In Want of Answers
Hermione stared at the parchment in her hand, blinking rapidly.
Emeric Sylvan Blackthorn.
The name did not ring familiar, but she could not escape the faint impression that she had seen it before, as if it had brushed the edges of her memory. She furrowed her brows, struggling to recall if she had ever encountered it in her extensive studies at Hogwarts. Her gaze shifted from the parchment to the stack of "Transfiguration Today" that occupied most of her cherrywood desk, kept conveniently close for lighter reading during meals that she increasingly often took in her own chambers. No, she did not think she encountered the name among any of the authors, though could not entirely rule it out. The name had an old-fashioned ring to it, but then, didn't the majority of the traditional Wizarding names?
She pondered how names often served as a Sorting Hat of sorts, categorising students based on their family backgrounds. Common, ordinary names like Tom, Dick, or Harry rarely found their way into the Slytherin House, though there were expectations to the rule, one of which brought distressing memories to the forefront. Hermione shook her head, her loose curls bouncing with the motion, as if she were trying to brush off the haunting echoes of the war. She had, at last, left this chapter behind, recognising it as the only way to move forward, yet, she suspected her generation would forever bear its scars.
Thankfully, after the war things took a gradual turn for the better; the world they were reconstructing now stood more united after decades of shattering divisions and prejudice. This year, they welcomed just as many Muggleborns as those from Wizarding families, with a slice of them finding a temporary home under the green and silver banner. It was as if the Sorting Hat itself had finally heeded its own advice on unity.
It was a work in progress, and Hermione harboured no illusions that the restoration of true justice and fairness in society would be swift. She knew it would take at least another decade, but she held onto hope and the belief that they were headed in the right direction. Harry, now serving as the Head of Law Enforcement, kept her updated on the latest legislative changes aimed at eradicating the lingering rotting signs of bigotry and favouritism. The reforms that made some of the older witches and wizards clutching their office chairs in fear.
Her thoughts returned to the odd piece of parchment before her, and the unfamiliar name etched on it. It piqued her curiosity, and Hermione was not one to let a mystery slip through her fingers. Suppressing a yawn, she glanced at her decisively Muggle alarm clock on her desk; it was almost eleven. She found some wizarding morning alarms rather comical, like the pillow-turned-rooster, which, depending on one's Transfiguration abilities, could either mimic the distinct crow of the original or squawk in a cacophony of confused clucks, leaving one more bewildered than awake.
Having realised the lateness of the hour, Hermione rose from her chair and undressed, draping the dress over the chair and slipping on a pair of flannel bottoms. This time of the year the temperature in the Scottish Highlands often dropped below ten degrees. As she settled into her four-poster bed, the same kind she'd slept in as a student, Hermione pulled the duvet snugly around her. Letting her hair fall down in soft, thick ringlets, she extinguished the candle on the nightstand, and placed her wand within easy reach. Her thoughts swirling between the mysterious note, the next day's classes and her own untreated curse, she stared long into the dark, until at last she was carried into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When she awoke the next day, the sun had already journeyed over the Owlery, dispelling the morning fog and lending the castle grounds a rosy tint. While the world outside hummed with a promise of a lovely day, it did little to alleviate the heaviness that clung to Hermione's spirits. The gentle warmth of the sun's rays and the earthy scents of freshly fallen leaves went unnoticed, overshadowed by her internal unrest. A persistent, dull ache throbbed in her head, rendering concentration a formidable task, even after a full night of rest. What compounded her discomfort was a pervasive weight that settled deep within her chest, akin to the sensation of being submerged in water. Each heartbeat demanded a strenuous effort. These symptoms, unfortunately, recurred with growing frequency, and it often took an extended duration before she felt herself return to a semblance of normalcy.
Despite her naturally diligent disposition, Hermione Granger had recently found herself merely going through the motions. Teaching felt like an exercise in dreamlike detachment, and what was left of her afternoons was spent in solitary pursuit, seeking answers to the curse that plagued her.
Fortunately, it was Friday, granting her the entire afternoon to herself after a double period before noon. Her plan was to visit St Mungo's, where she intended to have a conversation with the wizard responsible for her deteriorating health. Word had it that he had been relocated from an isolated room to an open ward, and she saw this as an opportunity to engage with him.
Half an hour later, seated at the faculty table in the Great Hall, Hermione poked at her scrambled egg, idly rubbing her fork between her forefinger and thumb. Since receiving the diagnosis she had withdrawn into herself, rarely engaging in conversations on her own initiative. These days, she rarely even paid attention to the school gossip and news that enlivened morning interactions as much as the freshly brewed coffee, its steam now rising in gentle, fragrant wisps from the stout coffee pot at the centre of the table.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Professor Flitwick, who sat nearby, discussing a recipe for dragon liver with Professor Sprout; she had considered approaching the older wizard. Filius Flitwick had always been one of her favourite professors at Hogwarts, and later, he had become a good colleague. Although his specialty was Charms, he possessed an impressive knowledge of Wizarding history, greater than anyone still living at Hogwarts, and was far more approachable than the perpetually detached Professor Binns, whose spirit was as lifeless as his appearance. The thought of sharing Binn's fate so soon made Hermione shudder, though she didn't suppose that any unresolved matters would prevent her from "moving on".
