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a message to the readers:
Hello, dear friends. I hope you're well.
Let me take a moment to say –– the outcry of love and support for the last chapter was amazing. Almost a hundred and fifty reviews on that chapter alone! Incredible. Honestly, you all are the reason I came back, and your kind words have left me speechless and humbled.
I thank you for the well-wishes sent to my tumblr for my mother.
And to those of you who sent me those beautiful anons from all over the world, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. What a lovely treat they were to see!
christmas giveaway:
This Christmas, I'll be sending a Christmas package to one lucky follower on tumblr. Nothing too crazy – just a few of my favorite things (soap, lotion, candle, books, etc). If you're over 18 and would like to participate in the raffle, please check my tumblr on December 1st for details.
author's note:
If you're interested in seeing sneak peeks from upcoming chapters of Fair Fortune, exclusive snippets of my writing, and my daily adventures, you can follow me on instagram at sweetasylums. I will happily accept your follow request. I'll follow back if you let me know your handle over there! I would enjoy connecting with my readers more.
disclaimer:
Quotes in Segment #24 are from House of Usher.
chapter warning:
This chapter contains mature and triggering content. This includes torture, psychological abuse and some squicky Greyback scenes of a sexually abusive nature. It's not graphic or exploitative but it's there. Read with caution. If any of the aforementioned triggers you, please skip the fifth section of this chapter (the segment that begins with "We found it!" and ends with "as she lies."). Also contains graphic depictions of gore, violence, and death.
This chapter is written in a non-linear way. If you find it jarring – good. That's the point. Now you know how Hermione feels. :D
This chapter was beta'd by [ aaaaaahhhhhh. ] Thanks, A!
As always - if you reach the end of this chapter, please review.
Enjoy. xo
fair fortune
by
sweetasylums
"When I touch the water;
they tell me I could be
set free."
– The Oh Hellos
Such a young mind.
So small. So fragile.
The past, the present. They come in flashes.
They collide.
Memories flood her dreams.
She's running through the trees, leaping over logs, gasping in the stinging, freezing air.
Hooded figures and silver masks are in her periphery. Twigs snap behind her as they pursue her.
"Why are they chasing us like this?" someone whispers.
She doesn't recognize the voice.
"I'm dying," he tells her. Fawkes lets out a low lament.
She stares at him in shock.
"Pardon, Sir?"
"Harry will need you when I'm gone. Do not abandon him. No matter what."
The candles flicker; threaten to go out.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asks.
"Your mind is the last weapon he'll have. It's the only thing that will keep him alive."
She mulls this over; careful. Guarded. "And if something happens to me?"
He rests his elbows on his desk, steeples his fingers. A few are shriveled, blackened. Dead.
"Then you'd fail me. You'd fail Harry. You'd fail everyone."
Failure.
Well played, Headmaster.
"We found it — we found it — PLEASE!"
How pathetic she has become, she thinks. Look at what they've turned her into. She's what they've always said she was — weak. Inferior. Trembling from the curse in a puddle of her own urine. She's angry at them; angry at herself. She's not the hero of this story.
The marble floor feels like ice. Someone's pressing her face to it. She's not sure what hurts more — the pressure on it or the temperature of it.
Greyback's hands are wandering. His odor is repulsive, acrid like musk. His face is pressed to hers, his mouth is open. Something is touching her cheek, warm and wet. His breath is tinged with a rotten smell, something metallic. Blood. He's taunting her and Bellatrix is letting it happen, enjoying her suffering.
She used to think she wasn't capable of violence, of killing. But with the wolf on top of her and Bellatrix in front of her, she feels something dark and dangerous in her belly. This is hatred, pure and thick and black, infecting her like a sickness. She wants to kill them. She'll do it. She stares at Bellatrix defiantly, ignores the interrogation, detaches from her body. She just glares and thinks, I'm going to fucking kill you both.
"Hermione!" Ron's voice calls from somewhere below. "Hermione!"
There's a hand between her legs and she grits her teeth. His hands are filthy, she saw the dirt caked beneath his nails. He's whispering things to her but she stares ahead, retreats into her head. She can't hear him anymore. Her eyes are far away, she's somewhere else. He's digging his claws into her flesh but she doesn't feel it.
