Warning: Chapter contains scenes of child abuse.
Love's Odyssey in Death's Design
IV
As Hermione regained consciousness, her ears were met with the sound of hushed voices in the vicinity and hastened footsteps on a stone floor. The lights were dim and she was vaguely aware of being warm and tucked into a soft, cushiony bed. Her head still felt heavy but the throbbing had been reduced to a dull ache that was not uncomfortable enough to be labelled painful. Her mouth, though, felt like it had been filled with cotton that had long ago absorbed all traces of moisture therein. Other than that, she felt all right. Physically anyway. Inside there dwelled, like a terrible sea creature of the deep, a pain that could not be soothed away by touch or a potion, it was like a wave of anguish, surging somewhere in her belly, rising to a crest right around the area where her heart was steadily beating away despite everything.
But no Healer could do anything about that.
She was in St. Mungo's, she realized in that moment, noting that even with the influence of magic, it smelled the same way its Muggle counterpart might, the heavy scent of antiseptic and antibacterial cleanser strong and cloying in her nostrils. For one entirely blessed spell of utter confusion, Hermione's brows furrowed as she tried to figure out what she was doing in the hospital. In contrast to all the emotions she had been battling for the past two weeks, that short second of fleeting bewilderment was like a cool salve on a stinging burn, a temporary though welcome relief.
And then her brain, as if it had been kick started by some unseen force, got with the program, piecing together the puzzle in a rapid sequence of flashbacks. The Leaky Cauldron. Her drunken state. Her indecisiveness as to where to go from there. The Knight Bus. A sickeningly bumpy ride.
And her.
That monster with the black curls. The witch who had mercilessly tortured her on the marble floor of the icily austere drawing room in Malfoy Manor, who had cut that hateful word into her skin without a second thought, with no remorse. The same witch she had saw die by the wand of the Weasley matriarch during the Final Battle, the witch for whom the only grief anyone could dredge up following said demise was because she had not lived long enough to see her wretched Dark Lord finally fall.
Bellatrix Lestrange, in all her infamous glory, had been aboard the Knight Bus.
Hermione began to scream, the high pitched sounds rising into shrieks that went ripping through the calm of the hospital ward. Healers and Assistant Healers rushed into the room with such haste, that had it not been for the hurried thuds of their feet pounding against the floor, it could have been assumed they had Apparated.
"Miss Granger! Miss Granger!"
"What's happened?"
"Where are you hurt?"
"Talk to us Miss Granger!"
But the pleading inquiries from the hospital staff were merely bounced futilely against the wall of noise being wrenched from Hermione's throat, finding no way to break through. The only reply was those wordless, continuous screams that went on and on for what felt like an eternity.
Until at last, something was able to be deciphered, stitched together to form broken though coherent speech.
"Bellatrix Lestrange! Alive! She's alive!"
Whoever had made the brilliant deduction that silence could be even more deafening than the loudest roar, deserved a medal of the highest honor indeed. Verily, the hush that settled over the wide eyed Healers wielded so much power, that it effectively shut Hermione up despite the battle being waged between her mind and body. Her brain was desperately fighting for its control on logic while her mouth, lungs, and throat, which had gone tight and hoarse, wanted to resume with the fit of screams. The sudden quiet made it possible for Hermione to easily overhear their whispered murmurs, and words such as 'hysterics', 'delusions', and 'delirium' provided just enough strength for her brain to triumphantly take back its senses. At the same time, a fire bomb of fury detonated in the center of her chest.
"I am not mental! I know what I saw, who I saw, and it was Bellatrix Lestrange on the Knight Bus."
"Miss Granger, Madam Lestrange is deceased." That tone, usually reserved for talking a suicidal jumper down from a rooftop, only incensed Hermione further. She could feel the rush of hot blood flooding her face, the muscles of her brows and forehead contracting to form a deep scowl.
