Lord, and it definitely helped me to hold on when Lord went charging off across the green.
He seemed to get the idea pretty quickly, and Lord seemed to realise it because off he went!
I'd learned to really love riding Lord around the grounds, and having another rat-friend to do it with made it all the more enjoyable. Rats loved doing things together. I wasn't sure if he felt that, too, but I imagine he did. It was built into our genetic stamp as a card-carrying wererat.
Young, old—didn't matter. Mr Templeton acted like a pup my age when we went sliding down the riverbank like an otter on a sugar rush.
Every so often, Lord would begin to track a moth, and he'd start chomping at it as he leapt around. We'd hang on for dear life, profusely thanking Ninkilim, our dear Lord Rodent, Patron Deity of Wererats, that our claws were in proper working order.
The thrill sent jolts of electricity through every whisker and straight down to the tips of our quivering tails, and I could tell by my companion's puffed fur that he was enjoying himself too.
Rats knew how to have fun, regardless of what other people thought. I think most people have the erroneous impression that all rats are filthy disease carriers that sleep in only the mankiest of places and much prefer, say, a rank sewer over a comfy, clean, warm nest.
Well, I'm sure there are some rats that do live in such places, but I highly doubt it was a preferred place to raise a family of wererats. I'm fairly sure that your standard everyday Norwegian rat or black rat wanted a nice warm, dry place to nest too.
As Lord finally wore himself out into a panting heap of exhausted canine, he flopped onto the pier by Black Lake. As he did, the Dementors floated closer, sending their hoarfrost drifting across the lake as it froze the very surface of the water.
My companions fur stood on end, and I gave him a nudge with my nose. To demonstrate that they were okay, I scurried up Lord's head and stood on my rear legs, nose up in greeting with my front paws in the air.
Christmas Future, as I was starting to call him, scooped me up in one hand and used his other to give me a soft stroke as one would pet a cat, his claws rubbing that spot right behind the ears that made me into a custard. I could feel him trying to communicate with me, and I tried to relax (it wasn't hard with that ear rubbing going on) and think of what I'd been trying to do to catch Pudgy in the act.
The other Dementors floated, looking a bit at a loss of what to do since intimidating was out. Three of them decided to pet Lord's heads, and the exhausted dog slowly beat his tail in appreciation.
My rat-friend was not looking very convinced that my life choices were conducive to breathing, and he was grinding his teeth together and lashing his tail in a distinctly not happy sort of way.
The Dementors seemed to sigh as yet another day went by with no sign of their quarry, and the only current lead seemed to be stubbornly hiding on the inside, never adventuring outside Hogwarts—or if he did, he wasn't doing it when I was around.
Still, my floating friends offered up the manna of the gods as another magical tin of delicious biscuits appeared—oooh, this time I could smell blueberries and lemon—and I enthusiastically dived right into that tin. I grabbed a few, rubbing up against Christmas Future's hand, and scurried down toward my black-furred friend and shared the tasty spoils.
He just looked at me like I was a rat with three heads.
I nosed one of the biscuits over to him, giving him a rather bossy whisker twitch and went back to eating my prize. You didn't just let blueberry lemon biscuits go to waste!
Hand-delivered via Dementor blueberry lemon biscuits, especially so.
He was slowly tasting one now, molecule by molecule, and I felt like the nuclear holocaust could come, go, and recover in the time he was taking to make that tasty biscuit disappear.
Lord was accepting donations to his mouth, and it seemed the Dementors knew the difference between people food and what was good for Lord because they gave him a three bone salute to chew on. He did love his bones. Three bones made the in-fighting less of a problem. Lord put the entire "fight with oneself" adage to very literal application.
After polishing off that delicious bit of blueberry and lemon goodness, I scurried up Christmas Future's robes and gave him a thorough thankful nuzzling. He scooped me up and ran his hand over my body and rubbed my ears as if to say we'd find out targets eventually. In the meantime, we'd just have to suffer through the inevitable waiting.
I could tell that my black rat friend was having problems with digesting the notion of Dementors as friends, and I guess I could understand that. If they hadn't come my way armed with peppermint shortbreads, I'd have probably been pretty suspicious too. But none of them had done anything remotely unpleasant to me, unlike the big story being spread around Hogwarts regarding Harry.
Ronald liked to make it sound like we were all under attack that day, not just Harry. But now that I knew them a bit better, I wondered what Harry was guilty about.
Then again, abuse cases, from what my parents said, usually made the victim feel guilty, even if they hadn't done anything wrong. Dementors may not have a taste difference—or maybe they did, and Professor Lupin hadn't given the Dementors long enough to figure out they were after the wrong person.
I imagine the entire population of Hogwarts had a lot of guilt hanging around. Most of us were teenagers, after all. We did—things. Things we often weren't proud of. I'd lucked out in that most of the things I felt guilty about were not making the best grades in Potions. I really wanted to do well to impress my pack (well, honestly, it was more of an I didn't want NOT to impress my pack, the difference was subtle but there.) Most academic pursuits understood grades, even if a person didn't write a professional journal article or have a doctorate. We had a lot of very smart rats in our pack. Grades were important.
Being a mediocre rat was just—insufferably banal.
And you could bet that my parents had my grades framed and displayed prominently on the mantle with neon lights pointing at them in some gaudy show of their child's academic greatness. Well, maybe not neon lights, but there would be plenty of pointing and chest puffing on my behalf whenever Mr Templeton came over for tea.
