Love's Odyssey in Death's Design
VIII
Sunlight filtered in through the windows and Hermione's hazel eyes fluttered open. For a moment she was unsure where she was, though the smell of breakfast wafting up from the lower level of the house soon answered her unasked question. She was at the Burrow. As she rose from the bed, she realized for the first time since she had met the Weasley family, she felt like a guest under their roof. With Ron dead, what ties did she really have to his kin? That was not to say that she did not care about them, she certainly had love for them but with her plans for the future viciously erased by the war, well, it was no longer the same.
The room was empty with the exception of herself which indicated that Ginny had either risen earlier or she had slept elsewhere. And after the passionate exchange Hermione had witnessed a few hours ago, she did not want to think on where that elsewhere might have been. Shaking her head, she made her way to the bathroom. After a quick moment to utilize the facilities, she turned the sink's tap on full blast. The splash of cold water on her face was refreshing. A peek in the mirror revealed tired, bloodshot eyes, dark circles beneath them and an underlying expression of worry despite the indulgence of a couple hours rest. Her hair was a frightful mass of tangled curls that would more than likely need a gardener's tools to tame. But there was nothing that could be done about that now. It was not very high on her list of importance so she pulled it all into a low ponytail before heading downstairs.
Hermione could hear the sound of several voices talking at once as well as the clink of cutlery on plates. When she entered the kitchen, there sat among the Weasleys the interim Minster for Magic Kingsley Shackbolt, and four Aurors, three wizards and a stone faced witch she did not immediately recognize. In fact, after several rather awkward moments she couldn't even remember these Auror's surnames. A lance of pain shot through her chest as she realized how strange it was to not have Tonks and Remus sitting among them. They had fallen during the Battle, the memory of their bodies laying among the other casualties in the Great Hall flashed before her eyes, their lifeless hands clasped within each other's, a testimony to their love even in death.
"Oh there you are dear, I didn't want to wake you," the voice of Mrs. Weasley cut in, for the second time since her arrival at the Burrow derailing the train of her painful thoughts, "Come, sit and eat."
Hermione complied to the invitation, sliding into a free seat next to Percy Weasley, across from the Order members. Though the knots forming in her stomach as she registered the gravity of the situation that had prompted the Aurors' arrival was hardly ideal for the consumption of any breakfast. Verily, the slice of toast she picked up felt like a brick in her hand but she nibbled it lightly so as to not provoke further concern from the Weasley matriarch.
It was then that she realized that something was not right. None of the Aurors in attendance, with the exception of Shacklebolt, were members of the Order of the Phoenix. "But where are the Order?" she found herself voicing her confusion aloud, "Surely you can't expect to catch her without them. She was Voldemort's most loyal!"
Kingsley Shacklebolt, with his dark skin and regal features making the wizard appear rather formidable save for a subtle, though gentle kindness in his chestnut eyes, regarded her with a look of expectation. The other dark wizard catchers in attendance were staring at her too wearing various expressions from skepticism to intrigue to annoyance - probably as a result of her statement. Swallowing the bite of bread that was more like trying to digest cotton than actual food, Hermione leaned forward slightly in her seat.
"The remaining members of the Order are currently assisting with end of war efforts - reparations to Hogwarts School, providing rehabilitation and support to families and individuals displaced and separated following the seige of the Ministry. Officials have designated the capturing of former Death Eaters and fugitives to the best Aurors at our disposal," he nodded at the four before returning his undivided attention to Hermione, "Are you positive it was Bellatrix Lestrange that you encountered yesterday evening Miss Granger?"
The brunette nodded and began to retell the story she had told the Weasley's mere hours ago. The Aurors were all listening with rapt attention, occasionally cutting her off to ask questions. But after the third time of trying to explain the cut on her arm and the compelling effects that had come over her while in St. Mungo's, Hermione was beginning to lose her patience. And said patience had certainly been in short supply over the last few days.
"This is the Wizarding World," she said sharply, nearly upsetting her wooden goblet of pumpkin juice as she stood from the table, "I know it sounds impossible and quite frankly, terrifying, but I know what I saw. I spoke to her. I side along Apparated her to Malfoy Manor. She is there right now, probably planning some grand escape and you lot are here wasting your time interrogating me. How is that logical even by magical standards?"