"I was there at the Battle," she hissed sharply, "You don't need to remind me of who died and who did not."
The audacity of them. Where had they been when flashes of green light were flying around like ravenous vultures, snatching away life forces on their indiscriminate quest for death? When the walls of the castle came tumbling down around the fighters from both sides? Where the hell had they been when the groans of the injured had rent the dirt and debris filled air, begging for relief? Sobbing for a respite?
They could never know the horror of it all, for they had not seen it with their own eyes. They had merely helped put the broken bodies of those who had managed to survive back together again in the aftermath. So, really, it made no difference what she said about Bellatrix somehow managing to break off her date with Death. They would not believe her. Not without proof. And she would faster set a library ablaze than willingly put herself anywhere near that demon.
"Just get out. All of you."
The hospital may have been the Healers' domain, but as one of the heroes of the Wizarding World, if she wanted to be left alone, she bloody well expected to be. It wasn't as if she were gravely ill and needed constant monitoring. Overindulgence in alcohol and the hangover that followed required nothing more than hydration and relaxation to cure. The only close to tangible thing she was currently suffering from in that moment was a serious case of embarrassment brought on by the spectacle she had just made of herself for no reason.
She was aware of the fact that three of the Healers looked at the fourth, who must have been their supervisor, waiting for his word on the matter. The Healer in Charge gave a curt nod and a moment later, they filed out of the room. The remaining wizard pulled a vial from the pocket of his coat and summoned a glass wherein he poured out the vial's contents. At the lift of an inquiring brow, he assured his patient that it was merely a potion to help her calm down and get some much needed rest, before setting it on the stand beside the bed, right next to her wand. And then he too left.
Hermione presumed the brew to be some sort of sleeping draught but she didn't want to sleep. She needed to think. Somehow she had to send word to the Order...and Harry about what she had seen. They would believe her, she was sure of that. And then together they could devise a foolproof plan to rid the world of Bellatrix Lestrange once and for all. Or see her returned to Azkaban for her unforgivable sins. There was no other option.
Merlin, they were supposed to done with this, done with it all. But then again, Lestrange was not the average former Death Eater. And for Hermione, the matter was a personal one.
As if aware of the path her thoughts had taken and as a result, was coaxed out of its dormancy, the cut on her arm, a permanent testimony to the evil witch's depravity, began to itch in earnest. The itching had started some time after the Battle of Hogwarts had ended. Hermione had tried to pay it no mind then, not at all wanting any sort of reminder of the torture she had endured for the 'greater good', figuring the sensation had something to do with the natural healing process. But something was different now.
The itch suddenly flared to a burn so intense that it made the brunette gasp sharply and grab at the cloth that covered her arm to inspect the agitated skin. The cut was an angry red, and raised, standing out like a sore thumb against the peaches and cream tone of her forearm. It seemed to pulsate, so much so that Hermione half expected it to rise and fall like the beating heart beneath her chest. So encompassing, completely seizing her senses in a vice grip, it was like a pull. A magnetized lure that demanded her total attention.
Through the physical onslaught, she could hear a child crying somewhere in the hospital. The pitiful wailing coupled with the pain in her arm served to double team the witch, the cursed cut throbbing in time with the child's sobs. For some reason she knew she had to get to the child and somehow comfort and pacify it, because only then would the flames, that unrelenting lick of heat between her wrist and elbow, be doused. It made no sense and perfect sense all at once. Her body moved as if on autopilot, surging forward with a sudden strength that manifested itself out of nowhere, her hand grabbing for the wand lying on the night stand. Hermione knew she could not Apparate, not without drawing the attention of any Healers or Assistants anywhere nearby. Thinking quickly, she cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself, the wand movements rushed and a little clumsy though efficient enough as the effects of the spell took root and her body slowly began to blend in with its surroundings.