Hermione seized the opportunity when she noticed Professor Flitwick momentarily pausing to reach for a creamer, his modest height hindering him from his goal.
"Wingardium Leviosa," she muttered inaudibly and the creamer gracefully floated toward the professor.
"Ah, Professor Granger!" he greeted her cheerfully, recognizing her as the one who had just sent it in his direction. "I should have known it was you; you mastered that spell in your very first lesson."
She smiled at the memory and asked, "May I?" while pointing to the empty seat beside him.
"Please, you're very welcome. How is life treating you these days, Miss Granger? Any mischievous students?" He reverted to his old way of addressing her.
"Oh, I can't complain, " Hermione replied automatically. "I have a couple of those but Fred and George have yet to find a worthy replacement," she jokingly added.
"Those two were truly exceptional troublemakers. I often thought that if they put even half that effort into their studies, they could have risen high in the Ministry. But then again, they were so different from Percy; I suppose they would have withered from boredom there."
Professor Flitwick's face brightened briefly, only to settle into a pensive smile, as he remembered that one of the twins was no longer with them. Muttering to himself, he counted three sugar cubes into his cup and stirred energetically.
"Professor Flitwick, may I ask you something?" Hermione inquired somehow tentatively, not waiting for his response as she produced the crumpled parchment from her pocket and held it out for him to examine. "Have you seen or heard this name before?"
The grooves on his forehead deepened as he contemplated it. "No, I can't say I have," he eventually responded. Catching Hermione's disappointed expression, he added, "I assume you've already scoured the library?"
"Actually I haven't. I had hoped you might have some knowledge of it, but it seems I have no other option now," Hermione sighed, reflecting on the days and weeks she had dedicated to her quest for a counter-curse. The prospect of repeating her efforts for an unknown name felt daunting. Perhaps she should give up the matter entirely and focus her energy elsewhere.
Disappointed with the lack of answers in both fields, Hermione paid little attention to the subject she taught that day. Inadvertently, she forgot to collect the eighteen-inch parchment homework on "What's in a Name? Uncovering Hidden Numerology in Names" from her third-year students, much to their barely concealed delight over that rare oversight.
As soon as the last student filed out of the classroom, casting curious glances at the visibly preoccupied teacher, Hermione gathered her belongings, oblivious to the animated voices right behind the door.
"Maybe she's got a date!"
"Professor Granger? With whom, her library card?" a cheeky, spotty Ravenclaw named Hubert remarked, his comment eliciting a smattering of chuckles from those gathered nearby.
"Leave her alone," said Brian, a Hufflepuff who had developed a secret crush on his brilliant teacher, "she gives us a ton of work but she's alright."
As the voices receded further into the corridors, Hermione was left alone in the room that had served as her teaching space for the past four years. Nestled on the fifth floor, within the quiet confines of the eastern wing, it was a small, inconspicuous room, not dissimilar to the other unadorned classrooms in the castle. Yet, subtle elements here and there offered intimate glimpses into her character.
Rows of sturdy oak desks and high-backed chairs occupied the majority of space, neatly aligned to encourage focused attention on the professor at the front. One wall featured a large backboard, its slightly faded surface often covered with complex numerical equations and diagrams that Hermione used to vividly illustrate various Arithmancy concepts.
The walls themselves were adorned with bookshelves, laden with a meticulously curated collection of textbooks and reference materials dedicated to the subject. Each tome was thoughtfully categorised and labelled, mirroring Hermione's passion for knowledge and her penchant for organisational precision.
In one corner of the room, a small, well-tended garden of potted magical plants, carefully tended to by Hermione, added a touch of nature to the otherwise scholarly environment.
To combat the chill of the increasingly autumnal mornings, a modest jar of Bluebell flames decorated her desk, ensuring her nimble fingers remained free from stiffness as she sat there for long hours, preparing for her lessons or marking essays - a small but cosy touch.
As Hermione took a moment to survey the cherished space she called her own, a practical question loomed in the back of her mind: Who would take over the post once she…?
She shook her head, her eyes sparkling with resolve as she brushed aside the thought. Contemplating her successor felt absurd, given her weathered the worst of the Wizarding War, stared down Voldemort and his henchmen, and emerged on the victorious side, the idea that some random, unhinged wizard's curse might be what did her in seemed like a cruel joke.
