See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Thanks to all my reviewers, and apologies for the... (looks at calendar) exactly 1 month-long wait. (proceeds to look very ashamed)

Chapter 19

"I told you," an exasperated Narcissa said, "to be careful. Really, do take these things seriously."

Her older sister only smiled back. "Oh, Cissy, I think it's fun." She took the bowl of murtlap essence Narcissa handed to her. "Although it's all messy sometimes."

Narcissa gave Bella a tired look. Bella hadn't been like this before, when they had been young and beautiful and the world had stretched out before then, wide and promising. Before Azkaban. Before—and her mind whispered, even before the Dark Lord came and took her away. But Narcissa quickly shut that line of thought off before it could continue. Instead, she sighed and rose to her feet. "Well, try and rest. Why you insist on participating in all the purges, I don't know."

Bella frowned. "Cissy, you're positively lukewarm about this. It's our duty to our blood."

"I should think you already proved your duty when you went to Azkaban for the Dark Lord. Let the others go, for once," said Narcissa (forcing out the bitter tone that threatened to enter her voice), although she was keenly aware of the fact that she was probably fighting a losing battle. She knew, quite simply, that Bella liked the 'purges.' Narcissa didn't. It was bloody and dirty, and, well—not for a fastidious woman like Narcissa.

"And let them ruin everything?" demanded Bella. "I don't trust any of them with such a task."

"Do you ever trust anyone, Bella?"

"The Dark Lord," said Bella immediately. The Dark Lord. When did he usurp my place in Bella's mind? "And you."

Narcissa bent down and embraced her sister. "You're so distrustful, Bella," she said, amused. "I must go attend to some business. You'll be fine by yourself?"

"Yes, fine," Bella answered impatiently. "Go ahead."

Narcissa smiled and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. As the door clicked shut, the smile dropped from her face as suddenly as it had come. She walked down the passageway, stopping to glance at an ornate, delicately wrought silver mirror that showed her face. She was impossibly weary; she could not help but worry about Draco, who adamantly refused to tell her anything whatsoever about his plans; Bella, arrogant and passionate and tending towards impulsiveness; Lucius, who now sat in dreary Azkaban. Her eyes were blue, shadowed with fear, her hair, blonde and loosely down—she had inherited her looks from her mother, Druella Rosier; the odd one out among the beautiful Black sisters. Bellatrix, Andromeda, Narcissa. Bella, Andy, Cissy. Only the one in the middle had been cut out; and the first one drifted between insanity and sanity; and the last one's only ambition now was for her family to survive. Grimly looking at her reflection in the mirror, Narcissa raised a hand and smoothed down her hair, then proceeded to the parlour.

Severus was there, waiting. He was gazing out the parlour window with an oddly pensive expression on his face. His forehead was creased; he seemed, at first glance, to be lost in his own thoughts, but he turned at once upon hearing the sound of Narcissa entering the room, and inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgement. "Hello, Narcissa," he said, his eyes black and sharp. The very paragon of vigilance, she thought.

"Severus," Narcissa replied. "Thank you for coming. Would you like something to drink, perhaps? Tea? Some wine?"

"No thank you, Narcissa," Severus said formally. "Isn't your dear sister here as well?"

"Yes." Narcissa gave Severus a look of scrutiny; there was no way to mistake the edge in his voice. "However, she is rather… indisposed right now." Bellatrix was, of course, not particularly indisposed due to illness or otherwise, but Narcissa did not want her to know Severus was at the manor. After all, Bellatrix and Severus disliked each other, and Bellatrix was always muttering about how they couldn't trust Severus. Narcissa supposed that no-one could really trust Severus on the matter of which side he was on, for or against the Dark Lord—as a double-agent, such suspicions were nothing new—but she trusted Severus, at least, with the well-being of herself and Draco. "How is Draco? He has told me nothing of what has happened at Hogwarts in his letters, and will not confide in me."

Severus's mouth quirked, just a little. "This year, it seems, Draco has developed the habit of not confiding in anyone at all."