It was, unfortunately, very much expected. No buck or doe with a successful pup would ever let anyone forget about it. That we survived at all was a testament to our greatness, much like the celebration of Shichi-Go-San, the festival of having survived being three, five, and seven or rather, seven, five, and then three if you wanted it taken literally. Rats could relate. We didn't dress up in our best kimonos and go pray at a shrine, but it sounded pretty neat. Life was precious amongst the pack (well a healthy pack). We did like to celebrate the year of the rat when it came around—it was one of the few times that being out in public in your rat form wasn't frowned upon in certain areas.
We all weren't all lucky enough to be born in the Rat Temple in India under the gracious auspice of the goddess Karni Mata in Deshnoke. Living as part of the divine did come with its own issues, however. There were a lot of rats there, and wererats at least wanted a little space to call their own. As much as we loved snuggling up together to sleep, the human part of us liked having a bit of the world to call our own, and wererats didn't like to pee in the same place they slept.
Some would consider that a minor quibble for an unlimited supply of food and adoration, but—
Every place in the world had their own cultures and ways of life. I was good with mine, and I tried not to judge others on theirs. Even if the human animal seemed to have a thing about judging those that stuck up or stood out. One way or the other. Magical humans did much the same if not more. They judged me based on my blood because I came from "dirty Muggle stock."
Truth is, I was used to being looked down on by certain other weres who thought rattusanthropy made us no better than vermin, but that would usually stop after a fight when we took them out, either solo or by sheer numbers.
Take that, werelions.
You don't look so strong when your back is broken from having a wall fall on you or you fall from a roof.
Hedgehogs had it much the same. People would underestimate those quills. There was a reason those quills were a thing in evolution. They weren't just for show.
Rats and hedgies got on just fine, though. Gardeners loved them, and it was no surprise that hedgies had the best gardens anywhere because they ate all the pests themselves. True organic gardening from those people that insisted on such things.
My parents always said that hedgies had more tricks up their sleeves than most gave them credit for. They were immune to various poisonous plants, so they'd chew on them and then lick their spines for a little extra "lesson" to overzealous predators. They were lactose intolerant, though, so milk to the rats and insects for the hedgies.
It made the lesson about Knarls a bit counterintuitive. Wizarding lore said that if you offered a Knarl food, it would think you were trying to trap it and destroy your garden in a rage. Wizarding tests had us offer milk to a group of hedgehogs to find the Knarl. Milk was bad for hedgehogs—so I offered the group a fat earthworm instead.
There was a long debate on whether I would not get points for that because I didn't use the milk like a normal person—but I wasn't about to offer poor hedgies milk. That was a horrible way to treat your potential friends.
My parents would understand.
Christmas Future set me down gently on Lord's head, and I had the feeling there would be a bit of awkward silence between myself and my black rat friend on the ride home. I wondered what house he was in. He seemed to have a wariness about him that was most definitely not stereotypical Gryffindor, that was for sure. Ravenclaws tended to be somewhat more cerebral, but they spend so much time thinking about things that the world kinda blew by them without their permission. Hufflepuffs wanted to be everyone's hardworking pal, but their concept of personal space (or the lack thereof) was too uncomfortable.
I was a wererat, but I didn't go around hugging everyone. Sheesh.
As I bid my Dementor friends goodnight, Lord trotted back towards Hogwarts, pausing briefly to use the loo before pointing his nose back to the castle. I looked up and saw that the moon was very nearly full, and in the next few days, it would probably make things super bright out at night.
That should make hunting for Pudgy on the grounds a wee bit easier. I wondered if Dementors went by sight or some other sort of sense. Regardless, it promised to be an interesting week.
Severus
Good gracious gods on a pogo stick.
Granger was friends with bloody Dementors.
DEMENTORS!
The world was coming to an end, and it started in my brain. My carefully ordered world, which was horrible, but still mine, was shattered into tiny little pieces.
Granger just walked right up to them, greeted them like they were long-lost friends, got some delicious biscuits from them, and—and then—
We came back to Hogwarts and parted ways like it was no big deal.
How was that not a big deal?
I was sitting in my sitting room with a small snifter of jezynowka, making every burning sip count. Firewhisky just wasn't going to cut it this time. I needed that fruity blackberry kick to the face instead of just the fire racing down my throat. I wasn't a drinker, usually, but there was a time when my brain needed a little fuzzing around the edges within the privacy of my own chambers—while I still could.
There would be a time when the Dark Lord rose again, and Albus didn't ever let me forget it was coming, that I wouldn't be able to afford even the slightest dulling of my senses for any reason whatsoever.
I wasn't sure if it was the inner rat that preferred the flavour or just my own quirkiness, but no other alcoholic beverage really did the trick to make my brain and my taste buds calm their shite down so I could think. It wasn't like I could ask my da about it. He had sworn off alcohol at some point when he went on the run from his swarm. The only time I ever saw him pick up a glass was on the night Mum left us—or rather a few days later when he realised she wasn't coming back home.
My brain no longer running around like a hyperactive hamster on a wheel (I wasn't really sure if rats used those wheels because the only ones I ever saw were the kind you didn't keep as pets) but a part of me wondered if the reason rodents ran endlessly was to put themselves in a sort of zen space. It wasn't like I could interview them and ask, and I wasn't about to craft one for myself and find out.
But the matter at hand was clear.
Dementors weren't supposed to be friendly. They weren't supposed to be planners. They were XXXXX Dark creatures that the Dark Lord had often said were naturally aligned with us—
But if that were indeed the case, why did everyone other than the Dark Lord have an instinctive fear of them?
