CHAPTER 11. THE MUDBLOOD INITIATIVE
Hermione had looked for them for so long—had tried, desperately, to join them. And, during all this time, they had hidden in the very place she had been forced to seek out for the sake of two Purebloods.
The irony was not lost on her.
The leader's name was William. He immediately struck her as arrogant, from the way he squared his shoulders as he walked to the nonchalant movement of his hair. There was something else about him that Hermione couldn't quite put her finger on—he seemed… guarded. He distinctly avoided making eye contact with her while he showed her around the Caves.
"The Caves provide us the best protection from the Terror. Hidden away from civilisation, carved within the Earth, and large enough to house our growing organisation," he explained as they walked along the corridors.
Traces of brimming life could be seen everywhere she looked: weapons were stacked in every corner; papers and books shoved in roughly carved shelves; alcoves stuffed with families. It was a hive: alive and structured, with every worker bee assigned to its station and performing its assigned duties.
And William was, as far as Hermione could tell, the queen bee.
"You said you've been looking for me," she piped up after a moment of stretched silence.
"We have." He offered no explanation.
"Why is that?" she pressed on.
"It should seem rather obvious, should it not? You're next on the list."
Hermione sensed he was keeping something hidden from her.
"But the Initiative resented Order members," she stated, refusing to let the issue go.
For the first time since their encounter outside the Caves, William looked at her. "Yes, well. There is no Order left, is there?"
It stung. "Indeed." The agreement was reluctant, and Hermione had a hard time uttering the word without pursing her lips and furrowing her brows.
They resumed their walk in silence. Curious eyes occasionally peeped at them from the alcoves, and Hermione felt a tug in the pit of her stomach—something told her no one paid this much attention to any new arrival.
They all knew who she was. They had all been expecting her.
And the burden of that expectation weighed heavy on her shoulders.
Because, in truth, Hermione knew she was not the same person she had been when seeking out the Initiative. She had since been enslaved, condemned to death, an escapee, a fugitive, and a traitor. To both sides. And though she wasn't sure in what regard she was held among this fringe of her people, she knew in her heart that she couldn't be any of the things they imagined her to be, may they be good or bad.
Finally, they reached the main room—or what seemed to be the main room anyway.
Pillows were scattered around, presumably for members of the Initiative to sit on when they assembled, and a large table sat at the centre. On it, Hermione saw no food, but rather pounds and pounds of incense, spread across bowls of varying sizes.
"You'll need to cover yourself in that," indicated William. And, upon noticing Hermione's puzzled expression, he added: "Muddles the scent of your blood."
Only then did she realise that what she had thought to be dust from the Caves on the Initiative members' skins was, in fact, incense. As she dipped her fingers into a bowl, smearing the ash over her skin, she tried to prod William into giving her more answers.
"How do you know?"
A shadow loomed in his eyes. "Experience. Loss."
She splattered more ash on her hands, on her face and neck. It was strange, being here—she'd spent so long looking for the Initiative, hoping to be saved by her people from the nightmare she was going through—but now that she was there, all she wanted to do was run.
Bloody Slytherins.
William led her to an alcove on the far East side of the Caves—rough beds had been carved in the stone and stuffed with soft bedding—far too soft and far too well woven to have been acquired by scrupulous means, it seemed.
"The East wing is dedicated to the women's quarters. And this—this is the alcove of the infirmary workers, where you'll be staying from now on," explained William. "You should get some rest." His tone was subtle, mellow and almost inviting—but there was no mistaking it for something other than what it was: a command.
The man was a seasoned leader.
He turned his back to her and walked out without waiting for a response.
Unsettled, Hermione obeyed—she was exhausted, after all, and could use the sleep.
As she lay in the bed that had been made for her, she let her mind drift—to Nott, to Malfoy, to what she had done and what she had witnessed, to what she now knew and all that she still neither knew nor understood. Malfoy's bloodless body filtered through her eyes—the jaundice, the blue lips, the sharp bones threatening to pierce his skin—all in three days. And then—Nott's words popped up, clear as day.
"Because I can't. Because I'm tied down by a promise that forces me to keep you alive. I detest you, Granger—you're the most intrusive, infuriating, exasperating, irritating being I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. You vex me at every turn. I keep you alive because I am bound by duty. So no, I'm not abandoning you here so you can die at the hands of the Terror—I will come looking for you once you signal that you have the scripture. And I will not do so with any pleasure or desire—in fact, I will loathe every moment and I will curse your existence at every opportunity—" he breathed in, "but I will do it."
To whom he had made this promise and what it consisted in was a mystery Hermione was yet to solve—one she ached for, and perhaps—perhaps—the very reason she was so eager to leave this bees' nest and return to the two Slytherins who despised her so.
At its core, the dilemma lay in whether solving this mystery was worth giving up the almost-certain safety she had now found amongst the Mudblood Initiative. Though William did not seem particularly taken with her, he had taken her in, given her a bed, instructions on how to best protect herself and—more importantly—he'd brought her back to her community.
Hermione had always been a fiend for mysteries, problems to solve, puzzles to spend hours pouring over—the two Slytherins had given her more than she could ever have dreamed of in that regard (and that regard only). From the moment she had heard them from up in that tree, she had found herself tangled in a massive web of secrets and lies, all of which were just now beginning to unravel. And she was itching to touch the heart of the mystery, to grasp it between her fingers and hold it close—not only because it would satiate a hunger that bellowed in the depths of her, but also because she sensed the answer to whatever plagued Nott and Malfoy was the key to destroying everything Gaunt had built—the key to—
Returning to the Slytherins was the only way to bring this war to an end.
And staying her, amongst her people—was hiding.
