CW: Malicious cops & general injustice
The stamp of heavy boots on stone cast a hush across the Hall.
For one brief moment, Hermione was freed from the pressure of countless glances and stares. Then they began to return, sharper than before, spots of unkind heat sliding over her back. The fine hairs of her nape stood on end. At her sides, Harry and Parv looked up from their plates and stiffened. Ginny swore under her breath just as the whispers started up again, hissing up and down the table.
The boots stamped closer.
"Hermione," Parvati spoke quick and quiet, "just— try to stay calm. We'll—"
"Ah, Mister Proudfoot!" Dumbledore's voice rang through the Hall, perfectly genial. "Good morning. It's been far too long, my boy."
He had left the head table, and was sweeping down the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables towards a half-dozen wizards in identical red coats.
Hermione's heart lurched.
Aurors.
Several of whom were staring right at her.
"Headmaster." The frontmost one gave a stiff, shallow bow. "Sorry to trouble you, Sir, but needs must."
"Of course, of course." Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Have you found a lead on the scoundrel who subverted the Ministry's valiant revival of the Tournament to entrap Mister Potter?"
"…No sir, however—"
"Ah, that is a shame. Is this about Miss Skeeter, then? Her violations of the privacy of our students have grown especially bold, as of late…"
"I'm afraid not, Headmaster."
"Then I find myself at a loss," said Dumbledore, "as to what could possibly warrant such a departure from the Ministry's promise of minimal disruption of the running of the school."
Several Aurors shifted uneasily. Others merely raised their chins.
"We are here," said the lead Auror, "to ensure the security of the Tournament, its attendees, and its participants, Headmaster."
"Indeed. Thus my surprise at seeing a tenth of your security force within the castle, rather than patrolling its entrances and grounds. Have you detected an intrusion?"
"No, Sir. We have, however, been alerted to another possible case of criminal meddling."
Parvati gripped Hermione's wrist.
"That does sound serious," Dumbledore calmly replied. "Let us discuss it in my office."
"Capital idea, Sir. The suspect is, after all, one of your charges— only proper that you supervise her questioning."
…wait.
He turned towards the Gryffindor table, cold eyes darting from student to student—
No.
—until they found her.
A cruel smirk contorted his lips.
"Hermione Granger," he spoke aloud, killing the whispers and stopping her heart, "by the authority of the Ministry of Magic, you are hereby detained under suspicion of attempted Criminal Enthrallment of a Noble Heir and a foreign dignitary."
Her heart restarted with a violent kick, pounding like it wanted out—
"You will surrender your wand and submit to questioning on pain of Advanced Interrogation."
Hermione's first thought was of Sirius, locked away for twelve long years, health and sanity fading as he waited for a trial that never came.
Her second was of Hagrid, expelled and arrested without so much as a consultation with any relevant experts.
Her third was of cloaked corpses closing in around her, cold seeping into her bones, summoning memories of pulled hair and ruined books and acid-yellow eyes—
"Preposterous!" Professor McGonagall bustled down the aisle, her aura ablaze with anger. "All this over some— some spurious slander?"
"The Department of Magical Law Enforcement," the lead Auror replied, "has an obligation to investigate all concerns of criminal activity brought to us by reputable sources— who, I might add, we are not obligated to identify to civilians."
"Be that as it may—"
"Now, unless anyone feels like obstructing a criminal investigation, we will be escorting the suspect to the Headmaster's—"
"Or what?"
All eyes turned to Harry, who had risen to his feet with his wand in hand despite Parvati tugging on his robe.
"I beg your pardon?" Asked the Auror.
"You heard me."
"Harry," Parv hissed, but there was no stopping him now—
"Hermione hasn't done anything wrong, a-and anyone who says otherwise is just— just jealous that she's smarter than them. And better at magic!"
"Harry!"
"I haven't been dosed with anything— I'll take whatever tests you need to prove it!"
"As vill I," said Viktor.
(When had he come over?)
"Thank you, Mister Krum." The lead Auror's nod was respectful, but his smile was false. "Mister Potter."
"Wait!"
It was Parvati standing now, posture perfect, posh facade firmly in place despite the fear suffusing her aura. "Does the law not demand that underage magi have their guardians present for any such proceedings?"
"Ah, good point!" Dumbledore smiled. "Ten points to Gryffindor, I think."
"Fortunate, then," the lead Auror looked to McGonagall, "that her magical guardian is present. Williamson, Murk, take the suspect into custody."
Two of them marched forward, wands out— only for Dumbledore to block their path with one hand on Harry's shoulder to stop him from doing exactly the same.
"That will not be necessary," he said. "I will escort her. I will also be corresponding with Madam Bones about ensuring that her subordinates are better informed."
