CHAPTER 4
IRON
"I'm riding the heights of shame, I'm waiting for the call, the hand on the chest, I'm ready for the fight and fate."
Hermione changed her sheets, she cleaned the kitchen, it was like her first night, every surface had to be cleansed, only this time it wasn't practicality but emotional necessity behind her fevered whirlwind through her flat.
What she felt must have been close to panic, as if what she had just done was so despicably bad, her mind couldn't begin to figure out how to deal with it or fix it or even process it.
She waited for a tiredness to hit her, waited to become exhausted by her activity. After all, it was late, so late that the streets below her windows had gone entirely silent and the night hung still and deep around her, making her feel as if she were the only one in the whole world awake. But the lethargy never came. She scrubbed and cleaned all through her flat, even used her wand to individually repair all the broken tiles in her kitchen and bathroom, charm the peeling paint of her window frames to look like new again. And still sleep didn't come.
When dawn began to cast an eerie blue light over Diagon Alley and the distant buzz of traffic drifted through her kitchen window, Hermione felt no longer human. Her emotions were all that she was, thoughts had become disjointed and frayed. Rather than words and ideas she was thinking only in pictures and colours. Images of Ron and Harry kept sweeping through her psyche, Ron's face scrunched in concentration over a potions essay in the Gryffindor common room, Harry tying a letter to Hedwig's leg. Ron looking nervous with the sorting hat on his head. Harry blushing under the gaze of Cho Chang.
Through all of it she felt ashamed, over and over, the feeling of acute shame would wash over her like a slew of water, cold and unforgiving, drenching her.
All through the next day she was awake and aware and ashamed. How she passed that time, she didn't know. After the thorough clean her flat got the night before, it gradually sank into a state of chaos. She kept finding parchment scrawled with words she couldn't read but must have written strewn about her lounge room, books lay open and abandoned on her coffee table, five origami cranes sat on her mantel piece. It was almost as if her body were no longer her own, occupying itself without any awareness connected to what she was doing.
That night lay heavy on her and still sleep did not come.
Hermione sat on the back of a thestral, blood pumping, eyes popping in fear, curses flying over her head, clutching desperately at Kingsley Shacklebolt's robes. She tasted the bitter polyjuice potion on her tongue. Bellatrix's screams rang in her ears. She ran through a darkened forest, snow crunching beneath her feet, calling out for Ron as if he and only he could bring her back to safety and sanity. Her eyes welled and filled with tears as she stared at the inert, dead body of Harry cradled in Hagrid's arms.
Ron's scent engulfed her as he comforted her, she could feel his chest under her cheek, the safety and love singing in her heart as he opened his arms and offered her a safe place to grieve, his whole being telling her he would look after her, he wouldn't let anything else happen to her, she was safe with him.
And George's weight lay heavy on her body.
The dawn came again whilst sleep did not.
It was then that her mind slowly emerged into a strange and serene world of clarity. The flashing images and colour slowed and stopped. The feeling of shame throbbed through her, bled in her.
Hermione lay on the couch and watched the dawn crawl across Diagon Alley through her open balcony door.
Tears came then. They dripped down her cheeks, one after the other, no end in sight. She wept in a way that was almost entirely without sense, as if it were the only thing she could do now. Her whole body was filled with aching, thudding tension. She cried and hiccoughed and keened, her whole body in such a state of chaos that an unnamed, unidentifiable terror sat beside her shame.
And there was a thought then, a thought made up of very clear words. It said that she deserved her pain and discomfort because what kind of woman got off with her ex-boyfriend's brother? What had Ron ever done to deserve that level of betrayal? She'd betrayed him, she'd broken his trust. Ron would never love her now, would never tell her she was good enough. Because she wasn't, Hermione had proved that. Perhaps she'd never been good enough, because she'd always had the capacity to do this within her. Perhaps that's why he'd rejected her.
She felt so humiliated.
If she were so desperate for love that she had to take it from the first man who offered anything like a paled shadow of it then she obviously didn't deserve it.
Hermione didn't want to live anymore. The war had torn her apart too much, it had turned her into something she no longer recognised. There was no true part of herself left.