Narcissa said, "You told me some time ago of the Hogsmeade incident last month—"

"In which he showed a remarkable lack of cunning," Severus commented with an air of detachment. "He had the brains to get the necklace into Hogwarts, I'll give him that, but he has yet to explain to me exactly how it was to come into Dumbledore's hands. In fact, he has yet to explain to me anything."

Another time, Narcissa might have shown someone the door for saying such things about Draco, but this was Severus, and what she needed now was the truth. She watched Severus carefully with her blue eyes, and nodded to him, signalling for him to continue.

Severus did continue. "Recently, Horace Slughorn has been entertaining thoughts of having students in his N.E.W.T. Potions class take on independent study projects. They would only do so if they had a sincere interest in it—only for extra credit, mind, and he would be the one to assign them their potions. However…" He paused. "Draco has had a very suspicious increase of interest in the project."

Narcissa knew. Slytherins preferred subtlety, but now she chose to be blunt. "Poison," she said. Draco would not care which potion he would be assigned to make; he would have access to many ingredients that were hard to find, and absent from his potions kit.

Severus answered her unspoken question. "Of course, it will definitely be deployed after Christmas, if he does indeed choose to take that route. The independent study projects won't begin until January, when the students arrive back at Hogwarts."

"Then I will have some time to speak to him over the Christmas holidays," Narcissa said, and felt acute relief. Children! As though by staying silent he can preserve me and himself from the Dark Lord's wrath.

oOo

"…mirate ove m'ha scorto empia fortuna!
Mirate di che dual m'han fatto erede
l'amor mio, la mia fede, e l'altrui inganno.
Così va chi troppo ama e troppo crede…"

Elena Granger sighed, wincing at the shrillness of the opera singer's voice, reached across the table, and twisted the dial. The high notes were abruptly cut off, and a smooth, modulated voice replaced it.

"This is the BBC Shipping Forecast…"

As the polished, clear-cut tones floated into the air, Elena relaxed in her chair. Listening to the Shipping Forecast was an old habit of hers, in which she regularly indulged at least once a week, early in the morning before her husband woke and the work at their dentistry practice began.

While Harry Potter's closest living relatives, the Dursleys, took a sort of supercilious pride in their normality, the Grangers were simply happy in their normality. At least, it seemed that their lives were normal. A nephew who was the Boy-Who-Lived (the Dursleys) and a daughter who was one of the aforementioned boy's best friends (the Grangers) did not make for a particularly normal life. Elena Granger, of course, did not mind half as much as Petunia Dursley did—but she still minded.

Elena Granger was a woman who had already passed the threshold of forty years of age, although she looked somewhat younger. Her face could be considered prepossessing; she had that unusual quality of appearance which had made her look old at the age of twenty, and now young as she grew older; her face had not changed with the years. Ash blonde curls pulled back in a loose bun, stray hair falling around her face, dark brown eyes always unruffled, she seemed forever calm and pragmatic, a trait which stood her in good stead with the patients at her practice. Her daughter Hermione, on the other hand, more idealistic and excitable, tended to take after Matthew Granger, Elena's husband.

Well, Elena amended, she's different from both of us now.

She pushed her chair back from the table, turning the radio off, standing up and making her way to the stove. Filling a kettle with water, she set it on the stove, preparing to make some tea. Idly, she lingered in her place, looking outside through the kitchen window and thinking about how utterly normal everything had once been.

Hermione had always been precocious, she knew that. The odd occurrences and happenings that invariably always seemed to take place when she was riled up had been strange, but they had been minor enough so that she and Matthew had simply ignored them, distractedly trying to overlook numerous times events that, according to their perspective, should not happen.

Then the owl had arrived with Hermione's Hogwarts letter. Elena and Hermione had gone off to the library, Hermione eager to borrow a copy of George Orwell's 1984; they returned home, opening the door to see a stunned looking Matthew, who pulled Elena to one side, shooed Hermione off, and whispered to his wife, gripping the creamy parchment so tightly that his knuckles had gone white: "Elena! The letter—it says Hermione's magical!"

Elena! The letter—it says Hermione's magical! The words still seemed to echo in Elena's mind.

