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Interlude 3

October 1999, Gibson desert, Australia

It was a stark black night that enveloped the open desert, broken only by the warm orange flickers of light from the tent dancing across the ground and the almost white shine of stars unresponsive and unreflective as they watched from far above. The universe, Hermione knew, stretched on for impossible distances and she could travel millions of lifetimes and still never reach some of the stars above. On clear dark nights like this she felt she could almost see with her bare eyes that the sky was not a dome holding the planet in place but a vast empty space through which they were all being mercilessly hurled.

She couldn't sleep a wink for the third night in a row, but the vastness of the universe was sadly not the cause of her insomnia. That dubious honour belonged to a letter from Harry that had explained to her that a degenerative curse had gotten a firm hold of Ernie MacMillan when he touched something or other he'd come across during one of the now routine searches of the Hogwarts grounds for yet more slowly mutating magical debris from the battle, and she had responded to this news by telling... she had told the goblins. She'd been sort of desperate, really, to get home and clear out the danger and yet again be the solution to any and all problems her friends might be facing. A form of retribution she sought as much as Harry did, truth be told. Yet, the want for Hogwarts that partly spurned her on had turned on her and become all complicated in ways she'd not foreseen it ever could.
The thing was that it had been a home, really, that she'd had at Hogwarts. A terrifying and unwelcoming home in so many respects, and a wonderful adventurous embrace of love and curiosity in others. Sometimes, when she shivered like this out in the Australian desert, reminded in her loneliness that she could count on one hand the number of people from magical Britain who had bothered to really know her and who cared for her... honestly she wasn't certain Hogwarts had been worth it. What had she gained, in the end? Recognition of her valour, fastidiousness, righteousness? Magical skill? She felt now, looking back on all the things she'd missed, every clue she'd thought she had puzzled out but hadn't really, that her efforts had been rather misguided and embarrassing. Yes, they'd got there in the end, but for the cleverest witch of her age she really didn't feel she'd gotten them quite as far as she should (she'd not had a backup plan to get them food, for Christ's sake! And that was just the bloody camping trip.). It felt so much the same thing, then, the war and her schooling. The war and growing up. Saving Harry and gaining skill were one and the same to her, almost. His continued existence a referendum on her skill and worth. It was an uncomfortable thought to have, casting her in a light she did not really enjoy. She'd clung to it, fought for it and been ruthless and reckless. Did being a Gryffindor rather than a Ravenclaw mean that she really, truly could not help herself from shooting her hand in the air because she needed to be, consequences be damned, admired for her cleverness? Was that the true nature of her bravery? She wondered now, often, how brave she could be when no one was there to see.

The months since the end of the war had been filled with harrowing tasks by day and sleepless, ceaseless reflection by night, a pattern she'd regretfully resumed now. The day after her plea she'd been informed that she hadn't gotten her way and they were not the team of curse breakers sent on a quick trip to Hogwarts to search for Dark objects and she'd found herself reflecting once again on her life. She felt decisively as if she'd leveraged Ernie MacMillans life to be reminded how most of her time in school had been miserable and frightening and it made her rather sick. Upon reflection she thought she would feel rather sick if she'd gotten her way, as well. What sort of person uses such news as a ways of getting what they want? She couldn't sleep at all.

Truth be told, the goblins did not respect her or admire her or even take much notice of her. She didn't win arguments, she couldn't outwit them, and she had to be a team player in ways she'd never had to before (namely, the decisively junior member). Kindness stemming from any sort of patronizing emotion was severely frowned upon, and so her inclination for this had turned out to be a disaster. They'd wanted her to do the work quietly and respectfully, not to be the brightest witch of her generation. There was no praise or awarding of top marks to punctuate her victories. Life post-war was quickly turning out to be a rather rude awakening, and she was beginning to suspect that it had been long overdue. Toiling in silence was rather changing her views on a lot of things.

Suddenly, as she adjusted her leaning on the windowsill so as to better wallow in her misery, she glimpsed a skeletal black creature with an enormous wingspan soar across the sky not too far off. She was struck with the odd beauty of the thestral, a creature visible to her only through the power of dreadful moments of terror and sadness. She wondered if she was, at this point, mostly made up of those moments herself.

She resolved then, as she'd always done before (a trait she felt she really could be rightly proud of) to make the best of it all.

1963 Essex county, England

It had been absolutely dreadful, but the lump pressing painfully against her sternum and the pit in her stomach would not win. She would not cry.

