A knock sounds on the dormitory door, and Hermione makes a face, confused; the boys couldn't get up the staircase, and Ginny's never been one to bother knocking.
The wood swings open to reveal Pansy, wringing her hands in an oversized sweatshirt, hair in a sloppy ponytail. "Hey."
Hermione frowns at the way her friend's shoulders curl inward. "What's wrong?"
"I've just—been having a hard time sleeping." Pansy makes her way to sit on the bed beside Hermione as the Gryffindor in question brews in a cauldron on her nightstand. "Nightmares and paranoia and the usual. But they've been really bad, so I was wondering if—maybe I could stay with you tonight?"
"Of course!" Hermione moves to hug her friend's shoulders, no questions asked. "Anything you need. I'm always glad for the company, in here."
"I don't want to—if you have plans with Draco…"
"I don't." Hermione looks her in the eye as she assures her. "And even if I did, your well-being is more important, to both him and I. He can cuddle with Blaise if he's that desperate for someone."
Pansy laughs half-heartedly, leaning her head on Hermione's shoulder. "Love you."
"I love you too. You own prime real estate in my heart."
They're quiet, for a moment; Pansy sighs, peering over the edge of the cauldron. "What are you working on—contraceptive potion?"
"Yep, I'm almost out of my current batch. I do a three month supply at a time—it's how I used to have enough through summers. Even now, although at this point it's habit and not necessity." Hermione's eyes are far away. "It's so terrible it's almost comical, that this is the one I've brewed the most over the years. I could make it in my sleep."
Pansy hums with understanding, squeezing her friend's hand tightly. "That's why you got so good at potions so fast, first year. Why you cared about it so much."
A nod from Hermione. "Why I want to go into healing now." She laughs, and it's—it should be dark, or sad, but she doesn't have it in her to be sad anymore—all she can do is joke about it, or else it's all too heavy. It's easier to just—laugh. "I don't have a single memory or facet of my personality that's gone unaffected by it all."
She snorts, turning to Pansy with a smile. "God, we're so morbid and traumatically fucked up all the time. Tell me something good. How are you and Neville?"
Pansy's cheeks flush pink, and she can't help but smile at the thought. "Good. He's—perfect." She fidgets, repositioning her legs. "So sweet it feels impossible, sometimes. And—so incredibly understanding of all my eccentricities and needs and willing to wait as long as I want for anything and everything and—I know people always say that anyone decent will be, but it doesn't feel that way in practice, you know?"
With an emphatic nod, Hermione moves to put a stasis charm on her cauldron. "It seems like too much to ask of someone, even though logically you know that's not true."
"Exactly." Pansy sighs with a smile, toying with the bracelet on her wrist Neville had gotten her from a small business in Hogsmeade a week prior. It's already growing to be a comforting habit. "He is the sweetest person I've ever met; and he's not afraid to call me out, when I'm projecting or lashing out as a coping mechanism. He doesn't know details, or anything—he can just tell. Figures out my mind before I know it myself."
"Is he…" she hesitates before asking, not sure if it's a sensitive subject for them or not.
"My soulmate?" Pansy questions. "Not a clue. My parents made me write to mine the first day I had anything from him on my skin, tell him to leave me alone and never contact me again. They've always planned on arranging me with Draco or Crabbe, or something, for the alliance, like it's the fucking fifteenth century." She rolls her eyes, expression acidic. "So anyway, I don't know. And I haven't asked Neville about his, either—too nervous he'll leave me for them, I guess. But regardless, even if it's not endgame—he makes me happy." Pansy smiles bashfully. "Really, really happy."
"Good. You deserve nothing less, Pansy. And I can't imagine anyone better for Neville, either."
"Thank you." Pansy rubs at her eyes, making a face. "Now if we can all just survive this war."
"We're closer than we were a year ago," Hermione whispers. As if saying something positive can force them both to feel the optimism that eludes them.
Her friend sighs twirling the ends of her own hair. "If I have to go out, there's not a better way I could imagine than sticking it to blood supremacists." She bites her lip despite herself. "If I die…you'll tell Neville, won't you? That I love him? And Draco and Blaise and Gin and Luna, that they've made the hell the last year has felt bearable?"
Someone else would probably chide her, argue against the pessimism and planning for worst case scenarios, but—Hermione doesn't.
(Doesn't think it's morbid to plan for what truly might happen, would always rather have an unnecessary hard conversation than be left without the right words, with wondering and wishing and pleading with death for a moment's goodbye, if the worst comes.)
"I will," she promises Pansy, grim smile on her face. "You'll do the same for me? All of them, and my boys, and Sof, and—and Sirius—" she breaks off in tears before she can say anyone else's name, lip trembling. "I'm not scared for myself, really. I spent too many years in hell, for that. But—merlin. They've all been through so much already.. I worry that one more loss might break them." She brushes at her eyes, swallowing the sorrowful saliva that fills her mouth.
Pansy smiles sadly. "I've never heard you say Merlin before. You usually say god—or that muggle deity's name, the one who died?"
"Huh." Hermione laughs at her own expense. "I suppose I do. Muggle habit. Harry does it too. I think it, mostly; it's only when I hear Ron or Sirius or Draco's voice in my head that wizard colloquialisms come out, I think." Cocking her head, she confesses, "I haven't been writing to Sofia, as much. I want to, and I feel bad for not responding more thoroughly, but I—I don't know how to pretend I'm not falling apart, and I don't want her to see me crumble. She deserves—only the best, of everything." She wrings her hands. "And that's not me, right now. But I don't know how to tell her that it's because I love her I don't seem myself. Harry's said the same, and I just—we both worry, so much. All we want for her is happiness."
"She'll understand when she's older," Pansy insists. Quiet for a moment, her eyes turn downward. "The others don't know this, but—I have an older brother."
Hermione's eyes go wide, but she doesn't speak, sensing that if interrupted Pansy will lose her nerve.
"He's a squib; my parents faked his death as a child so no one would know." Her jaw clenches with anger, the kind that burns with a lifetime of built up resentment and frustration and hatred. "They'd never want society to know they'd produced a defect. It's the only reason they didn't keep trying for an heir, after me—they were too worried they'd produce another muggle."
She shakes her head, tongue poking the side of her cheek with righteous rage. "As though Darrow is anything but perfect. He's the strongest, kindest, most good person in the entire world. Who cares if he has magic or not? How can that be a more important thing about a person than whether they have a heart of compassion?
"They had him tutored in secret, by another squib—they were able to educate him in both muggle and magical subjects, so he would know our world but be able to survive without magic. It was—well, exactly what you would imagine of bigoted parents whose child was like the people they hate so terribly." She shrugs, because there are no words for the horror of it all. "They've never liked or loved me, but because of Darrow they were always—grateful, that I'd come out 'right'. Treated him even worse after I came along—seven years after him, mind you.