Granger hadn't got the memo, apparently. Nor had the Dementors. They were clearly on perfectly good terms. Friendly even. Even the three-headed dog seemed okay with them. So either Hermione Granger was the new and upcoming Dark Rat Lord, or I really needed to reevaluate my worldview.
Again.
Part of me believed I should be used to such things. It had been my misconceptions about many things that had gotten me in trouble and sporting a magical tattoo.
My da would've been ashamed of me, had he known. He hadn't spent all that time trying to keep us alive and away from the "swarm" just so I could swan off and make stupid decisions the moment his back was turned.
I'd gone and chased power—the notion that being magical somehow made me better. Maybe—that was my mum's side of the family whispering sweet nothings in my ear. I had been so angry at my da for sheltering me and keeping me from the better things in life, but my way of trying to prove I was better really didn't prove anything but how stupid I was as a teen. Book smart but sense—no.
Granger had obviously grown up with a large helping of smarts. She'd grown up rat-smart, was consistently book-smart, and was working on being magically proficient enough to be the smartest witch in her year, Ravenclaws be damned.
Every night she was teaching me how to rat, whether she realised it or not, and I was starting to think that I was learning more about being a rat from her than she was learning potions from me. I pondered how I was going to even the exchange without revealing myself to her, but it was a puzzle I'd been working on for weeks.
One thing was for sure; I was glad Dumbledore couldn't read my mind—I could only imagine the trouble it would have created for Granger with the old man picking through her brain for his own ends. Something had irked the headmaster after Granger got herself a three-headed hound and finding out that Amelia Bones from the Department of Mysteries came in shortly after—even without him having summoned her. It was further reinforced when the dog dug a giant burrow in the ground looking for truffles and Granger found a thought-to-be-extinct type of Scottish burrowing-stealing dragon inside it.
Now, the young witch was getting paid good money to direct her dog's digging habits in various protected areas of Scotland to help the dragon repopulate itself, and apparently it had to be done by the dog or the dragons didn't like them as much. A magically dug hole was apparently not "natural" enough. So, that put Granger in the eyes of one of the top members of the Wizengamot as well as the Department of Mysteries, and that made Albus very unhappy. All I knew for sure was that he had "reasons" for his discomfiture.
What that was, however, remained elusive because Albus refused to talk about it. I could only assume that it was because Albus didn't like the eye of official Ministry persons on the school as most of the people that made decisions at the Ministry like to muck up the functioning of the school. If there were other reasons, which I suspected, he wasn't exactly sharing them with me.
Granger, however, seemed much less prone to showing up in the infirmary after the giant dog entered her life. It was, perhaps, because Potter and Weasley (and everyone else) didn't want to hang out with Granger and her three-headed canine. The dog seemed much more stable than ever he was under Hagrid's care, and while Albus may have thought that fine for guarding the Philosopher's Stone, it was hardly fine for after the fact.
Hagrid had Albus' ear when it came to justifying dangerous creatures for "helping" Hogwarts for whatever reason, and he hadn't stopped complaining about Fluffy since the three-headed canine had decided Hermione Granger was his best friend. He'd even brought up the situation at staff meetings, which had caused no small amount of disdain by all the staff but Albus.
I think, however, that Albus wanted the hound gone for other reasons—
With Fluffy out of Granger's life, she would be back in Gryffindor, back forced to keep company with her rather inept peers—
And after having experienced the companionship of one large three-headed canine first-hand (versus his teeth), I had to admit that he was both a furnace of comfort and a pretty protective friend for Granger or those who shared her company.
Unfortunately for the student body, none seemed too keen on befriending either Granger or her dog. Mind, if they found out about the Dementors, I'm sure she'd have even less social interaction among the students and staff.
Dementors were two thousand per cent evil to just about everyone that breathed—everyone knew it, so it had to be true.
But then—why were they such good mates to one Hermione Jean Granger?
I had so many questions, and none of the answers were to be found at the bottom of my snifter or the grey matter in my brain.
I sighed. Things were getting too complicated to keep track of without a scorecard, and I felt like my own personal scorecard was scribbled over, folded, torn, and half burned.
My brain kicked in as I realised I had to deliver Lupin his potion, and I scowled. I pulled out the bottle of Instant Abstemious, sniffed it, and took a hard swig. My lip curled as the taste alone was enough to make a person the very opposite of drunk.
I pulled my cloak on and stormed off to the laboratory to get Lupin his dose so he wouldn't miss it. Albus seemed to think I needed to babysit a grown adult. I might as well get the bloody pacifier.
It was probably the screaming that piqued my interest first, not that I enjoy the sound in any way. Screaming, while normal enough in most teenagers for a variety of reasons, was never an enjoyable sound.
The portraits were all yelling and, yes, screaming. Children were running around, tearing at their hair, and—screaming.
Lupin pushed me aside as he ran down the hall as if Hades himself was hot on his heels, and while I could sit and ponder about why Hades had any personal investment in Lupin, there were a number of other things to consider first.
Minerva was trying to settle her charges, and Potter was coming unglued because his mate Weasley was coming unglued, and everyone was going to need to be put together with spell-0-tape to keep them from falling down the bloody moving staircases.
The portraits were (somewhat less shrilly) yelling that the Fat Lady had seen Sirius Black.
Is that where Lupin was going?
Weren't they—well, friends?
Then again, Black was a convicted murderer of Muggles, so there was a certain amount of doubt on the validity of such a friendship. Then again, Lupin was not exactly known for making sound decisions in regards to his peer group. His best mates had tried to use him as a murder weapon, after all, yet he still stood by them like they were Merlin's gift to the Earth. Even now, Lupin was covering for his former best mates by pampering Potter's son with fluffy stories of his hero-father and their glorified schoolyard gang.