She noticed then through the haze of her tears that she was holding her wand. She lifted her arm and drew it's tip along the back of the opposite hand. "Diffindo."
The skin split along the line she had drawn. Blood pooled in the wound and began to seep out. It was an experimental wound, her body yet again acting of its own accord.
Her hand fell back onto her stomach, her wand hung limp in her other fist. She stared at the ceiling. Tears dripped, slid, oozed down her cheeks.
Hermione lifted her wand again and pressed the tip to her temple, she pressed it in, pushed, hard, it hurt. The shame welled up through her body again, followed by grief, despair.
"Crucio," she whispered, voice cracking and shattering.
The spell had no immediate effect.
"Crucio!" she wailed, the word bounding around the room, bouncing off the walls, the intent hitting her heart with a dull and painful echoing thud.
Nothing. No feeling, no pain outside of what she already felt.
The wand hit the floor with a clatter. Hermione curled into herself, folded her pain in her chest. She cried until finally, mercifully, she slept.
Hermione's head pounded. Light hit her closed, swollen and stinging eyelids.
A yowl filled the room and Hermione opened her eyes to see Crookshanks sitting in her bedroom doorway, staring at her intently.
She groaned at the pain thrumming through her whole body.
The light outside was golden and dim with a setting sun. Hermione rolled over and closed her eyes again, arms moving up over her head to block out the light.
Her cat meowed loudly again.
"Shut up, Crookshanks!" she croaked.
His weight hit her hip as he bounded up onto the couch. Hermione cowered into the fabric further. He kneaded her waist with sharp, needle like claws.
"Ow!" she exclaimed, brushing him off.
She sat up.
The flat was quiet, dust motes hanging in the air. Hermione looked around blearily, her emotions still sleeping within her. She looked down at her body and noticed with a start she was covered in flecks of dried blood, her hand was caked in it. She groaned again, feeling stupid, ridiculous, over emotional.
As the memory of the past few days began to trickle down on her after sleep, she shrunk under it, fear filling her heart.
That had all been so insane, the act of someone truly in need of real help. But Hermione didn't want to seek help. She wished she hadn't done any of it, could take it all back simply because she felt she couldn't deal with the aftermath of it. She should have dealt with it all much better than she did.
She felt hung over from it.
Her head pounded.
Hermione pulled herself from the couch, body swaying, legs weak, frame wavering. She stumbled into the kitchen and drank two full glasses of water before rifling through her pantry for a biscuit which she munched on, much as her stomach protested. She needed to eat, needed to refuel her feeble, grief stricken body.
What had happened to her? What had all that been about? Why had she taken such a dive? Why was her reaction so extreme? Hermione had never really dealt in extremes, she'd always considered herself fairly level headed. What had happened?
She dragged herself to the bathroom. In the cabinet above the basin she found a pepper-up potion and downed it in one. Relief seeped through her as the potion took effect and filled her with warmth. She began to feel close to normal again.
In the shower she scrubbed the blood and grief from her body, all the time fighting off waves of that same fear.
What should she do now? If anything, the last few days had shown her she wasn't ok. She'd thought she had been, that she'd been coping even if barely. But it was clear now she hadn't been. What should she do?
Stepping out of the shower, she stood in front of the mirror and inspected her gaunt, haggard appearance. She looked sick.
It was only when she drew her wet hair off her face that she noticed the bruise on her temple. It was purple and ugly, black tendrils lacing across her skin. She knew instantly that this was no normal bruise and a thrill of sharp panicked pounded through her chest for a second. Perhaps she'd just pressed her wand in just a little too hard? Yes, she did remember really driving it in there. That must be it. When she prodded it with a tentative finger, it did not hurt at all.
Hermione let her hair fall back across it and ignored the panic.
She made her way out into the lounge room again. The clock caught her eye and an unexplainable shot of alarm surged through her body. She studied the clock.
It was a quarter past five in the evening. A quarter past five. Monday evening. Monday the first of September. A quarter past five.
Realisation struck her then and she let out a little squeak of panic.
The start of term feast was in less than an hour.
"Shit!"
Hermione threw herself bodily back into her bedroom and dug her Hogwarts robes out of her cupboard, dragging them with some difficulty on over her still wet body.