She tossed and turned some more, unable to find sleep, unable to assuage her guilt—neither scenario played right in her mind. If she left, she was a traitor to the Mudbloods. If she stayed, she was a traitor to herself, to her cause, maybe even to Malfoy.
Malfoy… she wondered now if she had a debt to repay to the man—if she owed him for all those months spent hiding under his wing and putting him at the centre of dilemma after dilemma, forcing him to remain under Damocles' sword when he could very well have been freed of it by simply rejecting her.
"He went alone because you begged him to and he would never refuse you. Don't pretend like you don't know that, Granger—he's been catering to your every whim ever since—ever since—"
Ever since what?
Malfoy had been reluctant to accept her offer—he'd hemmed and hawed, dithered, shifting from one foot to the other, only agreeing when she had tossed out all her cards and blown them in his face. He could have refused of course—and now that she was lying there, in the dark, hesitant eyes dragging over the arch of the alcove's ceiling, she had to admit—she couldn't be sure why he'd even agreed in the first place. Certainly, bits and pieces occasionally made sense—the debt he claimed to owe Harry for sparing him, the desire to avenge his mother and destroy Gaunt once and for all—
But even in his youth, Malfoy had not been one to take the honourable way forward. He'd been a nasty child, always scheming to get what he wanted, unable to assume any responsibility—and, of course, war changed him (war had changed them all), and Hermione certainly had noticed that, in some ways, he had tried to make amends… but never to this extent. Never enough. Even after refusing to identify Harry at Malfoy Manor, he had pursued them in the Room of Requirement, nearly killing them all. Those were not the actions of an honourable man—and Hermione had no reason to believe anything between then and now had changed.
And yet, Malfoy had agreed. He'd shaken her hand and let her perform the Unbreakable Vow using Orpheus' string, he'd defended her against Nott—his seemingly only friend and companion—and he'd kept his word.
He's been catering to your every whim ever since—ever since—
She was so close to the truth—its warmth was inches away from her fingers, an orange light guiding her decisions… She wanted it. She knew she could reach for it. She knew she could dig until she found it. She knew she could get them to break under her will.
But making them break meant leaving and leaving brought with it great uncertainty and a guaranteed loneliness—the isolation and the silence and the rejection of it all…
She fell asleep without coming to a decision and was woken a few hours later by a small girl.
"There's a meeting, Hermione Granger," she whispered.
Hermione stretched and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, still wrapped in the cotton confusion of broken sleep. "A meeting?" she asked, yawning.
"Everyone must attend meetings."
The girl couldn't be older than six or seven—she was frail, skin on bones, wild strands of red hair sprouting out of her head like flowers in a forgotten garden. Her large brown eyes were serious, without the trace of a smile in them, harmonious companions to her tone.
A child of war.
"I'll be right there," she responded gently, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
"No, I cannot leave until you come with me. You would get lost."
She could hardly believe she was being ordered around by a child who was half her size and a third of her age—but she didn't attempt to argue. She was an intrusion in a sea of strange and unwelcoming faces—the likes of which had established a structure and a hierarchy she was unaware of, perhaps even a disruption to.
Better to stay quiet and follow orders without question for now—at least while she gathered her thoughts and sought out a strategy that would solve her quandary.
They walked through the tunnels of the Caves, which were now lit up with floating candles, for a long time before reaching the Assembly room. Hermione hadn't remembered the path being this long, nor the alcove being so removed from the Assembly room, and yet—
"It's enchanted," explained the little girl like she had sensed Hermione's frustration in the air. "You'll know the pattern, eventually—once you're trusted."
Of course.
They were welcomed by a sea of unfamiliar faces, all sat around the room in a dizzying circle, with William standing in the middle, his handsome face beaming at the presence of all his companions. There was genuine joy and love radiating between the walls, wrapping its soft arms around all members of the Initiative in a warm embrace. Hermione wasn't sure she had ever sensed something quite like it—not even at Hogwarts when Gryffindor was at its best.
At that very moment, Hermione realized the extent of her loneliness. She was out in the cold—alone—while everyone else was at the heart of the community, and had a sense of being loved by a leader and by their friends and companions, all of whom shared the same background as she did. But even though Hermione had grown up as a Muggleborn, she had been given the chance to enter the world of wizardry through the majestic front doors, to attend the most élite institution in the country and to finetune her abilities—something she imagined most of those sitting around her hadn't been granted. Where she had been propped up to new heights, they had scurried through the backdoor, locked in the shame of their condition from the very beginning. Where she had chosen to distance herself from her roots and get closer to people who had a purer blood than hers—Harry and Ron and virtually everyone in the Order, before and after Voldemort's defeat, people with power and sway and demonstrably more security than she would ever be afforded, people who were at the heart of wizarding society while she lingered on the sidelines—they had chosen to bond amongst one another and to form an organization centered first and foremost around the needs of their people. Of the vulnerable and the weak.
Hermione was alone—she was alone when she wasn't with her people—and she was alone when she was with them. She hadn't, until this very moment, realized the depth of her isolation—the way she sat surrounded by nothing but rock walls echoing her words back to her. And it was not to say she was clueless! She had grown used to her own company, but she had always assumed that it was due to her being… different. More interested in books and in acquiring knowledge, less prone to gimmicks and childish games.
How wrong she had been—how blind she had been.
In truth, it stemmed from her presence at the frontier between two worlds that were entirely opposite to each other, hostile to each other, that hated each other, resented each other, and fought wars against one another. She had always been the shade of grey sitting in the middle—and it had resulted in this freezing cold, one that wrapped itself around her heart and recoiled until all she could do was suffocate.
Hermione and the girl went to sit in the circle, by and large unnoticed by the crowd—all eyes turned to William. He took a moment to breathe in the air around him before he decided to speak.
