ACT II
CHAPTER 5. THE HAUNTING OF GRIMMAULD SQUARE
January 10th, 1600
Tumbrils littered with dead bodies were scattered across the empty streets of Grimmauld Square. The stench of the cadavers had permeated every square inch of this once lively part of town. Remnants of the last plague or death by wand, it was often hard to tell—the bodies had fallen into decay, their dried blood filling the gutters and encrusting the pavements.
There was no one left in Grimmauld Square… no one, except the Order of the Phoenix.
They had set up camp in the Black house over a year ago, once word of the first death by the Terror had spread. It had begun with familiar faces: Neville, Luna, Ginny, Anthony, even Cho, and a werewolf Lavender. As the months passed, more and more Muggleborns joined, fearing for the lives of their families and friends. They now outnumbered the Half-Bloods and the Purebloods by miles—something Hermione hadn't quite expected to happen. She had lost faith in her kind at first—seeing hundreds of them transported like cattle to serve Pureblood houses as slaves had told her instincts they would all hide in fear. Instead, they rallied behind her, willing to fight the multiple threats being thrown at them, putting their lives on the line. Perhaps because they had nothing left to lose—it was now kill or be killed.
That morning, a handful of them had returned from a skirmish, the euphoria of well-deserved victory lighting up their eyes, while the rest of their parts either bled, oozed pus or dangled in a mess of broken bones. Hermione handed them off to Parvati, their resident nurse and Healer in training.
"Do you need help, Parvati? There's more than a few of them," she asked.
"If you don't mind." Parvati refused to even meet her gaze.
Hermione rolled up her sleeves and joined her in the kitchen, where a colourful ensemble of pots, pans and vials awaited to be used on the latest patients. Parvati hovered over a potion or two before turning back to Hermione.
"I'm going to go ahead and cure the most urgent cases. Could you please make sure all these are removed from the stove once they're done? Also, erm, this one," she pointed to a smaller iron pot sitting in a corner, "needs something, though I can't quite figure out what it is. I'm sure you'll be able to."
Hermione noticed Parvati's hand was shaking—she was noticeably exhausted, dark circles eating up her eyes and heavy creases drawn in her skin.
"It's alright, Parvati. I'll take care of it," she reassured her friend, laying a friendly hand on her arm. "I can follow up with the patients too, if you need some rest."
Parvati jerked her arm away. "I'm fine."
Like most in the Order, Parvati harboured resentment for Hermione's efforts. Despite the amount of time she spent in the infirmary, helping Parvati heal patients and making potions until her hands dried, cracked and bled, she was treated with hostility for her other activities. Namely, her focus on rallying towns and villagers behind her—no matter the blood status.
The Order believed one joined a mission such as theirs based on the nobility of their beliefs. The true heroes would shine brightly, blindly following the truth of the Light, the verity of their Holy mission, never wavering in the face of adversity. Hermione thought differently—the Order needed to be wielded by the largest number, even if that included those who did not have utter and complete faith in them. They needed strategic crowds, operating together under a common goal, even if they were united for different reasons, different values. This meant reaching out to even those most hostile to her, to her people: the poor Purebloods, those consisting of peasants walking the Earth and lamenting the loss of their crops to the pan-European famine, a structuring part of the miserable working class, aching for a better tomorrow, for the survival of their children.
They were reluctant to join forces with the Muggleborns, of course—but this was only upon first contact. As time went on, they befriended those they had distrusted, fought by their side, and even died for them. Purity of the mission wasn't what had crowded their dozens of safe houses or turned entire burgs in their favour—not that it mattered. It remained, in all its glory, the only reason for joining the Order that the likes of Harry or Parvati would accept. Others were less prone to fight Hermione on the matter—Kingsley, always a political force, agreed on the sheer principle. Though he stood in favour of arguing for the Light, he understood certain sacrifices were to be made, certain compromises to be reached. Ron, too, was growing tired of purity and ideals—though her disagreed with Hermione's strategy too. This perhaps angered Harry the most. Hermione heard them yell through the doors whenever she made a stop at headquarters. She gathered that Harry did not unleash the same fury on her out of courtesy, or perhaps friendship—though he had grown to be noticeably colder to her.