The morning passed swiftly, too swiftly for her liking, much like all her recent days. Reflecting on the stories of people, distant family members diagnosed with cancer or other terminal illnesses, Hermione couldn't help but feel that each passing day became a precious commodity as the inevitable end drew nearer. These thoughts pressed down on her as she prepared to leave the classroom, emphasising the urgency of making the most of each moment.
Forcing her mind in a different direction, she returned the remaining textbooks to their ordained places on the shelf with a flick of her wand, grabbed her satchel bag, and left the room, locking it behind her. She left a note stating that she would not be available for office hours that day. Not that it was likely any student would seek her out; it was Friday, after all, and her absence was unlikely to be noticed amidst the weekend anticipation.
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries stood cleverly concealed behind the facade of a long-forgotten, red-bricked department store in the heart of East London. Hermione Granger, with her determined gait, stepped through the large, dust-veiled display window. The transition felt nothing short of magical, a far more agreeable alternative to the precarious teleportation typical of Ministry access, which involved flushing oneself inside a toilet bowl.
Entering the building, Hermione's mind was flooded with memories. St. Mungo's had been a sanctuary during the darkest days of the Wizarding War. It was where she had witnessed the unwavering dedication of healers and the strength of the human spirit. It was where friends had been healed, and where she had once hoped to find answers to her own affliction.
Within the bustling atrium, a melting pot of injured wizards and witches sought treatment, often accompanied by their concerned relatives. Even with its magically expanded capacity, accommodating five floors and multiple wards, the hospital brimmed with a constant stream of visitors from across the country, stretching its limits to the breaking point.
Above, the ceilings stretched to impressive heights, adorned with shimmering crystal orbs that bathed the space in a gentle, soothing radiance, a striking departure from harsh and sterile illumination of Muggle hospitals. The walls, coated with a cheery shade of yellow played host to lifelike paintings depicting patients in varying stages of ailment, a silent testament to the healing expertise of St Mungo's staff.
Amid the constant hum of curative spells and lively conversations, the lime- green-robed staff moved around with remarkable efficiency. Too bad they threw up their hands when it came to her 'unprecedented case'. The thought brought a pang of bitterness as Hermione contemplated the apparent helplessness of the Healers.
After a wait that stretched to an hour, it was finally Hermione's turn to approach the reception desk, her eyes drawn to the emblem of a wand intertwined with a bone. She presented her request to a Welcome-Witch who, buried in paperwork, barely glanced up from her files. "How can I assist you?" the Welcome-Witch inquired in a voice that oozed disinterest.
"I would like to request a visit with Thaddeus Grimspir," Hermione replied, trying to uphold a composed and businesslike tone, despite her inner restlessness.
"No visitors allowed; the patient is not in a condition to meet anyone," came the automatic response. With a frustrated sigh, Hermione stepped away from the desk. But in a flash of inspiration, she returned, prompting a glare from a middle-aged witch with a face marked by red, mood-shaped spots who stood in the queue behind her. Hermione nodded apologetically in her direction before subtly altering her tone.
"Hello, I am seeking a visit with Gilderoy Lockhart. I'm a former student of his." The receptionist, still not bothering to look up, responded with a touch of sarcasm, "Lucky that one today. Hasn't had a visit for months. Fourth floor, Janus Thickey Ward. Permanent spell-induced injuries. Go straight and…"
Hermione didn't require further directions; she knew her way around those parts quite well. A tiny glimmer of hope lighted her step as she set off toward her destination.
Upon entering the ward, she had to present her wand for inspection and confirmation of her identity, a recently introduced precaution, and state the reason for her visit. Following this brief but necessary ritual, she was ushered into the ward by a tall, bearded Healer.
The scene within the ward stood in stark contrast from the busy reception area. It was a vast labyrinth of long, broad corridors, each leading to homely rooms that housed patients in various stages of enduring afflictions. In the Janus Thickey Ward, it was an assembly of colourful yet pitiful characters.
As Hermione made her way down the corridor, she took her time, casting a keen eye on each room in search of her assailant. The glimpses allowed her to see some patients reclined on beds, engaged in conversations with one another or with the silent company of their own thoughts, while others paced back and forth in restless contemplation. Finally, she reached Lockhart's room, and sensing the Healer's observant eyes on her, she had no alternative but to step inside.
Lockhart sat cross-legged on his bed, with a perpetual nod and beaming grin aimed at an invisible audience. His hand, out of sheer habit drifted every now and then through his wavy, greying blond hair in a flirtatious gesture. The stack of his autobiographies on the adjacent table rivalled her own towering pile of ungraded homework.
His attire was a tale of two halves, much like his memory: the upper portion consisted of a flamboyant dress shirt and an equally extravagant waistcoat, but the lower half surrendered to the comfort of wide pyjama bottoms. The unlikely ensemble presented quite the comical view, leaving Hermione torn between sympathy and amusement.
