Chapter 3: Marionettes
For the second time in as many days, Hermione woke suddenly in the middle of the night. The joyous, raucous sound of the celebratory Irish encampment had been replaced by the sound of screaming. Genuine, terrified screaming. She sat up, reaching over to shake Ginny awake.
"Was'a matter?"
"Something's wrong. Get up." She was terrified. Her whole body vibrated with anxiety every time a fresh scream punctuated the air. Were they getting louder?
"Where's my jacket? Oh, where's my jacket? Did I bring one?" She paused, rummaging through her bag. "Ginny GET UP!"
The younger girl finally seemed awake enough to register that something was wrong. She sat up sharply as another scream tore through the air, making the hairs on Hermione's arms stand on end and a shiver run all the way down her spine.
Tumbling gracelessly out of bed, Ginny searched frantically for a coat or jacket to pull on over her nightgown. Hermione couldn't find anything better than a cardigan and her new Bulgarian scarf. She thought about trying to find something else to pull on over her sleep shirt and shorts when the silhouette of a robed man started to spread across the back of the tent.
"Come on," Ginny cried. "Let's get out of here!"
They locked hands and pushed their way out of the tent, nearly running into Mr. Weasley, who looked relieved to see they were already awake.
Hermione took a moment to look around, noticing several large figures in robes, strange silver masks over their faces. A circle of them some ways off were gathered around a large magical fire, over which Hermione could see the body of a little girl spinning like a top. Even from this distance, Hermione could hear as she screamed brokenly for her mum. But the woman next to her—almost certainly the little girl's mother—was suspended as well, entirely upside down so that her whole body was on display, her nightdress hanging down over her face. The man suspended next to her did a sort of stilted jig as he, too, screamed. He looked like a marionette, dancing on strings.
"That's sick" she heard Ron whisper.
"That's the Muggle caretaker and his family, isn't it?" Harry choked out.
Hermione felt like her whole body was made of ice. Her blood was cold. Her limbs were tingling. Her heart pounded in her chest so violently she could see it beat when she glanced down at her shirt.
She barely heard Mr. Weasley telling them to run into the woods. Didn't even really register their terrified flight into the trees. When they stumbled upon Draco Malfoy of all people, only to hear him gleefully announce she better be careful because they were out Muggle Hunting, she felt like she was going to vomit.
Dimly, she could tell that Harry and Ron were defending her, but what was the point? In the eyes of Malfoy, she'd been tried and sentenced the moment she was born. And if those masked men caught her…
Neither of the boys seemed to notice her glassy eyes, but Ginny came forward and looped an arm around Hermione's shoulders, anchoring her to the present as best she could.
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The rest of the night passed in a blur. There was Mr. Crouch's house elf, and a bumbling Ludo Bagman. There was Mr. Diggory viciously and gleefully going after Mr. Crouch's house elf. Only she wasn't anymore, was she? And there was the Dark Mark and Harry's missing wand. And so many emotions Hermione wasn't ready to name.
The thoughts swirled around her head as she lay back in the tent, trying to get some sleep. But for the second night in a row, her brain wouldn't let her. She kept imagining the Muggle family, tortured and played with as if they weren't human. As if they weren't even alive. And Mr. Weasley had said they'd just be obliviated and that would be it. The Ministry would take away their memories to hide everything that had happened that night: sweep it under the rug and go about their business.
By the time Mr. Weasley called for them to pack up and get moving, she was more than ready to escape this place. If she'd caught two winks of sleep that night, she'd be surprised.
As they all trudged back to the portkey exit, the entire field was subdued, the joy and gaiety of the day before extinguished. The purple fires were doused and cold, the peacocks penned and silent. Occasionally, the shouts from one of the Irish or Bulgarian buttons would punctuate the silence with screams of KRUM! LYNCH! They certainly didn't feel celebratory or fun anymore, not when the sudden noise made Hermione feel like she was about to jump straight out of her skin.
Everywhere she looked, nervous people were packing their belongings. It was obvious the Weasleys weren't the only ones who wanted to leave as quickly as possible; the line for early morning portkeys was long and it gave them all time too much time to think. For once, Hermione didn't want to think.
When they finally arrived back at The Burrow, Hermione did her best not to watch Mrs. Weasley's tearful meltdown as she clutched at Fred and George. Her fear felt too real to deal with. Best to simply avert her eyes.
Sniffling loudly, Mrs. Weasley turned towards the small horde of children. "Now you all get inside and get some sleep. You'll be needing it, I imagine. I'll get started on breakfast. Just come down when you're awake and hungry."
Ushering them into the house, Mrs. Weasley began bustling about the kitchen, grabbing pots and pans and flicking her wand to light a fire in the hob. Mr. Weasley stayed in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Mrs. Weasley's waist and resting his chin on top of her head. Her whole body seemed to sag under his weight as the two simply stood there until long after Hermione had vanished up the stairs.