All this was moot, however, in trying to figure out why Lupin had pushed by me like he was being chased by the Underworld, and my thoughts went back to the night I had taken some sort of parchment from Potter only to have Lupin rescue the boy, yet again, from his own incessant need to be smack in the middle of trouble.
There was a high-pitched almost-girly sounding scream coming from the parapet walk, and now my feet were moving fast as I whipped my wand out of my sleeve and clutched it in my hand.
I had to appreciate the conditioning of the student body to swiftly get the hell out of my way, as it made moving through the hallway corridors a lot easier.
Albus simply gestured for me to carry on when I passed him as he attempted to persuade the Fat Lady to stop hiding in the wrong portraits and tell him what was wrong. There were only so many staff that could do so much, and all the crises seemed to happen at the same time or in rapid succession.
Now, the parapet walk was a mighty interesting place because usually students were not allowed there. Like most places where students were not permitted to go, they tended to go there anyway. They loved to "hide" in the corner towers like they were the first people in all the world to know where such hiding places were.
Hogwarts, like any other mediaeval castle of note, had all the standard castle anatomy such as the great hall, the battlements, the "keep" as it were, the wards, towers—even the arrow slits because apparently that was just as handy for wand use. There was the inner bailey, the outer bailey, the main gate, the barbican, the postern gate—we even had a moat because apparently the squid liked to play in the mud and dug himself a moat to swim in since the lake was apparently too boring all on its own. But what all that fancy wordage meant in the long run was that Hogwarts had a lot of places to get lost in—especially if you wanted to—and most of the teachers had learned over the years where the very best hiding places were. No amount of Dumbledore's warnings to stay away from whatever floor or forest or latest disaster site was, students had to go oogle and poke at things until they managed to lose a finger or an eye.
It was downright amazing the majority of them could see or hold a wand, and that was a testament as to Poppy Pomfrey's healing prowess more than anything else.
As I made my way to the parapet walk, I saw Lupin's posterior disappear out one of the bloody windows, and it took me a moment to realise that unless he really wanted to make like Icarus, there were certain mutations he would need to go through in order to successfully fly without a broom.
I realised with a growing sense of dread, that he was making his way up to one of the pinnacles, and he was doggedly determined to get there, as his hands were attempting to imitate the gargoyle's claws as he tried his level best to make like a spider and follow—something.
Someone?
A hallucination, perhaps?
Even our most brave or stupid students didn't dare try to climb the outside of the castle's walls. Most visitors to the pinnacles used a broom or levitation, but bloody Lupin clearly wasn't using sense, no. He was using his hands and he—
He apparently wanted to get up to the ramparts because that was where he was heading, barely even pausing to make sure his legs were still working to chase—something.
I'd never really seen Lupin so passionate about anything, and the impressive amount of energy he was expending was far beyond what he'd ever had in him as he was always infirmary bound during his lunar cycle changes. Part of me wondered if he would just collapse when his reserves finally puttered out, and if that meant I'd have to catch and save him from his death.
If I didn't catch my own death trying to keep him from dying.
There was a loud crack and a shrill scream, and my head whipped around to see Lupin dangling precariously from the side of the ramparts and a scruffy bedraggled-looking man pulling him up.
Both men scrambled backwards, their bums dragging against the ground as they reverse spidered, trying to get away from the edge as though it were coated with boiling lava—
It was then that I saw the creeping hoarfrost, the telltale mark of Dementors.
The Dementors rose up from the ground like apparitions. I fought the instinctive need to be somewhere else as the largest of the Dementors cradled a body in its arms—and not in the soothing ear rub kind of way I'd come to realise Dementors were very good at.
A dishevelled-looking man with protruding front teeth and heavily pock marked skin. People thought that I didn't take care of myself, but this guy looked like he'd fought with a vat of acid, got splashed and lost.
Or else he was suffering from a bad case of mange.
Could humans even get mange?
Care of magical creatures was never my forte, nor was Muggle zoology.
Down below, I heard the distinctive snarling triple bark of a certain angry dog on the green, and I started to piece it together and realised that Lupin had been pursuing the man that the Dementor was carrying for some reason as yet unknown. That man—
Something wasn't quite fitting together. I didn't know who this person was, but the Dementor looked like it had nabbed the prize goose for its Christmas dinner. I recognised the gloating of the vapour around the Dementors, and I had Hermione Granger to thank for that lesson.
She had some sort of unique symbiosis with them—she allowed them to read her mind, and how much they had learned from her was unknown, but in the time I had gotten to know her and her unique friends, I'd learned that the Dementors adapted a little more each time they did "an inquiry" into Granger's mind.
Were they learning civility from a child?
I was suddenly very grateful that it was Granger and not a sodding imbecile like Neville Longbottom or even Draco. Draco may be of pureblood stock and teethed on manners, but when it came to treatment of people with respect and consideration—
I can't say I was much better as a teen, but I didn't have a bunch of Dementors looking to me for relationship advice, either. The world can thank the gods for that these Dementors were looking to Granger and not my younger self or, worse, those that took great pleasure in making my life utter hell.
Speaking of those who made my life hell—
Lupin and Black seemed to be having a rather conflicted sort of reunion.
The Dementors hovered menacingly, and technically, it was not in the school, so they could hover there entirely unchallenged, even if Albus and whoever else might have wanted to believe otherwise. Contrary to popular belief, the Dementors were there for a good reason, and that reason was Black. Strangely, however, the man in the Dementor's grip was pissing himself in terror, screaming for—
"My friends!" he snivelled pitifully. "Help me!"