Upon noticing his visitor, the man flashed her one of his trademark smiles, that had once made her girlish cheeks flush with embarrassment in the distant past. "Another admirer, it seems. There have quite a few today, and I'm beginning to feel a tad weary. But please, do come in. I imagine you've been waiting, haven't you?" he warmly invited.
Well, too bad your accident left your ego intact, a mischievous imp in her head whispered but she pushed it aside.
Reciprocating the smile, Hermione entered the room, privately acknowledging that his condition hadn't improved one bit, despite years spent in the ward. Nevertheless, she played her part, her eyes darting down the corridor on the lookout for her target, although all she could see were healers hurrying about their tasks. After a few minutes, as the corridor cleared, Hermione recognised her chance.
With Lockhart still chatting away, Hermione excused herself, on the pretext of having forgotten something. She proceeded down the hallway with discretion, and there, at long last, she found her true objective awaiting. The door stood slightly ajar, allowing Hermione to slip inside before gently closing it behind her, casting a Muffliatio charm to ensure that no one would eavesdrop.
With bated breath and a sense of trepidation coursing through her, Hermione stood by the bedside of Thaddeus Grimspire. She sought answers and was determined to obtain them.
Thaddeus Grimspire lay in the bed, his eyes closed in peaceful slumber. He appeared to be a middle-aged man bearing a curious blend of features: a sparse stubble of a thinning beard, a forehead marked with deep creases, prominent hooked nose, and curled lashes, surprisingly long for a wizard.
Hermione's gaze swept across the room, her eyes registering the details: a vase of fresh flowers gracing a nearby table, a plush handwoven rug, and a moving picture depicting a pastoral scene that hung above the bed.
"Comfortable, are we?" Hermione's voice, tinged with an amalgam of emotions, broke the silence in the room. It was a tumultuous blend of anger, frustration, and hurt that had simmered for months, finally breaking free and threatening to engulf her as she slowly approached him.
He had been the source of her torment, the caster of a curse that had become her sentence.
She had come here with the hope of confronting him, demanding answers and retribution for the suffering he had caused her. And yet, here he was, oblivious to it all, snoozing away his time while her own dwindled to precious little.
Driven by a sudden unexplainable impulse, she reached into the pocket of her dress, and withdrew her wand, lifting it towards him. Her very being crackled with energy, and sparks emanated from her wand. But as her gaze fell onto his slumbering form, the blazing anger that had raged within her began to wane, leaving a hollow void in its wake.
With her wand still directed at him, she tried to summon her strength to interrogate him about the curse, to make him understand the turmoil he had subjected her to, to make him feel pain that she had suffered. However, as he gradually stirred and his eyes blinked open, her determination wavered. His eyes, clouded by the vacant expression that sedatives likely induced, met hers. He did not recognise her, and it became evident that the man before her was as clueless as the patient in the next bed. The remnant of anger dissipated, replaced by a deep sense of futility and despair.
Hermione's trembling hand, still clutching her wand, began to falter. She lowered it slowly, her strength and resolve ebbing away. Overwhelmed by the harsh realisation that this man could offer no answers, she buried her face in her hands, tears welling up in her eyes.
Standing there, Hermione was left to grapple with the cruel uncertainty of her curse, the elusive answers slipping through her grasp, leaving her utterly helpless, quite like the man before her who had no recollection of the suffering he had inflicted upon her.
Quietly and dejectedly Hermione removed herself from the room, retracing her steps toward the exit.
As she neared the main doorway, she spotted a familiar face - Neville Longbottom- emerging from another room. His gaze carried a hint of melancholy, briefly lingering on the door he had just exited - a door she knew led to where his parents permanently resided. Their unresponsive state spoke volumes of the severe mental trauma they endured at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange in the form of the Cruciatus Curse during the First Wizarding War.
Hermione couldn't even begin to fathom what Neville must have gone through. In a way, he was worse off than Harry, whose parents perished fully conscious, knowing they were leaving a son behind. Neville's parents, on the other hand, didn't even possess that awareness of having a son.
Hermione opened her mouth but the right words eluded her. Something in Neville's clear, blue eyes conveyed that he wasn't seeking sympathy. His grief was accompanied by a comforting fact – a steadfast sense of pride that they hadn't yielded to Voldemort's demands.
Swallowing her own tears, she remained silent, a quiet understanding passing between them. It was Neville who broke the silence, asking at length, "Hermione, what are you doing here?"
With a faint, forced smile, Hermione replied, "Oh, I just thought I'd visit old Lockhart."
Neville lowered his voice, a note of gravity in his tone, "Hermione. I know. I spend a few afternoons each week here and I've heard my fair share of gossip."
Hermione's eyes narrowed, her surprise evident as she asked, "What do you mean?"
"You've come to see Grimspire, the man who's responsible for your accident."
Hermione's face paled. She distinctly remembered the Healer's reassurances that the information about her curse was confidential. This meant that someone had breached her privacy, and that was deeply unsettling.
