Hermione slept until eleven the next morning, and when she Floo'd to Luna's after lunch, she was happy to find her friends there, everyone looking okay. The afternoon was spent with great amusement on Hermione's part as she attempted to teach them free flight, enjoying watching them struggle and laughing as they toppled all over the place in the air.
"Merlin, Hermione, are you sure this is really possible?" Harry complained, rubbing his head from where he'd conked it on a tree. "I feel like I'm a rocket, blasting off in any which direction."
"It takes a lot of practice," Hermione admitted. She called on her own air magic, which leapt at the chance to show off, and she lifted into the air, flying around about four feet up with great control.
Blaise watched her enviously. "Are you sure we'll be able to do that?"
"With practice," Hermione said. "But imagine! How cool will it be to fly without a broom? To be able to catch yourself if you ever fall from a great height?"
"Also, it's fun," Luna's voice chimed in. Hermione turned to see Luna hovering next to her in the air, as casual about it as you please. Hermione blinked at her, stunned, and Luna just looked back at her. There was the faintest shimmer in the air behind her, as if Luna had grown wings of a slightly heavier air, and Hermione's suspicion grew.
"Luna," she said slowly, "have you managed to master flying already?"
"Of a sort," Luna said easily. "The sylph seems to have strong opinions about flying, and I'm just following its guidance, really."
She flitted around the trees like a fairy, and Hermione was envious of her easy, precise movements. She still struggled with sharp turns and changes like that herself.
"How come we all didn't face a sylph?" Blaise grumbled. "I want control like that."
Susan bopped him over the head.
"Did you forget how badly Luna struggled?" she demanded, hands on her hips. "She was nearly consumed. She was very lucky. It's far better for us to just practice and earn this skill, you know."
Harry was carefully practicing, jumping from place to place, each jump going a little higher, but often his jumps would encounter a slight breeze, which would end up blowing him way off course.
"This is kind of fun," he said, grinning at them. "Hermione, how long have you been able to do this for?"
"A while," Hermione admitted. "It took several months to be able to fly reliably. It was about a year to get really good at it, though."
Harry hummed.
"I can manage a year," he mused. His eyes sparkled. "Wonder if this'll give me an advantage in Quidditch, yeah?"
Much of the afternoon was spent with Hermione encouraging her friends, holding their hands as they tried to leap into the air together, and patching up bruises and cuts from her friends falling from great heights or blasting off into the nearby trees. She was glad she'd learned Episkey – Susan's aunt would have been horrified if Susan had gone home covered in gashes and cuts from landing in some unfortunately-placed bramble bushes.
When it was around supper time, they all parted and went home. Hermione's parents were waiting for her, setting dinner out just as she arrived, and they gave her a smile.
"Welcome back, witch," her mother teased her. "Much bubbling, boiling, toiling and troubling today?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "We practiced flying," she informed her. "No bubbling and boiling today."
Her mother laughed. "Of course you did."
"Let's eat," her father said, setting out the silverware. "Hermione will want to change before we go to the Carvers'."
Dinner wasn't rushed, but Hermione ate quickly and efficiently, conversation minimized. When they were done, Hermione's mother went upstairs with her, pulling out what she'd bought for Hermione to wear. It was a black dress, but a simple fit and flare, nothing overly ornate – something Hermione might wear to a nice restaurant, and she was surprised at the choice.
"Is this all?" she questioned her mother. "If that's all, I have dresses like this already, Mum."
"Not that fit anymore, dear," her mother advised. "You've grown quite a bit since you've worn something like this. They'd be too tight and short on you now."
Hermione pulled the dress over her head, examining her reflection. Her mother had done well picking out her size, though the dress had a bit of a stretch to it.
"Tights or hose," her mother advised. "It's a formal sort of occasion."
Her mother left to go get dressed herself, and Hermione found herself rummaging in her drawers for some tights. With a pause, she took her wand and transfigured them, giving them roses curling up the backs of her legs on vines. She conjured a red rose and affixed it to a hairband she put into her hair (she'd watched Cedric conjure them often enough, now; it wasn't hard to mimic his spell), and she took a costume jewelry choker she'd had as a child and lengthened the chain, charming the pale blue stone in the middle to a blood red as well.
When she was done, she looked very serious and solemn, she thought, a mix between an Edwardian-dressed young child and a gothic Victorian woman who owned a haunted manor. She liked the look, though; she looked formal and slightly spooky – exactly as one should look when going to a séance, she imagined.