After the ceremony they'd gone back to grandfather and grandmothers' house and they had all tried to eat something. Bellatrix looked across the sitting room table to her mother who was seated, with a waxy yellow complexion looking mismatched against her pale yellow robes, on the green sofa Bellatrix usually sat on herself. Not today, however. She didn't feel very hungry.

She was, in fact, sure she'd never eat again after it happened. Whenever she closed her eyes, even just for blinking, she saw it flashing against the back of her lids again – there had been quite a bit of blood and the noise of the flesh giving way and the neck snapping – it was disgusting. She wasn't as reverent of elves as her mother, perhaps, but it just wasn't right what had happened to Lemmy. She'd been too frail to carry the tray and then when she had collapsed aunt Walburga had gotten the sword out and just – snap! - with a ceremonial flourish she'd chopped her head off!

It felt like a weight too heavy for her to carry – the finality of it seemed only peripheral, like she couldn't quite get a hold of the emotion. It was the last time she'd ever see Lemmy alive. From now on she'd just be a head on a mount.

Bellatrix excused herself as she felt the lump in her chest move ever more persistently up until she could feel it bobbing in the back of her throat. The smell of elf blood wafted through her nostrils and it was as if her body was suddenly just made out of pieces of hollow paper. As she burst through the doors into the garden she began to run.

She ran until she was completely out of breath, stopping at the edge of a kitchen garden. As she gazed across the neat vegetable patch with the realization that all the house-elves who tended the patch would die some day, that her parents and her sisters and even she would die someday, she caught sight of a large black horse descending from the sky into a forested area not far off. Her grandfather bred them for sport but she'd never seen one before. She knew what it was and she knew what it meant: she'd seen death today.

It was unmistakable how right her mother had been. The death of a house-elf was as serious a death to her soul as any other.

1996 A forest in Wales

Bellatrix watched intently as the thestral flew over the forest covering their tent. She had never before felt such affinity for an animal. They were fast and strong beasts, gliding through the air like sharks through water. Those were not qualities she possessed any longer, she lamented. But she, too, was only visible to those who had suffered great pain. She imagined herself lingering in the memories of those not wishing to remember her, how she'd rise to the surface when they recalled great moments of pain. Perhaps they would even see her if a dementor came too close – no, she wouldn't think on that, would not go there she quickly admonished herself.

The cool air caressed her cheek as she considered again her options. If he doesn't win, she will die. If he doesn't win there is nothing to live for either way as the dementors will... no, she wasn't going to think on that. Instead she must focus on the positives: She has never felt more devoted. She will be the harbinger of death to anyone standing in the Dark Lord's way. She will fight with everything she possesses.

February 1982, Azkaban prison, North Sea

The dank walls dripped with salty water as they were huddled together, jostling for a bit of air drifting down with the single ray of light coming from somewhere above. The wind was whistling loudly and the men seemed smaller than usual. They smelled of sweat and stank with horror.

A strong, warm burst of magic pulled her away from them suddenly and then there was darkness.
She was the only woman. They've secluded her, she realized. Gender segregation seemed to her a demented thing to be worrying about in this place, but the prudishness of the wizarding world cannot be overstated apparently.

She waits, her breath sounding louder and louder and faster and faster in her ears as she attempts to silence it. Her heart is beating uncomfortably as if straining to escape her body. She can feel, she imagines she can at least, the veins pumping blood through her. She attempts to focus on it, tries to slowly feel and connect with every point of herself. Left big toe, then up along the bones of her feet. Back of ankle, calf. Her belly rumbles loudly. Right shoulder, down along her spine. Surely they must come for her soon?

It began like a scream echoing from far away when the dementors approach before they finally actually touched her. She felt cold, so cold. Too weak to shiver, her mind numbing quickly as they dragged her away into the drip drip drip salty corridor. She remembered suddenly how alone she was and felt rather desperate, wishing idly they would kill her before a beam of sharp yellow light broke open her eyes and she was thrown forward into it.

The shapes of a few patronuses circled the room where she was quickly strapped into a chair by what felt like many hands. Sensation was coming back quickly, too quickly, and it was making her rather queasy. The light hurts her eyes, the warmth is too much.

When a wand was pressed on her throat and began to burn, she let out a strangled scream. The hands holding her head down tightened their grip and that hurt, too. The intense white light on the inside of her eyelid was very painful then and she struggled to keep her eyes closed. As her teeth graze a hand someone hits her across her face, stinging her cheek. The burning continues until suddenly a sadistic splash of cold water hits her head and once again, all too suddenly, she's dragged off by dementors.