Hermione had only heard him in the context of a one-on-one conversation as he led her through the caves and showed her around—the tone had been conversational, perhaps even factual, a little cold. She had thought him to be a leader by circumstance, forced in that position by the outside pressures that had cornered him—a little arrogant by consequence.
She had been wrong.
As soon as the words began pouring out of his lips, she understood.
"My dear friends. My dear companions. My dear Mudbloods. We have not been reunited in this room for a long time now," he began, his dark eyes drifting across the audience who hung to his every word. "I have found little use in uniting you in the Assembly room when we have made so little progress in the fight. I know it's been discouraging; it's been difficult; it has weighed down on us all. We all believe in the Initiative, in what it stands for and aims to do—we all believed that we were making progress in the fight against the monsters that loom at large and threaten our very existence." He sighed and sat down. "Unfortunately, things have stalled for a bit and—" The corners of his mouth twisted into a sad smile. "-we've encountered some loss along the way. This is by no means unexpected in war, but it's no less disheartening and painful to us all. Try as we might, the suffering has crossed our borders and breached the armors we've built for ourselves." Hermione heard some sniffles and some snobs in distinct corners of the room and watched as a wave of grief washed over the faces of the other Mudbloods. "Thus, it is not without reason that I chose to unite you all tonight, to have you all here with me." He rose to his feet and commanded absolute silence over the room. "I believe that we have found something that can, no, that will utterly change the course of the war and make a difference in the fights that we will lead tomorrow and the battles that will be fought against the Purebloods and their inhumane beliefs. Some of you may know by now that we have always missed a member in this community, someone who has been vocal about fighting in this war, someone who has not only fought in the previous war but also managed to win it, someone who has been recognized for her achievements and her powers. It was also someone who also didn't seem to be interested in following the principles that have guided the Initiative, someone we weren't certain we could trust." He paused. "That person is Hermione Granger."
Hermione wasn't sure she had expected anything in response to her introduction—but, if she had, it certainly wasn't this—it certainly wasn't a deadly silence and dozens of pairs of eyes simultaneously turning to her, acknowledging her presence and letting her know that they'd known all along that she had been sitting here, amongst them. This announcement hadn't been for their benefit—it had been for hers.
"Hermione Granger is amongst us now," continued William without acknowledging the distinct atmospheric shift in the room, "and has been for the past day. I am hoping that she's ready to fully accept the extent of her destiny as a member of the Mudblood Initiative. I know some of you will resist her entering our ranks. I understand that some of you believe she is a traitor to the cause. I want you all to know I'm listening and have taken note of your concerns—but I ask that you trust me. If I've come to this decision, and I want to be entirely transparent on the matter, it's because I truly believe Hermione Grange will be invaluable to us… whether that be as a member of the Initiative or as a hostage to it."
Hermione froze on the spot as she heard those last few words. Certainly, she hadn't expected to be welcomed with open arms and treated as if she were family—she knew, had always known, the precarious situation she was in by virtue of not only her position but also the choices she had made. What she hadn't expected, however, was that they would turn on her in a split second and treat her as the common enemy. Did none of the things she had done matter? She had, after all, gone through much of the same pain and suffering they all had, and she had fought for their side from the moment she had seen cracks in this broken society—even if she hadn't been a de facto part of the Initiative, she had always been one of them in spirit. She couldn't deny that she had made some odd and questionable choices along the way (she did regret some of those) but did any of it justify the way she was being turned into a spectacle?
She sat there in silence as they all gawked at her. She didn't say a word or betray a single emotion—perhaps the woman she had been just a few years ago would have been unable to contain herself, but the woman she was now had learned better. Part of her felt as though this was a test. And though she knew neither the stakes nor the rules, she wagered silence was her best bet if she were to keep her freedom and gain her rightful place here—until she found the scroll, at least. Then—and only then—she would come to a decision and, perhaps, leave. Perhaps she hadn't found her community; perhaps she hadn't found the people who would welcome her; perhaps she was still alone in the world. Better be alone and armed than turned into a weapon within those walls.
There was a lull in the air as everyone waited for either Hermione to react or for William to resume his speech. No one said anything; no one spoke; no one even gasped… it was as if it had been expected that things would turn out the way they did; it was as if Hermione had willingly walked into a trap concocted by the bees, who are now buzzing around her and threatening to inject their venom into her blood.
She couldn't even resent them for it. Hadn't she been the one to advocate for darker and more controversial means of fighting while in the Order? She had advocated for dark magic and murder and she had chosen that path for herself. She had allied herself with two Slytherins who wanted her kind dead. She bad betrayed and lied and cheated. In truth, making her a hostage was smart decision on their part.
But even then, she couldn't be certain to what extent she was useful leverage. Gaunt wouldn't back down and simply leave them be if they offered her up—he would come after the next one and the next one until all the Mudbloods were exterminated, puddles of vermin drowning in their own filthy blood, maggots running amok on their bodies and eating their flesh until they were nothing more than dust and bone and a forgotten species that was never meant to exist in the first place.
"What happens next," concluded William, "is up to all of us. And to you, Hermione," he added, his gaze boring through her.
In her state of despair, she had missed the rest of his speech—though she assumed her cooperation was the main point he had addressed in the decision of making her member or hostage. She forced a smile on her face as the people around her erupted in a slurry of applause, hands clapping in rhythm until they drowned the demons roaring their ugly heads in Hermione's mind.
"Psst."
She whipped her head around and was shocked to see a familiar face in that crowd—
Dennis Creevey.
As the crowd dispersed itself, smaller groups forming around the room to discuss some matter or other, Hermione scurried off to Dennis, nearly tripping on her own feet in excitement.
"Oh Dennis, I—"
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Well, I—I mean, William found me, and—"
He cut her off. "You can't be here."