Parvati left the room and Hermione to her own devices. She snapped out of her reminiscence and leaned over the potion she had been directed to. Its thick consistency, coupled with the radiant green tint it had, seemed to fit the description of a Noxious potion. Hermione frowned and opened the closest poison book she could find, on the shelving Molly had added for all recipes, meal and potions alike. She ran her finger down the index and opened the book on the correct page—583.
"The Noxious potion, first invented by Amity Cabbage in 1034, is designed to corrupt the mind and plant violent thoughts in the mind of those it is consumed by. Its sickening smell is its greatest inconvenience—making it easy to deter the intended target. Skilled Alchemists can usually cover the smell with a healthy dosage of essence of rose, to be added carefully, a drop at a time, while mixing the potion counterclockwise, after pouring in the Sulphur. In order to produce it, one will need: a pint of cow's milk, five Doxy eggs, ten grams of Sulphur, two ounces of armadillo bile, half a pint of flobberworm mucus, three shakes of whale oil, a pinch of Mountain Troll Dung, one lemon's juice and a handful of Poppy seeds."
She closed the book and placed it back amongst the others, frowning. She was not reluctant to see Dark Magic being used for their purposes—after all, she was a proponent of Machiavelli's concept of the end justifying the means—but this was something else entirely. It would do no good to infect the spirits of their enemies with corrupted ideals of violence and rage.
This could only mean one thing.
The potion would be used among their ranks.
Hermione stared back at the pasty concoction. It seemed the addition of Sulphur had been missed—as such, it was currently useless. Evaporating it was pointless—it could just be made again, and again, and again.
Parvati chose this moment to enter their makeshift laboratory.
"So, do you know what's wrong with it?" she asked.
"Are you attempting to create Noxious potion?" Hermione didn't bother pretending she did not understand what was going on.
"It's Ron's idea. I think it's quite brilliant. It'll give them some teeth during skirmishes," Parvati shrugged. Hermione could not help but notice the enamoured expression on her face as she mentioned Ron.
"You're a Healer in training, Parvati. Surely you're aware of the side effects? Corrupting the mind of others has a price," she gravely stated in response, stirring the paste, as if to reduce said effects.
"They've agreed to it, Hermione. You've quoted that Muggle philosopher to Harry long enough—are you the only one around here who can make ethically grey decisions? Perhaps you should enlighten us to the lengths we're allowed to go to. Maybe sign us a permission slip." Sarcasm dripped from her voice, acidic and bubbling. The usually tranquil waters of her face began to move, agitated by the currents of her anger.
"You're against me recruiting amongst the Pureblood peasants, but this is fine?" hissed Hermione in response. "Do what you will, Parvati. I'm not the one who signed the Hippocratic oath, after all."
On those words, she left the kitchen and ran up the stairs to the war room, where Ron had set up camp on the rare nights he slept at the house. She found him asleep on the grey cot placed in the furthest corner of the room.
His face had grown tired, traversed by creases of worry, lines of anguish. Deep valleys of pain surrounded his once innocent blue eyes, now darkened by the suffering, the responsibilities. When he slept, Hermione could see a shadow of the adolescent he used to be—he was still in there, hidden, not quite evaporated yet. His humour had turned to bitter sarcasm, his flighty mood to bouts of unexplained anger, his casual demeanour to a constant sense of dread. He carried the child he had been in his guts, never letting him out for a ride. It was painful to see—as painful as his constant bickering with Harry was. He, too, had changed his ideals—they were as removed from Harry's as Hermione's were, but in an altogether different direction. One led by a path of destructive rage.
Hermione often wondered if Fred's death was at the root of this change—or if the war would have harboured the same results, regardless of grief, regardless of loss. She would never know. Ron never talked to her anymore—he only yelled at her.
The reminder of their previous fights bubbled to the surface, and she shook him awake. His body stiffened and he rose up, nestling a dagger he slept with against her throat.
"Ron, it's me, Hermione," she struggled.
His eyes opened and he let her go just as suddenly as he had taken hold of her.
"Sorry… You shouldn't have done that. You should know by now that I'm always on guard," he muttered sleepily.
She stared at him for a moment. She was certainly glad they had broken things off last August… she could not have stood being with this version of him. He scared her.
She cleared her throat. "We need to talk."
"What about, Hermione? It's been a week since I've slept on a bed. Unless it's life or death, I'd rather get back to it. We can talk later," he mumbled as he laid back down, his dagger once again stashed under his tunic.
"It is life or death, Ronald." His ears perked up at the sound of his full name. "It's about the Noxious potion. Or, should I say, poison," hissed Hermione.