Black had an expression that I knew well—absolute fury.
Lupin actually looked angry, which was impressive for him, as I knew he tried really hard not to let such emotions show when working with his students.
"After what you did, Wormtail?" Black hissed. "Framing me for murder? What FRIEND does that, eh Peter? Did you think I wouldn't notice that picture of that Weasley whelp with a long-lived rat with a distinctive missing digit? The same one you left behind for the Aurors to find as evidence of my murdering you!"
"I had to!" the man snivelled. "I would have been killed if I hadn't!"
"So you framed me for murder after ratting out your best friends to V-VOLDEMORT?!" Black yelled.
The man—Peter Pettrigrew—squirmed in his desperation to be free, but the Dementor that held him had a vice-grip around him. Gnarled fingers wrapped around his neck and arm as some sort of wispy, frozen magic burrowed into his body, stealing his strength even in the midst of his desperation.
Well, then.
Peter Pettigrew.
Now that took me back. He was one of my ceaseless tormentors during school along with Black, Potter, and Lupin. While I wanted to take my own pound of flesh out on that pitiful excuse for a man for all the reasons I'd forgotten until that very moment, I had to admit that watching the Dementor tear apart his mind layer by layer (and without the same consideration they showed Granger) was a really good proxy for my own inner wrath. The added discomfort of Black and Lupin watching even in the throes of their rage, well, that made my day—probably my entire week.
If I had had any reason to officially push my old tormentors to the tender mercies of the Dementors, I'd have taken it in a heartbeat. Fortunately, it wasn't up to me, but that made this particular outcome even more satisfying.
The Dementors were gathering round in a menacing circle. What did one call a gathering of Dementors? A group of ravens were called an unkindness of all things. Crows were a murder. Dementors—would they be a "menace?" No, that sounded too mischievous. Menacing sounded intimidating. A menace sounded like mice got into your pantry and ate a hole in your loaf of bread.
English was such a quirky language. Context was everything.
The Dementors were apparently syphoning through all of Pettigrew's memories and perhaps his very soul—as it seemed the man was having to disclose all of his sins from a very young age. I could hear echoes of loud memories, perhaps the strong ones, as the Dementors rifled through his past. It was like a projection screen in the Muggle world only—
I think everyone in the area was sharing the view.
"Yes, my Lord!" Pettigrew grovelled at the red-eyed man. "The Potters will be at Stag Cottage in Godric's Hollow. Tonight! I will take you right to their door!"
"You think I'M a failure?" I heard him hiss angrily at—an older couple. "Avada Kedavra!"
The couple fell to the floor dead.
"Who's the failure NOW, mum?"
"None of them suspect me, my Lord!" he simpered. "No one believes I could ever do something like that."
"Good," the Dark Lord said, stroking his chin with his fingers. "Frame your old friend Black, and I will see you after the Potters are all dead. If you succeed, you will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams. Fail, and I will personally flail you to ribbons in front of my knights to demonstrate what I do to those who fail me."
I saw Peter slicing off his own finger and leaving it for Aurors to find.
I saw him murdering Muggles in the street.
I saw the smug, satisfied smile as he watched them take Black away.
Mind, I'd been pretty happy to see Black taken away, but it had apparently been for the wrong reasons. I'd seen it as belated punishment for having tried to murder me with a werewolf—a crime Dumbledore had covered up in the reasoning that Lupin wasn't at fault and deserved an education.
Maybe.
But letting Black get away with his acts of viciousness had left me feeling even more bitter, and I can't say it wasn't a major factor in my worst life decision: going off to get that bloody stupid tattoo.
"He needs to go before the Wizengamot," I heard a soft voice say, and the Dementors all turned their heads as if I was trapped in a horror movie. The largest Dementor handed Pettigrew off to one of the other larger members of its kind, if not as large as it was—
The Dementor's gnarled hands reached out towards Granger, who had apparently run over from down below where the huge three-headed dog was still pacing.
Had I not known she had nothing to fear from the Dementors, I would have been frantically trying to find something to fend them off with, but the elder Dementor (and it was only a guess as to the age) engulfed the young witch in a curtain of black and hoarfrost. I knew that the Dementor wanted to know what it knew—what she wanted of it. For whatever reason, they seemed to think that what she wanted was worth listening to.
Was it just because she gave them a chance? Cared?
I could, perhaps, relate to that. I'd once thought the world of Lily for much the same reasons. I would have moved mountains for her had she only asked it of me—at least until she proved that she could forgive Potter and not me after a childhood full of remorseless bullying.
In the end, though, her choices had proven just as faulty throughout her entire short life. She'd trusted those very same people instead of me, and she had signed her own death certificate.
I couldn't say I would have been able to save her from the Dark Lord—
But, at least there was a damned good chance that I would have gone down fighting for her instead of serving her up as a living sacrifice to the Dark Lord.
I could tell that the Dementors were communicating what they were learning because they started to hover a little less menacingly. Their grip on Pettigrew was firm, but they didn't appear to be choking the life out of him quite as literally as before. Whatever they were gleaning off Granger, they were willing to wait to administer the Kiss—to both Pettigrew and Black.
"Expecto Patronum!" came a cry, and a phoenix Patronus came zinging out from the window, blasting the Dementors back.
Perhaps Dumbledore hadn't seen what was going on beforehand, but all hell broke loose when he sent his Patronus after the Dementors.