This time she could still feel the side of her neck blazing as her head pounded out a beat that felt a lot like defeat.

October 18 2000, Australia

Hermione had never really considered what sort of person she was attracted to in any more general terms than the person she specifically fancied when she considered the question. Ron had been such a constant, only ever interrupted by crushes on others, particularly Viktor and (God help her) Lockhart, that there had not been much of an occasion to ponder it. Now there was no one stopping her, Hermione Granger took in everyone around her with interest. The freedom of no one looking back at her more generally was starting to feel like a relief after a few visits back to London, where all constraints were still very much at play. The invisibility afforded her in Australia (where her exploits were known, certainly, but not like at home) gave her the liberty of true personhood once more, rather than the character assigned to her in the political battlefield.

In her group of apprenticing curse breakers Hermione had seen injury and death more often than she would have liked, though not as much as she had feared she would. Gradually, it had changed her. Really, she would have liked for everyone to stay alive and to be happy. She wanted it more than she wanted to be right,wanted it more, she suspected, than she wanted answers. So she looked and looked and tried to shut up and connect. Hermione tried very hard these days to listen.
One day after a rather exhausting treasure retrieval of some mineral deposits given magic long ago and now grown to great power she goes to a bar to assess yet again what sort of person she might take an interest in and meets a witch who eventually kisses her in the cool July air seemingly blanketing the little town in New South Wales and making her feel rather more at home than the warm dryness of Port Musgrave. The woman is sort of interesting she supposes, and at first she isn't sure if it is merely the familiarity of the weather or the true surprise of the moment that causes the intense feeling the kiss creates in Hermione. It's not planned or built up to, really, and Hermione has had no time to assess what it is she finds attractive and decide to be attracted to it... and everything she has ever thought about attraction and about the feelings she has regarding such things are shattered in the looming difference between this very simple and insignificant kiss and what she has shared with others before. With Ron it was a conquering, with other men a victory or an act of bravery and bluntness – a show of strength. This is an unquestionable surrender with no thought put into it at all. Her mind stills completely when the woman, Rowena (originally an amusing point of interest for her, she admits), touches her ever more intimately. It is the only thing that has ever managed to still her mind like this and it makes her feel as if the mysteries of the universe finally unravel into the simplest of explanations. It is simply right, it makes every bit of sense and feels quite as natural as breathing. It is a new and unexpected magic when Hermione realizes she might be sort of gay.

Brisbane, Australia 2002

Maybe that's what it was, this peculiar curiosity that never left her – a profound immaturity. Like an infant she still finds herself interested in everything, and really quite delighted by most things. Or perhaps it is that she still has quite a few gaps in her knowledge of ordinary life – it's always been Hogwarts and Voldemort and survival of the best-prepared and while she would never discount all the knowledge she has amassed through those years, they haven't proved quite as useful in dealing with contemporary adult life as expected. Currently, however, it appears an inherited trait and profoundly childish indeed.

'It simply isn't possible.' she tries to explain to her parents, not wanting to get into too many details of magical law and tradition, not to mention the mechanics of it all. 'No muggles are allowed at the Quidditch World Cup.'

'But it's being held where there are Muggles! And we've been to Platform 9 3/4 and Diagon Alley, surely the World Cup isn't that secret...'

'I wasn't of age then, dad. It's different now that I am – it's very strict. Isolationist factions are gaining traction all over the world, and the Americans haven't ever been keen on mixing anyway, as the muggles haven't behaved too well the last few hundred years.'

'Right.' her father says, suspicious, unsatisfied. She throws her hands in the air, exasperated at her parents refusal to be denied this opportunity for fun. They're positively pouting.

'It's the truth, dad! They've got a much more robust structure of hiding things – you know, the International Statute of Secrecy happened when there was plenty of wilderness to blend into, and the Native people already had fairly large areas sectioned off long before colonization began.' deciding to switch tactics and divulge more, she added 'You don't even speak the language, I don't know what you'd do there.'

'What?'

'The common languages of the United Wizarding Ministries is Algic, Nahuatl and Latin. English, Spanish and French are widely spoken, but with the game being between Mexico and England I am not sure what to expect, really. Probably Nahuatl.'

'What?!'