Ron turned his head to look up at her. There was no regret there, no desire for forgiveness.
"And what about it, Hermione? Our troops enjoy the idea," he stated. He seemed bored, like he'd repeated that exact phrase hundreds of times already. "Besides, you've been advocating for the use of more aggressive magic. I can hardly see why you're torn up about it."
"Aggressive magic directed at the enemy, Ron. Not spoon-fed to those we're sending into battle. This will lead to irreparable damage." Tears welled up at the corner of her eyes. She began to feel guilt creep up—was she truly responsible for this? Had she influenced Ron when she had suggested they stop limiting themselves to Expelliarmus?
"It was that or Imperio," he threw back, now standing in front of her, towering over her, a menacing shadow of rage and violence.
"I don't understand your logic," she spat. "You were the first one to blame me for inviting Purebloods hostile to Mudbloods within our ranks."
It suddenly dawned on her.
"Are they the ones taking it? The poison? Are… are you p-poisoning th-those I recruited?" she stuttered, stepping back.
"Oh, believe me, Hermione, they were more than eager. You were right, you know, these people have a bit more teeth than our usual recruits. They hate Gaunt more than they hate the likes of you, or the likes of I, which makes them absolutely ruthless in battle." He smirked. "But you know the minute we win, they will turn on us. The Noxious poison will ensure we always have the upper hand. It's all… strategic." He let out a bitter laugh.
Hermione's eyes widened with horror. This wasn't Ron.
This wasn't Ron.
"You've taken some too. How much?" The anger bubbled up her throat, letting all the doubt and fear go. Her strength regained her.
"None of your business. We're winning, that's all that matters," he brushed her off.
"You've gravely misinterpreted my words. Whether that's involuntary or not. You need to take the antidote… it might be too late, but we can still try," she urged him as she placed a hand on his wrist, trying to appeal to the boy she had loved, the boy she had grown up with.
It was the man, the one she could not recognise, who jerked her away, his every feature radiating with disgust.
"Don't touch me, Hermione. You're the one who ended it. You don't get to make decisions for me. I do not plan to outlive this war, simply to win it, to have it over with. There is nothing waiting for me beyond… you and Harry will soak up all the glory, all the love, while I will be forgotten, tossed away like the blood-traitor garbage I am." The poison in his voice reminded Hermione of the hold the Horcruxe had on him while he was wearing it. He'd never seemed more spiteful than he had then… until now.
She looked at the tips of his fingers and noticed they had already begun to turn green—the colour was faint, like smudged ink.
She was too late.
He had ingested too much.
"It's already poisoning your mind. If you don't stop now, there's no coming back from this. You'll be green with envy and rage for years to come, so filled with resentment for those who love you that you will lose them. You'll lose them all. Don't you understand the Noxious is feeding you all these lies about being forgotten, about having nothing more to expect? Can't you see Parvati falling in love with you? Me trying to save you? Harry trying to knock some sense into you? Do you think any of this would be happening if we didn't care, if you were just cannon-fodder?" she tried to reason him, shivering in the horror of her discovery.
"Fuck off, Hermione."
She stared as he returned to the cot. She looked as he lay back down, shaking off the conversation they just had, like it meant nothing.
Ronald Weasley was no more. Her Ron was gone, now and forever.
Hermione sighed and returned to the kitchen, defeated and tired. There was more war to come, more destruction to witness, and yet it felt like they had already lost.
June 2nd, 1600
The soft light of dusk burst through the trees, silently sweeping the night away from the premises, promising a new day to cherish ahead. Hermione sighed—she had to return soon. Collecting herbs and fungi for the next batch of restorative potions had taken longer than predicted—the early summer days had already affected what grew in the area, and she knew there'd be nothing of use soon.
She hurried across the field and grabbed a handful of flaxseeds, chopped away some boletus edulis and Apparated back to Grimmauld Square. Rumours had begun to circulate that Gaunt could track Muggleborns' magic use, but Hermione had chosen to forget those for now until she could be sure they were written into law.
It made sense, of course, that this would happen eventually. Hermione had always thought it odd that wands were needed to perform magic when all children younger than eleven years of age performed incredible feats of magic without knowing how or why. It was Minerva's theory that wands were introduced to control the wizarding population, to ensure no one would grow too greedy with power, unstoppable and pouring magic from their fingertips alone. Hermione firmly believed this to be true—thus, she knew that, at some point or other, those who owned wands registered to them would be tracked one way or another.