Her chest was heaving, her throat tight following the tirade and Hermione was vaguely aware of wide eyes, slacked jaws, and shocked expressions around the table all aimed at her.
After a pregnant pause, a moment of silence that was permeated only by Hermione's ragged breathing, Kingsley cleared his throat and lifted a hand, in a fashion that was fleetingly reminiscent of the late Albus Dumbledore, to gesture at the brunette's recently vacated seat, wordlessly prompting her to sit back down.
Hermione slowly lowered herself onto the scarred wooden chair and worried her lower lip with the blunt edges of her teeth. She had just shouted at the wizard who could very well be the next Minister for Magic as well as some of the most skilled duelists on the side of the light and as the fight and ire slowly evaporated from her blood, Hermione found that she could meet none of their gazes now; a tinge of pink coloring her cheeks as she kept her eyes downcast.
"We are not saying that we do not believe you," Kingsley explained calmly, "On the contrary, following the war, the body of Bellatrix Lestrange was unaccounted for despite the many eye witness testimonies of having seen her be killed. Of course this has not been publicly confirmed just yet."
"So you're basically saying that you suspect a deranged witch with strong ties to Voldemort is on the loose and you have not warned the public?" Harry asked hotly, outright glaring at Kingsley, "Hermione could have been killed, you realize."
Hermione let out a soft sigh, noting the ire lacing her best friend's words. While she knew they were coming from a place of concern, the strangest feeling of annoyance wriggled about in her chest like an earthworm after a heavy rain. She was tired of being portrayed as a hypothetical victim. Had she not proved herself both brave and capable on more than one occasion? Granted, she could have been killed in that nameless wood but she had not. If anything, regardless of how dangerous and impulsive it seemed, she had pretty much captured Bellatrix Lestrange and hand delivered her to a location where she was sure to be found, taken into custody and tried. She had done that. Hermione Granger.
So entangled in her own thoughts was she that Hermione didn't realize everyone was staring at her again, waiting for her to answer a question that she had not heard. "Sorry," she murmured, a tad sheepish, "Can you repeat that please?"
"We were saying that the Knight Bus conductor must be questioned as you claimed you originally encountered Lestrange there." This brusque response came from one of the Aurors whose name Hermione had not figured out yet. He looked cross about something, his dark brows furrowed, his hands clenched, as if this meeting were causing him a disturbance he had not yet spoken on but was reaching some sort of final straw.
Hermione however had encountered far more terrifying things than an Auror with a bad attitude and her face expressed as much when she met his dark glaring eyes and said in a level dead pan, "Do what you must to get her."
Nothing more needed to be said and things moved rapidly with a powerful fervor. Orders were barked out and plans made. A large roll of parchment was unrolled on the now cleared kitchen table, a blueprint of Malfoy Manor drawn by wandtip. Figure x's and arrows dotted about the manor's main entrances indicating where each Auror would be positioned for the raid.
After several minutes of this, Hermione found herself becoming overwhelmed and rose from the table, leaving the now stifling kitchen for a breath of fresh air. Harry watched her go a few moments later excused himself too. He found the brunette standing just outside the short door that led into the Burrow's garden.
"Are you all right?" he asked softly, his unruly black hair whipped around his head by the late spring breeze.
"I don't know," Hermione murmured, her gaze focused out into the wilderness. She was being honest. She didn't know if she was all right. She felt nothing like herself anymore. The war had irrevocably altered something in her but deep down Hermione knew it wasn't just that. It couldn't be and in some strange perverse way, she also knew it had something to do with Bellatrix Lestrange. Exactly what, she was unsure, but the moment she had laid eyes on the demented witch aboard the Knight Bus, it was like all that the war had crumbled in a cracked in her had been further torn into a jagged chasm that instead of being desolate and empty, was filled to the brim with something alien, raw, and desperate.
Hermione was not able to put this into words.
