Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. They all belong to JK Rowling.
"The man who never alters his opinion is like standing water and breeds reptiles of the mind." - William Blake
That day she wanted nothing more than to avoid everyone, in particular a certain young wizard. As she gazed at the fading scars of the Vow, her mind was a torrent of unsolved questions and unanswerable conclusions. His eyes— Malfoy's eyes haunted her now. How they had beheld her as he made his vows was nothing short of incurable sadness as he condemned his life to a limbo between life and death. His outcome would rest in the palm of the fates. She was the rope that would either pull him to safety or strangle him until he took his last breath.
Hermione did not wish to be the cause of anyone's death, but he had taken that risk to appease them all. He was determined. He wished to see the fall of Voldemort's regime as much as the Order, but his loyalties were to be tested at every twist and turn. One wrong step and he was dead, whether it be at the hands of the Dark or the Light. With that thought coursing through her already tired mind, she ripped the sleeve of her jumper down, wanting to never think of it ever again— or at least for the moment.
Hermione looked up from her covered arm. She was sitting on her bed amongst the wonted decay with which she was used to inhabiting. It was almost as though she had never left 12 Grimmauld Place. The curtains were moth-eaten and had faded to a non-descript grey colour. The dying embers of the setting sun burned through the numerous windowpanes, lighting upon the beaded velvet of her purse resting in her hands. Her salvation was in there. She wanted nothing more than for her books to suck her away into another world, consume her, not releasing her until it had rid her of the worries and confusion that dug their way into her innermost thoughts.
Everything was there: Secrets of the Darkest Art; The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts; Hogwarts, A History. Yet when she came across her stolen copy of Moste Potente Potions something felt wrong. Something or someone had been through the bag since she last laid her hands on it. Carefully picking the tome up from the pile before her, she inspected its cover, gazing at its leathery skin, the cluster of words faintly licking the spine. Nothing had changed, but it still felt wrong. With books as old as the one that rested in her lap, it was commonplace for the reader to feel the magic that coursed its pages, feel it thrumming, almost as though the book itself was a human being with its own heart and soul. However, as she rested her hand on the cover she knew someone had touched it, had performed powerful magic on and around it. It had an ominous feel to it.
Carefully, she prised the book open, turning to random discoloured page, its crisp edges running across the tips of her fingers. Unsuccessful, Hermione closed it, hearing the dull thud as it lie shut upon her lap. However, the unease she felt could not be broken. She would have to inspect it further later on. Heaving it from her lap onto her beside table with the little strength she still possessed, she suddenly heard a rustle as something fell from within the contents of its pages. There before her, lying on the ground, was a piece of paper— an envelope.
Her brow furrowed in confusion. It was not a habit of hers to leave stray parchment in books, let alone an envelope. This must have been what I could feel. Cautiously, she whispered an incantation, raising the paper from the floor to settle before her, mid-flight. She studied it, examining the envelope from every angle. Performing various charms and spells on the item, she came to realise that it was not cursed or a creation of any dark magic that she knew. Slowly and cautiously, Hermione prised the lip of the parchment open as she allowed its mysterious contents to tumble out on to her quilt.
In disbelief she lent forward, prodding it with the tip her wand. It seemed to glint and glimmer in the lamplight— it was hair. Most surprisingly of all it was the trademark white blond hair that was a renowned trait of a certain wizarding family. She shook her head, unsure of what to think. Grabbing the tome from its resting place beside her bed, she hurriedly sifted through its pages, searching and searching for where this unusual present fell from it.
Just as she was going to turn to yet another page, she noticed that someone had folded the corner of it. It had been him. She knew it. It had his name all over it. She remembered the very few times she chanced upon Malfoy in Hogwarts library, more often than not with Pansy on his arm. Although, in her sixth year she spotted him in there practically every week, if not every day, reading. He seemed to be searching for something.