"I'm not sure what you mean, Headmaster—"
"And thus my concern. Had you bothered to inform yourselves prior to disrupting our breakfasts, you would know that Professor McGonagall is not, in fact, Miss Granger's magical guardian."
This gave them pause— and in that pause warm silver light bloomed from Dumbledore's wand, coalescing into the shape of a vast, ghostly Phoenix that banished the cold.
"Mister and Madam Tonks," he spoke, "it seems your young protégé has been entangled in a mix-up of unclear legality. We and the Aurors shall await your arrival in my office."
With a swish of his wrist, it flapped its wings and flew off, right through the stained glass of the windows.
"Shall we?" He asked.
"Very well." The lead Auror's expression had curdled into a sneer. "And the suspect's wand?"
"Will be perfectly secure in my keeping, I assure you." Dumbledore turned to Hermione then, and held out one wizened hand.
Hermione rose mechanically to her feet only to stand frozen, pulse pounding in her ears and sparks skittering through her veins, unable to tear her gaze off of the Aurors. Most of them stared back, half smug, others brimming with disdain.
"Miss Granger," Dumbledore said quietly, so that only she could hear— "Hermione. They cannot detain Hogwarts students for any longer than one day without charge… and they will regret any attempt to remove you from this castle. However, I sincerely doubt they actually plan to. This is little more than cruel theatre, which we unfortunately must play along with to hasten the curtain."
She managed a jerky nod.
Removing her wand from its holster was not so easy. It seemed to burn hotter at the very thought of surrendering it. Her grip involuntarily tightened… and Parvati's slid from her arm to her hand, gentle yet firm.
Hermione took several deep breaths that did nothing to quell the simmering panic, and her mind outraced her heart.
Dumbledore was fully capable of safeguarding her wand— his failure to quell the bullying that plagued Hogwarts didn't change the fact that he'd defeated Grindelwald in single combat (and then declined to become Minister, which might have given him the power to nip Riddle's crusade in the bud), protected Harry in the immediate aftermath of the war (only to endanger his life by laying a trap for the terrorist-possessed faculty member he surely couldn't have overlooked in the midst of a school), rescued Hagrid from Azkaban (which was only necessary because he'd either neglected or just failed to deal with the deadly beast he had to have known was roaming the castle and thus clear Hagrid's name), somehow managed to send Fawkes to aid Harry in the Chamber despite it clearly being a blind spot in whatever a Headmaster's awareness of the castle was like, banished hundreds of Dementors with a single spell and seen her Time-Turner for the opportunity it was to save Sirius without making an enemy of the Ministry (which wouldn't have been necessary if he hadn't let Sirius and who-knows-how-many-others rot in Azkaban without trial in the first place)…
…and either neglected or failed to preempt and secure this stupid deathtrap of a Tournament.
"Miss Granger," he urged.
The Aurors were still smug, still proud and disdainful and holding their wands like they wanted to use them… because they did. It was there in their postures and auras— they wanted her to refuse, to resist, to give them reason to use force.
Hermione took another deep, useless breath, and handed Dumbledore her wand.
He accepted it with both hands, clasping them over hers for a moment before pulling away, leaving her hand cold and empty.
Most of her felt rather cold, in fact. Also stiff and heavy.
Whispers followed her out of the Hall.
The Headmaster and Professor walked at her sides, but it brought her no comfort. Not with six Aurors marching along behind. She felt their gazes on her back— and lower.
Veritaserum cannot be legally administered without a warrant or reasonable grounds, she recited, and if they had a warrant they would have said so.
With most everyone at breakfast, every footstep echoed off the high walls and vaulted ceilings of each corridor.
Headmasters have the right to delay and appeal any Ministry actions that interfere with the school, faculty, or students— and to outright refuse and oppose any unlawful interference.
I would have felt it if anyone got into my trunk— and Parvati would have felt it if anyone got into her memories.
They cannot take me.
The walk to Dumbledore's office seemed much longer than it had back in second year.
They cannot take me.
The Aurors were a constant, prickling pressure at her back, only partially blocked by Harry and Viktor.
They cannot take me.
Finally and all too soon, the gargoyle rumbled aside. Professor McGonagall followed Dumbledore up the stairs, and Hermione followed McGonagall, who ushered her and the boys into armchairs. In the enclosed space, everything about the Aurors was louder— their boots, their attention, the rustle of their clothes and coats…
Their refusal to sit. Their preference to loom.
"Well?" Asked McGonagall. "I assume you have come prepared for the relevant tests?"
The lead Auror (Proudfoot, that was his name) raised his chin. "Of course. Khilkoff, if you would."
One of his subordinates, hatchet-faced and bearded, laid a briefcase on Dumbledore's desk. From it he produced a parchment, inkwell, self-writing quill, and several potions vials.