"I know it's been hard for you, since everything...and Ron," as Harry went on, he sounded as if he were being strangled, the words uttered haltingly as if his voice box was trying to reel them back in even as he spoke, "Sometimes I can't help but feel its all my fault, all those people killed because of me."
Internally, Hermione screamed with frustration. This was it again, wasn't it? The mental martyrdom that Harry was best known for. "Voldemort and his followers killed them. Not you."
He flinched, green eyes flashed with surprise, or shock, more than likely at the undertone of brittle ice that frosted Hermione's words. But she did not take it back nor apologize.
It didn't matter if she had or not because her best friend seemed to recover in the next moment, even going so far as to place a slightly trembling hand on her shoulder. Hermione tried her hardest not to immediately shrug him off.
"Right, well. The Aurors are on it. We're going to get her Hermione."
As if she needed his reassurance. "Yes," she murmured in the same brittle manner before she turned and slowly walked back into the house.
The great obsidian and cream eagle landed on the highest bough of a large tree at the edge of a cliff, its amber eyes surveying the terrain. Slate grey waters reflected an overcast sky and the brisk mountain air ruffled its plumage. A thin, misty fog rose above the choppy water obscuring a black mass in the distance. With a shrill screech, the eagle took flight through the fog, its large wings cutting the air like a black sword as it soared.
The mist slowly thinned away and the black mass coming steadily closer took shape. It was a large manor home atop an expanse of tall and wildly unkempt grass and weeds. Waves broke against the rocky shores surrounding the structure on all sides, flavoring the windy air with faint traces of salt and minerals. The eagle took a dive, propelling itself toward the earth. As it came in for a landing, legs and feet replaced talons, wings took the shape of human arms, and feathers lengthened and spiralled into a mess of tangled curls.
Bellatrix Lestrange stood before the estate she had inherited upon her father's death. It had not been her childhood home but had found its use as a strong hold for the cause. Protected under more enchantments and wards than an average witch or wizard could cast on their own, it could only be discovered when one was aware of what they sought. A varient of the Fidelus Charm, she was but one of its three secret keepers. And now two of them were dead.
Bending at the waist to pick up the sharpest rock she could find in the grass, she split the skin of her palm and smeared the blood along the archway of the heavy bolted door. As it slowly creaked open, Bellatrix stepped inside. As if aware of her presence, the manor came to life. Candles lit themsleves in the various wicks, flames flickered and crackled in the stone fireplace. The smell of moldy earth and salt was thick in the stagnant air and dust and cobwebs covered the old furniture.
Bellatrix could not care less about the evidence of neglect however as she walked about, reaquainting herself with the place that had seen her receive the Dark Mark over twenty years before. The room where the Dark Lord had stood and given her her orders the night he had decided to attack the Potters.
"Go on," the smooth, mocking voice of her Horcrux filled her head, her ears, surrounding her and robbing her of breath. She clutched at the closest solid thing she could reach, "Mourn the monster, Bella. Mourn the monster whose mere memory will drag you down into the same hell he is rotting in. Time ticks away. She waits..."
There was no laughter this time as the voice faded away. Oxygen filled her lungs now in a series of sharp gasps, the pounding of her heart against her ribs almost painful. Fingers curled into rigid claws, knifing themselves through her wild curls, pulling the brittle strands hard enough to make her eyes water. Bellatrix threw back her head and shrieked, the sound raw and primal, shrill with anguish and fear. She had been cast out by the sole member of her family to whom she had any connection, her mind and body was possessed by a tormented piece of her soul, and the only person in the entire world who could save her from herself was a sniveling child who she would dearly love to tear limb from limb.
The dying scream echoed throughout the safe house. Safe, a funny word that, for she would never be safe. Not without the Mudblood.
Author's Note: So sorry for the delay! Well, it appears our Bella is 'safe' for the time being - albeit losing it a bit - while on Hermione's side they're preparing for a stand-off. But what's going to happen when they arrive at the manor to discover that...? Ah, but many of you are wondering the exact same thing. Next chapter dears, please stay tuned. On a more somber note, if any of my readers have been effected by what has happened in Manchester, my heart and prayers of strength and healing are with you. Until next time -bellanoire, over and out!