"Hermione!" she hears Ron shout. "Hermione," he screams, and she thinks he means her. But Hermione's gone, that's not her. She's not sure it ever was. She's just a changeling on a shovel, being held over a fire.
"Crucio!"
She sees nothing but red light for a minute, two, three? The curse sears like fire. It seeps through her veins, makes her blood boil and her skin blister. The crimson fades and she touches her face — it's smooth and soft.
But, how? She felt it melt.
"Crucio!"
Her muscles tighten, coil up like springs. The bones in her chest are breaking, she can feel them snap. They're twisting and contorting, puncturing her organs like jagged shards of glass. A burning warmth floods her insides and she knows she's bleeding out, she's going to die here on this floor.
It's astounding when the curse stops and there's no blood on the marble, no wounds to be seen.
"Tell the truth, tell the truth!"
The brightest witch of her age, they've called her. And here she is, scrambling for something to say, some excuse to give. Why was she so crippled by fear? Why was she weak? How could she let this happen to her, to Harry? She tries to gasp a response — but Bellatrix raises her wand and — oh god, please, no.
The red light envelops her again. Just kill me, god, just kill me and get it over with, I don't want this anymore. Her flesh is pulled from her bones, muscles and sinew are torn apart. A serrated knife is hacking away the meat of her, sawing back and forth, making a meal out of her. She doesn't have to open her eyes to know her innards are spilling out.
"Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"
Greyback holds her down again and she feels the blade of the knife — real, this time — silver and gleaming like the strands in Bellatrix's greying hair. Blood is trickling across her skin and Bellatrix's wild mane is in her face. It smells like jasmine.
She brings her teeth down around it, carefully, grinds her incisors. Tiny strands break off in her mouth as Bellatrix pierces her. The dagger is cursed – she can tell by the blackened skin singed around the gaping wounds. Mudblood, it spells. She's branded forever now.
"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!"
This one splits her skull. White matter is oozing out of the cracks. Accio, Brain! she thinks, and nearly laughs — and oh god, no, she's slipping. This is how Frank and Alice lost their mind, she realizes. They detached. They let go. She could, too.
But she remembers that hatred in her, that darkness within her that only Dumbledore understood. She grasps hold of it, sinks her fingers into it, won't let it go.
"How did you get into my vault?" Bellatrix screams. "Did that dirty goblin in the cellar help you?"
"We only met him tonight!" she shouts.
Bellatrix's hair feels sharp under her tongue as she lies.
She wakes, coughing dryly, sweat beaded on her forehead.
Lily is standing beside her. She's tiny and unsure, clutching her penguin tightly.
"Hermione," she whispers. "I had a bad dream."
"So did I," Hermione tells her. She lifts her blanket, lets Lily climb beneath.
"I dreamed there was a monster under my bed," her sister says, quietly. She wipes her tears away and wraps her arms around Hermione for comfort, for safety. Her eyes are already drooping shut. "What was your bad dream about?"
Hermione rests her chin atop Lily's head and strokes her burnt orange hair.
After a long while, her sister's breathing evens out and sleep takes her.
The moonlight through the trees paints shadows on the wall. She's used to them now, these shadows. They greet her in these dark, early morning hours. They move and sway with each breeze; keep her company throughout the night. They fall still when she speaks, silhouettes like claws hover over her.
"I dreamt of monsters, too," she tells them.
The wind blows and the shadows nod.
And they keep her secrets, as all good friends do.
Halloween is close enough that she can feel it in the air. The cool, damp breeze and the falling, crisp leaves spiral above them as they run around the park.
Her heart is beating wildly in her chest as Petunia chases her; she's out of breath, wants to stop — but she keeps pushing. She likes to test her limits.
Lily's hanging upside-down from the jungle gym. Her legs are looped over a long metal bar, locked at the knees, and her hair is flowing down like a waterfall, twined with leaves of oranges and reds.
"I'm going to get you, Hermione!" Petunia laughs and Hermione ducks under the slide.