The Dementors shrieked in agony, and Granger let out a cry of mingled pain and anguish as the shared feelings from the Dementors travelled through the mental link with her friends. I knew she kept her mind open to allow the Dementors to feel and explore her mind without being fought against. While a part of me believed opening your mind to anyone with that kind of trust was a bad idea, it worked for her, and it worked for the Dementors. Their relationship worked—at least until someone threw in a Patronus and injected their agony into her mind.
The Dementors fled as one from the bright, near-blinding Patronus, and I saw Granger falling even as my body was frozen by the blast of arctic hoarfrost left by the fleeing Dementors.
Both she and Pettigrew went careening downward from the parapets.
There was nothing I could do.
Everyone was affected by the glacial cold and no amount of Patroni, chocolate, or good feelings was going to make our bones move when they were slowed down by the impossibly frigid preternatural heaviness.
Albus sent another spell zinging through the air, but he must not have even seen Granger in the Dementor's embrace because he aimed for Pettigrew. Pettigrew, smiling as his body became lighter and his fall slower, used that advantage to promptly turn himself back into a rat and continue his fall to where he could escape. I reached the edge of the parapets in the same moment as Albus, and then he seemed to realise that Granger had been there too, his face twisted in the panic that one of his students had been thrown below.
A dark shade zoomed over and caught Granger in mid-fall—
One of the Dementors, braving the threat of another Patronus to save its friend, ally, or whatever the heck Granger was to it, enfolded her securely in its tight embrace.
I sighed in profound relief. Thank the gods for Dementors. How often did anyone ever say that?
Granger didn't count. She was an anomaly.
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" I heard Potter's voice ring out loudly from below—from one of the windows I couldn't see.
Oh, bloody hell, NO!
The blast hit the Dementor straight to the face—did Dementors even have a face? It was an honest concern because no one exactly pulled their hoods down to find out. The Dementor screeched in agony and went sailing off into the Dark of the Forbidden Forest.
Granger fell—again.
There were horrified screams coming from the windows as a number of students suddenly realised that Granger had been in the Dementor's embrace—
Regardless of whether any of them knew about Granger's relations with the Dementors, they at least knew that she'd been caught by one on the way down for whatever reason their feeble adolescent brains could come up with—and that Harry Alleged-Saviour-of-Wizarding-Britain Potter had just used his shiny magic to sent Granger falling to her death.
I could hear other faculty members frantically casting all sorts of spells, some attempting to arrest her fall, some trying to make the ground cushiony soft, even someone trying to enlarge the bloody giant squid (as if the squid was more on top of things than everyone else, and in the dark of night, the squid was probably asleep.)
Lord was down there, the poor Cerberus losing his ever-loving mind, but his instincts had him dealing with a certain other rat that was sending off all the right prey signals. I had a feeling Granger was unconscious, as Lord would have picked up on her fear over his instinct, otherwise.
There was a loud series of yells from down below, and I saw that the centaur had cast their fishing nets out between them and used them to try and break Granger's fall. They tended to butt out of all things human, but they did respect our "foals" enough to keep a wary eye on their young lives.
Granger's velocity was still quite significant, and the net strained as her body bounced and bent in odd ways just from hitting the net at high speed—
But even as I started running down the halls to reach the ground floor again, I knew she was, at least, still alive.
Peter Pettigrew Found Alive and in Hiding at Hogwarts After Shocking Discovery Sent Young Student Flying Off the Parapets!
Grecian authorities were contacted by Albus Dumbledore only a few days before a terrifying incident occurred at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that inadvertently outed the infamous believed-to-be-dead Peter Pettigrew as not only being alive and well but the fact that he had long masqueraded as a student's pet rat.
In a twisted tale that brought not only Sirius Black to Hogwarts but exposed Pettigrew, the confrontation between Black and Pettigrew drew the attention of the Dementors placed there by the Ministry. When the Headmaster attempted to drive away the Dementors with his Patronus, a student who had been nearby was apparently knocked off the ledge and fell.
The student narrowly avoided death due to a miracle-save by one of the patrolling Dementors only to have that very same unlikely saviour come under fire by another student throwing a Patronus out the window to attack the Dementor.
The student that fell was fortunately caught by a patrolling herd of centaur using their hunting nets—in a series of disasters and miracles that happened one after another. That student has since been transferred to St Mungos for treatment of multiple injuries as well as exposure to Dementor hoarfrost, which is known to be extremely powerful as well as icy cold. The hospital, however, has refused our request for an interview and would not give us any information about their young patient.
The student's familiar, a Cerberus that had been living at Hogwarts for a number of years before their familiar bond was established, subsequently mauled Peter Pettigrew. The wizard was a hidden illegal Animagus that was in his rat form at the time and had been attempting to escape the scene. The dog, however, did what they are known best for.
Pettigrew is now also a patient at Mungos, suffering from several severe lacerations, crushed bones, and various internal injuries, as well as a missing arm. He awaits Her Majesty's pleasure if and when he survives and recovers enough to go before the Wizengamot. Licensed Legilimens have extracted memories from him just in case he should perish from his wounds.
The formerly incarcerated Sirius Black has been released in light of the newfound evidence, and we are informed that he is currently in a legal battle with Albus Dumbledore over the custody of minor child Harry Potter as Black is his official godfather. Mr Potter's current guardians, however, in a very loud altercation at their Muggle residence, reportedly demanded that Mr Black take the boy at once and never come back.
Why Mr Black would need to fight against Albus Dumbledore when the family gave Mr Black their blessing is, to date, unknown.