Sleep eluded her. Or rather, rest eluded her. Hermione drifted in and out of consciousness, her sleeping moments filled with dancing tops and Dark Marks. Finally, after awaking from her third nightmare in as many hours, Hermione gave up. Perhaps Mrs. Weasley would have breakfast ready, or at least a cup of tea.
Tiptoeing down the stairs in her bare feet, Hermione poked her head around the corner into the kitchen, determined not to disturb anyone.
"Couldn't sleep, dear?"
Blast.
Molly Weasley sat at the kitchen table clutching a cup of tea, its fragrant steam swirling gently before dissipating into the warm, humid air of the kitchen.
Fully caught out, Hermione stepped into the kitchen and self-consciously tugged on her Muggle sleep clothes, so unlike the lacy nightgowns her fellow witches always wore.
"Come sit down, dear. I'll get you a cuppa." She heaved herself up as though her frenetic morning energy had sapped her body of all its strength. When her back was turned, Hermione padded quietly over to the table and sat down on the long bench opposite Mrs. Weasley's teacup.
"Milk and sugar?"
"No thank you."
"Ah, no nonsense woman, then."
"My parents didn't let me put sugar in my tea growing up. It gives you cavities."
Hermione could tell that Mrs. Weasley was desperately distracted, for all she did was hum as she placed an old but lovingly-maintained gilt tea cup in front of her before sitting back down. It was many long moments before Hermione noticed that Mrs. Weasley seemed intent upon the family clock. All hands pointed to home. She wondered where they pointed last night as Mrs. Weasley sat here, watching the clock, frantic for word of her family.
Mrs. Weasley caught her questioning glance. "Bit of a blessing and a curse, that clock. It's seen this family through some hard times. I've half a mind to add you and Harry to it with all the trouble you lot seem to get up to."
"Did you make that clock, then?"
"Oh yes. I was always quite good at charms. Made the first one for my brothers, many years ago." Mrs. Weasley went quiet, lost in thought.
"Is one of them married to Muriel? Ron talks about his aunt Muriel sometimes." Hermione asked, searching for something—anything—to say.
"Oh. No. Muriel is Ronald's great aunt. My brothers never married."
Something about the finality with which she spoke gave Hermione the shivers, her mind racing as she grasped her cup of tea.
"Are they…"
Mrs. Weasley turned to her fully before giving her a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Dead, dear. Both of them. During the first war."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
Another tight-lipped smile.
This was the longest conversation she'd ever had with Mrs. Weasley, and she wasn't entirely certain whether she wanted to extend it. This conversation felt very adult, and Hermione had always been desperate to be an adult. They made much more sense than teenagers or children. But now, the adult world felt so much more frightening than it ever had before. Mind buzzing, she blurted out a question before she could even think to ask it.
"Do you think it's happening again?"
Mrs. Weasley's eyes searched her face. On a normal day, Hermione knew she'd never get a response from Mrs. Weasley. After all, she did everything within her power to mother and stifle and protect the children within her reach. The adults, too. But today, as she gazed at Hermione, truly looked at her as she had probably never done before, Mrs. Weasley decided to give her an answer.
"I don't know. I've lived through dark times before. And these days are starting to feel too familiar. I hope for your sake I'm wrong."
Hermione nodded. "Because I'm Muggleborn."
Mrs. Weasley looked startled. Her head whipped back up from where her gaze had dropped to her teacup. A retort of some sort—no doubt to assure her that she had nothing to worry about—seemed to die on her tongue. Her whole body seemed to deflate as her gaze softened.
"I suppose so. It's an ugly thing. I'd offer you the protection of the Weasley name, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be much of a protection. Not anymore."
Hermione furrowed her brow in confusion.
"What you do mean?"
"Hmm?" Mrs. Weasley looked towards the staircase for a moment, lost in thought.
"What do you mean, about the protection of the Weasley name?"
The tight-lipped smile was back. "I forget sometimes, that you're Muggleborn. You're so much more mature, so much more gifted than my Ronald." She shook her head a little. "To offer protection is an old Pureblood custom. It means that harming that person is the same as harming that whole family. You must understand, wizards are very traditional: those kinds of vows mean something in our world. Even when given to a Muggleborn. We take such vows very seriously. But the Weasley name isn't worth much to the kinds of people that you'd need protecting from."
Hermione gazed down at her tea, trying to hold back the sudden tears as Mrs. Weasley clearly and nonchalantly discussed Hermione's place within the wizarding world. Within Mrs. Weasley's wizarding world, in which Hermione was a beloved interloper and nothing more.
On the staircase, Ron Weasley stared in horror at the banister, his mother's words replaying in his head over and over again.
"So much more gifted than my Ronald."
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Author's Note: A big thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, and left reviews on this story! This is the last chapter without Viktor and the last chapter before some small tweaks in the story begin to drag us slowly away from canon. See you soon with the next chapter!