"Mister Potter," said Proudfoot, "please look at the suspect and tell us what you think of her."
Harry turned to her, jaw clenched, big green eyes brimming with feeling Hermione could only begin to decipher by scrutinizing his aura. Then something in him relaxed, and his mouth twitched into a nervous smile.
"She's… my best friend," he said. "Not my girlfriend or— whatever Skeeter said. And she's probably the main reason I'm still alive."
That caused ripples in several other auras, too quick and subtle for Hermione to make sense of through the haze of her fear.
"I never would've made it through first year without her— not to mention everything that's happened since. Sure, she can be a bit bossy, but she means well. She worries about me." His smile turned a little cheeky. "And she's almost always right."
Hermione found herself blinking back tears, and beginning to blush.
"Thank you," Proudfoot said tersely. "Mister Krum, please follow suit."
Viktor had already been glaring at the man. His gaze softened when it fell upon Hermione, but his face retained a determined cast.
"I sink she is ze most interessante vitch at zis school. En part due to her… prudence? She did not believe, at first, zat I vanted truly to go to ball vith her. I hed to persuade."
"Go on," said Proudfoot.
"I szink not," Viktor replied, meeting the Auror's gaze again. "I szink I vud like to take antidote to whatever potion you want people to believe she used on me."
"Very well. Khilkoff?"
Khilkoff levitated one of the vials —the pearlescent green visible through its glass that of a textbook diaphoretic purificant— into Viktor's waiting hand. He wasted no time in uncorking and gulping it down, holding Proudfoot's gaze all the while.
"Me too," said Harry, and quickly followed suit.
"Jolly good." Dumbledore sat back in his throne-like armchair, conjuring a tea set— with only five cups. "I've found it's best to get ahead of the dehydration, boys."
Despite every rational reassurance racing through her mind, Hermione could not help but watch the two like a hawk. She wouldn't put it past some tabloid-dupe or pureblood zealot to slip something into their drinks in order to frame her—
Harry made a face, raised a hand to the beads of sweat forming on his brow… and glanced first not at Krum, the Aurors, or faculty, but at her.
Hermione couldn't quite manage a smile.
Soon both boys were flushed, damp, and thoroughly uncomfortable as the Aurors watched for any signs of freed Amortentia victims— gasps, shudders, vomiting, tears…
When another minute passed with no such signs, the stifling grip of anxiety eased enough for Hermione to discern expressions again… which was how she saw that though several Aurors were disappointed and/or mildly disgusted, not a single one looked surprised. Proudfoot seemed almost indifferent.
There were very few feelings she disliked more than that of having missed some vital clue.
Theatre, Dumbledore had said.
But if this was a performance, what was the message?
The hearth flared green.
Out of its flames strode Andromeda Tonks, stately and austere in the sort of dress Hermione had never seen her wear, all black save for the silver embroidery of its ample petticoat and corsetted bodice. After several summers of mostly seeing her in old muggle band t-shirts and denims, it was rather disconcerting. Hermione wasn't quite sure why it would unsettle Aurors as well, but almost all of them looked a bit tense all of a sudden, and she was fairly sure there hadn't been quite so many wands out a moment ago…
"Ah, Madam Tonks." Dumbledore rose, and pulled out a chair for her with a flick of his wand. "What superb timing! We've just debunked Miss Skeeter's latest fancy, you see."
"I do." Andromeda curtsied to the Headmaster, but her gaze darted from faculty to Aurors to students.
Hermione wasn't sure what she looked like just then, but it was enough to send a wave of ire bristling through the woman's magic.
"Far be it from me to waylay an investigation in progress," she said icily, sweeping past the Aurors without so much as a glance to stand beside Hermione's chair. "Please do proceed, gentlemen. I assume there is evidence to to be addressed?"
Proudfoot regarded Andromeda as if she reeked, but he was trying to be polite about it. "That remains to be seen, Missus… Tonks."
"Does it? Surely there must be some tangible signs of wrongdoing, to divert such upstanding champions of our bureaucracy from their posts. Ashwinder eggs and moonstone missing from the Potions cupboards, perhaps?"
"Missus Tonks—"
"No, Skeeter would have mentioned that— she always did have such precise attention to rumor. Has the resident potions master, perhaps, reported signs of enthrallment in Misters Potter and Krum?"
"I am not at liberty to disclose details—"
"To the magical guardian and legal advocate of the child you've taken time away from your busy jobs to detain?" Said Andromeda. "Shall I fetch my lawbooks? It would only take a moment…"
"That will not be necessary," Proudfoot grit out. "We merely need to ask the suspect some questions."
"Not legally, you don't. Not without evidence."