One day Hermione spied on him insistently scribbling away on a piece of paper, appearing to cross out every other word. She could tell his patience and faith were waning. The library's copy of Magical Draughts and Potions rested before him, every once in a while he glanced up at it, his brow knotted in confusion, and then in anger. Furiously, he slammed the book shut, stood up, shoved it carelessly onto the shelf, gathered his things and stormed out with not just a look of anger on his face but of defeat, also. Hermione had just gazed on out of interest and a little of annoyance as his rage disrupted everyone within sitting distance of their aisle. Nevertheless, as if on cue, that very book that Malfoy had maltreated fell from its haphazard position on the shelf, falling in a heap at the feet of the towering bookshelf. It was as though the book had been ostracised from the whole shelf— to be judged as an outsider. Almost like Malfoy himself. That was what he was turning into in the eyes of those who noticed.
In a huff, Hermione rose from her seat, picking up the book, allowing it to open before her. She perused its familiar pages nostalgically. She had read this book over a hundred times already, citing parts of it off by heart. However, she did not fail to notice how it had been defiled, its corners turned over every chapter or so, marking in particular the potions which coincided with the ones that were being and were to be taught by Professor Slughorn that very year.
That is how she had known it was him. No one, except Malfoy, would have the audacity to do such a thing to a book, unless they fear the wrath of Madam Pince.
As she tried to unfold the leaf, her eyes carefully read the words that riddled the page.
Fluxweed…full moon…Sal Ammoniac…knotgrass…pinch of Bicorn.
In confusion and slight astonishment, she could not believe her eyes. Questioning her knowledge she peered at the title of the page. Hermione's suspicions were correct as ever, accentuated by a flourish of letters and diagrams: The Polyjuice Potion— a drawing depicting a young woman with a grotesquely large spider on her head. But the question was: what was Malfoy up to?
Hermione closed the book, staring at its cover for a moment before she rose from her bed to glance out the window. The woods seemed to be encroaching on the house, as though it fed on the fear that seemed to infect all the inhabitants like a disease. They could not stay there for very long before an informant told the Death Eaters of their whereabouts. The Order feared another attack like the one before. They had to keep on their toes even as Malfoy supplied them with the little information he obtained from meetings with Dark Lord. It still could not be trusted and nor could he, apparently.
Her view morphed into a cloudy maze before her, as her warm breath began to cloud the glass pane, along with her ensuing tears. She felt so hollow inside. Death appeared to be a new addition to their motley crew, slyly befriending those weak enough. Everything was a jumbled mess in her head. She did know that she'd been entrusted a mission, one, which it appeared, could cost hers and a number of people's lives. Yet, she knew if she succeeded, it could win the war for them. But little had been revealed to her after the vow. Malfoy had looked to Shacklebolt and nodded. Turning to her once more he had looked pointedly at Hermione, an unwavering connection between the coldness of his gaze and the wariness of hers.
"I hope you know what you've just done, Granger."
Hermione turned to Harry with a questioning glance.
"Later, Miss Granger. Mr Potter and I will return soon, but we will tell you all. Do not doubt that".
Harry looked at her apologetically, shaking his head, ashamed as Shacklebolt escorted him away. Hermione had nodded resolutely, knowing that nothing would be revealed until the Order saw fit to do so. A habit of theirs, it seemed. She had secluded herself in her room in order to think. About what? She thought, snidely. She had nothing to think about, nothing that allowed her to ruminate in the possibilities of her future. She was curious, and it was her prerogative to find out what was going on now rather than when the Order deemed it necessary.
Ripped away from her reverie, she suddenly spotted a solitary figure that suddenly appeared in the middle of the garden. Her hand clenched around her wand, ill at ease with situation before her. A cloak wrapped tightly about the intruder, masking everything but his hair— a beacon of light amongst the gloom that suffocated its surroundings. Wiping her eyes, Hermione knew she could not sit around and wait any longer. She was sick of waiting for them. She was willing to fight, and one wizard held that bitterness and venom in his heart to give her the chance to fulfil her wishes.