Further, the headmaster of Hogwarts called in the Grecian authorities to have the Cerberus removed from the school grounds, claiming that the dog had officially completed its "guard duty" of something that he has declined to disclose. This action has caused more, perhaps unforeseen, drama in that the Cerberus' bondmate must go with him. This student, who has also suffered much over the course of one night, will be transferred to Greece when her condition has stabilised. Both she and the Cerberus, according to Grecian authorities, will be welcomed into their specialised Temple Dog training mastery programme—a privilege that few outside of Greece have ever been privy to be invited to see let alone experience.
Rumour has it that the Department of Mysteries will be bringing charges against not only the headmaster for negligence but also against the student whose actions caused his fellow student to take a second tumble, nearly resulting in their death.
There have also been whispers that Peter Pettigrew bore the notorious Dark Mark of You-Know-Who, but verification has been difficult due to the loss of his arm to the Cerberus. Healers are attempting to save the man's arm, and they are not allowing DMLE officials to examine it at this point.
How this will all end, no one seems certain. Many seem to believe that the stories were all made up to gain a boost in publicity.
New Unregistered Animagus Detection Wards Tested at Hogwarts After Pettigrew's Stint as Student's Rat Familiar. The Prophet's Own Rita Skeeter Was Subsequently Captured and Outed as Unregistered Animagus Beetle
"Ah, come in, come in," a well-dressed looking man with a silver of silver down one side of his brown hair said. "John and Jean are wrangling a cake out of the oven. Apparently, it's a two rat task."
Severus blinked. The man was clean-cut and friendly, outgoing, and—was he sniffing him?
"I'm David," he said with a smile. He seemed to expect him to—sniff him in return?
When I didn't, his brows furrowed.
"Mr Templeton!" some children cried as they pounced on the gentleman from the door, rushing in without even a hello. They rubbed against him, making sure to rub each cheek almost as if to distribute the air kiss but altered. They made a sharp sniff and wiggled and then smiled at him.
"Hello, Mary! John! Rascals the both of you! Someone heard about Mr and Mrs Granger making cake, hrm?"
The two children nodded, unashamed. Their ears twitched, a little more rounded and rat-like than human, and they sniffed the air as I'd seen Granger do while in rat form. They peered at me, then immediately stuck their face near each side of my face. I could hear them sniffing and feel the tickle of their breath.
"You're new!"
"Are you from London?"
"Did you move here?"
"Are you here to join the Eastside pack?"
The Westside Pack is full of ruffians!"
"That's rude!"
"Well, it's true! They fight each other and everyone else!"
"Why isn't there a northside pack?"
"Or a southside pack?"
"Now, pups," Mr Templeton chided gently. "It's a bit rude to ask so many questions of a new rat before he's had a chance to introduce himself properly. You know better."
"Yes, Mr Templeton," they chimed, seemingly sad. Then they both perked. "We have newcomer gifts though!"
They pulled out something from their pockets and stuffed it into my hands, bristling with almost electric happiness. The one had given me a ripe pear, so ripe I could smell it. The other gave me a cloth bundle full of freshly picked blackberries from somewhere. I smiled awkwardly. The touching, the gifts, the casual rattiness—I really wasn't used to it.
"Thank you," I said cautiously, unsure if there was some cultural faux pas I was committing without even realising it.
The children seemed somewhat puzzled at me, and I had obviously missed something.
"Now, pups, where Mr Snape comes from, he doesn't give gifts to the pack leader in front of strangers."
"Ooo!" the children said, wide-eyed. "It must be a faraway pack!"
"Yeah!"
"Probably small, too!"
"Yeah!"
Mr Templeton cleared his throat, and the children scurried off toward the smell of heavenly cake.
"Nice to meet you, Mr Stranger Priest!" the children chimed as they disappeared into the next room.
Mr Templeton snorted. "My apologies. Youths are always so exuberant. Rats even more so than most. Always sticking their whiskers into trouble and mischief and trying to singe their little tails. Not all of them are like our lovely Snapdragon was. She always had good rat sense and let her brain and whiskers keep her out of trouble."
"Oh! Mr Templeton! You didn't have to answer the door!" Mrs Granger said, flustered as she patted flour off her apron.
"Nonsense, dear," the man replied with a smile. "What else did I have to do but smell your delicious baking and not be able to eat it yet?"
Mrs Granger laughed as Mr Granger followed up behind. "Now, don't you stick your noses into that cake!" he warned.
"We won't!" the answering children replied.
"Oh! You're from that magical school in Scotland!" Mr Granger exclaimed as he nodded at me. Is there something wrong? Is Hermione okay?"
Mr Templeton's head snapped around. "Did something happen to our Snapdragon?"
Flustered, wrong-footed, and utterly unsure as to where to begin, I could only grimace in frustration. I felt like I'd suddenly been dumped into the royal court with the Queen coming in from the adjacent room in full royal regalia and me being dressed in the grease-covered uniform of a car mechanic holding a butterfly net.
"Oh! Where are my manners, please, come in, we have black currant punch!" Mrs Granger said quickly, shooing everyone into the sitting room.
The kids came in with a tray bearing a number of tall glasses filled with fruity goodness and, setting them out for the adults before carrying a couple off to another room as if they knew it was adult time and not for them.
I was directed to a seat on the nearest chesterfield and had a glass of punch in my hand before I even realised I'd been herded.
My attempt to gather my thoughts ran the gauntlet through an inferno of fire and damnation, and I had no idea where to even begin. Mr and Mrs Granger seemed perfectly fine with this Mr Templeton being right in the middle of their business, too, which to me was as foreign as finding myself in a new country.
"I fear Miss Granger was involved in an unfortunate incident at the school," I said finally. "She took a fall off one of the school's high walls and was injured. She is fine, of that you can be certain, but—you know of the dog, yes?"