"I don't really have a choice Dennis, I'm—well, you've heard the same speech I have," she said, tilting her head and furrowing brows. "Why are you—are you saying I'm unsafe here?"
He waited a moment before answering.
"No. You're a danger to us all."
She was taken aback by that statement—she had thought Dennis was attempting to warn her, to protect her—
He believed her to be a threat to the Initiative.
"I promise you, Dennis, I don't intend to hurt anyone here, I—"
"I can smell the Terror all over you, Hermione. You've been marked by It. It's coming for you, one way or another, and when It does, no amount of incense or rock caves will protect us. I don't care what William said. You need to leave."
His voice was harsher; raspier than she remembered it. He was no longer the small boy who roamed the halls of Hogwarts with his head down and shame painted red on his cheeks. He was a grown man now of one and twenty, and he'd endured the loss of everything—including his brother. She saw that despair in his eyes and wanted to assure him that she did intend to leave, that she just needed a few days, but—
Maybe this was a trap laid out by William. A test to see where her loyalty lay.
After all, he had found her right as Nott had Disapparated—and she did not yet know how much of that argument he had heard before making himself known.
"Don't I deserve to be protected as well?" she responded instead.
"Colin died for this cause—he gave his life for the Initiative. You destroyed his work and now, you're leading the Terror straight to us. I don't care what William says, I don't care what you say. You can't stay here. If you want to make it right—if you want to repair your mistake—then leave now and never return. Let us be, let us fight our war, and return to your dirty methods. We haven't needed you thus far—we don't need you now." He uttered those last few words with an aura of defiance—resist, and I will publicly tear you down.
But Hermione's desire to resist had deflated the moment he had mentioned Colin.
"What do you mean, he gave his life?" she asked, holding her breath. She had waited for the answer to this mystery for months now—craved it.
"He was on the placard. You must know that."
"I do… but he—he didn't—"
"No. He demanded to be burnt to a crisp, so he could never be found, so the Terror would have to remain focused on him and be unable to claim another victim—it was the perfect plan. And then you—you—you'd been alive for so long, you'd managed to keep yourself dead to the world, and you angered them. And the placard changed." He was speaking louder now, growing angrier with every word, staring her down like she was the enemy he had fought so hard against.
Perhaps Hermione should have acknowledged that anger, perhaps she should have apologized, but—
Her mind was spinning, gears turning so fast she could feel the flames of her thoughts burning higher and higher, the realisation finally dawning on her.
"It doesn't track all the Mudbloods—it tracks those after whose trail it's sent. It tracks the smell of a person's blood," she whispered.
How she had not reached this conclusion earlier, she wasn't sure—it seemed to have always been here, within her reach. The crumbs had been there, after all… the placard, the trickle deaths, the whispers at Goyle manor about the repairs needed for the Terror, the way it hadn't come to her execution because it had been called to track down a single individual… the Terror did not track down Mudbloods by the scent of their blood.
Because Mudbloods, as she had always suspected, did not have a dirty blood.
Because this was about terrorising them, forcing them into submission and giving the illusion of Gaunt's all-encompassing power to the masses.
Her eyes narrowed. "If the Terror cannot find us by the scent of our blood—why the incense? Why the Caves?"
Dennis quirked an eyebrow. "Because we're the Initiative. Once you're dead, the next name will no doubt be one of ours. Mine is likely, William's is practically a certainty at this point… The incense helps. It's not perfect, but it helps. If it's a matter of you versus the Terror and a few seconds can save your life, then… the incense is all you need to get that time." He focused his gaze on her again. "No matter. You have to leave. I will give you ten days—if you haven't left by then, I'll make sure the Terror can never find you." And from the corner of her eye, Hermione saw the shimmer of a blade reflecting the candlelight.
"I will leave," she whispered after a moment. "Before the ten days are up."
It was no longer a matter of making a decision. She wasn't welcome here—leaving was the only thing she could do. The dilemma was out of her hands—and perhaps it was better that way.
"Hermione," William's voice called out to her as she had begun to regain her alcove, ready to sleep off the night's emotions. "Can I talk to you?" He took note of the eyes staring at them. "Alone?"
She nodded without conviction, too tired to fight off yet another private conversation. She did hope that this one would not end with a threat—
She was tired of being threatened at every turn, even amongst those who should make her feel the safest.
They walked out of the Caves and into the woods. The fresh air whistled past them, making Hermione shiver. She wrapped her cloak tightly around her and waited.
"I'm sorry for ambushing you like that," began William with a lopsided smile. He played his part well—but not well enough for Hermione to believe him. She had spent the past few months living with two Slytherins—William's lies were too weak to get past her. "You see, I needed to rally them and you—well, you seemed like the best way to do that."
She nodded politely but didn't respond.
"I won't make you a hostage—I guarantee it. It would serve no purpose to the Initiative—Gaunt would simply off you and then come after us. It's—no, it's useless…"
Get to the point, she thought. The man wanted something. The question remained: what?
"But of course, if you are to stay among us, you can imagine questions will abound. The Order of the Phoenix met its unfortunate end nearly two years ago and yet—yet—" He paused and stared back at her. "Yet, your name appeared on the placard more than a year after. And even then, you've been… untraceable. Away. Hidden."
"You heard the argument," she stated plainly.
"Well, I—"
"There's no need to lie, William. You're not very good at it."
Enough with the games, the treachery, the secrets. She had enough of that with Nott and Malfoy.
"Yes, I saw you argue with a Pureblood. A Nott, at that. Next to the body of, I believe, the Malfoy heir." His tone had lost all its sweet intonations, new edges piercing through the deception he had tried to impress upon her.