A sigh of relief escaped her lips as Neville continued, "You're lucky you didn't end up injured. The healers here say his magic is quite powerful, but they say he's terribly misguided so they've put him on sedative potion. I am just glad you're well."
Good, he had no idea. Neville was a loyal friend, a one she trusted but somehow she couldn't bring herself to reveal the grim reality that she had only a few months left to live.
Opening up about her condition risked making her the object of pity and altering the way those around her treated her. She had no desire to see her face plastered all over with a screaming headline, "The War Heroine Takes Her Final Breath." If she couldn't find a counter-curse, Hermione determined to make the most of the time she had left, even if it meant carrying the burden of her secret alone to preserve her dignity and ensure that she lived her outstanding days on her own terms.
Hermione managed a weak smile in response, "Yes, lucky me, right?"
They chatted for a while, but she quietly appreciated it when he explained that he needed to head back to work; his visit had been a short lunchtime break.
Leaving St Mungo's, Hermione felt as if all the air had been let out of her, much like a deflated balloon. Her hopes had been shattered, the elusive solution to her affliction remaining agonisingly out of reach. As she moved with the torrent of the crowd, it was as if the world carried on around her, indifferent to her silent struggle. Hermione couldn't evade the all-encompassing sense of isolation that washed over her, leaving her defeated and profoundly alone in her battle against the unyielding curse.
Uncertain about how to spend the rest of her day, Hermione decided to make use of the fact she was in London. She contemplated running a few errands, perhaps picking up some supplies from Diagon Alley. She realised she was running low on ink, and the idea of indulging in a few of her favourite treats from Honeydukes felt like a comforting rebellion against her looming fate. What was the point of sticking to a diet when her impending demise was looming so close?
As she strolled along the cobblestone streets in the waning light of the afternoon, her low heels clicked on the ground from the impact of her steps. The sights and sounds of Diagon Alley brought back fond memories of her first very first venture into this lively hub of the Wizarding world of Britain. She recalled the thrill of choosing her wand at Ollivanders and the excitement of purchasing her first set of spell books at Flourish and Blotts.
Continuing deeper into Diagon Alley, consumed by forlorn thoughts, Hermione unintentionally wandered into a winding, narrow alleyway, eventually finding herself in the shadowy realm of Knockturn Alley. She passed by Borgin and Burkes, the notorious antique shop known for its illegal dealings in dark artefacts and its dual role as a pawnshop. Mr Borgin, the shop's shrewd proprietor, had amassed a small fortune by acquiring rare items, valuable artefacts and family heirlooms from beleaguered wizards and witches, who traded them for a quick Galleon.
Even nine years after the war, the Ministry hadn't shifted its focus to clamp down on the illicit activities of such establishments, preoccupied with the host of pressing, post-War concerns.
Hermione only ventured there once, back in their sixth year, with a sole purpose of spying on Draco Malfoy. Now, though, she found herself peering through the dusty windows with genuine interest. She wondered if hidden among the strange and forbidden wares of the shop might be the answer she desperately needed. With all other venues exhausted in her quest for a cure, Hermione's distress drove her to consider exploring the shady establishment.
As she pushed the door open, a bell tinkled, and the scarcely lit interior came into view. Despite her effort to appear self-assured, a flicker of uncertainty manifested in her furrowed brow as she scanned the shelves and cabinets, admittedly feeling out of her element. A glass case near the entrance that had long lost its shine displayed items on sale, comprising a vivid collection of antiques and curiosities, with some inspiring awe and dread, while others evoking nothing but sheer revulsion. Her eyes rested momentarily on an ancient mirror hanging on the wall opposite. A sudden hitch in her breath escaped as it failed to reflect her image, revealing only the nondescript walls behind her.
An old, dishevelled wizard with a greasy demeanour eyed her with a mixture of suspicion and interest from behind the counter.
"Can I help you, Miss?" he offered, his unsettling, unpleasant smile dancing on the edge of malice.
"I am looking for a counter-curse, a remedy for a specific condition." Hermione announced as she approached the shopkeeper's desk.
The wizard's eyes narrowed further, and he leaned in closer, but before he could utter a word, the bell at the door jingled, announcing another visitor. Hermione turned her attention toward the entrance, where a tall figure had just strode in with lofty airs. Black folds of velvet robes flowed about him, and his distinctive white-blond hair caught on the wind of the momentary draught, lending a dramatic flair to his aristocratic features.
"Ah, Mr Malfoy," the shopkeeper acknowledged with a pronounced bow, his entire demeanour shifting from subtle, mocking reserve to unabashed servility.
Malfoy reciprocated with a barely perceptible nod of his own, his keen eyes widening as they fixed on Hermione.
"Miss Granger," came the curt greeting.