"So the day he came of age, he was gone, with a note to them that said nothing but 'I'm glad to not be magical so I can spend the rest of my life away from the likes of you. Go fuck yourselves.'" A fond smile fills her face at the memory, how greatly it had pissed off their parents. "He left a letter for me as well, hidden in my favorite record's album, with a charm so no one but me could read it. But I didn't write him back for months." The admission burns as it leaves her mouth. "I was so mad at him, for leaving me behind. For leaving at all. It felt like it was meant to hurt me personally, like he just didn't care that I was his sister, and lonely, and wanted to be with him. Even once I finally spoke to him, I resented him for it."
"You were just a kid," Hermione says gently, a hand on Pansy's shoulder.
"Yes, but even still…I would've been mad no matter how old I was. It felt like betrayal. I gave him a lot of shit about it, for a long time. But as I got older, I understood—that he had to do what was best for him. That him sticking around for my benefit wouldn't actually have benefitted me, because he would've been miserable and living a half-life, and I would've been miserable for him, and our house would've been even more toxic. As much as it hurt at the time, I know it was for the best now." She fans at her face, trying to blink away the watery eyes. "Anyway, all of which to say, I know even if Sofia were hurt now, she would understand when she got older. Would only love and respect you for it more."
The Gryffindor beside her nods slowly. "That makes sense. Do you—are you and Darrow close, now?"
"Yes—normally, at least." Pansy makes a face. "Our parents can never know, of course, but we write all the time, and I usually sneak out once a week or so over summers to get lunch with him, if possible. He works in a—a muggle research lab, he calls it? And writes part time—books, the muggles call them 'fantasy'." She snorts, corners of her mouth quirking upward. "His wife owns a business, so they're—amazing. Coolest people I know. But when Voldemort returned…well, he'd be a prime target. And my parents would be all too happy to sacrifice him to the cause. So I—cut off all communication. Told him I'd reach out when it's safe."
"That's why they let you get away with so much dissent and 'improper' behavior, even though they're on Voldemort's side," Hermione realizes, surprise coloring her tone. "They don't want you to tell anyone about him."
"Exactly." Pansy smirks, sharklike. "Don't you just love two-way blackmail?"
/
The first Quidditch match of the season, Harry is—nervous, for the first time he can remember.
Flying has always been the one thing that comes naturally to him; he's never faltered, or struggled, it's as easy as breathing.
(The pitch is the one place he can truly relax, let go of everything weighing on him—no matter who's trying to kill him, or how dark his mind feels, none of it matters when he reaches for the snitch.)
But he feels pressure beyond himself, this time. It's hard to zone out the way he usually does when he feels so responsible for everyone else, when this is his team.
Ron's less anxious, for once, his confidence having been boosted a bit by tryouts and Draco's persistent encouragement, and Katie, Ginny, and the new fourth year chaser are all clearly filled with adrenaline and more confident than anything, excited for the match to start. The new beaters are the only ones who look as anxious as Harry feels, and they both seem so young he can't help but feel an impulse to mentor them.
And they're up against Slytherin, naturally, so the whole school is on the edge of their seats, not to mention he's flying against Draco.
(Which isn't really the problem, because while Draco's an incredible flyer he's much more suited to Chasing and is only a Seeker at his father's behest.)
But it is historically the most skilled team, and what they do lack skill-wise they make up fro with determination and animosity brought on by centuries of rivalry.
It's a slow start—in theory allowing them to adjust, but honestly less than helpful because they're all so wired with nerves and excitement, so thrilled to finally be back in the air.
(For this one thing to feel normal.)
"What's got your eye, Potter? Trying to find a landing spot for when I knock you off your broom?"
Harry has to hold back a snort at Draco's taunting, though they're high enough, far enough away from everyone else as they search for the snitch, that he risks an eye roll, one Draco is long accustomed to (as he earns them from the dark haired boy frequently). "Well even if you did, Malfoy, I wouldn't mind so long as I could keep the bones in my arm this time."
"Eugh, merlin, don't remind me about that!" Draco mimes gagging. "I nearly threw up in the middle of the pitch that day."
"You did?! Imagine if it were actually your arm! And it was because of your elf, anyway, so I don't even want to hear it."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Draco purses his lips, but Harry knows he's fighting the urge to laugh at the memory of Dobby's poorly executed attempts to protect him at Draco's request. "What do you say you let me catch the snitch just this once so Slytherin leaves me alone?"
Harry tilts his head, considering it as his eyes follow the clouds aimlessly. "Nah. You'd hate to win because I let you—you'd secretly hate me for it the rest of your life. Besides, I have a reputation to uphold. I'm captain, now! I have to prove I'm good enough to deserve it."
"Not like there was ever any doubt of that. You get plenty of special treatment, but even I'll admit your Quidditch success is all you, irritating as it is."
The Gryffindor scrunches his nose up in discomfort at the compliment, unused to them as he is even after years of his dads trying to retrain his brain. He turns his gaze away from Draco, eyes downward as he avoids uncomfortable eye contact, cheeks flushed.
"Potter, even if we win, which I unfortunately doubt, it won't be because of you. Not because of the team you've put together, either—it's strong, except the beaters, but the rest of you really are good enough to make up for them being new and unsure if you try hard enough. Are you actually worried about the match?"
A small smile forms on Harry's face, and he says, "You know, I was!" before darting downward.
His broom shoots toward the pitch at top speed until a yard above the ground, when he jerks upward with a triumphant grin.
The snitch tugs at his grip, but he holds tight until Madam Hooch has finished blowing her whistle, laughing joyfully when the rest of the team tackles him into the grass.
(He'll have bruises, for sure, but these—these are worth having. Worth keeping.)
Draco scowls at him, but Harry smiles back, knowing they'll have a rematch eventually.
(And the world may be going to hell, and his mind may be full of darkness, but he can still smile about something as simple as Quidditch, and that is—everything.)
/
Ron is bouncing on his heels with excitement. "Finally, something useful!"
Hermione levels him with a look, and he holds up his hands apologetically. "Sorry, I know, it's all important, this just feels—more immediate, yeah? Like, if you can apparate away you don't need to win a duel."
"That's fair, I suppose." Hermione frowns. "I hate that we're not all learning together. I mean, I understand the age restriction for the actual license, but it seems unfair that a matter of months' difference in birthdays means Harry and Pansy and everyone else born late doesn't get to learn for another year—especially when we're on the brink of a war."
"Yeah, especially seeing as it's not exactly like driving," Dean agrees, expression annoyed. "There's not really a way to practice at home over summers, or anything."