"What do you want?" She would not offer any explanation that she wasn't explicitly asked for. Even her, amongst her people, she was surrounded with danger.
"What are you worth to them?" he asked.
So there it was—the hostage threat. It had never been about Gaunt—it had always been about a bargain. The resources and protection the Initiative could be afforded by the endorsement of two high-powered Purebloods was worth more than any contribution she could ever make.
Unfortunately, she was worth little to her companions—especially without the scroll in her possession.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, William, but I am worth to them no more than the dirt on your shoes is worth to you. We have a strategic alliance—one that I forced them into. And they both resent me for it, Nott especially. I know you heard him promise that he would come back for me—that was a lie. He's been desperate to rid himself of me since the beginning—and leaving me here while Malfoy is dying was the perfect opportunity." She could only hope he hadn't remembered the scripture Nott had mentioned.
"And what of the scripture he wanted you to retrieve?" he asked. "That seems like it's worth something to him."
Of course. He was a terrible liar, but not an idiot—the Initiative would have been nothing more than a pipe dream if he had been.
"Certainly. But, as you can imagine, he said he would only come looking for me once I find it—and that's never going to happen," she said, shrugging.
"Why is that?"
"Because it's not here. If it had been, you'd have long since found it. You would have it in your possession right now."
"Maybe I do," he responded, now defensive—aware that she was deliberately mocking him.
Hermione laughed. "If you did, you would know. You would not only know, but also guard it and its secrets with your life. I was sent here on a suicide mission—retrieve the scroll and return to them, or stay looking for it until I die. Don't you see? I allied myself to these Purebloods out of necessity and despair—and in all the months I've been under their so-called protection, all I've been is insulted, mocked, treated as a servant, reduced to the threat I pose as the Terror's next victim. I told Malfoy and Nott the scripture was here because they were threatening to feed me to the Terror if I made no progress in finding it—but they're chasing a pipe dream and there is no such scripture. It was my last resort." She sighed. "But Nott is no idiot. He knew I could be lying—he knew I was trying to buy some more time—so he left me here to die. Either way, he wins. If I do find the scripture, then he has exactly what he wants. If I don't, he's rid of me." The lies rolled off her tongue without difficulty—like it was the easiest, most natural thing she had ever done.
Maybe she had finally taken a page out of the Slytherin playbook after all.
"And what about Malfoy?"
"Malfoy is the one I've struck the deal with. He's dying—he has nothing to lose. He went before Nott could even send me so he could perhaps find the scripture himself. It was an idiotic idea—I wish I'd known he'd overheard me talk to Nott, or I would have prevented him from leaving. He's too weak—it's no surprise he couldn't make the trip back."
William seemed to see Hermione in a new light—his gaze poured over her, trying to reconcile his knowledge of the Gryffindor Mudblood with the person who was facing him, feeding him stories about alliances with Purebloods.
"Look, William, I know you know I went to Hogwarts. These two Purebloods—they were with me. We followed the same teachings, ate in the same Hall, learned the same things. They're certainly no lambs, and they have as much prejudice towards Mudbloods as the next Pureblood, but they saw me, first and foremost, as someone who went to school with them. That's why I sought out their help. It was an unwise decision, certainly—I was desperate, and alone, and seeking protection because my name and face were all over the burgs. That doesn't make me a traitor."
He nodded silently, neck bent and eyes staring down. "You're right." He kicked a pebble with the tip of his shoe, unable to look up at her. He had a decision to make—one that would determine the future of his entire organisation. "Fine," he said after a moment. "You can stay."
Before she could let out a sigh of relief, he whipped his head back up. "Wait. Where were you before you made a deal with the Purebloods? You said you sought them out when your name appeared on the placard, but the Order met its end more than a year prior to that."
"I was enslaved. At Goyle manor."
William's eyes lit up with hope. "And you escaped?"
"Barely," bitterly said Hermione. "I was destined for execution—they would reveal to the world that Hermione Granger, Mudblood friend to Harry Potter, had been alive all this time and kept under Gaunt's thumb. And then, they planned to have the Terror execute me—I only made it out with the help of someone inside the manor—and even then, I couldn't truly escape until I was on my way to my own execution, released from the magic that tied me to the home." She gently placed a hand on his forearm. "Sorry. I wish I could be of more help."
"Actually…" He smiled—a smile so bright it restored sunlight in the dark woods. "… I think this may be very helpful."
Before she could ask him to elaborate, he had pulled on her arm and dragged her back to the Caves. "Come now," he said. "There is much to do before you're initiated."
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Hermione knew she should feel guilty. William was not evil—he was not looking to sell her out or to hand her over to her enemies. He had simply been gauging where her alliances truly lay, because the answer to that question could mean life or death for the people he had sworn to protect. The Initiative wasn't just made up of combatants—there were also families, some with young children, others with elderly loved ones—in fact, she suspected that a number of the people living in those Caves were even Muggle. In the end, it didn't matter that Hermione was renowned for fighting against Voldemort or for being part of the Order—she had been gone for years now, with no one but Malfoy and Nott to tell her story to—and even before, as a member of the Order, she had done everything in her power to form alliances with Pureblood villagers who were out for her blood and those of her kin.
And though Hermione regretted none of the choices that her led her down this path, though she still staunchly believed in the ideas that had shaped those decisions, she couldn't find it in her to blame William for his overabundance of precaution. He was a charismatic leader who lied terribly—nothing more, nothing less.
He certainly wasn't the enemy.
And here she was, already actively betraying him and planning her escape. She was mapping out the Caves in her mind, figuring out exits and secret corners, eyeing members she might be able to follow discretely—
William had been right to distrust her.
Of course, she could just use Dennis' threat as an excuse—he wanted her gone, whatever may be the price. It would be easy to make him take the fall for her, to have him be blamed—
But did that mean—
Did that mean she wanted to leave?