Gritting her teeth against the distracting sensation of the cut, she quietly stole out of her room. Like a thief in the night, she peeked left and right, tiptoed around corners, making sure to keep close enough to the walls so that she would not be noticed. She could not pinpoint the child's exact location, the cries seeming to echo through the air. Her brain though, seemed to know exactly where her feet should go, compelling her movements without any conscious thought of her own until she had made it to the hospital's exit. Stepping out into the night, Hermione was momentarily puzzled by the fact that she could still hear the child, the sound now even louder than it had been from her room. The cut continued to pulse nastily and as the charm began to wear off, she knew she had to do something, she could not just stand there. Her brain again made the decision for her.
Had she been able to think clearly she might have thought it odd that it was Bellatrix Lestrange who occupied her thoughts as she Apparated on the spot.
In the heavy black cloak, that had somehow been draped upon her person when she was cast back down among the living from limbo, Bellatrix blended in well with the night. It was her favorite few hours out of the twenty four - from the moment the sun had sunk so far below the horizon that the earth cast all and sundry in a peculiarly beautiful blue shroud, until the first fingers of light could been seen wiggling out of slumber in the east. Many thought that all lay dormant during those hours but, on the contrary, the world came alive in its own special way and from since she'd been young, Bellatrix relished in the pale glow of the moon, the twinkling of the stars, the nocturnal creatures that basked in the darkness. And when she herself had become one of the proverbial creatures that went bump in the night, she had felt the tiniest bit whole. Which had been most welcome, considering all within her that was so cracked, mutilated, and broken.
After losing track of how many steps she had taken, Bellatrix was ready to resign to her fate that she might have to seek shelter somewhere in the wooded area that surrounded the road. But without the aid of magic there would be no fire, no food or water. And regardless of the season, the air was rapidly losing its warmth, a chill rendering the cloak useless in keeping goose flesh from erupting all over her body. Perishing from exposure like a common Muggle was hardly a way she thought she would ever die, but with a bark of harsh laughter, she realized that being killed in the heat of Battle at the hands of Molly "The Brood Mare" Weasley had not been an ideal death either. The humiliation alone was as vexing as an infected wound or a canker sore, so much so that it almost made the idea of falling in love with the Mudblood appealing.
No. Not even.
There was no possible way she could make it to Cissy's by sunrise. Nor by noon, that was to say if she was even going in the right direction, but still she walked on, realizing that her gait was slowly but steadily ironing itself out. As a result of so many years spent chained in that small, inhumanly cramped cell, she had developed a limp of sorts, her legs and feet temporarily losing the ability to utilize their full stride. It had certainly painted a perfect portrait of madness following the prison's mass breakout, those unstable steps violently pitching her body to and fro, coupled with her wolfish grin, and maniacal cackle. Good to know that something in her had finally righted itself.
And then everything went wrong.
It was as if a lever had been pulled in her brain and, in that moment, Bellatrix lost total control of her body. Her legs failed her and she collapsed to the ground, though she couldn't feel the earth beneath her. She had gone completely numb. With the exception of a sudden tightening around her neck, the pendant's chain cutting off her gasp of shock. Worse still, she had been rendered blind and deaf, the sights and sounds of the night fading away to nothingness. Before she could even search for the sense to be terrified, an image exploded in her mind with the force of a well aimed Bombarda Maxima, and there was a strange rushing sensation that enveloped her incapacitated body, pulling her towards the image faster and faster until it felt as if it had been turned inside out and she was now standing in the middle of it, no longer witnessing the scene from her mind's eye but from directly in the center of the image. Like a dream or a hallucination. Or like she had just taken a tumble into a Pensieve.
The chamber was large, its furnishings exuding luxury. A chandelier hung from the ceiling laden with candles that burned with flames enchanted so that the wax would not melt, illuminating the quarters, casting a golden orange light upon the brocade walls, stone floors, and french style windows. A child of about six or seven years stood in the center of the room, her face shrouded by a mass of black curls. Clad in a satin night shift, she was crying, mighty sobs of fear and desperation that wracked her small frame as she cowered away from the chamber's other occupant.