Sucking in a breath of air, she grabbed her coat from her bed, pulled on her boots and hat, preparing herself for the coldness that would pursue her as soon as she set foot outside the confines of the decrepit manor.
Trailing along the dank corridor, inhaling the musty scent of her confines, she became aware of laughter coming from one of the bedrooms nearby. Carefully, approaching the door before her, she peered into the room. No one was there. Had it be a figment of her imagination? Pushing the door further ajar, she spotted a painting hanging above the dusty fireplace. Of the little light that streamed through the rips and tears in the curtains, Hermione became aware of a face materialising from the gloom of the obscure portrait.
It was a woman. Her hair was a halo about her head, her skin taught and sallow against her skull. Dark circles rimmed her tired eyes, yet the glimmer in them revealed more of her hidden fire. A necklace glimmered about her neck. It was a mould of a skull— a bird's skull. It was both beautiful yet deadly. The woman seemed to be humming to herself, seeing yet not seeing the witch standing before her.
Hermione reached out her hand to touch the canvas, intrigued by the portrait. She had grown accustom, over the years, to moving images and paintings, yet it still amazed her how they still seemed to harness the soul of those deceased. It was as though they were still living, yet frozen and encased in an image of their former selves— to be young, but immortal, too. To feel the onslaught of time and the bitter bite of painful memories forevermore.
Suddenly, the woman turned and glared, as though sensing the witch's pity. She eyed Hermione's hand that had been edging closer and closer. The woman looked down at the witch before her, her mouth transforming into a familiar sneer. An extremely familiar sneer.
"Who are you?" The emphasis of her words echoed about the room and in Hermione's ears. The young witch snatched her hand away, ashamed of her lack of proper decorum. Her curiosity seemed to get the better of her lately.
"I— I'm sorry," She began to back away, wanting nothing more than to get away, but seemed unable to stop staring into the abyss of the woman's eyes.
"Who are you?" She again, impatience tinging her speech.
"Her— Hermione Granger."
"Granger. I can hardly imagine you're a Pureblood with that name."
Hermione was prepared to angrily censure the woman's remark, but was cut short by another question.
"Girl, have you ever seen such a necklace such as this?" Her heavy-lidded eyes stared intently at the young witch. The darkness of them seemed to consume Hermione, sucking away any likelihood of escaping unscathed. The woman seemed to be the model upon which the Dementors were created. Her eyes were like mirrors, reflecting the image of death in Hermione's face. She lived every day of her life not knowing whether she would be lucky enough to live the next.
Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. Her hands gripped her purse tightly, her knuckles whitening from the sheer effort. She felt ill at ease under the woman's probing eyes.
"Yes, it is very beautiful."
Tired, she went to leave, taking a final look at the painting over her shoulder. The woman smiled, if Hermione could even call it that. Her bluish lips pulled back to reveal the yellow and rotten teeth that lay behind. Her laugh was almost a cackle. Something flashed across her mind. The woman reminded Hermione of someone, but she couldn't put a name to the face. It was infuriating.
"Wouldn't you like to hear about my necklace," The woman began to twirl around, as though she were dancing, staring wistfully at her surroundings. Hermione thought she heard the rustle of her ebony gown, her prized possession glistening in the trickling light. She was absolutely crazy. One moment she sharp and spitting and the next the living embodiment of madness.
"My necklace. My necklace," She chanted, "MY NECKLACE!"
Her screeches reverberated about the room, causing Hermione to draw back in fear. The woman began grabbing the chain about her neck, as though it were strangling her, her screams breaking her raving chants.
"SHE TOOK IT! SHE TOOK ITTTTTT!"
Frightened, Hermione ran to the door. So much for being a Gryffindor! But she knew the difference between courage and stupidity. She had never heard of someone being physically harmed by a painting, but she certainly would not stand around and be deafened by the madwoman's screeching wails.