Hermione would gladly have replaced her wand with one stolen—but they had become a scarce resource, one only accessible after the most successful of raids, which they were having increasingly less of. Even then, Hermione wasn't a priority—she had a functional wand and switching it out for a stolen one was akin to a caprice, a child's tantrum. She had vaguely suggested that wands be exchanged, but the very idea was flimsy, at best—and even Hermione knew that. Wand magic could not be wielded to the whims of wizards. Even then, those whose wands were registered and thus attached to their blood status knew they were either facing the possibility of either being killed for their wand or rejected for it. This entire enterprise would have drawn harsher lines between those of pure magical blood and those of Muggle descent—it was too big a risk to take.
Thus, Hermione remained under the dutiful eye of the Ministry, soon to be tracked with her every spell, her every move carefully catalogued. She knew she would have to figure out how to wield her own magical energy using her very hands—something she neither had the time nor the ability to do. This was an all-around losing battle—much like those happening on the field.
Harry was already in the kitchen, a steaming cup of mulled wine in his hands. Hermione set down her harvest on the table and began sorting the ingredients, transferring them to the appropriate jars, paying him no mind. They hadn't talked in three months, and she certainly did not intend to be the first one to break the silence, should that happen at all.
"How do you feel about our potion stock?" Harry asked after Hermione placed the lid on the last jar.
She turned to face him, bewildered. "I mean, fine. Why do you care?" She couldn't help the edge in her voice.
"Just making conversation," he shrugged. "Haven't seen you in a while," he added.
"It's not like you tried," bitterly laughed Hermione. "No matter. I have a council to head to, up in Bury St Edmunds. I shouldn't be late, it was hard enough convincing them to let me in," she concluded as she closed her knapsack.
"Wait, Hermione." There was no urgency in his voice. She dithered.
"Just for a minute, then. I really can't be late," she stressed upon him, turning to face him.
Much like Ron's, his face was creased and considerably paler than when they had met, ten years ago. Skirmishes often happened at night, and the remainder of his days were spent in the war room, arguing with either Kingsley or Ron, depending on who offended him more that day.
"Do you really need to keep doing this, Hermione? I appreciate your sense of duty but going against bigoted Purebloods to have them join us every chance you get seems futile an effort. We have a lot of wizards amongst us already." His voice was attempting to be friendly, even empathetic, but Hermione could feel the disdain under the layers of pretence.
"How many battles have you lost in the past month, Harry? Seven?"
She saw the light dim in his eyes.
"Exactly," she added, not wanting to argue further. "Futile it may appear to you, but you are not a victim of the Terror. Not even of this regime. Voldemort is dead. He was your true enemy." She paused, and what came out of her mouth next was but a whisper. "My true enemy is everywhere, at all times. I can't be making my choices based on ideologies or utopian ideals. I have to think strategically."
"Hermione, I…"
"Don't, Harry. I'm tired of having this argument with you. I'm aware of what everyone here thinks of me. I know Parvati resents having to care for my recruits. I know Kingsley only accepts my doing because he's out of options. I know Ron poisons those same recruits because he sees them as cannon fodder. I know Ginny will never agree to talk to me, ever again. But have you noticed how every single person I've mentioned is of purer blood than me? How none of you will ever face the dread and horror of the Terror? It tracks Mudbloods by the scent of their blood, Harry. So forgive me for putting my people ahead, for thinking of their wellbeing, because we are the primary victims of this war. You may want to believe we all stand for the same values, the same ideals, but reality has proven us wrong. You are my ally—not the other way around." She looked up at him. "You and I will never be equals in this world."
She grabbed her knapsack and stepped out of the kitchen without waiting for an answer. She knew a line had been crossed, one she was never going to come back from. Not that it mattered—in the eyes of those she had loved so fiercely, she was nothing more than a traitor.
As she walked out of Grimmauld Square, she noticed a streak of blond hair turning a corner. She tried to inch closer but, by the time she reached the corner, the hair was nowhere to be seen.