Hermione mirrored the formality, "Mr Malfoy," before redirecting her focus to the shopkeeper, mindful of the timeless wisdom echoing in her mind: "Never show your back to the enemy."
"And what is the nature of the affliction?" the shopkeeper inquired, returning to their conversation.
In her periphery, Hermione noticed Lucius browsing the shelves at the other end of the shop. She sensed his lingering gaze and subtly adjusted her position to maintain distance. She lowered her voice as she talked about ailment, unsure how much to reveal but recognising that, at this point, she had little left to lose.
"Over the past months I've endured progressively intensifying episodes of icy coldness that appear to originate from within. My heart flutters erratically, and I experience frequent bouts of breathlessness and numbness in my body. But the most disconcerting of all is the sensation that I'm drowning, as if my lungs are rapidly filling with water."
As she recounted her symptoms, she snuck a cautious glance over her shoulder. If there was a wasp in the room, especially one with silver and grey markings, she'd prefer to keep a vigilant eye on it. Hermione couldn't help but notice Lucius subtly edging closer, his feigned interest in the shop's wares growing increasingly transparent.
"Those are intriguing symptoms," Mr Borgin noted coolly, as if dissecting a clinical case study. "I may possess items that could aid you, but you must understand that such solutions come at a significant price."
Hermione nodded, desperation evident in her voice. "The cost is of no concern. Please, I simply need something that works."
Mr Borgin scrutinised her with a calculating gaze and signalled for her to follow him.
Hermione couldn't resist one more furtive look in Lucius' direction. To her relief he appeared deeply engrossed in a massive, leather-bound tome adorned with cryptic symbols. Yet, as she observed him, she thought she glimpsed a subtle curl touching his lips. My damned luck, to meet him here of all places.
As Hermione followed the shopkeeper into his establishment, They passed beneath a heavy, fraying fabric that separated the accessible area from the more secluded space. The air turned even mustier, reminiscent of the long-neglected corners of an attic, clinging to her senses. A faint acrid tang of unknown source prompted her to wrinkle her nose in mild discomfort.
Meanwhile Mr Borgin resumed his questioning.
"Do you recall the specific curse that was cast on you?"
Hermione hesitated, her face betraying a mix of anxiety and despair. "It's uncertain," she admitted, her words punctuated by an involuntary tremor. "It's an untraceable curse, likely the caster's own dark invention. The Healers at St. Mungo gave me a grim prognosis, mentioning only a few months left to live…" she trailed off, fighting to suppress the quiver in her voice.
Mr Borgin came to an abrupt halt, and a heavy pause settled in the air.
"No need to say more," he stated somberly. "I cannot help you, Miss Granger. "While I can provide potions and objects infused with healing properties meant to alleviate known curses, I'm not a miracle worker. You should not have come here."
Hermione's face flushed, both from the stifling air of the shop and the renewed annoyance welling up inside her. "So you can profit from cursed objects, causing harm and bringing people closer to death, but offer nothing to prevent it?
The shopkeeper sighed and offered a vague explanation, "The world of dark and magical artefacts is intricate, Miss Granger…"
Hermione wasn't listening; her voice rose in volume. "You're right; I shouldn't have bloody come here. It's clearly a dishonest, sodding useless den that can only–"
Before she could unleash a torrent of words, an impeccably smooth but irritatingly calm voice interrupted her.
"My, my, quite the temper you have there." Lucius Malfoy emerged from behind the musty, ancient curtain, sweeping it aside with the tip of his polished silver cane. Hermione's eyes narrowed in disbelief as she shot him a withering look.
"None of your business, Malfoy," she retorted.
"Perhaps," Lucius drawled, "but some believe time is money. It occurred to me you're no longer engaged. I was hoping we could discuss a business arrangement, Mr Borgin."
"I'll be right with you, Mr Malfoy," the man replied, his voice oozing with obsequiousness. "As I was saying, Miss, regrettably, I won't be able to do anything for you."
The proprietor then turned to Lucius, "The item you requested has arrived; please allow me to fetch it." With that, he ventured deeper into the dimly lit back of the shop, leaving Hermione alone with Lucius.
Hermione edges toward the main area of the shop, but Lucius stood in her path, blocking it effectively, his eyes locked onto hers in an unspoken challenge. His lips curved into a knowing smile, as if he derived amusement from her predicament. Hermione's gaze flicked to the curtain, then back to Lucius.
Lucius arched an impeccably sculpted brow, his voice carrying a taunting edge, "Clearly out of your element here, mhm? Wandered into the wrong alley?"
Hermione didn't falter, her eyes ablaze with defiance, "No, but you're right up yours," she quipped with biting sarcasm.
She recalled the circulating rumours about his desperate efforts to regain his foothold in the Ministry. With a wry smile, she probed, Your aspirations for a Ministry comeback have been making the rounds, I hear. Are you here to bolster your case with a more compelling argument? Her gesture encompassed the assortment of cursed relics showcased on the nearby shelves.