She devoted several entirely wasted minutes to attempting to charm the bruise on her temple away to no avail. In the end she simply had to let her hair fall over it and remind herself through the evening not to tuck her hair behind her ear.
After throwing a few things into her beaded bag, Hermione hurtled out of Flourish and Blotts and up the road to the Leaky Cauldron at a quarter to six. Once she reached the court yard behind the pub, she turned on the spot into darkness.
Hermione apparated directly into a crowd of startled Hufflepuff fifth years who shrieked at her sudden appearance. The unexpected darkness at Hogsmeade Station compared to the daylight still hanging over Diagon Alley threw her for a moment as she got her bearings. The platform was crowded with students; the Hogwarts express having just arrived.
"Firs' years over 'ere!" came Hagrid's deep voice, bellowing over the crowd.
Hermione pushed through the throng towards the Thestral drawn carriages that would take her up to the castle and leapt for the first one available only to find it occupied by four Gryffindor third years.
She leant through the door. "Do you mind if I...?"
One girl with curly brown hair squealed and almost fell off her seat at the sight of Hermione who looked on in shock. The rest nodded enthusiastically and made room for her.
Hermione climbed into the carriage and sat down, feeling thoroughly confused at the younger students sitting silently in their seats staring at her with wide eyed awe.
A boy with dark hair and an olive complexion leant forward and said in wonder, "Are you… Hermione Granger?"
The girl next to him elbowed him in the ribs and gave him a reprimanding look.
Hermione nodded, perplexed, totally disarmed at this sudden development. Why on earth would thirteen year old boy know who she was?
"And what's your name?" she asked the boy, her voice betrayed her bemusement.
He blushed and mumbled, "Noah Williams."
The girl next to Noah held out her hand. "My name's Ebony. Ebony Laurence."
Hermione took the young girl's proffered hand confusedly. "This is Felix Leeton," Ebony went on, and the boy next to Hermione smiled nervously, "And Gypsy Worthington," the girl who had almost fallen off her seat giggled.
"It's… it's lovely to meet you all," Hermione said and then the carriage was filled with an awkward silence.
Noah glanced shiftily at Ebony before saying, in an undertone, "Is it true you broke into Gringotts and stole a dragon?"
Hermione shifted nervously, "Well, yes… but how did you know?"
Noah whistled appreciatively and Felix said, "Wow!" in an awestruck voice. Even Ebony seemed impressed.
"Didn't the police try and stop you?" she asked reverentially.
The two boys laughed. "She's muggleborn," said Noah by way of an explanation.
Ebony's mouth opened to retort angrily but Hermione cut across her. "So am I," she said simply.
Ebony looked smug.
Gypsy pointed at Hermione's left hand with a gasp. "What happened to your hand?!"
Hermione hastily shook her sleeve over the cut and shrugged, saying with what she hoped came across was complete nonchalance, "Got into a fight with a bowtruckle."
They all made sounds of admiration. Hermione felt embarrassed and self-conscious.
"Oh! I know what they are!" Ebony exclaimed, practically bouncing in her seat, "Professor Hagrid said we're doing them this year in Care of Magical Creatures!"
The carriage stopped at the front steps of Hogwarts and Hermione got out. She walked up the steps and into the entrance hall, the four young Gryffindors swarming around her, peppering her with questions.
"Is it true you fought a werewolf?"
"Did you really set a herd of centaurs on the Minister of Magic?"
"How many mountain trolls did you take on in your first year?"
"Are you really dating Harry Potter?"
Hermione laughed uncomfortably, aware that she not only had the attention of these four but also of everyone she passed. All around her was whispering and pointing and staring. She knew now how Harry must have felt so often. But she didn't seem to have his stoicism with her in that moment, she felt thoroughly overwhelmed and close to panic, pressed into a crowd of people gazing at her raptly, like an animal in a zoo. Her feet almost turned to carry her right back out again but instead she was swept along with the crowd into the Great Hall.
Seeing it then froze the breath in her lungs. Hermione's knees felt weak. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the flashing of curse fire, she could almost hear the screaming. She shouldn't have come. All around her, people were staring, her body pushed and buffeted by the incoming crowd. Her tongue convulsed in her mouth, her heart pounding, her vision swam, she couldn't breathe. She stumbled yet people kept pushing. She could hear laughter. They were laughing at her. She was crumbling. They were laughing.