Shaking it off as a mere delusion induced by her constant state of fatigue, Hermione pulled her wand out and Apparated to Bury St Edmund's, where a council had been set up to discuss the village's official position on the ongoing war. Unlike the previous burgs and villages Hermione had been to, Bury St Edmund's had no Muggleborns amongst its ranks. The few Half-Bloods who lived there made themselves discreet—as they were usually the results of unholy affairs between Pureblood aristocrats and their Muggleborn servants. Bastards, outcasts, even with traceable lineage. They belonged to a class of their own, never bothered because most knew who fathered them, but never quite taken to, because all knew who birthed them.
Hermione had questioned for some time how susceptible Half-Bloods were to the Terror. Could It detect those who were only part Mudbloods? Evidence tended to show that was not the case—though Hermione still wondered why. It was yet another question she was growing frustrated with—yet another mystery no one other than her bothered to question, to solve. It seemed no one had learned their lesson since the tireless propaganda under Voldemort's reign. The words spilling from Gaunt's mouth were taken as gospel.
The village's council had assembled in the town square, where wobbly wooden chairs had been lined up in several rows of four. A few men were already sitting, chatting amongst themselves.
"I hear a Mudblood is joinin' us. Don't seem right to me, no it don't," muttered one.
His companion nodded in approval. Still hidden by the hood of her cloak, Hermione shivered. It didn't bode well for her.
She knew she could knock out the entire village with one flick of her wand, but still resented the very idea. The less bloodshed, the better. She was here as a negotiator, not an instigator.
She sat in the back and watched as more and more men took a seat. The soft hum of the earlier chatter soon became a loud buzz, putting her on edge. It did not help that she noticed the women staying home, observing the events from afar, hidden to the public. She was alone not in one, but two regards.
She took a deep breath. She had convinced larger and more vicious crowds than this one—it was unlikely that a handful of uneducated peasants would knock her down. She would bet her life none of them had the ability or the means to go to Hogwarts—as was often the case with the poorer Purebloods. This was always a double-edged sword for her—either they resented her for being of lesser blood yet having had access to that education, or they rallied around her, feeling that they too were being unjustly treated.
A short and stout man soon joined them. He stood in front of the seated audience and pointed his wand to his throat, amplifying his voice.
"Welcome, friends and neighbours. We're here to discuss an urgent state of affairs. As most of you know, Augustus Gaunt has launched a war, and has raised our taxes for it. We've resisted taking part for well over a year now, but we're now forced to pick a side. This urgent council will decide on what side that is. As usual, a vote will be had, and those owning land will count for two votes," he declared gravely.
Hermione heard some grumble amongst the audience—those, she supposed, who owned no land.
"In order for us to understand the stakes of this war, I have taken the liberty of inviting Hermione Granger. Those of you who read the Prophet might know she was instrumental in taking down He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named," he concluded, extending his hand towards her.
Chatter spread again amongst the men, to the tune of either anger or confusion. No one in these parts read the Prophet, a publication that, by the sheer fact of its cost, was only obtained and read by those who owned more than a parcel of land in a faraway village.
Clearing her throat, Hermione rose from her chair and lowered her hood, revealing herself to the audience. Some of the men stared at her in disgust—likely because the idea of being told what to do by a woman angered them.
Paying them no mind, Hermione walked through the ranks until she reached Sir Percival Rolfe, who had owled her a week earlier to ask her to come. It hadn't always been this easy—as first, Hermione had to enter the premises uninvited, forcing her voice to be heard. She had been carried off too many times to count, and nearly burned at the stakes once. It was only once she had rallied enough towns, burgs and villages that she began being received with honours, invitations and warm welcomes. She herself wasn't sure how she had managed that—many young men had died fighting by her side. It seemed the promises of lower taxes, better living conditions and access to a Hogwarts education with public funding had been enough to rally many of those Purebloods, though she could not say for sure.
In truth, no matter how deep their hatred of Mudbloods ran, there was always an enemy beyond that they felt needed to be dealt with first. Perhaps they would turn on her—she always suspected they eventually would. But, as it stood, she was still valuable to them—and, for now, it avoided her being trampled and stampeded by crowds of angry Purebloods.
"Thank you, Sir Rolfe," she smiled. She turned to face the crowd, not bothering to amplify her voice. The silence was deafening.