A sudden glint, almost mischievous, flickered in his eye, a tacit acknowledgement of the challenge she presented.
"I can tell the constant company of minors hasn't blunted your wit," he noted, his tone laced with mockery, his fingers lightly tapping on the silver handle of his walking cane. "However, you wound me with such insinuations. Allow me to remind you that I was absolved of all charges connected to my past deeds," he stated with mock emphasis, gracefully twirling his cane.
Hermione's gaze was resolute, her voice tinged with scepticism and a dash of frustration. "Yes, it still perplexes me how you managed that feat, thanks to Narcissa's actions alone, I suppose, despite the overwhelming evidence against you."
The evidence screamed against him, louder than Mandrakes being repotted. She silently pondered whether the pockets of key Wizengamot members had been as generously passed as were the protective earmuffs that shield ears from the screeching plants.
"I refrained from fighting during the Battle of Hogwarts, did I not?"
Hermione let out an impatient puff, her words cutting with precision,"You simply shifted your allegiance when it suited you. Frankly, I'd have more respect for you if you'd stuck with Voldemort. In her twisted way, Bellatrix earned more of my respect than you."
Lucius' pale eyes bore into Hermione, unruffled by the insult. "Well, it didn't end well for my sister-in-law, did it? You can talk all you want about loyalty, bravery, and sacrifice, but in Slytherin we value shrewdness and resourcefulness. And that includes changing your tactics in the middle of the game at times. One must adapt to survive."
"Adaptation, Mr Malfoy," she retorted," is often a guise for cowardice and self-preservation,"
The grey in his eyes deepened, but his voice remained infuriatingly composed. "Call it what you will. You're hardly in a position to pass judgement."
"Fortunately for you, Mr Malfoy, I'm not your judge. Otherwise, you would be getting better acquainted with Dementors now."
"Who would have known such viciousness lurked beneath the gilded facade of the Golden Girl. Don't you believe in second chances?" He retained a nonchalant posture, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, which Hermione found especially irksome. Did the man have no sense of decency or remorse? Apparently not.
"Oh, I do, Mr Malfoy, but I'm far from naive. I've learned to distinguish between genuine remorse and self-serving opportunism."
"Always an advocate for justice and righteousness. It must be cumbersome to carry such a weight on your shoulders."
As if on cue, Hermione pushed back her shoulder blades, her tone unwavering. "I'm managing quite well."
"Are you, Miss Granger?" Lucius leaned closer in the narrow passageway, and the edges of his billowing outer robes brushed her calves. "It brings me back to my question: what are you seeking in this shop? It must be something of utmost importance, tied to the darker arts, a counter-curse, maybe?"
The nosy git was edging perilously close to exposing the truth about her curse. No doubt, he'd been eavesdropping on her hushed exchange with Mr. Borgin. The question that gnawed at her was just how much of their conversation had become grist for his prying eyes.
"You must be quite desperate to stoop down to seek help in suchdark places," he taunted.
She glared right back at him. "Mr Malfoy, I have no interest in indulging your curiosity. Neither are my actions for your debate."
"That's rather hypocritical, isn't it? Considering how eagerly you pass judgement on mine," he remarked, alluding to her earlier words.
Hermione rolled her eyes, her patience wearing thin. She had no intention of squandering her precious time on earth futile sparring with the likes of Lucius Malfoy.
"I know enough of your motivations and character to steer clear of you." With that, she took a step back. There was something strangely unnerving about his proximity, unrelated to their long-standing enmity.
Lucius responded with a condescending, drawn-out sigh, suggesting that he found her attitude tiresome, like an old tune he'd heard one too many times.
"I see you're still clinging to that insufferable holier-than-thou act. One would think you'd outgrown it by now. Pity all you have left is the image of the War Heroine you must constantly buff."
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
She stood her ground, her fingers unconsciously inching closer to her pocketed wand. "I'd rather hold on to that than have nothing to show for my choices except a tarnished family name."
Lucius' lips formed a tight, unyielding line. "Tarnished, perhaps, but I assure you the Malfoy name still carries weight in certain circles." He straightened his already imposing frame,as if he were trying to intimidate her with his sheer presence.
Much like a peacock strutting its stuff. Hermione suppressed a snort.
"Weight, yes," she countered, lifting her chin to squarely meet his gaze. "but not necessarily respect. Your family's legacy hardly warrants pride. I'd pity your son, if he weren't a spitting image of you. No wonder Narcissa couldn't put up with you."
"Watch your tongue, Miss Granger," Lucius hissed, his pupils dilating, and his grip on his cane tightening ominously.
Hermione regarded him with an unimpressed expression. "My fear of you matches my respect, and we've already established that it's non-existent. I won't be bullied by you."