In her panic, her hand reached for her wand and drew it, curses tumbling through her mind, down towards her mouth, something to make the laughter stop, to get them all away from her.
Suddenly a hand closed around her arm and yanked her forcibly sideways. She tripped in its wake. A body pushed her against the wall by the doors, out of the force of the crowd. Hermione caught a glimpse of white blonde hair, pale skin, before her hands flew up to cup her face. Her wand was taken from her hand and shoved back into her pocket. More laughter. She couldn't bear to look.
"Hermione!"
A familiar voice.
"What are you doing?" it demanded, and at first she thought that was directed at her until it added, "Leave her alone!"
A comforting hand landed on her back. "Hermione are you alright?"
She lowered her hands and looked up to see Neville Longbottom gazing down at her looking concerned and a little shaken himself.
She nodded. "Yeah, I just got… overwhelmed."
"Yeah, me too," he said knowingly, "Come and sit down. Ginny's here too."
"Oh god," Hermione groaned, thinking of George's weight on her again, but Neville didn't hear her as they made their way toward the Gryffindor table. She tried her level best to ignore the pointing and staring, lest it overwhelm her again.
Ginny caught her eye as they sat down. She looked both relieved and defensive.
"Hi Ginny," Hermione said warily.
"Hey," Ginny returned somewhat lamely.
Hermione studied her for a moment. She looked as bad as Hermione felt, there were bags under eyes and she looked pale and thin.
"Are you ok?" they both said at the same time then laughed.
Hermione felt a rush of affection for the younger woman and nodded, giving her a warm smile which Ginny returned. There seemed to pass between them an unspoken understanding that they were alright, that they'd do their amends to one another later.
Hermione settled herself on the bench, set her beaded bag on the table and allowed herself to look around at the Great Hall properly. It was as spectacular as ever. The damage from the final battle had been repaired and it had been restored to all its festive glory. A thousand candles hung suspended in the air above their heads and beyond, the enchanted ceiling reflected the clear, starry sky. She felt herself slowly sag, contented and relieved, into her seat. After all, it was good to be home again.
She cast her eyes up to the staff table and noted with small jolts of happiness the line of familiar faces. Hagrid sat talking merrily with Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick next to him. Professor McGonagall sat in Dumbledore's old chair, deep in conversation with Professor Sinistra. Hermione noted with a scowl that Professor Trelawney was sadly not absent and was perched on her chair at the far end of the table doing her best to look mystical.
It was all so comfortingly familiar and for a moment, Hermione could almost pretend the war had never happened.
Hermione saw Professor Slughorn waving at her enthusiastically and as she waved back, she noticed an unfamiliar woman next to him, conversing with Professor Vector, the Arithmancy teacher.
The woman wore deep purple robes embroidered with various symbols and patterns. She seemed to be in her early forties and had long, jet black, wavy hair that stuck out in odd peaks and angles. There was something exotic about her, she seemed to ooze wisdom and grace, yet there was something about her air or how she held herself that seemed somewhat intimidating.
"That must be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher," said Neville.
Before Hermione could comment, Professor McGonagall rose to her feet and the buzzing hall fell silent as the students gave her their attention. The atmosphere was suddenly full of intention, full of purpose. It felt heavy.
"Welcome students, new and old. I cannot say how happy I am to be standing here in front of you all today," she began and it seemed to Hermione as if there was a sheen to her eyes.
"In the last two decades, our world has learnt many things," McGonagall went on, every word settling heavily on the silent crowd, "First and foremost that magic and power can be wielded by both the good and the bad, the great and the weak, the pureblood, the halfblood and the muggleborn. No matter your house, or your blood status, or your level of wealth, you are just as capable as the person sitting next to you of committing atrocities such as the world has never seen, you are also just as capable of healing, love and compassion. This year, following one of the most devastating wars of our history, it has become vitally important that each one of us finally decide once and for all what kind of world we would like to live in. It can no longer be about your house or your blood status, but about your heart. It is time for you to choose with your heart."