"I have not come to convince you of anything. I'm here to tell you the facts, pure and simple. I shall let you decide on those alone." She paused, surveying the square. "Let's begin by what Gaunt has done for you as subjects since his reign has begun, a year and a half ago. He has raised taxes, more notably the aid, as you are all aware by now. And in times of famine, no less!" She raised her voice for that last statement, letting it impact the men facing her. Some hummed in approval. "He has not guaranteed your children access to Hogwarts, nor has he increased the quota on the number of crops you are allowed to magically duplicate. In fact… he has decreased it, stating a need to ensure nature runs its course." This time, more men hummed in approval, some nodding in her direction. "And all for what? What exactly has this accomplished?" she asked.
"Well lady, haven' ya heard? It's to rid us of the Mudbloods!" yelled a man in the back, raising his fist.
As soon as the term "Mudblood" was uttered, all the men in the village began yelling in unison, chanting the words to a nursery rhyme Hermione was now well-accustomed to.
Wand thieves, Mudbloods and vermin,
See how they run. See how they run.
They all ran after the farmer's wife,
And cut off her magic with a carvin' knife,
What would you do when faced with such strife,
And the poison of the vermin?
She pursed her lips and endured their singing, knowing it would do her no good to interrupt them. After repeating that verse seven times, they all stopped. Hermione could see the instigator smirking but decided to pay him no mind. She was used to having cruel tricks played on her at these meetings—she had learned the hard way that anger never solved the issue.
"The Mudbloods, indeed. There's so much we've heard about them," she resumed. "Who here has had their wife's magic cut out by the vermin with a carving knife?"
Uncomfortable silence seeped through the ranks.
"No one, I gather. Now, let's pause for a second. Let's assume that the Mudbloods are indeed the predators they are portrayed to be. The Terror has been funded by the government to get rid of them. An excellent initiative in your books, I'm sure," she smiled.
Some nodded in approval, but none hummed. It seemed the man who had launched them into fervent singing seemed to hold them with an iron fist—they didn't dare oppose him anymore. This could turn out to be a problem. "Now, let us consider this. The Terror kills all those pesky Mudbloods. Augustus Gaunt stays in power, enriched by your crops, your taxes, the sweat on your backs. Do any of you believe he will do anything else for you? Please answer honestly, I'm eager to know."
A young man in the audience rose from his chair. His bright red hair and puppy-dog eyes painfully reminded Hermione of a teenage Ron, of the Ron who had loved her.
"Well I, for one, think our taxes oughta go down once the Terror's done! So, to answer yer question, Miss, yes!" he declared. He was immediately met with acclaim, as Hermione expected him to be.
"That's a great point. But Mudbloods are wand thieves, aren't they? So there's always going to be more. Hiding amongst the Muggles, lying in wait…" The hint of threat in her voice shut down the acclaim right away. It scared Hermione how used to this she was by now. "Let us now consider the offer made by the Order of the Phoenix," she continued. "The Order of the Phoenix will guarantee you lower taxes, unlimited duplication of crops, and public funding to ensure all young wizards, regardless of income or blood, can access Hogwarts and its teachings."
"You promised us facts!" raged the red-headed young man. "This isn't fact, it's a political campaign!" Hermione noticed that, in his anger, he had dropped his accent. A Half-Blood bastard in disguise, then.
"The fact is that dozens of other towns have joined us and happily contribute to the fight because they know these promises are not made in vain. The fact is that we have offered complete transparency on our every move, and that amongst us are Purebloods just like you, who barely made it through Hogwarts because they lacked the means, and want to ensure their peers never have to endure their pain. Take the Weasleys, for example. Could you say people of their rank, of your rank and standing are fighting alongside Augustus Gaunt? Could you declare it with absolute certainty?" Hermione had raised her voice and marked her every word with a guttural force no one suspected someone of her stature had.
Silence fell. The young man looked like he had been slapped. Satisfied, Hermione turned to Sir Percival Rolfe. "Please owl me the results of the vote. I'll be eager for them," she smiled before vanishing into thin air.
August 1st, 1601
The air tasted foul. The food had turned bland. Their reserves were depleted, empty. Harry's fortune was gone. Crops coming from their allied towns were seized immediately by Gaunt's henchmen. Entire fields of potion ingredients had either been razed or were now well-guarded and well-protected. Hermione wasn't sure which, of death by hunger or death by magic, was more prominent amongst the Order. Even the euphoria and joy that usually sustained the troops had died, methodically cut down with each fresh batch of bad news.