Leaning against the door, she felt her heart thump in her chest, and her mind becoming a flurry of questions. Who was she? Who stole the necklace? She knew that it may not be of any particular consequence, but she would not forget too readily despite the nature of the woman's ramblings.
Hastily making her way downstairs, she made her way into the downstairs parlour, only to find it was occupied. In shock, she knocked a vase over. It crashed to the floor. Shattered.
Apologetically, she began to scramble around, picking up the broken pieces. Her brain was practically frazzled from her last encounter. As she tried to clear the mess, she heard the irritable huff of Muriel Weasley— the woman that had initially caused this catastrophe.
"Mrs Weasley, I am so sorry. I— I was just so shocked. Forgive me. I—" When she was sorry, she stammered, and when she stammered it would not stop. Even if she consumed a cauldron full of the Weasley's Patented Daydream Charms, she would still be stammering through a daydream of ensuing awkwardness. It was truly a lost cause.
"Well, it was only antique," The older woman emphasised the last word with a flick of her wand. The pieces of vase rose from Hermione's arms, transforming, anew and in one whole on the mantel where it sat undisturbed for decades before the young witch's clumsy entrance. Hermione felt aghast. How had she been so stupid? She was a witch. She should have thought. She was truly in a mess.
Perhaps Malfoy was right. Maybe I'm not as smart as the others believe. She shook her head. She was not going to give in. No matter what. I'll prove him wrong. But she would have to face the hag before her first.
However, there, Aunt Muriel sat in all her splendour, shrouded in black mourning robes and bedecked with jewels and the infamous goblin-made tiara. The cool colours of twilight that streamed through the window seemed to add to the less than friendly relationship between the two witches.
The older woman glanced over the rim of her daintily painted teacup. The image of a cooing cupid skimmed across its gaudy surface. The eeriness of it all reminded Hermione of Umbridge's personal fetish with fluffy cats. She certainly hoped the woman was less of a sadist than her previous Dark Arts professor. That was until the older woman deigned her with a forced smile. The young witch knew she was going to be torn to pieces, once again.
Hermione fidgeted slightly under her scrutinizing gaze.
The older woman's quasi-smile turned sour. Her frown deepened, her lips became a thin line, taught like a whip ready for her to unleash on her victim.
"Miss Granger," Muriel took the cup from her lips, placing it on the table beside her. She waved her hand, signalling for Hermione to sit.
Taking her seat, Hermione's hand tugged on her hat that sagged like a deflated quaffle on her head. She was waiting for the myriad of insults to pass Muriel Weasley's lips. Hermione's first encounter with the woman consisted of her ridiculing and complaining of her poor posture and skinny ankles. Yet, Hermione refused to be treated without respect, and so sat up straight in her seat, thanking Merlin she had chosen to wear her jeans to cover her, apparently, undesirable ankles.
"I hope your room is to your liking, Miss Granger," The older woman continued to sip her tea, her calculating gaze awaiting Hermione's answer.
"Yes. It's lovely. Thank you." Maybe I can find out more from her. It's worth a try, Hermione.
"May I ask you a question, Mrs Weasley?"
The woman nodded her head, watching Hermione closely as she tried to assemble her jumbled thoughts into a question.
"Who is the painting of in the empty room upstairs?" It was better to be to direct and to the point or else the older witch would never hold interest in their strange, albeit timely conversation. Muriel Weasley was a bit like her great-nephew in that respect. Be direct and you can keep their attention. Fat lot it did for Hermione though, especially with Ron. Hinting was not an option with him, so it would not be one for the woman before her.
"There are many empty rooms in this house, Miss Granger."
Evidently, hinting her distaste for me is not an option for her either. It seems we're on the same page.
"Third floor. Near my room. It's the painting of dark haired woman."
"Be bit more specific, Miss Granger," She couldn't help but feel the woman was hiding a arrogant smirk behind her teacup.