"Maybe it's something we can work on in our—study group," Neville's careful voice suggests. "Even just a better understanding of theory and the steps involved could save someone's life in action."
Humming in acknowledgement, Hermione's mind begins moving a million miles an hour. "I'll have to look into the way it's tracked, if we'd be able to practice in the Chamber without them detecting it; it would be risky, but…worth it."
(Especially for muggleborn students, with targets on their backs who are sitting ducks away from Hogwarts, whose families don't have a semblance of an ability to protect themselves against the monsters liable to darken their doorstep.)
Across the room, Blaise is razzing Draco about something, but he's not taking the bait, much; he's tuned out of the lesson, eyes dark and jaw clenched.
(Worrying about his upcoming "attempt" on Dumbledore's life, Hermione knows; he has to do it, but managing to without anyone getting caught in the crossfire…)
She attempts to tune out, during the instruction itself; to focus so deeply on the lesson she has no energy left over to think about anything else.
But it's really quite repetitive, and nearly word for word what every text on apparition has to say in terms of both directions and first-timer tips—if it weren't mandatory for licensure, she wouldn't even bother coming to the rest of the sessions.
They're only working on the first step today, and she finds herself helping Terry and Lavender when they're struggling—both people who don't much enjoy abstract, like herself.
She makes a mental note to mention it to Harry, tries to feel hopeful about what this might mean for all of them, as they enter the chaos around them
(Tries not to think about the way she feels eyes watching her all the while.)
/
Draco can't speak, when they wake up; his entire body is visibly riddled with anxiety.
It's so unlike him—Hermione's struck with realization.
(This is it—the first day he'll "try" to kill Dumbledore.)
(It's the only thing that could possibly have him so terrified; the potential to harm another person.)
And he's not telling her, just in case he's caught—so that no matter what, she can never be held accountable for his crimes.
(It's—she doesn't believe in much, in this world, but she's never had to doubt Draco's love. Not for a single moment.)
"I have to go." His whisper is broken, limbs robotic as he tugs on a button up shirt.
She nods, biting her lip as she searches for the right words. "You borrowed the cloak from Harry, right?"
Draco eyes her, because he'd never told her he was going to, but it's really not all that surprising that she figured him out. He nods.
"Good. You—do whatever you have to do to stay safe, okay?" She presses herself into him until his tense limbs wrap around her in reply. "This is not you. What you do today is not who you are—it is you protecting yourself, your mother, the role you're playing for the Order—you've already helped save so many lives, Draco."
He swallows heavily, and she knows he doesn't believe her, thinks himself to be the worst of society. Is terrified of anyone getting hurt in the crossfire, and especially by his hand.
"You can do this," she promises. "I believe in you. We'll be through this hellscape soon, yeah?" Stroking his jaw with her thumb, she presses a quick kiss to his lips. "Do this, and we'll all be here waiting for you. Loving you."
Draco toys with a loose strand of hair without a word. "I have to go. I'll see you later."
Hermione takes comfort in that, that he's at least planning to meet her later, rather than shut himself off from the world the way she knows he wants to when he's so overcome with self-loathing and despair.
She makes her way back to Gryffindor tower disillusioned, meeting up with Harry, Ron, and Ginny just as they're getting ready to leave.
She doesn't tell them, hoping to likewise keep them blissfully unaware of what the day means, but they can tell something's up; she's oddly quiet, even more jumpy than usual.
Neville meets them for lunch at The Three Broomsticks, though Pansy and Luna are off on some hike to look for crumple-horned snorkacks that Luna had been thrilled about, Pansy having agreed to tag along.
They drink, and eat, and talk about anything and everything to distract themselves from their actual problems—hours, they waste away, trying to imagine for just a bit that it's a normal year. A normal Saturday.
After a few butterbeers, when their cheeks are red and their stomachs are warm and the world feels just a little less heavy, they begin making their way back to the castle.
Ron and Neville are in the midst of a deep conversation about some memory of a birthday party for Susan Bones when they were young, the kind every little wizarding kid was invited to solely for them all to get social interaction.
Ginny'd opted to hit Quidditch Quality Supplies with Dean and Cho; Harry's humming some old muggle song that's been stuck in his head all morning, and Hermione's thoughts are a million miles away.
So they're all a bit distracted—it takes them a moment to notice the argument a few yards ahead of them.
"What the hell? This isn't like you, Katie—what could you possibly have gotten that's so important?"
Harry's head pops up, brows furrowed in concern. "Katie Bell? Is she okay?"
"I don't know," Hermione admits with a frown. "She and Leanne have never had any drama, them fighting seems weird."
(It doesn't even cross her mind, then. It's so disconnected.)
They speed up, trying to catch up to where the two girls are now physically fighting, in any attempt to help, Katie's friend reaching for the brown package in hand.
"You can't!" Katie screeches with a shrill voice, pure panic lining her body. "Don't touch it, you can't touch it!"
"Katie," Ron calls out nervously. "Why don't you just calm down, we can all talk about this together."
"No!" She tries to run, but Leanne finally manages to grip the package. "No, you can't, you can't, don't—"
Leanne pulls out her wand, hitting the paper with a slicing hex, and it's then that Katie tries to adjust her grip. Her hand grazes the side of something shiny within, and then—
(Then she's screaming. Agony.)
Hermione rushes to her side, smoothing the hair at Katie's forehead as she attempts to take stock of the scene.
When she glances towards her hands, her stomach drops, catching sight of a necklace within.
(A familiar necklace she'd watched her boyfriend purchase just a few months prior.)
But this is—not what he'd intended, she knows it. Whatever had made Katie so adamant about not allowing Leanne to touch it, had been intended to protect Katie and everyone around her from the necklace's curse.
She attempts to cast the few healing spells she knows, the ones she's preemptively studied for healing school; when that doesn't work, she provides the one semblance of comfort she can offer. "Stupefy."
Katie's entire body relaxes as she goes unconscious, unaware of the pain if for just a little while.
"God." Hermione rubs at her eyes, blinking back the horror of the moment. "I'm going to levitate her so we can get her to the castle. Harry, Ron, can one of you—levitate the necklace? Don't touch it, it's obviously—cursed."
Harry and Ron nod immediately; Ron levitates the book, meeting Hermione's eyes with a bittersweet smile as he casts wingardium leviosa.
(She'd lectured him back then it would be important to learn, but they'd never imagined it being in a situation so awful as this.)
Meanwhile, Harry comforts Leanne, soft voice whispering soothing words as she staggers forward, unable to rip her eyes from her friend.
McGonagall's suspicious, when she's called to the Hospital Wing as Katie's head of house.
She meets Hermione's eyes—broken gaze, the hopeless sorrow and frustration because it's all just so horrible and there's no way out—and the younger woman can tell her professor just knows.