Her father looked mildly impressed and amused when she came downstairs to wait for her mother. He was in a crisp black suit with a white shirt, though his shirt was unbuttoned a couple buttons and he wore no tie.
"Too hot to be too formal," he told her, grinning. "Hopefully the ghosts won't take offense."
Hermione obliged her father with a cooling charm, which he was grateful for. As she stashed her wand away, it occurred to Hermione that she was going to a muggle house – she wouldn't be permitted to just cast magic there willy-nilly. She frowned, wondering what to do if things went very badly, when her mother came down the stairs.
Hermione had to admit her mother looked very pretty. She wore a long dress that reached the ground, and it was fitted the whole way through with a row of buttons at the top. It looked to be made of silk or satin, and she really did look like she was a Victorian woman who owned a haunted mansion, especially with her hair all curled and pinned up under a fascinator like that.
"Jean!" Her father stepped forward, offering his hand gallantly, which her mother took as she climbed down the rest of the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom, he immediately tugged her into an embrace and deep kiss, which made her mother laugh and Hermione turn away.
"I'm the luckiest man alive," he declared. "Look at my beautiful wife and my beautiful daughter. You both look so fancy."
Her mother laughed.
"You're not the only one who enjoys dressing up," her mother said, teasing him. "Women just like to do it in a way different from men."
Her father just grinned. "Whatever you say, love. Whatever you say."
As all the guests set up for the séance, Hermione was glad she'd dressed as she had. The entire thing seemed like it'd been taken straight from the 1920s, including the awful decorating in the sitting room they were in. The wallpaper had to be from decades ago, the furniture was tacky and horrid, and the entire room had a musty, old-person type of smell permeating the space.
The other adults hadn't been bothered in the slightest with Hermione accompanying her parents, one of them even commenting, "It's good to start them young. That way if they have a gift, they can hone it, and even if they don't, it's good to instill the proper respect in them for the metaphysical ways." She'd gestured to her own child, a boy who looked to be a couple years younger than Hermione. He looked thoroughly miserable and like he wanted to be absolutely anywhere but where he was, and Hermione just nodded politely and quickly moved away.
Everyone sat around a large oval table. In the middle of the table was a board with letters and numbers on it and what looked like a magnifying glass in the shape of a guitar pick sitting overtop of it. There were candles set out as well as incense sticks, and Hermione found herself incredibly curious.
Before they got started, introductions quickly went around the table, the names of everyone quickly slipping through Hermione's mind. The only one she managed to catch and remember was the boy's – Gerald – and that was only because his mother made him "speak up, no one can hear you, dear" twice until he'd nearly screamed it the third time.
"Is Madame Tulily unable to make it today?" one of the adults asked. She looked perturbed. "I thought she was coming."
"She's just running a little late," a man answered, apologetic. "I thought we could get started without her, but we can wait if you'd prefer."
"We can at least figure out a way to decide an order?" a woman suggested. "Will that work?"
The adults agreed this seemed to be a good idea. Slips of paper and pens went around the table, and Hermione found herself looking at a blank piece of paper, having absolutely no idea what to do with it.
"Write a name down on it, dear," the older woman to her right advised her. "Whomever you're hoping to speak to from the other side."
This entire thing was creepy, Hermione thought, biting her lip as she looked around the table at everyone writing names down. Her father had written down Alan Turing, while her mother had written down Margaret Adley. Hermione gave her mother a sharp look, who winked at her and held a finger to her lips silently.
Right. Her parents were doing this as much to test this medium as much as to see what happened. Writing down the name of her alive sister was a fair way for her mother to do that, Hermione figured, though it seemed dark and unfair. Turning back to her own paper, Hermione finally wrote down Anthea Nott, before folding it and tossing it into a hat with all the others. If this muggle ritual worked, she'd get to see Theo's mum and maybe find out some of the dark secrets Theo held close to his chest. If not, no harm, no foul, she reasoned.
Still, Hermione tried to shake the feeling like she was somehow committing a grave violation of Theo's privacy, by writing his mother's name down on a slip of paper.
When Madame Tulily arrived, it was in a cloud of an exotic scent and to the tinkling of chains, and Hermione looked up to see a dark-haired woman take a seat. She had very dark eye makeup on, a dark scarlet lipstick, and a stylish gold turban, like one might see in old Hollywood films. She was wearing a very long, very dramatic black dress, with drooping, gauzy sleeves. If there had been buttons up the front, it was the sort of thing Hermione might see being worn in Diagon Alley, she mused. Atop of the dress lay what must have been at least a dozen necklaces, all clinking together as they moved.