She comes face to face with a boy whose eyes are as dark as his hair.
He has been here before; always keeps to himself. She wonders why he's hiding here.
"Hello," she says.
"Hello," he says back.
There's a smell about him — stale like cigarettes and unwashed clothes. He's wearing an old button-down blouse — a woman's? — five sizes too big. It's layered beneath an enormous, moth-eaten peacoat. His lips are thin and his hair falls to his chin, unkempt. But what stands out the most about him is his nose. It's long and hooked; unique and familiar.
Oh my god.
She must look stunned — anxiety pools in his jet black eyes.
"Gotcha!" her sister shouts, grabbing her back excitedly.
She jumps, wheels around.
By the time she looks back, the boy is gone.
The shack groans beneath the weight of them.
They're slipping on blood as they scramble toward him. It's his; it's gushing from the open wound on his neck with each beat of his heart. She can see inside him, the meat and bones. His flesh is shredded like he's nothing more than a cow on a slab.
Swirling silver tears leak from his eyes. His teeth are stained with a black-ish red as he struggles to speak.
"Take . . . it . . . take . . . it . . ." His words are gurgled. He's choking on his own blood. Harry looks bewildered — too stunned to process what's happening. Hermione conjures a flask for him, thrusts it into his hands.
"Look . . . at . . . me . . ."
Harry grants him his last wish, looks down at him obligingly. Curious, how those black eyes do not travel over Harry's face.
His eyes drift closed and he exhales one last time, long and laboured.
Harry looks at her, confused by his own sympathy.
His eyes are wide, bright and green.
And here in this dream, this memory; she begins to understand.
The following week, she searches for him. Under the slide, behind benches. He isn't there.
It's not until they're walking home that she sees him — ducking behind a tree, just outside the park.
She stares, waits for him to pop his head out from behind it.
When he finally does, she waves.
His face goes red and he takes off down the street, turns the corner without looking back.
"Who was that?" her mother asks.
"Someone I used to know."
"From school?" Ivy wonders.
"Yes."
It's not a lie, really.
When they get home, Lily runs to the tele, turns it on. There are noises in the kitchen. Ivy is moving pots and pans around — making dinner, probably. Lily sits crossed-legged on the floor while Petunia fiddles with one of the long antennas until the static clears and a brightly coloured rabbit dances on the screen. Petunia sits beside Lily on the carpet — they're picturesque in their flowered shirts, the fading sunlight illuminating their fair hair. They look like a vintage photograph.
"Who wants to bake?" Ivy asks, poking her head into the living room.
Both girls turn around, Lily points to the screen. "But mum, there's a marathon on. Can we do it later?" In unison, their heads turn back to the show.
They're too young to notice the disappointment on Ivy's face.
"Mum?" says Hermione. After all these years, the title still feels foreign on her tongue. Ivy looks to her, curiously. "I'll bake with you."
Ivy's face lights up as Hermione follows her into the kitchen.
Silver bowls and wooden spoons are sprawled over the island counter. A big bag of flour and a giant glass jar of chocolate chips tower over Hermione as she climbs up onto a tall stool, sits on her knees so she can reach everything. It is a familiar feeling, a fleeting memory of her own childhood. She thinks of her mother, her real mother — with her soft chestnut hair and gentle brown eyes. Something twinges inside of her; a longing for home.
"I'm sure you'd rather be watching cartoons with your sisters," Ivy says, fondly, breaking her reverie. "Thanks for humouring your old mum."
"You're not old," Hermione corrects, very seriously. Ivy smiles wider.
"Thank you, Hermione."
"You're welcome."
They stare at one another in silence after that, both shifting awkwardly. It's always clear in these moments that they don't have much to say to each other. Conversation with Ivy has never flowed naturally, not the way it does between Ivy and her other daughters. Ivy is the one around them the most, the one who picks up on all the things that Robert doesn't.
It has always been a struggle for Hermione to be normal, to not act strange. In doing so, perhaps, she thinks she made herself even more of an outcast.
"Well . . . shall we?" Hermione asks, eyebrows raised, desperate to break the silence.