Lucius leaned in closer again, his frame almost blocking out all the light seeping from behind the curtain. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "I would advise you to tread lightly. Your position at Hogwarts may prove as easily replaceable as a lost quill."
"Are you threatening me, Mr Malfoy?"
Lucius, with a practised charm, suddenly reverted to the image of a perfect gentleman, blinking innocently. "I wouldn't dare. But even as you pointed out, my name still carries some weight in certain circles. Among my old board colleagues, for instance."
"If they'd entertain the whims of a former Death Eater, conspiring to displace me from a job where I was told I excel, solely out of personal vendetta, I wouldn't anticipate their own job security lasting long under the cloud of such blatant partiality."
Lucius raised a warning finger. "Careful with your words, Miss Granger. I can't imagine they would take kindly to such allegations."
She replied, not missing a beat, "If they're unfounded, they have nothing to fear."
"So self-assured, aren't we? Yet, you find yourself compelled to seek aid within the realm of darker arts, the very world you profess to despise."
Hermione parted her mouth, her chest expanding as she drew in a sharp breath, "I've never been an advocate for throwing the baby out with the bathwater. I don't think that certain aspects of magic, generally speaking, can be inherently good or bad as long as they serve good purposes."
Lucius pressed on, a sneer curling his upper lip. "Good according to whom? Marietta Edgecombe?
Hermione's jaw muscles clenched, a telltale sign of her mounting frustration. She fell into a brief silence, unable to find a reply. A quiet sigh escaped her lips as she wrestled with her emotions, yearning to wipe that annoying smirk off his smug face.
With her fingers firmly gripping her bag, she readied herself for departure, concluding that she had endured this encounter long enough.
"Will you move?" she barked.
His eyes shimmered with some inner amusement as Lucius finally turned to the side, gracefully pulling the curtain aside, as though inviting her to pass through. Hermione, both cautious and somewhat surprised, took a measured step toward the opening, interpreting it as a courtesy, grudgingly noting that he possessed some elemental manners, at the very least.
But just as she began to move through the parted curtain, Lucius executed a swift and unceremonious exit himself. Hermione, caught off guard, came dangerously close to bumping into his black-clad back, forcing her to halt abruptly, narrowly avoiding a collision with him. The unexpected proximity between them heightened the already palpable tension; she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, blood rushing to her own cheeks in response, which added to her sense of embarrassment.
Her irritation surged, and she muttered a string of curses under her breath.
She had no doubt it was a calculated move on Lucius' part, intended to remind her of her place, which, in his eyes, lay far beneath his own.
As she stumbled onto the main shop floor, her frustration with the man reached its peak, her desire to hex him reaching new and unprecedented levels.
Lucius gazed at her tauntingly, as if daring her to make a move.
Hermione's mind raced as she recalled the spell for the Pumpkin-head jinx, a recent favourite among Hogwarts students. The timing felt serendipitous with Halloween just around the corner. She granted herself a moment of indulgence, picturing the impeccably stylish Lucius Malfoy striding out of Knockturn Alley, his head transformed into an irate Jack O'Lantern. It might be seen as somewhat juvenile, but the mental image possessed an irresistible charm that sent mischievous thrills through her. Sure, it might get her into trouble, but wouldn't even a stern talking-to be a small price to pay for such a satisfying sight?
Before she could make up her mind, the hurried steps of Mr. Borgin's approach broke the moment, his weight causing the floorboards to creak as he returned to the front, vial in hand. The sound shattered the tense moment, and, like a dropped Time-Turner, Hermione's wistful dream of revenge slipped away.
"My apologies, Sir," Mr. Borgin wheezed, his eyes darting with piqued interest between Lucius and Hermione, far from oblivious to the charged atmosphere that had enveloped his shop.
With a gracious nod, Lucius extended his bejewelled hand to accept the vial, maintaining his composure with apparent ease. Meanwhile, Hermione battled to rein in her own jangling nerves, her amber eyes flinging invisible daggers, her posture hunched as if she were a deeply offended Hippogriff, feathers ruffled and ready to strike.
Both wizards proceeded to conclude the transaction, their disregard for Hermione growing more pronounced, deepening the insult. To be challenged by Lucius was vexing enough, but to be dismissed as if she were an inconsequential speck of dust added salt to the wound, stoking the fires of indignation that burned within her.
Bloody bigots.
With a swirl of her chestnut curls, she pivoted on her heel, the cascading strands framing her pinked face. Fixing Lucius with a final piercing stare, she briskly left the shop with fervid determination never to cross his path again. Hermione Granger was rarely mistaken (or so she fancied), yet this time, the universe decided to throw her a curveball of cosmic consequences.
I'd love to hear what you think! The chapter was meant to be shorter. but the conversation with Lucius grew arms and legs. I don't know about you but I would happily read pages on pages of their sparring, provided it's well written (and it usually is!). I hope my own portrayal gives them at least some justice.