Before Hermione, Harry, and Ron head out, McGonagall waves to catch her attention. "My office. Eight o'clock. Him too."
And she knows she should be nervous, and especially on his behalf—but she doesn't have it in her to feel anything but numb.
She walks back with the boys and writes to him; pacing and tossing and turning in her favorite armchair in the Gryffindor common room until just before eight.
Disillusioning herself, she slides out the door, ignoring the portrait's cries of confusion at her invisible presence. She's shivering with nerves and exhaustion as she makes her way to the professor's office.
Draco must've already entered, still beneath the cloak, because as soon as she closes the door behind her, the professor waves her wand to lock it, before Hermione can even remove her own disillusionment.
They're both seated on the other side of the desk, and Hermione knows they're both bracing themselves for McGonagall to scream—
But instead, she softly says, "What happened?"
"What?" Draco rasps, eyes already welling with tears.
"Tell me what happened," McGonagall orders, voice firm but not angry, "so that we can make sure it doesn't happen like this again."
Draco opens and closes his mouth before collapsing in on himself, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Hermione's at his side instantly, one hand stroking his hair while the other rubs circles on his back. "Hey, you didn't mean to hurt her. It's okay, Draco. This isn't—"
"Don't tell me it isn't my fault when we all know it is, Hermione!" he snaps.
She flinches away from his harsh tone, and he gives her an apologetic wince but doesn't take back the words.
"I bought the necklace. I'm the reason she had it. It's no one's fault but mine that she's hurt, now. And I—" he swallows heavily, rubbing at red eyes. "I have to live with that for the rest of my life. I can never take it back."
McGonagall clears her throat, locking her gaze on him. "Mister Malfoy. First and foremost, whatever your position may be at the moment, I have no doubt in my mind you did everything in your power to ensure no one but Albus was hurt. Did you not?"
"I—" Draco takes a deep breath, trying to subdue the hiccups he'd burst into. "I had to imperio her to bring it, but—I made sure to order her not to touch it, or let anyone else to. To do whatever it took to make sure no one but him touched it. Even cast a spell to not allow any hand but his could physically open the paper. But the slicing hex…" he shakes his head, meeting her gaze with desperate eyes. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I thought it would be enough, and it—it wasn't and now she's—I did this. Merlin, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Draco." McGonagall's eyes are sad, but her voice doesn't waver. "We're at war. I am—horribly sorry that Miss Bell was injured. I would take her suffering on myself if such a thing were possible. But the fact of the matter is that what you're doing, however dark and awful it may seem, is necessary for good to win. If you weren't taking these steps, we would be…in far, far more dire straits."
Hermione watches her soul mate carefully, the denial and hopelessness in every line of his face. The disbelief of Minerva's statement.
"Your information about Greyback's planned attack on the eastern village last week gave everyone time to evacuate. You know the Montgomery girls?" The professor asks, brows raised. "Their mother lives there with their little brother—he's just five, and exactly the bastard's sick taste. He's alive and unharmed, because of you. As is the entire rest of their community. A month before that, you got us word about the raid through muggle Surrey—more than twenty muggles whose injuries would've been fatal were saved. The Order arrived before the Death Eaters were able to finish the devastation—and managed to take out several key players. Who knows how many lives they could've ended, throughout the rest of the war." She sets her jaw. "I don't believe that people are collateral damage, and I am—horrifiedthat it's come to this, students bodies as the battleground. But this is the reality we're in. This is all we have to work with, all we can do. And so we must, even if it kills us inside."
Draco takes a deep breath, chest trembling, but nods in understanding.
"You're both soldiers, now. You weren't alive for the last war, but this…this is only the beginning of the casualties. We will all have done things that make our stomachs lurch, by the end. And perhaps our souls will be tainted, but—" the older woman sighs, for one looking her age, the weariness weighing so very heavily on her heart. "But I have to believe it's all worth it. That we're creating a better world."
"A better world for our children," Hermione whispers, leaning her head onto Draco's shoulder. "Somehow. Anything is worth making sure they never know this darkness. This pain."
He squeezes her hand, and she knows he agrees—know they're on the same page.
(Knows they'd both rather die here and now, go out fighting before ever living their lives, than to bring their children into a world so difficult and painful.)
(They'll do whatever it takes, to make sure they never have to; to make sure Sofia can grow up safe, that the first years who look so small will never have such old eyes by seventeen, aged from the trauma, the horrors their entire generation has grown up in.)
"Okay?" McGonagall asks.
Even as his fists clench with the emotions suffocating him, Draco nods—there is no other way. However horrible it feels, this is best case scenario. As good as they can hope for.
(He'll do better, next time.)
"Okay."
/
She doesn't warn them.
She's not at breakfast—not unusual, as she's often off doing one odd thing or another, and Harry doesn't appear worried or surprised at her absence, so Hermione doesn't think anything of it.
Harry's just lifting a glass of pumpkin juice to his lips when the mail arrives; but something is…different.
There are days with more mail than usual, of course.
But today, the windows darken as nothing short of a swarm of owls makes their way into the Great Hall.
Nearly every student is accosted, some receiving multiple parcels and envelopes and copies.
"What on earth," Hermione wonders aloud quietly, Harry equally confused beside her.
Hermes flies in between them rapidly, dropping a newspaper clipping just beside Ron's plate before zooming away; by the time Hermione and Harry receive their own hastily written letter from Sirius, Ron's choking on a mouthful of eggs.
"She's done it. Oh, merlin's pants—she's fucking done it."
The entire hall is abuzz, volume much higher than the usual conversation, some students shrieking and gasping all around. Even professors aren't immune, hurriedly conversing amongst themselves, eyes wide with shock and worry.
It's so noisy and chaotic, Hermione's not quite sure she's heard him right, for a moment. "Who's done what, now?"
Ron shakes his head, face pale but lively as he slaps the article before them with shaky hands.
"Lord or Liar?" she reads the headline aloud, voice high pitched like it hasn't been in years as she feels her heart race. Harry sucks in a gasp beside her. "Voldemort's True Identity Revealed: The Half-Blood Behind the Supremacy Hoax"
On her other side, Ginny, like her brother, appears both thrilled and terrified. "This changes…"
"Everything," Neville finishes for her, eyes alight with wonder. "This changes everything."
Silently, Harry checks at his skin, frantic as he searches for a message from his soul-mate as the impact of her words rebounds through the wizarding world, breathing growing more shallows when he finds no ink across his body.
(A reverberation shakes the hall as a dormitory on the opposite side of the castle explodes, leaving nothing but splinters and flame in its wake.)
Notes:
chapter title from you are more by tenth avenue north
hi friends, I hope the world is treating you okay.