"Yes!" Ivy replies, accepting the bait with a clap of her hands.
Together, they measure the ingredients, and Ivy stirs the mixture as Hermione slowly drops the dry ingredients in, little by little. They don't speak much except for a grab that spoon or can you get the towel over there, but it's a pleasant quiet between them as they work.
"Are you excited for cake?" Ivy asks as they pour the batter into the pans.
"Yes." Who doesn't love cake? Hermione sets the timer after Ivy shuts the oven door.
"Are you excited for Halloween?" Ivy asks, making her way across the kitchen to where Hermione is seated.
"Yes," Hermione answers, stirring the unused flour absentmindedly. She knows it's what she should say; what all kids would say. She glances toward the living room, sees Lily still staring up at her cartoons. She wonders, macabrely, what Lily did that fateful Halloween, before the end. And Petunia next to her, who found Harry on her doorstep that night – Hermione wonders what went through her mind. Was she sad? Angry? Watching them now, it's strange to think that their sisterly bond was severed. There they sit, side by side, leaning against one another while they watch the tele.
"Hermione?"
Oh. Ivy was still talking to her. "Hmm?"
"I asked if you were excited to pick your costume."
All of these questions — are you excited for this, excited for that. She gets it, she does. Ivy is trying to start a dialogue with her, trying to get Hermione enthusiastic about something. They would talk to Harry the same way, whenever he was struggling with his depression. Now, on the receiving end of it, she realizes that this barrage of questions only makes the recipient hyper-aware of how much they don't fit in. Harry had handled it rather gracefully in his later years. How had he done it?
Oh, yes. That's right.
"I was wondering if you were excited for the snowstorm," Hermione counters, smiling wide.
"Snowstorm?" Ivy asks, confused. She doesn't notice the bag of flour rising up over her head.
Ivy lets out a loud, surprised sound as the bag tips and the flour cascades down over her. She is covered in white powder and, ghostly, she stares at Hermione in shock. "I can't believe you just did that."
For a few moments, Hermione is worried that Ivy is mad; that this joke has gone all wrong.
But then, with a laugh, Ivy repeats, "I can't believe you just did that!" and she grabs the floating bag, hurls the contents at Hermione. She screams and clambers down off the chair, tries to evade the flour but it's no use – it's everywhere. The kitchen looks like it's up in smoke.
"Well, well, well," a deep voice calls from the doorway. The sound makes them both freeze.
Robert's there, arms crossed over his chest, looking around the kitchen with a shake of his head. It's then Hermione sees the state of utter disrepair she and Ivy are in, both look like they dove headfirst into a pool of white paint and laid out to dry.
"I'm all for recreational drug use," he says, solemnly, his hands motioning to the white powder floating stagnant in the air, "but I think Hermione's a little young for all this, don't you think?"
A torpedo of whipped cream hits him right in the face.
It's war after that.
Hours later, after they've bathed and changed, Hermione helps clean up.
"This was nice," Ivy says, smiling, pushing a mop around.
She doesn't mean cleaning, she means the evening as a whole.
"Yes," Hermione agrees, looking up from her broom, glancing over at Ivy — at her mother.
"Yes, it was."
"And my parents?" she asks him. "They'll be hunted. Tortured. Killed."
"Not if they're hidden."
"They won't go along with it. They'll want to be with me. They'll never agree."
"Then," he pauses, tiredly. "Perhaps an executive decision must be made."
But surely he can't mean…?
"Obliviation?" She's ashamed of herself for knowing what he's referring to. Ashamed that she had already thought of it, long before this conversation.
The Headmaster smiles unhappily, resolutely.
"For people like you and I, Hermione — sometimes the end justifies the means."
They've lost track of the days.
It's winter; snowing and cold. The flesh beneath her fingernails is a constant shade of purple-blue.
The streets are alight with decorations, reds and golds, glimmering lights. Godric's Hollow looks like a fairy tale come to life.
They're cloaked in darkness, hidden from the warm center of the desolate town. They're amongst the graves — right where they belong, she thinks. They won't survive this war.
No.
That's the horcrux talking.