"Are we ready?" Madame Tulily asked. She had an accent, Hermione noted – something Eastern European? Russian? She wasn't sure.
"We're ready," the man who seemed to be the host said hurriedly, eager. He held up the hat. "We all wrote names down. We figured whichever called to you the most would be who we were meant to try and speak to."
Hermione rolled her eyes.
The medium reached into the hat and withdrew a slip of paper. "Albert Pierrepoint," she read aloud. She looked around the table. "Who wishes to speak to Albert Pierrepoint?"
"I do." A prim but younger woman said, raising her hand.
Hermione's father shifted next to her mother, two seats to Hermione's left, looking disgruntled while the host lit the candles.
"What kind of people want to summon an executioner?" he said quietly to her mother. "That's rather disturbing."
"I suppose we'll find out why," her mother whispered back, just as softly, Hermione leaning closer to her parents to eavesdrop.
The medium proceeded to lead them all through a breathing exercise, one meant to 'settle their souls into the silence of the beyond'. Hermione followed along, though she peeked instead of closing her eyes entirely, watching the medium with suspicion. The breathing exercise wasn't dissimilar to something Hermione might lead her coven through before a ritual to help settle and center their magic, but her accent seemed inconsistent and variable.
After that was enough, the medium bid them all open their eyes and to join hands.
"Together, we will call upon Albert Pierrepoint," she said, her accent heavy. She straightened up, close her eyes, and intoned. "Albert Pierrepoint, we invite you to our circle, to feel the light of life despite your death. Commune with us, Albert Pierrepoint, and move among us."
"Commune with us, Albert Pierrepoint, and move among us," the circle chanted. "Commune with us, Albert Pierrepoint, and move among us."
Hermione kept her lips sealed. This was creepy enough already; the last thing she wanted to do was accidentally take part in a Dark necromancy ritual.
After the group had chanted several times, their chanting growing louder at the medium's guidance, there was a sudden violent rapping at the table, and everyone fell into a hushed silence.
"Albert Pierrepoint is among us," the medium intoned. Her voice sounded different, and her eyes had rolled into the back of her head. "Ask your questions."
From what Hermione could gather, Albert Pierrepoint was a famous executioner from decades and decades ago. The prim woman who'd submitted his name seemed to only want to ask him questions about if a man called John Haigh had told him where he'd hidden his treasure trove of victims' possessions, and Hermione felt a little ill, though the medium said, in a gravelly voice, that the killer had told him no such thing.
After Albert Pierrepoint came an attempt to reach Elizabeth Tudor, who did not answer their call, despite their chanting, which Hermione smirked at. Any facts about Queen Elizabeth I the medium made up could be easily verified or refuted, and she was unsurprised the medium didn't want to go there.
A man's dead mother, Dorothy Decampo, answered the summons, however, and told her son through the medium that she was at peace, and that he needed to move on with his life. The man broke down sobbing, apologizing for not being there with her at the end, and Hermione looked away, uncomfortable.
To her parents' disappointment, the medium was unable to contact the spirit of Margaret Adley, nor could they seem to reach Alan Turing. Each time a name was attempted, they all had to go through the whole breathing exercise and chanting thing again, and Hermione was getting rather bored.
The next name to come up was Norbert Leachley, something that struck Hermione as vaguely familiar. An old political figure, maybe? Or just a name she'd read on a name tag somewhere?
"He was my uncle, and he just vanished after a time," the woman who'd submitted the claim said, anxious. "I just want to know what happened to him, really. Maybe if we can't contact him, it means he's still alive somewhere."
"We will find out for you," Madame Tulily reassured the woman, and they all joined hands again, breathing deeply. "Take deep breaths and settle yourselves into the liminal space inside your soul, and we will ready our call."
As they all took each other's hands again, something felt different to Hermione. Was the hand in her own particularly warm, or were her own hands clammy?
"Commune with us, Norbert Leachley, and move among us," the medium led, the circle chanting after her. "Commune with us, Norbert Leachley, and move among us."
Hermione jerked in her chair, feeling what felt like a pinprick on her palm. She shot a sharp look at the woman to her right, but the woman's eyes were closed, chanting.
"Commune with us, Norbert Leachley, and move among us. Commune with us, Norbert Leachley, and move among us."