I finally have the rest of the hbp era laid out more ~concretely~ so the next few updates will (hopefully) come a bit quicker, although I just started a new job and have a lot going on w my personal life/trash MH, so bear with me if a take a hot minute to get adjusted, I promise I will keep them coming as fast as possible (im fr so excited for the rest of this story)
thank you for your continued reading/support/I adore you. see you soon.
Chapter 32: with a thousand lies
Notes:
lol sorry that last cliffhanger was a bit evil, it's all out of love
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry's sprinting away from the table before she can even think about moving—Hermione and Ginny are hot on his heels, though Hermione lags behind, not in nearly as good of shape as them.
She arrives at Ravenclaw tower moments after them, chest heaving.
(That is, she arrives at what was Ravenclaw tower.)
The door is swung open, smoke and ash slipping out, and Harry's hysteric, muttering "no, no, no, no, no".
She doesn't have it in her to stop him as he rushes inside, pulling his shirt up over his nose and mouth but coughing heavily nonetheless.
Ginny's silent—receding from the world, as she does when things go bad. just moving as fast as is humanly possible through the rubble, frantically levitating every fallen beam and brick.
"She has to be here," Hermione whispers to herself, though she doesn't quite believe it. "Maybe she already got up and went to the Hospital Wing, or—or something."
(None of them will be able to handle the alternative.)
"Lu!" Harry's screaming, now, so much and so loud that his voice grows raspy. "Luna! Lu where are you?!"
Ginny even goes so far as to try to accio the other girl, just—moving constantly.
(As though if she keeps moving she'll keep any horrible news from coming.)
They make it back to the doorway when they've upturned every piece of rubble there is, all filled with hopelessness.
"She—she must be—"
"Don't say it," Harry practically roars, eyes wild with terror and concern. "She can't be. We would've found a—a body."
A throat clears in the doorway, and they all jump; Remus's expression is grim. "You three need to come with me to the Headmaster's office."
"But Dad, Luna—"
"A lot has happened, Harry, but it's not safe to discuss here. Trust me." They exchange a look; Harry clearly wants to press the matter, but Remus is unyielding.
They all speed walk behind him, Harry shaking with anxiety and adrenaline and the uncertainty of it all; Hermione's fairly certain Ginny's in shock. As for her own feelings…
(Nothingness. She's numb, hasn't even truly processed any of the day's events, yet.)
The hallways feel muted, and Remus is moving so quickly she's nearly running to keep up. Her heartrate is rapid by the team the professor is whispering the password to let them all into the headmaster's chambers.
Harry's ready to explode when they make their way inside, and he's opening his mouth to demand answers when the air rushes out of him at the sight of Luna, seated beside Professor Snape.
He nearly falls over his own feet in his haste to get to her, relieved tears spilling from his eyes. "Lu! Thank god, I—" He sucks in a deep breath as her arms wind around his neck, one hand beginning to rub his back as he trembles. "I thought I lost you. Oh, my god, I thought I lost you."
"I'm okay," Luna promises, voice gentle. "I'm perfectly fine, Harry."
"Not to sound ungrateful," Hermione says with wide eyes, "Because obviously I love you and am so, so glad you're okay, but—Luna, how are you alive?"
"I had planned on staying in the tower and doing some research this morning, but at the last minute I got a note from a friend so I ended up spending the morning at the lake and catching up with a few friends of mine that are merpeople—and Shelly, of course."
"Shelly?" Ginny asks fainty.
"The giant squid," Luna says, like this is obvious. "Anyway, I had no idea about the explosion until Professor Snape showed up and disillusioned me and escorted me back to the castle."
Dumbledore clears his throat, waving for all of them to take a seat. "Voldemort is under the assumption his attempt on Miss Lovegood's life was successful. I believe it is in her best interests that we not let him know otherwise."
"You want—to fake Luna's death?" Hermione clarifies for Harry's benefit, watching the way his brows pull together out of the corner of her eye. "Why is that necessary?"
"Miss Lovegood has cost him a great deal of support and prestige today," Snape speaks up, drawl just a bit more speedy than usual. "The Dark Lord does not tolerate any degradation of his name, nor any exposure of weakness on his part. If he knew she survived this attempt, he would not relent in attacks until he saw her corpse for himself. The speed with which he was able to uncover her true identity and send the explosives to Ravenclaw tower, the resources he used to get through our wards—all of it is a testament to just how angry today's article made him."
Ginny frowns. "Where will she go? Obviously there isn't exactly a time frame for him to forget about it—if she has to keep from being seen publicly for as long as Voldemort's alive she can't exactly remain at Hogwarts."
"She'll be going into hiding." Remus's expression is grim. "She had to stay in hiding until the war's end; because Tonks Manor already has many precautions for Harry's sake, she and her father will be residing there for the foreseeable future. Andy and Sirius have already begun preparing. And no one outside of this room and the other members of the Manor can know she's alive—that means the three of you will be expected to grieve. It is imperativethat your acting be perfect; if anyone suspects you are not mourning her, Luna's life will be in jeopardy."
"Not even the rest of the Order will be told?" Hermione asks, brows drawn together with concern.
"It's too much of a risk," Remus replies, being as delicate as he can, though the subject matter is urgent. "Harry, Hermione, the two of you will begin your Christmas break now—that way the Portkey will be explained away as yours, and Luna's departure won't be detectable."
It's only three weeks earlier than break was intended to start, and definitely would be the course of action taken if she truly had died, but it feels—monumental.
(Like something bigger is happening, in the war.)
Dumbledore nods; while his expression is serious, he seems—unbothered, by the turn of events.
(It makes Hermione want to go full muggle and punch him in the nose so hard it shatters beneath her hand.)
"We'll be releasing an official statement confirming her death on campus and the destruction of the tower in just a few hours," he tells them, even as he scribbles on a parchment on his desk. "Prepare yourselves."
"Can't we at least tell Ronald?" Luna pipes up, gaze far away. "All of this—it means that it worked. It was his idea for me to write the expose, he deserves to know. And—he'll blame himself for my death, if he doesn't."
"Any unnecessary passing of the knowledge that you live is too big a risk. If one of you were to be compromised—"
"Ron would never betray us, not even if he were tortured."
"No one here believes he would," Remus says gently, giving Dumbledore a look to get him to stop talking. "But unfortunately, he's never become as accomplished at Occlumency as the other three of you who will need to keep the secret—he's hardly passable at mental shields, however wonderful his strengths. It's too dangerous for him to know; and knowing Ron, I think he'd rather be left out of the loop than potentially be the reason Voldemort does succeed in killing Luna, however accidental."
It's a bitter pill to swallow; they're all reluctant as they shove down further arguments.