It has poisoned her mind, planted a sack of venom at the base of her skull. Even when her neck is free of the cursed locket, her shoulders are heavy from the ever-present plague of despair. She wonders if the damage is permanent.
"Harry, here."
The stone is old — eighty years? A hundred?
His hastened footsteps kick and spray snow over her own boots.
"Is it — ?"
"No, but look."
Kendra Dumbledore, it reads. And Her Daughter, Ariana.
Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
"What is that?"
"Payment," is all the stranger says. "Go, Hermione. I'll hold him off."
When she wakes, she presses her warm forehead to the cool glass of the window.
The pane fogs as she exhales, blurs the world beyond.
Who are you? she scrawls with her finger.
The condensation fades and so does she.
"Are you sure he never mentioned — ?"
"No," he says curtly. "Let's keep looking."
Her nostrils flare and a cloud of steam escapes her mouth in an irritated way.
Resentment is thick in the air. Harry is angry with his departed mentor. Angry for the secrets he kept.
How he'd hate her if he knew.
"Are you afraid, Sir?"
He lets the question hang in the air. "To die, you mean?"
She gives a curt nod.
"No," he says. "When you're as old and tired as I am, a long sleep is welcomed. The weary will envy me."
She likes the sound of that lie.
The mark of the Deathly Hallows is crudely carved in the Peverell tomb and her heart leaps – another clue!
Harry brushes it off. His impatience with her is infuriating. He wants all the answers to his questions but doesn't want to work to solve the puzzles – that's why she's there. She's his own personal and portable security system, equipped with an encyclopedia.
Where would he be if she had left with Ron?
He would already be dead, no doubt; crucified publicly as a warning to all who tried to defy the Dark Lord.
No.
The Dark Lord?
What is wrong with her?
Something tingles beneath the skin of her scalp. The horcrux has festered within her skull, eats away at her intellect. But there's nothing stronger than her mind. It's the last and best weapon Harry has.
Fuck off, Tom.
She hears a hiss after she thinks it – a sound so real and so loud that she looks around the cemetery. There's nothing there, nobody to be seen.
And then she spots it.
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
"Harry, they're here," she calls out sharply. "Right here."
The days are long and she can't remember not feeling tired. It's all she knows now.
"Do it, Hermione!" Lily whispers through the gaps in her teeth.
Petunia nods along, "Nobody's watching."
She looks around and indeed, the promise of rain has made the park a desolate place.
A branch in the bush beside them twitches suspiciously.
That's what convinces her, in the end.
A damp leaf flutters up from the ground and lands in her hand. It folds and unfolds.
And suddenly, a coppery red butterfly is flapping its wings from the safety of her palm.
"I knew it!" someone shouts. It startles Lily and Petunia so much that they take a few steps back. They look around, stare at Hermione, asking unspoken questions – are we in trouble? Are we caught?
"I knew it!" the little boy repeats. He's looking at Hermione frantically, his excitement bursting from beneath his skin. "You're a witch!"
"Don't call my sister that!" shouts Lily, angrily.
"It's alright," Hermione says. "It's not a bad word – not the way he means it. Right?"
The boy agrees, nodding vigorously.
"Hermione," Petunia says, sharply. "I know him. He lives on Spinner's End."
Ah, Spinner's End – the part of the neighborhood which the girls were forbidden to venture near. Spinner's End, miles off, with its weathered old brick houses in strict rows like a prison block. A dreary neighborhood where people pick at their skin in plain view and loom on the corners late at night.
"What's your name?" Hermione asks – but she already knows the answer.
"Severus," he says, quietly, licking his chapped lips nervously.
"Severus Snape."
How odd it is when you realize the person you've admired for so long now considers you an equal. Even more strange when you discover a darkness in them; one you recognize in yourself as well.
"Something has been bothering me about the prophecy," she confesses, quietly. It's alarming how calmly she says it, how monotonous her voice stays. "Neither can live while the other survives."
He doesn't correct her, doesn't reassure her that things will be fine. He merely nods, solemnly.
She knows it, then.
"And if he asks me?" she says, feeling sick. "Am I supposed to lie?"