So they had gone to Diagon Alley; bought her school supplies. Matthew had been just as thrilled as Hermione. Elena, on the other hand, had not been quite sure as to how she ought to respond to this sudden revelation.

She listened as Hermione excitedly expounded upon the wonders of this new wizarding world; but after reading some of the history books herself, she rather sourly thought that there was really nothing different about the society—they had the same prejudices that existed in everyday life (the Muggle world, the authors of the books wrote, with a sort of condescending tone that Elena could imagine perfectly), a justice system that she personally felt to be somewhat crooked (the legislative body, the "Wizengamot"—they didn't have an ethics committee, did they?), and that the only thing they could really do was wave a stick and make things happen. She highly doubted they even knew of the existence of nuclear weapons, which could certainly do more—and longer lasting—damage than their hexes and curses and spells. But she had said nothing, keeping her thoughts to herself.

Hermione's letters home during the first few months of her beginning year at Hogwarts had been terse; at the most, she outlined how she was doing in her magical studies, never once mentioning any of her classmates, other than a few sentences obviously penned with some emotion.

Ron Weasley was being idiotic today, as usual. If only they would work harder in class—then at least they could earn some more points…

Today we had Potions class again. I really wish Harry Potter—you remember him from the books, he's the Boy-Who-Lived—I wish he wouldn't get into so much trouble, Professor Snape doesn't seem to like him very much.

I never knew wizards could be so… obnoxious. Draco Malfoy—he's a pureblood—quite frankly, Mum, he's a prat. But I suppose that prats occur, even in the wizarding world.

Is there any reason, thought Elena, why they shouldn't? Did you expect them to welcome you with open arms? Didn't you read the history books? Don't you understand? They have had their terrors as much as we have had ours. And this Malfoy boy—he's pureblood, so he calls himself? He's proud of it, isn't he? And what does he call you? And what would he call us? Dirt? Filthy? Inferior? Scum?

Hermione, Hermione. You're so idealistic—don't you realise it? Magic doesn't mean perfect.

And yet even as much as she wanted to, she knew she could not withdraw Hermione from school, bring her back to the old, comfortable life. The magic had entranced Hermione, ensnared her, and Elena and Matthew were left behind.

Then suddenly, Hermione had become friends with the two boys Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. Elena had never known why exactly; only that suddenly Hermione's letters seemed to be briefer, shorter, quick mentions of her life at Hogwarts, and that year during Christmas, Hermione had come home, mind distracted from celebrations, closed herself into her room and read books. Then she had gone back; scored extraordinarily high on her exams; and came back for the summer hols.

Matthew had been elated at Hermione's success in her studies; Elena had wondered if anyone still thought Hermione inferior.

The answer to that had come during their trip to Diagon Alley in the summer, when Elena had met Ron Weasley's parents, Arthur and Molly. She had been rather exasperated with the Flourish and Blotts fiasco; that Gilderoy Lockhart had plainly been a ridiculous quack. Then they had encountered the blond man, the blond boy, in the book shop—Lucius and Draco Malfoy. Even as Lucius Malfoy and Arthur were speaking to each other, their distaste evident, she had seen how Lucius Malfoy's cold grey eyes rested upon Elena and Matthew, and had seen the condescension, the disdain, the disgust.

Elena had thought, as Lucius Malfoy returned his attention back to the Weasleys, Look that way at me when I point a gun in your face and blow you up, and see if you think that way of me then. She was simultaneously surprised and horrified; it was, perhaps, the first time she could recall actually wanting to hurt someone so badly.

In her daughter's second year, there had been a period of time when Hermione's letters had abruptly stopped arriving. Elena had no way of knowing what had happened, until a letter signed by the Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had arrived, informing her that Hermione had been petrified by some unknown creature. Matthew had been angry, making up his mind to keep Hermione at home. It had taken the entire summer during which Hermione fiercely argued to be allowed back to Hogwarts; Elena had supported Hermione (Elena knew that Hermione would return, whether they agreed or not; and so she had supported her daughter), and Matthew had given in.

That was before they found out that the escaped Sirius Black was a wizard. Hermione wrote in her letters how they were all afraid for her friend Harry.