Something was wrong, Hermione realized, her eyes going wide. That sharp pain on her palm, the feeling of something bad happening – something different was happening, and she didn't like it one bit. Her eyes darted around in alarm, looking for anyone else sensing the same thing, but everyone else was just chanting, the chanting growing louder and louder.
"Commune with us, Norbert Leachley, and move among us."
Hermione stifled a gasp as something was wrenched from her palm. It felt like a bloom of blood into a glass of water, and she belatedly realized that pain, the feeling of losing something, that was her magic – they had somehow ripped some of her magic from her, and it hurt.
Hermione tried to let go of the woman's hand, but the other woman was chanting louder, her eyes tightly shut and her hand tight on her own.
"Commune with us, Norbert Leachley, and move among us. Commune with us, Norbert Leachley, and move among us."
The feeling of being drained sent burning pain through Hermione's right arm, and she began to panic.
"Stop it!" she said, yanking at her hand. "Cut it out!"
The woman shot her a dark look and held her hand even tighter, still chanting.
"Commune with us, Norbert Leachley, and move among us."
"It's wrong!" Hermione said, tugging at her hand, the woman holding on even harder. Other people were beginning to look at as she made a commotion, though they still chanted. Hermione looked around at them all desperately. "Can't you feel it's going wrong?"
As the last chant of "Commune with us, Norbert Leachley, and move among us", a sudden chill wind blew through the room as if from nowhere, and the candles went out. People gasped as the electric lights flickered, and the table began to rattle.
"He is coming," Madame Tulily said gravely. "Norbert Leachley, come, and manifest among us!"
With a wrenching pop, abruptly there was a ghost floating above the table, looking highly annoyed. He massaged his neck as if it were sore, and to Hermione's astonishment, he was wearing robes.
"It's Nobby," he told Madame Tulily told her crossly. "Nobby Leach. Haven't been called Norbert for years. If you're going to hassle me, at least get it right."
Madame Tulily didn't respond or react, and Hermione stifled a giggle.
"Norbert is among us," Madame Tulily intoned. "I can feel him among us. However, he has chosen to speak on his own, not through me. Ask your questions."
"What, am I supposed to possess you?" Nobby asked the medium, highly offended. "I would never. That's rude."
It was somewhat surreal to see a ghost around muggles, the ghost admonishing them and talking at them, and the muggles entirely unaware of it at all. Hermione certainly hadn't expected this sort of result at the séance. She wondered what her parents would make of it, when she told them what she had seen later.
Meanwhile, the muggles at the table had shifted, congregating around the board with letters and numbers.
"Put your hands on the planchette," the medium instructed. "Norbert will guide it around the Oujia board, answering your questions."
"It's Nobby, you charlatan, and I will do what now?" The ghost looked severely annoyed, bending over to examine the board in the middle more closely. "Oh, bother. This is going to take forever, isn't it?"
The woman who'd submitted his name first asked, "Are you with us, Norbert?" which Hermione thought a stupid question – hadn't the candles going out and cold wind from nowhere been enough?
"Yes, you blasted girl," Nobby said, annoyed. Hermione watched as the ghost reached for the planchette. "How am I supposed to move this damned thing? Oh, wait – okay, this glass is helping…"
Hermione and her parents got up and moved around the table for a closer look at the Ouija board. From Hermione's quick glances around, she was the only one looking at the ghost, the only one able to see Nobby wrestling with the planchette.
"This would be much easier if you'd take your own hands off of it," Nobby said in irritation. "Why are you even – aha!"
The planchette finally was dragged over to Yes, and the room gasped.
"He's here," one man said in awe, and Hermione had the freak urge to smack him upside the head.
"Norbert, you vanished from the family many years ago," the woman said. "We looked for you, but we could never find you. Where did you go?"
"Away from you lot, that's for damn sure," Nobby muttered as he manipulated the planchette. "Never were supportive of me – had to send the Obliviators for your own damn safety, didn't I?"
The planchette slowly moved over the letters, pausing periodically to spell out London, which one person wrote down one painstaking letter at a time.
"Why did you leave us?" the woman pleaded.
"Oh, Merlin's pants, really?" Nobby huffed. "How to translate this to muggles…"
Hermione watched as Nobby very slowly spelled out 'Worked for secret government. Wasn't safe for you," sending gasps around the table.
"My uncle was a secret spy for the government!" the woman breathed. Her eyes were awed. "He was protecting us!"