They stare at one another.
He looks different now; brittle and cold — or maybe she's finally seeing the flaws in the design.
"Sometimes a lie can be a kindness."
His half-moon spectacles are crooked.
"What will I do after the war?" Harry asks late one night, after the bluebell flames have since burned out.
For a long while after, the only sound between them is the wind singing through the trees.
"Live," she says. "After the war, you'll live." She lies so easily she almost believes it herself.
Harry looks at her in a strange way.
Severus is awkward. He doesn't know what to do when people are nice to him. Kindness and generosity are things that are foreign to him; she can tell by the way he looks bewildered whenever Hermione strikes up a conversation with him or invites him to help himself to cookies or juice.
They've become an unusual set of friends over these long weeks. The kinship she feels is misplaced, she knows this. Severus is her first palpable link to her old life, the first spark of reassurance. Because sometimes, whilst stuck in the very dark places inside of her mind, she wonders if she dreamed up that other life – if she's mad.
"You seem tired," Severus tells her, munching on a cookie. He holds one out for her from the big platter on the sitting room table.
She smiles, takes it. "I always am."
"Lily's magic, too," Hermione tells him one afternoon. They're laying side by side beneath the trees, looking up at the falling leaves swirling down. "She's like me."
She closes her eyes and concentrates. The leaves burst into little birds, burnt oranges and fiery reds, flittering around them.
He smiles; a rarity.
"She's not like you at all."
A storm is whipping against the windows and the Evans' family are all crammed onto the sofa beneath a long, soft blanket. Horror movie marathons have been on the tele all night and it's past bedtime, but Hermione is still up, eating big handfuls of warm salted popcorn that Ivy popped over the stove.
Lily and Petunia have long since fallen asleep, heads tilted to the side, resting against the other.
"You have to go to bed after this one," Robert whispers and Hermione nods.
It's comfortable here, on this sofa, in this room, with this family — her family.
The glow of the television illuminates their faces and Hermione is watching Lily's resting expression – it's the first time she notices that she and Harry share a nose. And even asleep, their eyes are the same shape, framed by the same thick lashes.
She thinks of Harry with his eyes shut in Hagrid's arms, dead for all they knew.
And Lily is beautiful, even in youth.
She sees her then, standing in water, hears her say that Harry's soul had been lost. Or was it still lost? Does it work like that? Is his soul still drowning in darkness?
The calm moment is suddenly surreal. Her heart skips an anxious beat and Hermione presses her palm to her chest.
Is there no end to your horrors? a voice from the tele asks.
No. None whatever —— for they are not mine alone.
"I'm going to bed," she says, feeling sick. She needs to get up, get away.
Mere passage from the flesh cannot undo centuries of evil.
"Goodnight," her parents say, confusedly, but she's halfway up the stairs already.
The television echoes from down below.
There can be no peace without penalty.
A hiss penetrates the silence again.
"Harry, stop."
She looks around, tries to force her eyes to see through the thick black night. There's a figure silhouetted in the snow.
She wonders if she's imagining it — if this is the Horcrux's latest trick.
"What's wrong?"
Someone's crouching, trying to stay hidden. Watching them.
"There's someone there. Someone watching us. I can tell. They're over by the bushes."
They hold each other close as they leave, leaning on the other as they walk the cobblestone path.
They're outside the tent, bracing the bitter cold wind, standing shoulder to shoulder. Trees surround them from all angles. The clearing she found is barely big enough to fit the tent.
The screaming has been going on for the last few minutes. She can't tell what direction it's coming from.
"Is it real?" he whispers. The locket looks heavy on his chest; his shoulders slump from the weight of it. The chain has left red lines around his neck. His eyes are frantic as he searches the darkness. He looks half-mad. "Do you hear it?"
She knows it's real; knows there's someone out there suffering. Someone who wasn't as skilled as she, someone who tried to hide and failed.
Harry wants to help; so eager to save everyone — even if it means his life.
"I don't hear anything, Harry. It's the horcrux."
Eventually the screaming stops and she knows someone's dead because of her. Somebody out there won't ever wake up again. And, she thinks:
You're welcome.