She had found herself plagued with a dilemma prior to his threat—unable to come to a decision.
It didn't matter—she had lied. Nott or Malfoy would come looking for her, eventually—neither were going to worry (she harboured no illusions of that sort), but they would at least assume that she had found the scroll and run with it. They'd want to track her down for it. And as far she knew, Malfoy's location spell was still embedded in her…
Staying had never really been an option—simply a dream, a vague idea in the back of her mind. A chimera burning through her, aching for her roots to bloom and finally settle in their rightful place.
Hermione was—yet again—at the whims of gods who played her like a puppet. Every time she found refuge, it was taken from her, whether it be by fate or by enemies—or, in this case, by both.
Dennis Creevey would have to take the blame for her.
It was decided.
Hermione smiled with little conviction as she moved through the crowd, introduced to new people by William at every turn—Muggle families and their Mudblood relatives, women in armour and men covered in weapons, children with the eyes of adults. She let herself be moved by their stories, harrowed by their suffering, saddened by their loss, rejoiced by their triumphs. She held them and they held her and she found true joy in those arms, against those chests, feeling those beating hearts full of life—full of the same blood—against her skin.
Perhaps she would one day find her way back to them.
If she played her cards right.
By the time the Assembly room began to be purged of the buzzing of conversation, tired bodies trickling out through the corridors, Hermione was so exhausted she could barely stand up. A woman who shared her quarters—named Elinor if Hermione's memory served her right—helped her walk back to the alcove.
"This must have been a dreadfully long day for you!"
Elinor was as tall as she was broad—she had the sturdiness of a tree and a smile that could rival the bright light of the sun. She wore her long dark hair in a plait that reached her waist and spoke with a melody in her tone—she was jovial and loving and warm; everything the Slytherins weren't—it was a nice change of pace.
They walked through the corridors carved in stones and lit by candlelight for a few minutes before they finally reached the alcove. Two younger women were already asleep in their respective beds.
"I'm so glad we found you," whispered Elinor as she settled in her own bed. "I've always admired you so much—I know it's a bit of a controversial opinion in these parts, but I'm not sure anyone understands the position you were in. You're a hero to me," she added with a yawn.
Hermione smiled in the dark as she slid beneath the covers. "Everyone at the Initiative is my hero, Elinor," she responded before drifting to sleep.
Hermione's assessment of the Mudblood Initiative as a beehive proved itself to be more and more accurate the longer she stayed there. Routines were coordinated to the minute; everyone was assigned a specific role that they were not to diverge from; rations were meticulously calculated and spread out across a schedule; resources and equipment was crowdsourced and distributed on a strictly necessary basis, without any exception to the rule. The women tended to the hive: they cooked and cleaned and healed and tracked everything, from the amount of potatoes used in a dish to the use of water for laundry. The men prepared for battle: the few wands that had been collected went to them on days where they were set to combat a village.
Hermione was the only one without an assigned role—she was not given permission to battle, attend strategic meetings, or prepare meals. She was confined to the alcove during the day and allowed to pop out to the Assembly room for meals. An aura of distrust stifled the air wherever she went—few were the friendly faces beaming at her. Most ignored her existence altogether, barely even acknowledging her with a nod if they crossed her path. Not that they did cross it often in any case—she was unable to move from the alcove for most of the day.
The days were proving to be long. By the third one, Hermione was tempted to disobey the very strict command that had been impressed upon her—what use was her presence if she was forced to do nothing and speak to no one? Had she even been properly inducted into the Initiative?
That evening, she decided to take matters into her own hands and made her way to William's corner during dinner.
"I would like to work in the infirmary tomorrow," she stated, sitting down and placing her plate on her lap.
Some of the other Initiative members who were sitting beside William shot her shocked looks—the outrage roamed the circle as it went from one person to another.
William, however, either didn't seem to notice their reaction or chose to ignore it altogether.
"That should be fine," he said without looking at her. "You should check with Elinor—she runs the infirmary."
Hermione thanked him and left the circle just as quickly as she had entered it, head held high and eyes focused away from the looks of outrage that were sent her way.
She'd been gone for three days—Nott and Malfoy would soon begin to question what she was doing, and she couldn't risk them coming here. There was no time to dawdle or linger on important decisions.
She needed to find that scroll.
The infirmary had seemed like a good start for her inquiry—it was autonomous enough, and she had experience healing patients at the Order. She would be able to roam about the Caves while retrieving remedies and healing potions—not only that, but it was heralded by Elinor, who actually liked Hermione and would be more than happy to accommodate her.
She was proven right the next morning, shortly after they'd all broken fast: Elinor beamed at her as they walked to the infirmary, an endless string of words spilling out of her as she explained the protocols, the rules, the dos, the don'ts, the logistics.
"We're low on Essence of Dittany, so we use it sparingly," she explained as she handed Hermione a box of supplies. "This is your box—we only have two more in storage, and everything is difficult to replace, so it's important not to lose any of the reusable items and to ensure you only use the disposable ones when they're truly necessary." She looked around the infirmary, where only one bed was currently occupied. "And don't let the tranquillity fool you—the men are ambushing Chattesworth tonight. We'll have a lot on our hands"
Chattesworth… the name spoke to Hermione.
"I tried to negotiate with the folks of Chattesworth…" she began as she dug through her memories. "They turned the Order down. Said they'd rather die at Gaunt's hand than die fighting with Mudbloods."
Elinor paled, an uneasiness creeping up her neck and distorting her features. "Yes, I—well, I'm aware," she said.
"You are?"