(Dumbledore they'll always disbelieve, but if Remus is saying this...it's truly in their best interests, as much as it hurts.)
"We need to proceed before the Ministry arrives," Snape mutters stiffly.
Remus nods, reaching to hug Harry and Hermione. "I'll see the three of you when class lets out next week. Give everyone my love." He turns to Luna with a grim expression. "I'm sorry you're in this position, Luna, but know that what you did today was very brave. Reckless, but very brave. It may very well help our side win the war."
"Thank you, Professor. I expect I'll be seeing you soon."
He gives a small smile in return. "I'm afraid I need to make the announcement while the headmaster and Professor Snape deal with the ministry.—and start working with Minerva on arrangements for the Ravenclaws."
Dumbledore raises a hand. "Miss Weasley, if you'd be willing to stay and attest to having witnessed Miss Lovegood's death, it will go a long way in securing her safety."
"Of course, Headmaster." She throws her arms around Luna, squeezing tightly.
(Tears pool in her eyes as the reality of the situation begins to sink in.)
"Watch out for nargles," Luna teases, eyes twinkling. "Also, tell Neville and Pans they're soul mates, will you? They're both so nervous and it's not necessary. They need to know so they can communicate going into this war."
Ginny laughs through her tears, the sound muffled by her best friend's shoulder. "I love you. Take care. Make this lot write me letters on your behalf, will you?"
"I will. I love you too."
The three of them reach out to touch the ratty newspaper Dumbledore holds out—
And then they're spinning, flying, nauseous, until they're thrown into the grass just outside Andromeda's wards
/
It doesn't hit till they're inside—then they all nearly collapse onto the couch, all of the energy draining from their bodies.
Andy and Ted are there in a moment, Ted brandishing water bottles and snacks he holds out and threatens to force them to consume at wandpoint. "You're all in shock, and I won't have anyone fainting unnecessarily under my roof."
"Dad told you?" Harry asks timidly, the exhaustion visible in his eyes.
"He did," Andy confirms. "We're very glad you're okay, Luna, and you're more than welcome to stay here for as long as you need. The wards and protections are nearly impenetrable, and we're going to cast a Fidelius as well in just a bit."
Hermione lets out a deep breath for what feels like the first time all day. "Where's Sirius?"
"Running some errands for the Order—we haven't been able to send a Patronus yet, because what he's doing is rather sensitive, but he should be back soon."
The floo flares up, and Hermione tenses until Tonks's voice calls, "Just me!"
It's a mark of how much the day has fucked with her head that it doesn't even cross her mind that the older woman would've brought her son until he's right there, a cooing form with green hair in her arms as she enters the room.
"Oh," Hermione gasps, and it's—she's loved him since she knew he existed, of course, but the moment she meets his eyes it absolutely overpowers her, the love she feels for him. "Teddy."
Tonks grins at her, moving her arms to hold the baby out. "Go on, then."
Hermione's on her feet instantly, reaching to pull his tiny form to her chest; she's careful to keep an arm under his neck, the way she'd read to in the baby books she's immersed herself in in preparation for his arrival. "Hi, you. I'm so glad to finally meet you."
He smiles up at her, and the second his gaze lands on her his own tufts of hair go brown with blonde at the ends, waving as much as they can for as little hair as he has.
"Thought you lot could use some serotonin," Tonks explains. "You good to watch him while I go outside with Mum and cast the Fidelius?"
"You'll have to pry him out of her hands," Harry says teasingly, though he's stroking Teddy's hair with such adoration it's clear he won't be giving him up voluntarily any time soon, either.
An hour or so later, once the Fidelius is cast and Sirius is home, Luna retreats to her room to process and come down from the day's events.
(Dumbledore had sent a message to her father that morning, imploring him to go into hiding and allow the Order to protect him; he'd refused, insisting he wouldn't live in fear and remaining at home.)
(Luna hadn't seemed surprised, but received the news with a resigned sadness, before asking to be left alone for a bit.)
All the while, she doesn't show a hint of regret; she clearly doesn't love her current circumstances, but never for a second doubts she's done the right thing. Wouldn't take it back even if she could.
(It makes Hermione respect her even more.)
Hermione and Sirius are in the living room with a movie on, though they're not paying it much attention; Harry's asleep, head on her lap where she'd been stroking his hair to soothe him, the distress consuming his mind at his soulmate's peril.
"Are you okay?" Sirius asks, giving her a look. "You always force yourself to be strong for him, but be honest. How are you?"
"I'm—" she's on the verge of saying fine, but his gaze is burning into her and the emotions are threatening to drown her, and she lets a shuddering breath out. "Not great. Struggling. My own mental state isn't the best, and Draco's going through hell, and now this…and this is only the beginning." Her voice breaks. "Sirius, people are going to die. I know it, this is war, and they will, and I don't—I don't know how we'll get through it when it's already taking everything we have just to keep breathing."
He grimaces, but nods with understanding, offering a mug of hot tea with one hand while the other moves to mute the tv. "It won't be easy, kitten. It's—all we can do is take it one day at a time." A small smile fills his face. "Lily—merlin, but she could be cheesy, that witch. When my brother died, I about lost it; was ready to kick the bucket myself, start running around till Death Eaters would attack so I could take some of them out with me. But Evans, she dunked my head in a cold shower, slapped me across the face till I sobered up. And then she looked me in the eye and said, 'Sirius Black, you have been through too much bullshit to give up now. You didn't make it this far to only make it this far,'."
Hermione can't help the grin that creeps onto her lips. "I think I would've loved her."
"Oh, you have no idea." His eyes are so wistful it hurts to witness. "Good thing that she said it, too, because Prongs was hyperventilating in the bathroom thinking I might try something and he wouldn't be able to stop me. Gave me a right talking to when she was done with me, asking what the hell would he do if I were gone, who would protect Harry if he and Evans—" he swallows heavily at the reminder, shaking his head. "Well, anyway. I think of it whenever things get bad again."
He clears his throat, meeting Hermione's eyes again. "We have made it through far too much hell for this to be it, Hermione. And I won't lie to you, it's going to be—horrible. This isn't even a fraction of what we'll face. But we will make it through. And when we do, it'll be a better world. A better life than you or I have ever had."
"I hope so," Hermione whispers.
/
The next Order meeting is—chaos.
It's the day after Hogwarts's winter break begins, so almost everyone there is under the impression Luna's dead, of course, so Harry and Hermione, have to act as though they're mourning.
(Not that it's exactly difficult, given that they're both severely clinically depressed, but nonetheless—it feels wrong, accepting everyone's heartfelt condolences. Watching the twins blink back tears.)
The only reason they're able to bear it is because according to all of their informants, the article's impact has been—explosive.