Everyone looked impressed, and even Madame Tulily looked surprised with how things had gone.
"How did you die?" Hermione said aloud.
Everyone turned to look at her, and Hermione startled slightly; she hadn't realized she was going to say anything until she had. The ghost was looking at her too, but Hermione was trying not to make eye contact – she didn't want the muggles thinking she was mad, actually able to see the ghost when none of them could.
"That's a good question," the woman said. "Uncle, how and why did you die?"
"Poisoned," Nobby said irritably, manipulating the planchette to spell out 'assassination'. "Bloody Malfoy took offense to me being the first Muggle-born Minister of Magic, that's why."
Hermione sucked in her breath sharply, her eyes widening. Her mind whirred over what she knew of the Malfoy family while the muggles murmured and gasped over the letters they were slowly writing down. The woman was about her mother's age, which would mean a generation or two back…
"Abraxas?" Hermione said aloud, scrunching up her face.
The ghost turned to look at her in astonishment. One of the muggles turned to look at her.
"No, it says 'assassination'," the muggle told her patiently. "We're waiting to see more."
Hermione ignored him, looking directly at Nobby Leach now, who was looking at her.
"You're a witch," he said, shocked. He glanced down at the table, then back at her. "What are you doing here, then, playing with all this muggle rubbish?"
Hermione bit her lip. She was now in the odd spot of needing to communicate to the ghost indirectly, similarly to the ghost's own plight a moment ago.
"Mum, Dad, do you have a good view?" she said, touching her mother on the sleeve. "I can move if you want a closer look?"
Her mother looked at her oddly. "Thank you, dear."
She swapped places with her mother, and Nobby looked like he understood.
"Muggle-born," he said with satisfaction. "Parents probably dragged you along to this thing, yeah?"
Hermione nodded surreptitiously. The muggles around the board were asking now, "Who killed you, uncle?" and the ghost was slowly forcing the planchette around the board, spelling out 'political rival'.
"It was Abraxas Malfoy, that's who did it," Nobby told her directly. His eyes darkened. "Is he still around?"
Hermione shook her head, drawing a line across her throat, and Nobby looked pleased.
"Good," he said. "How?"
Hermione mouthed 'Dragon Pox', and Nobby snorted.
"Dragon Pox," he said dismissively. "Shame. Would have preferred it if someone else offed him like he did me."
The muggles were exclaiming over the board's latest revelation, wondering what to ask next.
"Ask him if there's any proof of who did it to him," Hermione suggested. Her eyes flicked up to Nobby's. "If there's hidden evidence somewhere, maybe you can get justice for him, even though he died."
Nobby's eyes widened, and he looked pensive.
"Any trace of the poison is long gone," he said. "I think they used Baneberry Potion – I saw too many toads around my place the night I died for it to have been anything else. But if I know Abraxas – and I did – he wouldn't have just been satisfied with my death." His face darkened. "He'd have wanted a memento to remember his triumph over me."
"What?" Hermione mouthed. The muggles had moved on, not liking her suggested question, and were discussing what else to ask amongst themselves.
"If I had to guess, probably my signet ring," he said finally. He nodded to himself. "I was Minister, you see, so I had to develop one for myself, even though I didn't have a wizarding family. It was expected, for the Minister to sign and stamp certain documents with his personal signet. I was probably one of the first Muggleborns to develop a crest and signet design for myself." He smiled nastily. "Abraxas probably didn't like that at all."
Her friends had been talking about her needing to come up with a House Crest of her own, Hermione remembered, as part of her political run. Nobby must have done the same thing.
Suddenly frustrated with the slow, secretive method of speaking with him, she turned to her mother.
"May I be excused for a moment?" she asked. "I need the loo."
Her mother looked surprised, then thoughtful.
"Madame Tulily," she asked. "If my daughter needs to use the restroom, will that disturb or break the energies?"
The medium looked baffled for a brief moment, before quickly assuming her mysterious expression once more.
"It is a risk," she said in her haunting voice, "but perhaps we have kept Norbert too long as it is."
Hermione took that as permission and left the room, heading for the stairs.
"Hang on, now!" Nobby protested. "I'm coming with you!"
The muggles all exclaimed as the planchette abruptly flipped itself over, and Nobby was zooming along next to her a moment later.
"I can't believe neither of us thought of that for that long," he said. "Good thinking."
Hermione smirked. Her voice was a whisper.
"Thanks."