Elinor blushed—it was the distinct tint of embarrassment, as if she'd said something she shouldn't have. "No, well, I—I didn't mean that—"
Hermione's eyes trailed her companion's red skin. "You're not a very good liar, Elinor," she said coolly, in a tone that was not unlike Nott's.
"I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to say—I spoke too fast," offered Elinor.
Hermione simply nodded in acknowledgment, unwilling to push the subject further. She would get her answer—eventually.
She always did.
In the meantime, she focused on the task at hand—finding the scroll. As she had theorised, her new placement at the infirmary gave her the freedom to move about—and, more importantly, the knowledge of the Caves' configuration. It was a simple matter of pattern—at the top of every hour, the corridors shifted in a thirty-degree angle to the West and the alcoves in a sixty-degree angle to the East. The infirmary had at its disposal a map that reflected the new placements of each room at every change—it had taken Hermione only a few hours of observation to devise the pattern and memorise the room and corridor numbers.
She would be able to roam about unaided from this point forward, which she considered to be a victory.
That evening, at eleven in the evening precisely, as had been predicted by Elinor earlier in the day, the infirmary was flooded with an onslaught of new arrivals—most being wounded men from the Initiative, and a few hostages from Chattesworth.
The women tended to their wounds until the sun was up in the sky—Hermione had forgotten what a rush war could be. She hadn't set foot in an infirmary since her days in the Order, and, even then, she'd never been given much responsibility. Parvati was the one who commanded the room and placed everyone in their appropriate spots.
Elinor did no such thing. The lack of supplies, both material and human, did not afford her the luxury of a precise organisation. Everyone at the Initiative was given a role—but in the midst of large movements, in the midst of waves crashing and bodies tumbling, those roles dissolved and only one thing mattered: time.
It gave Hermione not only a sense of purpose, but also a rush of adrenaline. Her thoughts melted into puddles of dirt she kicked off her shoes as she rushed through the proceedings—no wondering, no questioning, no doubting—no more living in her own head and dealing with uncertainty as her purgatory. She was unchained from the depths of her harrowed mind and forced to put her hands and her skills to use—it was the most joyous she had felt in a long time—even if it was in the face of war, even if it was while dealing with open wounds and oozing fluids.
At seven in the morrow, when they had finally dealt with all the bodies, the women returned to the alcove, muscles aching and ears buzzing with the sounds of war. They did not watch as Hermione snuck off to another corridor—they didn't notice as she abandoned the group, limbs too tired to care and eyes too heavy to pay attention to their surroundings. Hermione hoped they would fall asleep without noticing her absence, and that she would be back well before they woke.
Her entire plan relied on poorly conceived hypotheses and shoddy "ifs"—but it was all she had. And if it failed—
She shook her head—she would think about failure if it came to it.
And so she scoured as much of the Caves as she could—to no avail. This was a beehive—everything had been meticulously organised, tended to, structured and numbered. There wasn't a scrap of parchment to be found lying around—and the only room where parchment was a true necessity was the Council Room.
Which, of course, she had no access to.
Defeated, she dragged her feet back to the alcove and hid beneath the covers, ready to sleep for a thousand years—
"Hermione!"
It was Elinor.
"Where were you?" Though she was whispering, clearly anxious to avoid awakening the other women, the sound of her voice pierced through Hermione's tired mind.
"Just—walking around. I got a bit lost," she lied, eyes closed, the barest hint of a yawn drawn at the corners of her mouth.
"You're lying," said Elinor.
The statement was enough for Hermione to jump up, alert and awake.
"I saw you walk away from the group," her companion added. "Why?"
A lie—she needed a lie, right now.
A good lie.
"I—" A great lie. "I got curious," she resigned herself to say, finding herself unable to come up with anything worthy of explaining her hehaviour.
Elinor frowned—she jumped out of her bed and grabbed Hermione by the arm, pulling her out of hers. She didn't fight—Elinor was sturdy as a tree, all branches and roots and bark, strong and timeless and unmovable. Fighting was pointless. She let herself be dragged out of the Caves and past the treeline, until they were well beyond the ears of anyone from the Initiative.
"Speak. Now." The command boomed and echoed, filled with the strength of this woman who seemed carved by the elements. "I admire you, Hermione Granger. I admitted you into my infirmary and let you roam free. Do not lie to me. Do not disappoint me."
It pained her to find herself leashed to a secret—she wished she could simply spill it, let it be planted into the ground and grow, come what may. She wanted to be rid of it.
But she couldn't. The consequences of releasing that secret were unfathomable—too large to even consider, let alone brush with her mind.
"I can't tell you. That's the complete truth. I wish I could—but I can't tell anyone," she finally said after weighing her options. This was the truth, after all, processed and watered down like terrible wine.
"Does it threaten the Initiative?"
"It doesn't." It threatened everyone, and in that sense, no one specific. She had to draw blurry lines around the real answers—smudge them enough to stay true, blur them enough so the secret could not be discerned.
"Does it threaten you?"
"No—but I'm not the only one looking for it. And if I don't find it soon, they will come for me."
"The Caves are enchanted—no witch or wizard can walk into them unless they've been admitted in," said Elinor, arms still crossed, guard still up.
This was certainly interesting—it was to be expected too. She gathered the Fidelius charm was not the one they had chosen—the Caves could still be seen, after all. She wondered about the lack of wands and the members' education and what they had been able to come up with and—
Elinor cleared her throat.
"I'm being… tracked." Hermione closed her eyes. "There's a location spell—I haven't been able to get rid of it—not yet, anyway." She opened her eyes again and noticed Elinor's horrified stare. "It's not—no, it doesn't—it was placed there by a friend. And though that friend will not do anything to the Initiative, I would rather find what he's looking for and leave before he can even find out."
"And the runes haven't worked?"
"The… Runes?"