Gritting her teeth, Hermione could hardly control the anger flowing in her veins,"She wears a necklace that looks like a bird's skull. Someone stole it. Do you know anything about her?"
The air seemed to chill in the wake of her question. The older woman drew her back up like a cat's heckles, her dark eyes glaring over the rim of her teacup. Her hand appeared to tighten over its handle. Hermione could sense this was dangerous territory she was wandering into. She just hoped it was worth the sacrifice she was making.
"Her name is Druella Black. That necklace is a Black heirloom. It is a creation of Dark Magic, mind you. Although, it cannot surpass the beauty of my tiara," She pointed to the item of which she was speaking of, caressing it ever so slightly. Slowly, taking another sip of tea, she had Hermione sitting on the edge of her seat in anticipation.
"Her daughter, Miss Granger, is Mrs Lestrange. That very necklace hangs around Bellatrix Lestrange's gangly neck," The bitterness that oozed from the woman's mouth reflected her hatred of the family, and Hermione found at least one common interest between the two of them. Although, she wondered whether the woman's resentment was truly a product of loathing or, in fact, envy, as the item was not in her possession. But realisation brought Hermione back to the shocking revelation at hand.
"Bellatrix?" Hermione nearly choked on her words.
"Indeed."
Silence ensued. It was enough to make her throat dry. She enviously watched as Aunt Muriel plastered a knowing smile on her lips, taking a nice, long sip of tea from the enchanted cup. She was testing Hermione. Everyone was testing her, it seemed. So be it, she thought. I'll play them at their own game. Go on. Try me.
"I will be honest with you, Miss Granger—" Have you ever not been? Hermione thought snidely, "I cannot comprehend why you, or anyone of your social standing, would presume that they are good enough for him. He is of good stock. And well, you…are not."
Taken aback, Hermione was silenced by her shock. The woman was equally frank as she was unpleasant. The young witch stood in defiance. She had faced everyone and everything a person would never wish to encounter in their life. She had been tormented and ridiculed by the so-called pure bloods since she arrived at Hogwarts. Dirty blood. Common blood. Mudblood. This was her only chance to stand up against the injustice she had and would continue to face.
"Mrs. Weasley," She spat, "Let me be honest with you. I do not care for your airs and graces. We are all equal in this world, whether you like it or not. You treat me like Voldemort and his lackeys would. Treat me with the respect everyone deserves. The respect with which I have treated you ever since we met. Do not become an enemy simply because of blood status. A life lived in hatred, is a life not worth living."
She gripped her hands together trying to stop her trembling. She had never spoken to an elder like that before. The war was truly changing her. She was transforming into what Malfoy was telling her to become— cold hearted, hardening her heart to anything and everything. She glanced at Mrs. Weasley, awaiting a condemnation of her abysmal attitude. Yet, the older witch did not seem daunted in the slightest by Hermione's tirade. She drew the cup from her lips, cocking her eyebrow in respect.
"Also," She took a deep breath, "I may not be of good stock, but Ron and I are just friends. Just friends," She emphasised the last word insofar as shocking herself. Fairly confused, Hermione angrily swiped her bag from her seat, and made her way towards the doors leading to the veranda.
Let's hope I can find some solace in this godforsaken house.
She heard a clink of china behind her, as Mrs. Weasley's teacup settled on the table.
"Miss Granger?" The woman called after her.
Having reached the door, Hermione glared at her as she turned around, her patience waning as her hand gripped the doorknob. The older woman pursed her lips.
"I was not speaking of Ronald, my dear. Do tread carefully."
Author's Note: A massive dedication to nattt4991. She inspired me to pick up my pen again! Also, this is an updated version of the short Chapter Seven. Thank you to everyone reviewing/following/favouriting, etc. It means ever so much to me. And, once again, there's a link to my blog for this fanfiction on my profile. Go check it out. There are little snippets for upcoming chapters, and images, etc. I'd love to hear what you think!