Voldemort's attempts to recruit have abruptly plateaued, his numbers even lessening some, and a significant number of previously "neutral" parties in positions of power have publicly come out as against the Death Eaters.
(It's no wonder he wanted Luna dead.)
And it's Cho's first meeting—apparently she'd reached out about joining several months ago, and was only recently vetted, so this is the first time she's been away from school to attend.
(It's the kind of thing that makes Hermione believe they might just win—one more face from a different house, one more familiar face turned ally.)
"The girl was brave, but publishing that was idiotic," one of the older members mutters. "Practically asking for him to kill her."
(When Hermione's head jerks up to glare at him, she realizes it's Aberforth, of all people; has to refrain from spewing profanities his way.)
Harry's on his feet in an instant, brandishing his wand with a steady hand, eyes deadly with rage. "Say that again, I fucking dare you."
"Harry," Hermione reaches for his shoulder, grip gentle. "You know I don't disagree, but maybe threatening someone in the middle of the meeting isn't the best course of action."
"It's not my fault he decided to insult my soul mate who just died for our cause," Harry snarls, voice echoing across the room. "He was practically asking for me to kill him."
She bites her lip to keep from laughing at the comment, knowing it won't help, however much she loves when her brother's sass comes out.
"She made her choices," Aberforth insists, arms crossed, looking unthreatened by Harry's wand. "It did our side some good, and I'm not trying to be insensitive to your loss, boy, but what else did she expect to happen?"
Harry moves to bound forward, murder in his eyes, and Hermione and Fred both hastily grab an arm each to hold him back.
"Luna 'ad more goodness in a single finger than you 'ave in your entire body," Fleur declares, her voice commanding the room. "You 'ave no place to judge the actions others take to stop a war you 'ave done next to nothing to prevent. You stand for nothing, and 'ave the audacity to shame the memory of someone who 'elped the Order to make more progress than we 'ave in the alst two years in a single day? I do not zink so. 'Eef I 'ear your voice again, I will show you exactly why I was Triwizard champion. And I will leave only bones be'ind."
Harry beams at her, and Hermione raises an impressed eyebrow, making a mental note to consult with her about effective curses later.
"Well put, Miss Delacour," McGonagall nods firmly, before calling the room's attention back to her.
The rest of the meeting is fairly tame, though the tension remains, simmering through the air as they discuss next steps, current threats, and recent actions on Voldemort's part.
They mention a prison break, and Hermione's stomach drops—they assume she's fearful of Lucius being free because of the battle at the ministry, reassure her that he won't have a chance to get to her.
(But it's so much worse than that; her mind is flooded with worst case scenarios of what her soul mate might be enduring at any given moment.)
After the meeting, she and Harry rise to walk the other younger members to the door.
"Thanks for vouching for me to become a member," Cho says to Cedric with a grateful smile, hugging him happily.
"I didn't know you two knew each other," Harry says with a surprised expression, obtuse as ever.
"Oh, Ced is one of my very favorite people," Cho beams. "Helped me when I got lost the first week of my first-year—not to mention he's brilliant at brewing and I'm shite at it, so he's been a godsend, making my estrogen potions until I was of age and could get my procedure done at St. Mungo's."
Harry raises impressed eyebrows. "Nice. I'm also a bit trash at potions, so if Hermione's ever busy I might bug you."
Rolling his eyes fondly, Cedric reaches out to ruffle his hair. "That's fine. Although you really should have at least a basic understanding of brewing, because otherwise—"
"Ugh, stop, now you sound like Mia."
"Who sounds like me?" she asks as she approaches, having walked the twins to the floo.
"Me. You know how it annoys him when anyone in his vicinity is responsible," Cedric teases. "By the way, let me know when you're free and let's get coffee one day soon, there's something I want to pick your brain about—I know a muggle shop not too far from here."
Hermione smiles with a nod. "I'll owl you."
As soon as the last of the guests are gone, she and Harry make their way to the table, where Remus holds out spoons and proffers the ice cream carton he's already digging into, his husband downing a glass of firewhiskey beside him.
"Mia," Harry says, staring up at the ceiling. "You're planning something to get back at Aberforth, right?"
His sister snorts, finishing another bite of the dessert. "Oh, of course. Like I'd let him get away with that bullshit."
Sirius grins wickedly; meanwhile, Remus lets out a world-weary sigh, allowing himself an abnormally large scoop of ice cream. "Make sure you don't get caught, will you?"
"When have I ever been caught doing something wrong?" she asks innocently. "No one's ever found out about the Polyjuice, or the breaking out a fugitive, or Rita, or Roger."
Remus's eyes go wide. "What did you do to Roger?"
"Who the hell is Roger?" Sirius demands, looking put out at being left out of the loop.
"A rapist," Hermione smiles sweetly. "Not mine, obviously." She bursts out laughing darkly at her own joke, but tries to rein it in at their stricken expressions, holding up her hands in apology when Harry scowls at her. "Sorry, sorry, I couldn't resist. It's easier if I joke about it. Anyway, he's a piece of shit, but I took care of him. And told him if I heard about him doing anything I specifically forbade him to do, I'd be back, with Sirius this time."
"Right on, kitten," Sirius smirks, reaching out a fist for her to bump.
Remus's stress is palpable. "Hermione, how exactly did you take care of him?"
"Ever heard of the curse of Cain?"
(He tries to give her a disproving look, but his lips twitch, and she knows he's holding back impressed pride.)
/
Christmas day comes, and it's—they're all pretending like there's not a war on.
Which—it's nice, to not think about all the darkness for a day.
(But at the same time, it so clearly weighs on all of them it feels like a joke not to acknowledge it.)
Percy and Tonks are passed out on a couple of couches in one of the rarely used sitting rooms Sirius had added on to the Manor, grateful for the reprieve as Molly and Andromeda argue back and forth about whose turn it is to hold Teddy, even going so far as to set timers to keep it fair.
Mid-afternoon, Bill swoops between them to snatch him, earning giggles from the baby, who loves to tug on his hair and stare at his earring.
He eventually hands him off to Fleur, who begins whispering and singing to him in French, dancing around the house with him smiling in her arms.
Hermione snickers when she catches the blonde's soul mate looking on in awe. "Baby fever much, Bill?"
"Like you wouldn't believe." He grins and winks at her. "This is actually part of my plot to convince her to start trying for one of our own. She's more prone to doing things when she thinks they're her idea."
Ginny laughs beside her, entirely unsurprised.
"Oh my god, you're incorrigible." Hermione shakes her head, but can't help but smile at the thought; Fleur and Bill will be phenomenal parents, it's so clear. "It would be nice for Teddy to have a cousin."