Hermione was no novice—she had studied Ancient Runes at Hogwarts. Professor Bathsheda Babbling was a proficient scholar on the matter, and she had gone over every Rune theory prior to the second century—even the most obscure. The knowledge had piled up in Hermione's mind, forming connections at times to things she hadn't even suspected of being connected—but there had never been any theory.
"How else do you think the Caves are protected?" Elinor quirked an eyebrow. "They teach Runes at Hogwarts, do they not?"
"They do—well, they teach Ancient Rune theory." Hermione pressed her lips together, tittering between the excitement of being on the brink of a discovery and the embarrassment of being ignorant on such an important matter. "Would you mind explaining what you mean?" she asked.
"Formal magical training is hard to come by for Mudbloods—the kind that requires us to carry a wand, anyway. Even before Voldemort and Gaunt, many of us could not access wands—and, as you well know, a Hogwarts education is out of reach for most of us. But we perform magic without wands—as children, we find out we're witches and wizards because of spontaneous bursts of magic." Elinor paused and leaned against a tree, tired eyes flittering beneath the sunlight. She yawned. "So, what does one do when they have magic, but no means to properly yield it and no access to the education that would allow them to do so? One looks to their inner magic."
Hermione remembered Minerva's theory about wands being used a means to keep the magical population in check—it made sense.
"And you use… Ancient Runes?"
"I don't know about Ancient… but yes, Runes are one way for us to channel our powers. They don't compare to what wands can do, but—" She walked towards Hermione and pulled up the sleeve of her tunic. "—it would be enough to blur your location, make the spell less efficient, less precise." She bent down and picked up some mud with her fingers—then, she drew with it on Hermione's forearm. "Raidho," she whispered in the air, eyes closed. She muttered it a few more times before opening her eyes again. "It's the rune for journey." Then, she pointed to the Caves: "Algiz is the one we used all around the Caves, to protect us from enemies. It won't allow anyone uninvited to waltz in, but we're still visible and—well—the Terror can still find us."
The Terror was impervious to all protection enchantments—even the Fidelius charm. And though Hermione now knew It only tracked those it was tasked to find, she wondered how It managed to find them despite any and all magical protections.
"Thank you," said Hermione. "For everything."
"As much as I admire you, I didn't do this for you—I did it for my family."
"Certainly—but you deserve my gratitude nonetheless."
"I appreciate it. But rather than accept your gratitude, I ask that you do one thing for me in return. One thing only."
"What is it?"
"Do not abandon the Initiative."
Hermione nodded, a knot forming in her stomach. "I won't."
And this—this one sentence, comprised of only two words—was the first and only true lie Hermione uttered during this conversation.
They returned to their alcove shortly after and promptly fell asleep, both overwhelmed by the exhaustion and the ritual that had been performed under the watchful eye of the woods.
When Hermione woke, she was alone—it was already dark out.
Four days had passed since she had come to the Caves. She had six days left to figure out the location of the scroll and an escape plan that left the door open for her to return—
The latter seemed like an easier feat than the former.
Hence, this is what she set out to do first. She talked to people at meals, expressed vague sentiments about someone making her feel unsafe—she chose her words wisely, and made sure she never talked to those who had doubted her first. She kept Dennis' name out of her mouth, only alluding to an acquaintance, someone who blamed her for something she hadn't done, someone who would rather see her alone, out there, where the Terror would have an easier time finding her. She expressed sympathy, stated that she was ready to leave if it came to that—
The rumours spread quickly around the hive—vague enough that no one could retrace her words back to Hermione, but clear enough that if she were to disappear, it wasn't without reason.
It took her an additional three days for this plan to come to fruition.
Which meant she had three days left.
Gaining access to the Council Room now seemed useless to her—she had managed to see it through the keyhole and had been shocked to see how bare it really was—where the Order had piled up boxes upon boxes of parchments and written notes and drawn maps, the Initiative worked with little parchment, keeping their secrets locked away by another means.
In truth, it seemed there had never been a piece of parchment at any point in the Caves—it was like all manner of written word had disappeared without a trace.
And it terrified her.
It wasn't until the ninth evening that Hermione solved this impossible riddle—when Dennis Creevey slid a note to her, reminding her she had one day left before his threat were to become a reality.
It was written on a simple piece of parchment—one that had, at the very bottom, the faintest trace of a symbol.
She turned her back to Dennis and ripped the symbol from the note, before showing it to Elinor: "Do you know what this means?"
The woman chewed and swallowed her chicken before answering: "That's the Anchor Church Caves symbol. The place was littered with scrolls filled with religious texts when we got here—we put it all in the storage room before setting up camp."
The storage room.
If she had been able to, Hermione would have run to that room right there and then.
But she was surrounded by her peers, and still very much a newcomer—though she wasn't spied on, she was still scrutinised. Running off during the last meal of the day would leave a bad impression, raise doubts, and destroy the story she had carefully concocted to explain her sudden departure.
She had to bide her time.
Thus, she waited until dawn rose on her last day in the Initiative—at which point she scurried off, wand in hand, a Disillusionment charm concealing her, to the storage room. She harboured no illusion that a simple Accio would bring the scroll to her—but she hoped, oh did she hope!, that it wouldn't take her digging and rummaging through hundreds—if not thousands—of old religious texts written by a recluse for her to reach her final destination.
And, for once, it seemed God decided to grant Hermione's wishes—because as soon as Hermione saw what hid in the room, she knew. As soon as she saw the wooden cross placed upside down at the very back of the room, she knew. Down the Devil goes where God resides. She walked over to the cross and flipped it upright, triggering the movement of a rock.
And, in it, the scroll—the scroll with the spell on it.
Ad Consequi Potentia Est Vendere Animam Tuam.
To conquer power is to sell your soul.