The wizard was well dressed, his disposition stoic though he seemed to take up all the space in the room, his very presence suffocating. His hair was as dark as the child's, though straightened, and pulled back in a queue with a leather band. His features were chiseled and angular, eyes brimming with glacial fury as he regarded the girl with an expression one might adopt if an insect was scuttling across the floor.
"You dare disobey me?" The question was spoken in a tone hardly louder than normal though it rose through the air as if it had been yelled.
"I'm sorry Father I -"
SLAP!
The wizard viciously back handed the child with such force she was brought to her knees, wrenching free a sharp cry of pain that broke through the stream of sobs. Blood welled up from the corner of her lip where a heavy silver ring her attacker wore on his finger had broken the skin.
The wizard went for the strap of dragon hide that held his black trousers up at the waist, sliding the belt through the loops and brandishing it in a threatening manner.
"Perhaps you need another lesson as to what happens to little witches with a penchant for disobedience?"
There was nowhere to run, no place to hide from her father's wrath, so a young Bellatrix curled herself into a trembling ball, pressing her forehead against her raised knees to brace herself for the lashes that would soon brutally rained down like a raging storm.
Bellatrix was thrown out of the scene in a violent rush, her senses restored as quickly as the tip of a wand being lit at a mutter of Lumos. Her fingers curled around the dirt, clutching at the dead leaves and twigs, grasping for some semblance of solidarity against the onslaught of dry heaves that wracked her body, attempting to eject the contents of her stomach. But there was nothing therein but bile, and the sour taste triggered more retching and gagging.
What the hell had just happened? The memory of that particular moment in her childhood had not been so much a flashback as it had been a complete reenactment. She had not merely seen it, she had relived it. For Salazar's sake, she could actually feel the sting of her father's slap as if the man had somehow been resurrected and had just cast the blow. Her tongue darted out to taste for blood on her lower lip, but there was none. Her head felt as if it had been cleaved in two, and there was a pounding in her ears that drowned out her choked gasps as her body rattled with powerful tremors like a leaf caught in gale force winds. The pendant was no longer trying to suffocate her, but as she reached for the clasp to remove it, she had to bite back a hiss of pain as a pulse of energy shot out from the silver links, effectively stopping the action. She could not take the necklace off.
A low purr that carried like smoke clouded her mind then, preceding a voice that she recognized as that of her Horcrux sounding from somewhere within her. "There is no future in the past," it said, smooth as satin though hard as steel, "But the past contains the keys to unlock the truth. You shall see." Throaty laughter followed the fading words, neither mocking, nor warm though somehow possessing an absolute purpose, until it too ended as if it had never occurred.
Bellatrix did not hear the pop of Apparation sound a few paces behind her but she was instantly aware of the presence of another. Despite the weakness in her limbs and the liquid feel of her muscles, her fighter's instincts gave her the strength needed to turn her head in order to identify the individual who would either be an attacker or her savior.
Standing nearly close enough to touch, wearing nothing but a hospital gown, slippers, and a shell shocked expression was Hermione Granger, her wand held loosely between the fingers of her right hand.
It took great force for Bellatrix to suppress the recoil that threatened to jerk her body backward. Bad enough she was already sprawled out on the ground, her body shaking like a newborn Thestral learning to stand. She didn't need the extra irritation that would come with the wretched girl seeing her caught off guard.
"I swear on my Lord, Mudblood," she growled hoarsely, "If you pass out again, I will strangle you."
Author's Note: And there it is! Major plot development *cackles* Early update this week! What can I say? You guys give me so much motivation! But what's going to happen next? That's for me to know and you to keep reading to find out! But again, as always, thank you all so much for the reviews and follows and favorites, it's delightful to know that you guys are as much a part of this story as I am. Tell me what you think! Until next time, loves -bellanoire, over and out!