"Right?" He sighs, expression growing serious. "I know having a kid in the middle of a war is a bad idea, but selfishly—if I die in the war, I want to at least have had a moment with them, you know? To at least have seen my child be born before I go."
"I don't think it's selfish," Hermione says softly, searching for the right words. "It's natural—to want our dreams fulfilled before we're extinguished. To want to at least glimpse the thing we're fighting for."
Bill nods, but eyes her carefully, like he's trying to figure her out.
(Trying to figure out what dream it is she's fighting for.)
It's a hard day, overall; Luna's hiding while the Weasleys are over, of course, with the stash of muggle books Remus had procured for her to be able to continue her passions without being detected.
And Ron's wrought with guilt, darkness, and sorrow; it's killing them to keep it from him that she's really alive, knowing how deeply affected he is by the belief that it's his fault she's gone.
(He can barely look Harry in the eye, most days, though his best friend keeps desperately reassuring him it's not his fault.)
It's just become so clear, how much of an impact the war's already had; the twins mentions the altered shop hours and precautions they've had to take, the floo they've had to open so Oliver has a safe way into the flat when he gets in late from away matches.
They're all smiling, and happy, and together, but beneath it all is a veneer of anxiety and sadness that can't be fully quelled.
Later that night, after the guests have gone home, and Tonks and Percy have receded to put Teddy down and keep from destroying his already messy sleep schedule, they're all sitting around the living room, talking with carols playing in the background.
An owl flies in, straight to Remus, who frowns with concern.
"Who would write at this hour?" Hermione wonders in a whisper to Harry and Luna, who both shrug.
"Order business, maybe?" Harry suggests.
But Hermione watches her pseudo-guardian's face—the grim set of his jaw as he reads the missive; the sorrow with which he raises his face to the room.
She makes eye contact with Andy, both of them wearing a look of knowing.
(The look on his face—it's one that means someone's dead.)
"I'm afraid Voldemort has struck again," Remus says softly.
(The way he says it, so careful; it's someone they know. Someone whose death will hurt them.)
They all look up at him, anxious, just waiting for him to rip off the band-aid.
"It—" he blows out a deep breath, mouth turned down in an apologetic frown. "Luna, I'm so sorry, but your father—"
(This is war.)
/
"The Dark Lord requires your presence."
Draco's blood turns to ice, both because of the words themselves and the speaker. He gets to his feet rigidly, controlling his expression as he faces his father.
He follows him to the dining room where Voldemort is currently holding sway, passing Greyback along the way. Nagini slithers along the hallway, hissing to Ella, who's taken to tagging along with the Parkinsons most days.
The Dark Lord in question waves for him to come closer rather than sitting at the table, motioning to kneel a yard from the seat he's in.
(Draco's kneeling at his feet as though he's a king, it's—insanity.)
(How did they get here?)
"Your attempts to take out Dumbledore thus far have been not only unsuccessful, but pitiful."
Draco swallows heavily, but shows no fear. "I'm sorry, my Lord. I'll do better going forward. I won't disappoint you again."
A slicing hex swipes his cheek, but before he can register the blood slipping down his skin—
"Crucio."
(Agony.)
(Lightning in his bones, every cell shattering, every nerve ending being pulverized--)
(He can't think, can't feel—there's nothing but pain.)
He's panting when it ends; it's a curse he's been subjected too countless times, but it feels different from every caster.
(And Voldemort is much more powerful than his father.)
"Yes, you will," Voldemort's silky voice whispers. "If you fail again, your life will cease. Furthermore, you must procure a way for Bellatrix to subvert the wards and enter the castle. If you haven't done so by the last day of term, your mother dies."
Draco can't keep his eyes from going wide, then, horror flooding him at the threat.
"Oh, I picked through your father's memories a bit to see if there might be a more…persuasive….method for encouraging you to succeed." He casts the cruciatus again.
(Pain. Aching. He can't breathe from the excruciating madness of it.)
"And let me be clear, Draco—it will not be a peaceful death." He smirks, red eyes flashing. "So if I were you, I would find a way to succeed."
"Y—yes, my Lord." The words come out raspy, his breathing still shallow. "I understand."
"Good. But just in case you need a bit more reminding…" Voldemort turns his head to the corner of the room. "Bella, take him into the drawing room and make sure he knows what's at stake, will you?"
"Of course, my Lord. It would be my honor."
His aunt drags him to the other room, eyes bright with mania as she raises her wand.
(His muscles still twitch even after he's lost consciousness from the pain.)
/
"You've been watching the girl for months." Voldemort speaks quietly, but his voice carries—even a whisper resounds throughout the room.
(It's just the two of them.)
The spy nods, anxious at the prospect of giving his report.
(Of what the punishment will be if the information he's gathered isn't enough.)
"Yes, my Lord. The girl is—clever, but only in facts; she doesn't do well with abstract concepts or non-academics, often. She's quick at learning new things, but is often hesitant to use spells and information prior to entirely having mastered it. She allegedly has a muggle boyfriend, though I've never seen her send off letters to him so I have a theory that she made him up to prevent mockery from other students. She's close with all of the Weasleys, as is Potter, and she also seems to be good friends with Zabini, Parkinson, and Longbottom. She and Potter—"
He chokes on his own tongue, as he had the last time he'd attempted to reveal ASA to the Dark Lord. "I'm sorry, my Lord. I am—still bound not to say certain things. But suffice to say they are large proponents of and contributors to house unity and have allies across the school."
"One of Dumbledore's ilk, then." Voldemort sneers with disgust, eyes narrowed in thought. "Is she close to the old fool?"
"Not at all. I've never seen them speak—the rumor is she hates him, actually, though she never speaks about it publicly. She is close with McGonagall, and Lupin, obviously."
Humming, the Dark Lord strokes Nagini. "Perhaps her distaste for Dumbledore can be used to our advantage. What are her weaknesses?"
"She's soft," he blurts out, worried he'll be crucio'd if he hesitates. "She's a sucker for kids, or anyone who's hurt and in need. She drops everything to help even the half-giant that works as gamekeeper, has neglected her studies to do research on elf rights, is late to even Snape's class if a first-year needs help. Any time someone needs her, she's incapable of doing anything but helping them. It's pathetic."
"She won't have the strength to make the sacrifices this war requires," Voldemort says, smirking as the beginnings of a plan form in his mind. "Very well. Get out. Continue keeping eyes on her—I want to know everything. You'll receive word when I decide how you'll deal with her."
"Yes, my Lord."
He hurries out of the room, trying to be gone before the leader in question can decide to torture him for kicks.
(The man that was once Tom Riddle smiles as he begins to craft a way to take her out of the equation.)
(As he begins to craft Harry Potter's downfall.