McGonagall regarded the students solemnly. The hall rang with silence for a moment.
"We must now choose to put prejudice behind us. We must be united in our intention to end this war, to embody love, compassion, and forgiveness. We must be united in our decision to let it go. It is time for us all to forgive."
A stirring murmur swept through the students.
"It is my intention this year to disintegrate the house prejudices. Let your houses become your family, yes, but I will no longer stand idly by and allow the four great families that make up this historic school to wage war on one another. We are all one consciousness, we share this home, this land, and I will fight to the day I die to unite us upon it. In the true vision of Albus Dumbledore."
McGonagall stood tall on the podium, her chest thrown out, her eyes alight with a passion Hermione had never seen in her before.
"Wow," Hermione whispered, a sentiment that seemed to be shared by all around her.
There wasn't a cheer, a whistle or even an applause – but a collective positive energy seemed to settle over the students. Hermione could feel it. For a brief moment, she had forgotten about her own problems, and began to remember the great things her, Harry and Ron had achieved in the last seven years to bring about change. She felt herself swell with pride.
"Now, we are to break from tradition," McGonagall continued, her tone more businesslike, "Before the sorting begins, we have a special guest who has bravely agreed to appear before you tonight. In the spirit of unity, please join me in welcoming a very talented young wizard… Draco Malfoy."
"HA!" Hermione let out a loud, involuntary laugh. Heads turned in her direction but she neither noticed nor cared. She felt sure that this must be some sort of joke made in extremely poor taste.
Her eyes widened as Draco Malfoy himself stepped up on to the raised dais the staff table sat on, where Professor McGonagall greeted him by shaking his hand. He smiled feebly, thanked her and stepped up to the lectern, his nervousness obvious as he placed a shaking length of parchment down in front of him. His breathing seemed shallow and the hands that clutched the side of the lectern showed white knuckles.
Yet Hermione felt no sympathy. Rage boiled through her body like fire. She couldn't understand how even he could stand up there, in the place of the headmaster he had helped to murder, in front of students whose families, friends, and peers had been murdered or traumatised by the man he had pledged a binding oath to follow. It was cruel, it was sick.
Hermione felt disgusted. If not for a burning curiosity to hear what exactly he thought he had to contribute, she would have stood up and left.
It seemed more than obvious to her that this must be some sort of ploy. The Malfoy she had grown up with could never leave humiliation and defeat alone, he always had to try to get his own back somehow. This was obviously his chosen action in pursuit of that, in pursuit of some sort of revenge or an effort to somehow return him to his former status so he could perceive himself as elite again.
She would not be fooled by him, no matter what he said, she knew who Malfoy was. She knew he was cruel and bigoted and malicious. To her, he was a lost cause who deserved Azkaban. That was her view and there would be no way she would change it.
Hermione looked around the hall at the various reactions displayed by the other students. None seemed particularly accommodating. Most looked defended and suspicious, many looked as furious as Hermione felt, Neville and Ginny among them.
Malfoy cleared his throat.
"My name is Draco Malfoy. I am a Slytherin and a Death Eater."
Many students in the hall gasped, whispers broke out.
He ignored the waves of animosity that seemed to be sweeping across the hall in his direction, barely contained within the crowd. He went on, raising his voice slightly above the noise, "I use these words in the present tense on purpose. I am a Death Eater. I say this because that ideology, that brotherhood is something I will have to spend the rest of my life recovering from, and making amends for. I am a Death Eater now because to bear that shameful moniker is that price I must pay for choosing it for myself two years ago.
"Up until the end of last year, I shared my living space, my home, with the Dark Lord and my fellow Death Eaters. During that time, I saw my own father commit murder as if it were nothing more than sport. I was subjected to the cruciatus curse many times and forced, sometimes under the imperius curse, sometimes not, to torture other death eaters and victims of the Dark Lord's displeasure. I am an adult now and I was an adult then. I take responsibility for my actions and acknowledge that, though I believed differently at the time, I did have a choice. And I chose."
Malfoy paused for a moment as if to regain some lost composure. The hall had fallen silent again. His tone lowered. He appeared to be shaking and his eyes remained trained on the parchment in front of him as if frightened to look up and meet the eyes of his fellow students.