"Oh, that lovely triple-headed monster!" Mr Templeton said fondly. "He's so precious."
"Yes, that one—" I continued. "Greece, apparently, was informed of his presence, and it caused them to recall him back to Greece. There is a strong familiar bond between them, as you probably know, so they had to go together. She has been transferred to a Grecian school program to learn both magic and, as I understand it, formal Cerberus training."
"Oh!" Mrs Granger exclaimed with glee. "She'll be training more of those huge darlings? How wonderful!"
Mrs Granger, apparently, had fallen in love with the enormous three-headed mutt too, and I could see where their daughter had gotten her enthusiasm for life in spite of being saddled with a gigantic extreme-needs dog. After seeing the young wererats in action, I was starting to lean towards all young rats being enthusiastic about everything, but I knew that wasn't the case. I certainly hadn't been enthusiastic about everything in my life—ever.
"I get the feeling that our new friend here has not been raised with a pack of his own," Mr Templeton said with a strange sadness.
I thought it strange because no one had ever shown any sadness for me—it just wasn't normal in my experience.
"While this is probably not the reason why you are here, I think it is imperative that the issue be addressed lest you not have access to the protection you would gain as a member of a healthy pack. While I may be mistaken, and you may have a pack already, I do not believe this to be true. You seem—oblivious to the usual pack dynamics. I am not trying to insult you, but as a leader, I cannot help but recognise the behaviour of an immature wererat raised far from the support of its pack."
Templeton looked slightly uncomfortable. "I try not to judge how other packs raise their pups, or the unique circumstances that they must navigate throughout the world. I pride myself, however, on having one of the largest, healthiest packs in all of the UK. Our rats extend through all walks of life across Eastern London, but regardless of where we find ourselves, our rats are strong and healthy. We do not lower ourselves to theft and hustling as some of our kind do. We are good at sleight of hand, but we must live amongst humans. To aggravate the populace is—unwise. Our success hinges on our flexibility and ability to survive when others fail. One need only see the derision caused by the mere mention of the travellers to get people's necks bent out of joint, and they, like us, are not wholly good or evil people. We all have exceptions to the rules and those that are truly exceptional. So, I must ask you, Mr Snape. Whereabouts do you hail from? Who is your pack leader?"
I swallowed hard. My father had tried very hard to hide his existence from his former pack—he'd said it was mainly to protect me, and while I did believe that, I think he was also very keen on protecting himself. "Cokeworth," I said finally.
Templeton's brows knit together. "There are no large packs in Cokeworth," he said. Horror chased across his face. "You had no one?"
"I had my father."
Mr and Mrs Granger gasped, obviously horrified by the very thought of it.
Templeton seemed to realise something in that space between horror and compassion. "Your father was surely running from someone or someones. A pack perhaps?"
I nodded.
"There is only one reason one settles as a rat in places that are notoriously not friendly to our senses, and that is to avoid other rats," Templeton said after a time. "I must apologise that none of us in a stronger and healthy pack found you and could help you and your father live in safety with the warmth of other rats at your back and their teeth in your defence."
I sighed. "He wanted it that way."
Templeton nodded. "Well, perhaps as our dear Snapdragon is off learning how to tame the three-headed beasts of myth, you could join us and learn about what it is to be in a healthier pack. The Western Pack is, unfortunately, far more miscreant than we in the East, and while I know that seems contrary to the human reputation of west London, who believe the very rich are all that are there. The western pack thrives on moving as much of the excess money there into their pack, but only the strongest get a share of the spoils. The young and the weak exist only to serve the strong and the rich. Despite what the pups believe, there is a northern pack, but they are much older and under the radar. They prefer to keep their whiskers low to the ground in all ways, and that includes the business of other packs. The southern pack are rather a mixed bag. They work hard but they tend to be less influential outside of their own people. Now, the irony is, there are a lot of people who think East London is full of gangsters, so no one suspects us as being civilised. We take many off guard with our influence and efficiency. We are underestimated, and that is okay with us."
"Mr Templeton ripped the ears of three Eastern bully-leaders at once!" one of the children crowed from the next room, proving that being in the next room did not cancel out the keen hearing of a young wererat.
"Pup," Templeton warned.
"Sorry," a chastened voice answered meekly from the next room.
They apparently turned on music to drown out the adults' conversation so they didn't actually hear what was going on in the next room.
I knew that while my father had his reasons, to turn down this opportunity for safety and to learn actual wererat skills with other wererats would be exceedingly foolish of me. There was no Slytherin alive (or dead for that matter) that would ever turn down the opportunity to obtain power and influence, either, and Mr Templeton obviously had both.
"I would greatly appreciate being able to join your pack," I said, realising that I actually meant it.
"Excellent!" Mr Templeton said, beaming. "Now, we can break out the blueberry tarts and Mrs Granger's delectable wild berry cake."
With every delicious bite of that cake, I felt the sins of my father's unknown past fade away into history as my soul prepared itself for life anew.
Sod off, Albus Dumbledore. Mr Templeton seemed like a far better choice of leader, and I'd only known him for about in hour.
End of Chapter 2
A/N: Alas, it is not Evil Author's Day anymore, so I cannot kill everyone off and leave it in a cliffhanger. Wait, no. I promised that if Dragon didn't finish her EAD stories, I'd kill everyone off painfully and make sure Hermione was married to Ronald. *smile*
So everyone dies.
Except for Hermione and Ron, who are unhappily married.
(This will continue until her stories are finished.)
Dragon gasps in horror