Something's not right. Something's wrong.
She's on edge all the time; always feeling sick, exhausted.
Lack of sleep, she thinks.
She wonders if Harry ever felt this way.
The kitchen light flickers overhead, makes them all look up. It stops as soon as it starts.
"Can Severus come over later?" Hermione asks her parents absentmindedly.
"Hermione, he has come over every day for two weeks. We're going to London today, just the family."
Anxiety springs in her stomach. "Can he come?"
"No," says Ivy, placing the dishes in the cupboards.
"But I already told him he could."
"So un-tell him."
One by one, the lightbulbs overhead explode. The five of them let out cries as sharp pieces rain down on top of them. Hermione puts her arms around her sisters necks, pulls their faces close to her chest to protect their heads. Milk spatters over the edge of their bowls as glass plops down into their breakfast.
"What the bloody hell?" Robert shouts when it's over. "Is everyone alright?"
"I'm fine," Hermione says.
"Mum," Lily's crying, holding out her hand. There's some blood — a little piece of glass is protruding from her finger.
Petunia sticks out her left arm, she has a gash near the fold of her elbow. She isn't crying but she's bleeding more heavily than Lily is.
"Oh, Robert, they're going to need stitches."
"I'll take them," he says, jumping up to get his car keys. "Call the electrician," Robert tells her as he helps the girls out the door.
The door slams shut and Ivy turns around.
"Did you do that?" she asks, angrily.
Hermione blinks — Ivy has never spoken to her in that tone before.
She looks down at the shattered glass, confused.
"Maybe. I think I may have . . ." she admits, unsure.
"You think you may have? Well, I think you could have seriously hurt your sisters! I think you should go to your room, young lady!"
"I'm sorry," she says, overwhelmed, "I didn't mean to do it."
Ivy's face falls. Hermione doesn't want her sympathy. She heads upstairs, heart racing, beating in her throat.
"Hermione, wait. I'm sorry."
She kicks the door shut behind her and the lock clicks.
Ivy knocks, tries to plead with Hermione to open the door.
She gives up, eventually, and leaves her alone.
A few hours later, the doorbell rings. Ivy's voice echoes up the stairs. I'm sorry, Severus. Hermione can't come out to play today.
She looks out her window after she hears the front door close, sees Severus walking away down the path. He looks up at her and stops, waves.
But she turns away and doesn't look back.
Night falls soon after. Her sisters are back and from the sound of it they're fine, bouncing around downstairs and laughing.
Frost fogs over the window.
Who are you? it reads.
She wants to answer but she can't decide.
The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.
Hermione finds it on Bathilda's tea table.
She flips through it — sees the symbol again. She halts on another page and the two names from the grave are repeated throughout it. Kendra. Ariana.
She shoves the book in her purse and looks around. Harry has vanished.
"Harry?" she calls out down the corridor.
Silence.
A gnawing feeling bites at her insides. Something's wrong.
She takes the stairs by threes.
She finds Bathilda on the floor, split open and decaying like ruptured, rotten fruit.
Nagini is so large she takes up half the room. The door slams shut — the way out is blocked. Hermione hurls a killing curse at the reptile but there's a protective ward on her – some type of magic that Hermione doesn't recognize. The curse rebounds and Hermione throws up a shield, angles it so the green light ricochets and smashes the window.
Something twists around her ankle and she hits the floor — Nagini's blood red eyes are just above her and her mouth is open, fangs lunging towards Hermione's jugular. Through sheer willpower, Hermione holds the neck of the snake and squeezes as hard as she can, running incantations through her head.
Her hands glow as she tightens her grip. Nagini hisses wildly and recoils.
"He's coming!" she hears Harry shout. "Hermione, he's coming!"
She clambers up, gripping the heavy quilt to help her stand, and then Harry has her arm. He's pulling her across the bed; his strength surprises her.
They jump up on the mattress, sliding on broken glass.
It happens fast.
Harry takes a running leap toward the window, still holding her hand tightly — she tries to slacken her own grip but Harry won't let her go. The snake lunges at them and she hears footsteps in the corridor. Her heart drops down to her stomach. She knows, intuitively, who it is.