"I think to assume that the war was begun by a madman and his followers would be naïve and wrong. In my opinion, the war was begun by a corrupt society, stemming from a corrupt system, implemented by a corrupt government. We live in a culture of repression and disengagement. That which we fear as a larger community has always been that which we do not understand and as a result we have shunned, shamed, and misjudged those less fortunate than ourselves. We have devalued that which appears different and, most damaging of all, we have neglected to offer any real aid to those who need it most. Tom Riddle was one such person. But, though he lit the flame, he did not build the pyre. The larger culture of enforced silence and control built it. If we had been capable of embodying forgiveness, wisdom, empathy and compassion as a larger community, he would have had no fire to light.
"I hold this opinion not because I have been told to but because I have learnt through gruelling lesson after gruelling lesson. I have done my homework. As I looked out across the result of a war, as I experienced firsthand the trauma it created, I have become aware that there was something much, much deeper going on than anything I had previously considered. I grew up being fed pureblood ideals. I grasped them and held onto them, I chose to believe them. If I saw any reason why they should not be true I chose to ignore it. I realised that this was solely because those ideals meant that I could be better than others and I wanted to be because I myself did not believe I was deserving of praise, love, or empathy without them."
At this, he locked eyes with Hermione. There was no smirk in his face, only open honesty and she could not hold his gaze. Her eyes dropped to the table, defiant, angry and underneath, shockingly ashamed.
"I will not deny that this time two years ago, I believed in my right to fight for a pure world because I had made that the same as my right to be myself and to be accepted. But never, did I believe that rape, murder and torture would be my weapons when it came to fighting. I came to my beliefs after what I thought was calm and sober consideration that led me into thinking I was doing right by the wizarding world. I thought that I believed us to be oppressed.
"The Dark Lord's name was praised in my home, we toasted to his return every evening when we sat down to dinner. Consequentially, up until I met him, I believed him to be a visionary and a hero. I hoped, always, that the time would come when I would be able to serve my Lord and make my own small contribution to maintaining the purity of our race and when he rose, I pledged him my service. I did not know then, what his new world would look like, or how ugly it would be. By the time I realised this, it was not my fanaticism for his cause that made me willing to kill for him; it was the knowledge that if I did not, I would lose my life. I was not given a say, first by my parents and then by Lord Voldemort.
"The only person who ever offered me a chance was Albus Dumbledore."
At this his voice became stronger and he finally seemed able to look up from the parchment properly.
"And now, I say this. To my peers, those of you who have been force fed those same prejudices by your parents and the Ministry: do not allow yourselves to be fooled by it. Look for the deeper reason. We have the capability to unite if only we were all willing to look for deeper meaning.
"The rest of the wizarding world was spared a true look into the world Tom Riddle would have created. I lived it for two years. I can tell you now that it was not the wholesome society he led us to envision. As a man, you were expected to murder and torture at Riddle's bidding and if you did not, he killed you, he killed the people you loved. As a woman you were sold to the highest bidder and married off to breed a new generation of death eaters and your daughters would be destined to the same fate. If you were not compliant, you were tortured and raped. I ask you, is this the world you would desire to live in?
"I am not here to convert you into sharing my opinions. If I were, I would be no better than Riddle. I am here to encourage you to do as I did not, to think critically, and to question what you have been taught because the system that forbids us from asking questions, not only robs us of our freedom, but also creates the perfect conditions for prejudice and bigotry to grow. I am here to encourage you to seek deeper meaning, to learn to forgive, not only others but yourselves.
"My promise to you tonight is that I will work to unite the four houses as much as my power allows. I will do my best to eradicate the prejudice I have spent the last seventeen years to trying to cultivate.
"Remember: a half blood, a pureblood and a muggleborn united to bring down someone who we long thought was the greatest wizard of all time. And they succeeded."
Malfoy looked down at his hands and took a deep breath before he raised his eyes again to look out over the students.
"Thank you," he said before he stepped away, making his way back to the Slytherin table, leaving the hall in a shuddering, heart pounding silence.
When Hermione looked around then she saw only shock in the faces of her peers.