The Terror had not been heard of in months. In fact, since It had begun its rampage in 1598, Hermione wasn't sure It had killed more than three people. Many had died, of course—this was a war, after all—but it seemed many of those deaths had been attributed to the Terror as a result of sloppy investigations, or perhaps out of simple fearmongering. Hermione was not sure what to believe anymore. Her side was losing. Her people's most terrifying nightmare was an unsolvable mystery. Her efforts were going to waste.
And there she was, sitting on her flimsy bed, unsure of what moves to plan next. Never before had she felt this powerless, this lost. She had spent her life counting on her acute mental abilities to sort herself out, to escape seemingly impossible situations. For the first time, she could not say she had any clue of what to do next. The past few months especially, she felt her brain growing fuzzier, her thoughts becoming unclear, her focus losing its way. She had random bouts of rage, usually directed at poor wandering souls, which hadn't helped her reputation much.
Of the reasons she could think of to explain this behaviour, only two made sense: either the abundance of magically duplicated food they had ingested (maybe those quotas did exist for a reason), or the ingestion of Noxious poison. She shook her head and scratched both from her parchment. Surely the overall climate and all-encompassing anguish were enough to play with her nerves. There did not need to be more to it—and, more importantly, it was necessary that she avoid making a mountain out of a molehill when the Order's circumstances were so dire.
That evening, they ate soup. Many had gone into hiding, preferring the more remote safe houses, those they deemed embedded with more secrecy. The truth of the matter was that the Black house was not any less well-guarded, but its location in central London still gave many of their recruits pause.
As such, the dinner table that night was unbearably empty, save for Kingsley, Ron, Harry, Minerva and Hermione. Ginny was attempting to raid a location Hermione was not privy to, and Parvati was training with a healer in Ireland. The others—the original members of the Order—were elsewhere. This was, yet again, information Hermione was not privy to anymore.
The silence was cloudy, heavy, dripping with the secrets each one of them held close to their hearts. The cabbage soup mostly consisted of water—the occasional chunk of cabbage floated here or there. Those who were lucky had two or three of those in their bowls. Hermione had one. It had been cooked for so long it was stringy, flavourless and paler than Voldemort in his heydays.
"Wonderful, as always, Minerva," painfully smiled Hermione as she slurped what remained in her bowl.
"Thank you, dear," smiled Minerva. She was the last person in the Order to have even the slightest consideration for Hermione.
"It's trash is what it is." Ron spat. He shoved his bowl away, an air of visible revulsion disgracing his freckled skin.
"Ron!" cried out Hermione, shocked.
"Let him be," sighed Harry in response, tossing his spoon in defeat. He, too, had left his fair share of the meal untouched.
Outrage seeped through Hermione, soon reaching her vocal cords. "I can't believe I was ever friends with you two," she hissed. "You have no dignity, no sympathy, no ability to cope with dire circumstances. We have nothing left, must we also throw our manners out the window?" Before she could stop herself, she felt her hand form a fist and slam the table.
"Hermione, dear, it's fine," Minerva chimed in, pressing a reassuring hand on her former student's shoulder.
"It certainly isn't fine, Minerva. Do you know to whom the death of the Order is imputable to? These two clowns, right there," spat Hermione.
She had risen from her chair and was only vaguely aware of why she had said such a thing.
Ron got up as well and began screaming incoherently. He did not stop, even when he was blue in the face. The sound of his voice bounced against the walls, shaking their few belongings loose. A porcelain plate fell from its shelf and broke. Harry had gotten up too, trying to calm his friend down, but Ron's rage was unquenchable. It demanded blood.
Hermione stood there, paralysed. She stared at the man she had once loved, feeling that the one she had known was finally gone—never to be seen again. As her eyes perused over him, she noticed his veins were now unmistakeably green. Not the slight olive green of some, nor the blueish green of colder skin individuals. This green was vivid, blindingly so. Noxious poison now ran through his arteries, through his veins. The shock overwhelmed her, and she felt herself become faint. Her bones softened beneath her skin, and she recoiled into a puddle of herself, shock waves resounding through her teeth, her hair, her fingertips.
It took that one moment of weakness for Ron to pull out his wand and direct it at her.
"Go, now. I never want to see you again."
No one said a word.
Hermione gave him one last look. Their story was over. She grabbed her knapsack and ran through the entryway, not bothering to close the door on her way out. As soon as she stepped on the porch, she Disapparated.