'Not all of history looks precisely the same on either side of the magic divide, dad. Secrecy stautes in the Americas predates much of the colonization of the wizarding world – British wizards haven't held the same sway internationally as their Muggle equivalents, either, so no later colonization occurred. Native Americans are very much the powerful majority in wizarding circles. Magical families were not subject to genocide as they were already living separately and not many European families emigrated. Muggleborns were often returned to attend Hogwarts, and these days most English speakers are sent to the Salem Institute of Witches or the McDonald School for Wizards in the Yukon. It's very different. Magic means translation won't be a problem for me... but that doesn't apply to you.'

The skies were open for monsoon season, and she felt the lack of any place of belonging acutely. Her parents history and their whole world was just so different. The history of the wizarding world was not her history, either, however prominently she featured in some of their recent volumes on the subject. She belonged to neither community.

'You know we don't speak English where I live? Basically the whole Cape York wizarding area speaks Urradhi, which is extinct as a muggle language. For work I occasionally speak gobbledegook, but rarely any English.' She levels her father with an intent gaze. 'It's not the same world you live in, dad. No one can cross over into it without magic. You can't be a tourist in the wizarding world outside of Britain.'

July 15 2001, Hogsmeade Scotland

'It's awful.' she stated furtively, frowning at the papers in a Hogsmeade newsstand.
'Well, at least you look fit.' Ron said, staring at the image of Hermione, wearing a dress that showed off one of the fiercer curse scars on her back (thanks to Yaxley, one assumed) pushing a dreadlocked man in an impeccable suit up against a wall.
'I look like I'm about to shag him right there!' Hermione insisted indignantly, mortified at the headline hinting that she was indeed about to do just that.

Harry let out a chuckle.

'What, weren't you?'
'Harry! Honestly!'

Then quietly 'I think I might be gay, actually.' as she stared at the ground. 'Andrew and I were just talking.'

They stare at her incredulously.

'Fine, I was threatening to cut his balls off should he ever lay hands on Ginny again.'

'You're not gay, Hermione. You still fancy me, don't you?' Ron grinned.

'Let's talk about this later, yeah?' Her face burned as she pulled on Harrys arm to get them moving.

August 4 1998, outside Gringotts Wizarding Bank London, England

Hermione was certain. The goblins' demands were outrageous and she hadn't done anything to be sorry for at all. The consequences were very sad indeed, but it had been war for Chrissakes! If they couldn't understand that she had done what she had to, well... she was a bloody hero, not a criminal.

It wasn't that she disagreed that the proceedings had been terrible, not at all. She'd gladly pay her respects and perhaps the Ministry could cough up something to repay for the damages... but she would not be bullied like this over her guilt. She simply would not! Her future was at stake!

She felt more than a twinge of guilt over the incident at Gringotts, that was true. She'd discussed it with Harry early on, and they'd decided it had been unavoidable in the end. However, to give her future up like this -

'Hey!'

She turned on her heel at the familiar voice and felt herself turn red in embarrassment as she saw Cho Chang. This was not going to be pleasant, she could tell already.

'You!' she wheezed as she got closer, clutching a letter in her hand. 'It's you! Finally! I badly need to speak with you. Something's happened.' She caught her breath rather quickly. Probably all that Quidditch, Hermione reckoned.

'What's happened?' Hermione felt consternation rushing through her. How bad was it that Cho Chang of all people was sent to deliver the news? Where was Harry, or Ron?

'I've got a letter from mrs. Edgecombe.' Cho said, and Hermione could not help it, she snorted. That old spiff? That ancient bit of news? It was so long ago and really, that petty bit of school drama hardly mattered any- 'Marietta's killed herself.'

'What?'

Cho's voice was drifting into her ears from far away all of a sudden. 'Seeing you being awarded a medal for your efforts was just too much, she said.'

Several seconds went by. She didn't think anything at all, didn't feel anything at all.

'Hello?!' Cho snapped her fingers in front of Hermione's face, bringing her back to the situation. 'What are you going to do?'

'What do you mean? It's not my fault! I've nothing to do with it!'

'Shit, Hermione. I knew when you did that to her, I knew you were horrid. But I never dreamed you'd leave a curse powerful enough to keep her quiet and disfigured for years, I mean who does something like that? In the midst of all the decisions you've had to make you never once stopped to consider letting it up? Letting it go? She had tough choices to make, too, you know!'

She felt a wave of nausea wash over her. 'I... I'm sorry.' she croaked before rushing off. She needed someone outside of this whole mess to speak with, she needed... Ginny.