Professor McGonagall got to her feet and began to clap. She was soon followed by the rest of the staff and most of the students in the great hall. They applauded in Malfoy's direction, the noise rose to a cacophonous roar.
Hermione remained seated and did not clap. A battle raged within her. She believed him, the things he said, his speech had touched her deeply, just as it seemed to have done for every other person in the Great Hall. But she was angry, she was hurt, Malfoy had bullied her ceaselessly for seven years, he had made her life truly horrible at times, he had done so many hateful things, caused so much damage. She could only hate him.
He was in essence a horrible person, she felt this in her very bones, he could not possibly believe the things he'd said. Someone else must have written his speech. This was the only conclusion she could draw.
She could only hate him.
Neville leant forwards on the table as Professor McGonagall thanked Malfoy and announced the beginning of the sorting. He looked between Hermione and Ginny.
"So what do we think?" he whispered as the Sorting Hat sent 'Amis, Natalie' to Ravenclaw.
"I don't know," said Ginny quietly, frowning deeply.
Neville nodded, lifting his goblet to his mouth and turning to look at Hermione who could not bring herself to speak. The depth of her emotion was too great, she felt torn. More than anything though, she felt tired and sore. Her body was beginning to ache.
After the sorting was done, the food appeared on their plates and Hermione ate quickly and quietly, feeling that light hearted conversation was beyond her right then. Neville and Ginny were chatting good-naturedly with Luna Lovegood who had come to eat with them at the Gryffindor table.
Over the course of the meal, Hermione began to feel odd, off in some way, like her skin was crawling, like she was feverish. She guessed that this must be because she was simply overwhelmed by it all, everything she'd been through over the past few days and now sitting in the Great Hall as if her life was normal again.
An ache in her temple had begun to build and it throbbed painfully every time she moved her jaw.
Hermione started to feel worried. She knew very well that the ugly bruise had not been caused by the pressure of her wand alone. She also had a sneaking suspicion that the sick feeling she was getting was not unrelated. The time had come for her to seek help. She had no idea what she had really done attempting to cast the torture curse on herself. It was such a powerfully damaging spell, she could see there was no way that it had caused nothing but a bruise. She would have to ask for help.
And yet, the idea of actually admitting what she had done to herself, admitting the state she had been in over the past three days, and also the events that triggered it all felt hugely terrifying and humiliating.
Hogwarts had never really felt like it provided space for any sort of emotional unburdening. Hermione didn't actually know who she should go to for this sort of help. Who could she talk to?
Professor McGonagall was the only logical answer, she had after all been Hermione's head of house for the past seven years. It would have to be her.
Hermione waited through dinner until the great hall began to empty. She sat alone at the Gryffindor table pushing trifle around her plate as she waited for McGonagall to rise from her seat.
When the headmistress finally appeared to be bidding her colleagues good night, Hermione grabbed her beaded bag and stood. She made her way toward the staff table.
"Professor? Might I have a word?" Hermione asked politely.
"Of course," McGonagall nodded, "How can I help?"
Hermione cast a wary eye at the rest of the staff and gestured for McGonagall to follow her to the corner of the hall. The headmistress obliged, looking perplexed.
"It's just… I have an injury that I'm… that I'm concerned about," Hermione told her quietly.
"Should I fetch Madam Pomfrey?"
She shook her head. "No… it's not like that, it's just, it's this bruise."
Hermione turned her head and drew back her hair. McGonagall's hand grasped Hermione's chin gently as she studied the mark. Her eyes narrowed.
"What caused this?" she asked sternly.
"A curse," Hermione answered.
"I can see that," said McGonagall, "What kind of curse?"
Hermione let her hair fall back over her face and ducked her head uncomfortably. She couldn't bring herself to say it. She knew that she'd have to but it felt like a physical impossibility to let the words actually leave her mouth.
The headmistress stared at her expectantly, severely, waiting for Hermione to speak.
The seconds ticked by and her hands began to shake in her humiliation.
"I… I did it," Hermione said, so quietly that it seemed impossible that McGonagall would hear her.
The headmistress nodded curtly before she turned her head back toward the staff table and called, "Professor Vulpes!"
The dark haired witch Hermione had been studying before the feast lifted her head from her plate.