It took her a minute before recognising where she had landed. Her parents' old home, the one they lived in before she erased their memories and sent them away to Italy. Cobwebs covered every inch of the place. The timber walls had slowly begun being reclaimed by nature—vines and moss grew at their base and even reached some of the furniture. The dust had accumulated and rendered this once lively home entirely grey. Hermione let herself fall on the floor, holding her knapsack close to her heart for comfort. She could not fathom what had happened earlier. She had been distracted by her mission for so long that she hadn't noticed the power balance shift in favour of Ron's poisoned and violent state. Even Harry had stopped arguing with him. The despair had grown and infected them, a Black death of the mind, and Hermione had stopped paying attention. She'd lost her focus, lost her once over-polished mental acuity.
And that had cost her the one safe place she had had. The one place she had been able to call home after losing her parents. She was now backed into a corner. Silently, Hermione began crying. Her weeping body shook with every sob, sending the dust around her fly. Whatever had remained of her resolve to save the Order crumbled—the realisation finally striking her without any warning. There was no going back, no turning around, no reconciliation waiting around the corner.
Hermione dried her tears and stood up. She needed to figure out her next steps—whatever happened, she couldn't let her people down. The Terror would make a comeback, this much she was sure of. There had to be a way to overcome this challenge, to fight back with those who were still willing to. She vaguely remembered a discussion she had overheard a few weeks ago, about a collective that had been formed and was exclusively filed with Muggleborns. Clenching her fists, she searched through her memories, stacking away files of pointless conversations, endless councils, and lonely nights.
It came back to her in a flash. The Mudblood Initiative. They were out there somewhere. And she could only hope they would accept her help.
August 15th, 1601
Finding a rebellious Muggleborn alliance in times of extreme turmoil was turning out to be a near-impossible task—Hermione could have laughed at how naïve she had been. She also had to recognise the unique disadvantage she was at—alone, hidden in a Muggle village, unsure of the degree to which she could use her magic without being tracked. As laughable as the idea had appeared to be at first, she could have sworn that there was something eerie going on—and though she was sure her own paranoia wasn't helping, she found it better to be cautious.
On that humid August evening, Hermione conceded she needed to leave and return to Grimmauld Square. If not definitely, at the very least to gather her remaining belongings, retrieve Crookshanks, and have it out one last time with Harry. Perhaps she'd then leave the country—who knew? Perhaps this was her best bet. The war was winding down—too many losses to count, little resources left. She spoke a little French, after all, and had a hard time believing Gaunt and the Terror travelled overseas.
It was worth taking a chance.
She had lost all her belief. Her efforts had been reduced to ashes, her values to dust. Her last-ditch effort to join the Mudblood Initiative had turned out poorly.
Sighing, she gathered her remaining belongings in her knapsack. She had very few things left—a knife, some clothing, her wand, a couple of restorative and healing potions, and Orpheus' string.
She had happened upon it as she was foraging for mushrooms near Breifne, in Ireland, in the early days of the war. To this day, she had spoken of its existence to no one, not even Ginny. She held onto it for reasons she still could not fathom—she saw no use in it at the moment, if only as a sturdy piece of rope. Perhaps she would make use of it one day. Perhaps she would figure out its purpose.
For now, it sat at the very bottom of her knapsack. She made sure she had left nothing behind and gripped her wand until her knuckles turned white. She would have to Apparate—the idea alone made her nervous, but the walk from her parents' village to London would be a week at the very least, on exposed terrain. Risk could never be annihilated completely. Rubbing the edge of her wand, she performed the spell and soon found herself twisting through the rubber tube, travelling to the place she was least welcome to.
What she found when she arrived was not what she had expected. She had expected to be banned, to be met with anger, to be sent away. But as her body materialised on the cobbled street facing Grimmauld Square, she was faced with a horror of greater measure than she could ever have imagined.
The Black house was burning down.
Gluttonous flames were eating at the structure, knocking down its foundation, its pillars, its walls. Hermione heard the windows explode, the furniture melt—and then, a blood-curling scream. Only then did she realise the house was not empty—smaller green flames were dancing around the silhouettes of her dying friends and companions. This was no random fire—it was Vehementi Igne. A more controlled but altogether more vicious companion to Fiendfyre.
Hermione's ears were ringing with shock. As she watched her home be destroyed and some of her companions die, she didn't notice the men surrounding her, grabbing her by the arm and taking her away. The last thing she saw in the distance was the streak of blond hair—the very same shade that had made an appearance in the early days of the summer. The man who had found and killed what remained of the Order.