They say that he's after Harry, because Harry defeated You-Know-Who, and Black was his right hand man…

When she came back after third year, Elena had quietly asked her in the car, "Hermione? Did they ever catch Sirius Black?"

She noted the way Hermione involuntarily stiffened, but didn't say anything.

"No, he's still on the run," Hermione replied, her voice steady. "But don't worry, Mum, they'll catch him."

There's something you aren't telling me. No, not quite that—there are many things you haven't been telling me, Elena thought, but left it at that, and asked Hermione about how her Arithmancy classes had gone.

Hermione's fourth year had seemed to be incredibly exciting at first. She mentioned the Triwizard Tournament, the first in years, in her letters home, and the schools Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. She described the Tasks, one by one, and then after the Third Task—

Harry won the Triwizard Tournament, Mum! Isn't that great!

But the tone of her letter, short and hurriedly dashed off, seemed rather more sober than elated.

After that, it seemed to Elena as though the wizarding world had been closed off from them. Hermione rarely spoke of magic at home, except to talk about her classes and teachers; of her friends and wizarding events, she said nothing. If Elena or Matthew asked, she only smiled brightly and said, "Oh, everything's fine, don't worry."

She knew, had always known, that the discovery of the wizarding world—that Hermione was a witch—had driven a rift between them and Hermione. But she had not thought it had gone so far so that Hermione would keep secrets from her. Important secrets.

Elena dug a hand into the pockets of her coat and drew out a crumpled piece of paper. It was a crinkled clipping from the wizarding newspaper, the Daily Prophet, and the date was from the month of July. Elena had found it stuck between the floorboards in Hermione's room; it had obviously fallen there and gotten stuck. Otherwise, she supposed that Hermione would have thrown it away, if only to keep her parents from knowing what was happening in the wizarding world.

YOU-KNOW-WHO GATHERING ARMY OF INFERI

By Rosamund Darnley, Daily Prophet reporter

Recently, the increasing number of appearances of Inferi have alarmed the magical community. Since the Inferi were known to be used by You-Know-Who before…

She set the article on the table and glared at it, her lips set in a thin, hard—above all, angry—line. Pity she didn't have an owl with her; Hermione didn't write very much anymore either. She would have to talk to her daughter, face to face; over the Christmas hols, she decided. It is time, I think, that Hermione offer an explanation for keeping us in the dark—not telling us of the danger in the magical world—and why we should not know.

oOo

The music Elena Granger is listening to in this chapter is from Ariadne's Lament, as set by Monteverdi. The translation is roughly as follows:

"… Look where this cruel destiny has brought me!
Look what pain I inherited from my love,
My faith, and the deception of others.
This is what happens to those
Who love too much and believe too much…"

I took the names of Hermione's parents Very Loosely from Greek mythology, in which Hermione was the daughter of Helen and Menelaus of Sparta. I tweaked the moniker of "Helen," and cast around for a male name beginning with "M"—and Matthew seemed suitably English enough to me.

IMPORTANT NOTE: This chapter is late, I know. (ducks rotten fruit) My family's been busy moving, as I said on my livejournal, and so life's been hectic in general. As in: lack of computer access, lack of Internet access, lack of time, and sometimes lack of inspiration. Not only moving, but next week I'm going to a summer camp/conference of sorts in Washington D.C. and New York City that will last for nearly two weeks—so there will also probably be a lamentable stretch of time between this chapter and Ch. 20. (ducks more rotten fruit)

However, as reparations for the slow updates, I've posted two other HP stories in which readers may be interested: The Moment of the Yew-Tree, a short ficlet I wrote for the omniocular livejournal June challenge (characters: Tom Riddle, Slughorn, Dumbledore); and the first part in a 4-part fic Falls the Shadow, a post-HBP fic that is sort of a final-battle-afterworld-redemption-resurrection-renewal-etc story in which Snape and Harry finally come to a sort of peace--it's the fic I work on when I have writer's block. For some odd reason, I chose to write both of them in first person POV and present tense. I hope you, my good reader(s), have liked this chapter, and will like the other two stories as well.

As always, please, please review. :)

Talriga