"Confringo!" she shouts, because Harry's not going yet — she won't let him die here.
The curse reverberates around the room and mirrors smash, wardrobes explode — the violence of it keeps Nagini at bay long enough for them to jump from the bed to the wardrobe, and straight out the open window. Hermione screams as the door flies open behind them.
Harry yells out like he's wounded.
As they fall, she sees him – Voldemort. He's throwing himself out of the window, too. His face is so deformed he looks masked, but she can see the utter rage in his blood red eyes. He points his wand at them but she's faster — she pulls Harry to her, screams out, teeth bared like an animal — and disapparates.
A dark mark is suspended above them, vibrant green and glittering. It's almost beautiful.
The old wizard lay broken on the floor, his dead body is bathed in green light.
Hermione watches on, spattered with blood that's not her own.
The constellation of skull and snake is reflected in his glasses. Just behind it lay his eyes, closed and relaxed in a slumber from which he won't wake.
He was telling the truth, after all.
She does envy him.
Harry falls still.
Black cloaks and scabbed hands hover over her; drink her in like water.
"No," she cries. "Not this. Not like this."
Fabric twists around her, covers her face. She tries to inhale but she sucks in grimy wool.
A wave of dementors crash down on top of her; a sea of darkness consumes her. She can't breathe.
She's drowning.
She's gasping for air.
There's a pounding at the door, she can see it bouncing on its hinges as someone fights to get inside.
The door tears off the frame, drops down with a thud.
Somebody's screaming.
It's her, she realizes, and oh god — she's floating. She's almost touching the ceiling.
She hears shouting but she's afraid to look down at the door, afraid of what horror will be waiting for her.
It's not real, she thinks. This is a nightmare.
The room shakes.
Wake up, she thinks. Wake up.
Panic makes her body thrum, her heart is thumping in her ears.
Someone's grabbing at her, pulling her down.
The screaming reaches a fever pitch.
The sound that follows is soul shattering — a booming crash all around her. It's so loud it hurts.
All she can hear afterward is a rushing sound like water and a dull ringing somewhere far away.
Glass sprays throughout the room — her bedroom, she realizes with a start.
Robert is below her, pulling her toward him, throwing his body over her to protect her from the glass. Ivy has her other daughters by the arms, yanks them into the hallway and disappears.
Her father is talking but she can't hear him. He holds both sides of her face, makes her focus. She can make out what he's saying by the familiar movement of his lips.
Are you alright?
She nods, fights her way free of his arms. He lets her go. She can hear something now, stifled — muffled crying, her mother talking.
"Are you all alright?" Robert shouts.
"Yes, we're fine," Ivy calls. "They're just startled. Everything is broken out here — downstairs too, I think."
The mirror to the vanity is destroyed and the glass panes are shattered too. She runs to the window, feels pain searing across the bottom of her feet from the shards. A feeling of dread consumes her.
When she looks out, she yells.
Neighbors are coming out of their houses in pajamas and robes, shaking and shocked.
She staggers backward, unbelieving. But the truth is there; it's littering the streets.
It's not just their house that's destroyed. It's the house next to theirs. And the house next to that one. And the house next to that one. For as far as she can see, windows are gone, streetlights are out — the remnants of it all is peppering the roads, glittering in the moonlight.
Afterward, she feels warm yet chilled to the core. It's that feeling after weeping — after those long, sobbing cries that exhausts the body, leaves it feeling feverish and sick with relief from the release of whatever sadness festered within. Her parents do not yell, they do not scream. They're just happy everyone's alright. They make her sit on the couch with her sisters.
Petunia crawls over the sofa with a blanket, wraps it around Hermione's shoulders.
Lily puts her penguin in Hermione's arms. "He'll make you feel better," she swears, and it does.
It does.
They're not downstairs ten minutes before a crack breaks the settled silence.
The sound is familiar. It makes her stomach drop.
Ivy screams and Robert brandishes his broom like a weapon.
Hermione looks up and her mouth goes dry.
There are strangers in the house.