"Could you join us?" asked McGonagall.
The witch nodded and made her way over to them.
"This is Hermione Granger," McGonagall told her, "It seems she has an injury that I think you should look at."
"Show me," said the woman. She had a heavy, central European accent with a lilting, musical trill to it.
Hermione pushed her hair back again.
Professor Vulpes ran a thumb over the bruise before she laid a palm on Hermione's forehead for a moment.
"You are very warm," she said, then took Hermione's wrist and pressed her fingers to it for a moment. "Yes, I see. When did this happen?"
"I… I don't know," Hermione answered. The past three days were such a blur and she had slept for so long she could hardly be sure when she had actually cast the curse. "Last night? Maybe the night before?"
The professor nodded curtly. "You must come with me."
"Now?" Hermione asked feebly.
"Yes. Now. Wait for me in the Entrance Hall."
Hermione walked away leaving the two professors alone. She was grateful to find the Entrance Hall mostly empty.
She was feeling more and more feverish with each passing moment and had begun to consider walking straight through the front doors and going home. She felt foolish too, like a naughty child. But more than anything she felt frightened. It scared her that she had done this to herself, that she was even capable of it.
Professor Vulpes joined her quickly, looking very serious. She gestured for Hermione to follow her up the marble staircase.
"You will not call me Professor," she told her, "You will call me Teodora."
"Why?" Hermione asked nervously.
"Because this is my name."
Hermione started to suspect that Neville's suspicion may be wrong, perhaps this woman was simply a guest at the feast. "Are you a teacher here?" she asked.
"Yes. I will teach Defence Against the Dark Arts," the older woman answered, "But this is not important. You must be feeling very ill."
"A bit," Hermione responded carefully.
Teodora nodded and the short conversation ended. Their footsteps echoed eerily in the empty stone corridors as they made their way up to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Once they reached their destination, Teodora led Hermione through the darkened classroom, lit only by the pale glow of the moon, and into her office.
Hermione could do nothing but pause on the threshold in shock. The room was unlike anything she had ever seen anywhere, let alone at Hogwarts. She felt as if she stood at the brink of another country, another era.
The room was lit by the warm glow of candlelight and the burning golden light of the fire. Everywhere she looked there was colour, rich fabric hung from the walls and ceiling, every adornment in the room was bright and exotic. Instead of chairs, there were stiff cylindrical pillows on either side of a very low wooden table that must have served as Teodora's desk. The room hummed with magic and reverence, as if it were more a sacred temple than an office. The only thing remotely scholarly about it was the series of bookshelves and cabinets that spanned one wall, heaving with tomes old and knew and various ornaments and devices that seemed to shimmer in the roseate light.
"Sit," Teodora ordered, gesturing Hermione towards one of the pillows by her desk. She left the sanctuary of the doorway and entered the room, lowering herself onto the cushion.
Teodora produced from one of the cabinets a very shallow, very large bowl, at least two feet in diameter. The metal was bronze in colour, rich and glinting, the outside etched in tiny, unintelligible runes. She set this on the desk followed by a series of small boxes and bottles, cuttings from plants, and her wand.
Hermione stared at the bowl in confusion.
"It is a cazan. In my country, this serves as a cauldron, its shape means we can brew over a fire, on the ground, and the potion is very close to us so that we may become close to it," the older woman explained.
Hermione wasn't sure she understood what any of that meant.
"Why do you need a cauldron?" she asked curiously.
"I will brew a potion called Rusine. This will undo the damage of this curse," Teodora answered, gesturing to Hermione's head.
"So… so you know what caused it?" Hermione asked, her voice faint with alarm.
The older woman nodded soberly, "Yes, I do," she sat down opposite Hermione and handed her a small bottle. "Take this, it will ease your fever while I brew."
"How long will it take?"
"Several hours."
"Should I just come back tomorrow?"
Teodora looked faintly amused. "No, you must stay until it is done. It is important that you take this treatment as soon as possible. Also, we must talk. I will not allow you to leave my office unless I am sure you will do no more harm to yourself."
Hermione grimaced doubtfully. This woman was so severe, her words clipped and short, Hermione couldn't possibly imagine that she would ever be inspired to open up to her.