"The public needs reassurance—"
"Perhaps, but that is the domain of journalists— not Aurors. Perhaps you should speak with Miss Skeeter?"
"That is not for me to decide," Proudfoot snapped, a vein pulsing in his temple. "We're simply following orders."
Hermione's blood ran cold.
"I see," said Dumbledore.
He had never looked older or grimmer than in that moment. The twinkle was gone from his eyes, replaced with the same steely resolve that swirled and crackled through the suddenly vast stormcloud of his aura. Hermione shrank back in her chair as every hair on her arms and legs and neck stood on end, heart racing once more—
A gentle hand settled on her shoulder, and with it the warmth of familiar magic. Andromeda.
It was enough to calm her slightly, to help her breathe through the onslaught of supernatural sensation that flooded her senses— but actually making sense of what faint snippets of conversation pierced the silent, crackling thrum of Dumbledore's ire remained quite beyond her.
Only when it began to quiesce, shrinking back towards his physical form, did her awareness of surroundings return… just in time to see green flame swallow up red coattails before subsiding back into orange.
"Forgive me," said the Headmaster. "Had I known your magical perception had grown so keen, I would have restrained myself from such theatrics."
Oh. He was talking to her.
"Hermione?" Harry was at her side, eyes wide with worry. "Are you alright?"
What a strange question. Of course she was alright. She'd avoided arrest, wand-snapping, Azkaban…
Her voice, however, wasn't cooperating. She had to settle for a nod.
Then Andromeda squeezed her shoulder, and everything caught up to her at once— the fear, the whispers, the cruel, disdainful stares and the powerlessness—
One moment she was sitting there, numbly calm. The next tears had blurred her vision, breathing was quite difficult again due to the uncontrollable sobs wracking her body, and Andromeda was hugging her, rocking her back and forth, murmuring soothing words…
She didn't know how much time she wasted like that. She hoped it wasn't too much. McGonagall had classes to teach. Harry had things to learn and practice. Andromeda had clients to represent.
It took her several tries to gasp out a coherent apology— only to be reassured by barrister and Professor alike that crying was nothing to be ashamed of, the situation wasn't her fault, and the only thing she should focus on was breathing.
There were also some mutters about bribes and favors and grudges she probably wasn't meant to hear, but it was just as well; but her memory was unusually foggy.
Eventually, however, she did manage to calm down. Enough to breathe without blubbering, at least. She blushed at the wet spot she'd left on Andromeda's shoulder, and the fact that Viktor and Harry were among the witnesses to it— though they were talking in a corner, pretended not to have seen. Dumbledore had vanished at some point.
"My wand—!"
"Here." And there it was, in Andromeda's hand.
"We'll figure this out," she said. "Don't you worry."
Which, of course, got Hermione's brain working again.
It might have been kinder to slip her a sleeping draught.
.
.o.
"Alicia, how long have—"
"Thirty-eight minutes since we got here."
"Thank you."
Pacing was unladylike, but mum wasn't around to see it, and everyone present (Padma, the Chasers, Ginny and all three of her school-age brothers) was too preoccupied to care.
This was such bollocks.
Parvati wished she had Hermione's gift with fire, if only to release the fury burning in her breast.
Had Rita Skeeter been present, she might have sincerely tried.
Padma caught her hand one the next pass, tugging her to a stop and steadying her just a bit.
Mum would have told her to clear her mind, to analyze and plan from a place of lucid calm— but how could she, when someone had conspired to frame and humiliate Hermione of all people?
Bullying was one thing, but for someone to suborn Aurors into this act of petty hatred, this sabotage of a schoolgirl— the most brilliant schoolgirl, the living counterpoint to all their stupid delusions—
That had to be why.
"How long—"
"Thirty-nine minutes. Take a bloody breath once in a while, Patil."
Who? Parvati wanted to scream. Sh wanted to storm into the Slytherin dorms wreathed in Padma's most venomous friends and demand answers.
Who did this?
She wanted to drag Parkinson by the hair.
Yet the moment the gargoyle rumbled aside, all thoughts of vengeance vanished.
Her heart leapt into her throat, thumping hard and fast... and then plummeted at the sight of McGonagall coming down the stairs.
No.
Ginny rushed forward. Parvati could not.
Please, Om Shakti, not her—
Then the Professor stepped aside, and Hermione stepped down into the corridor. Her curls were in frizzy disarray, her shoulders slumped, and her eyes red from crying… but she was still there.
Parvati was not conscious of having crossed the distance between them— only of Hermione in her arms, warm and soft and safe. Of Hermione hugging her tightly back, so much stronger than she looked. It took a moment to convince herself to let go so that others could have their turn. Harry and Krum emerged from the stairs behind her, sweaty from what must've been a potioning test. McGonagall stood watching, gaze softer than Parvati had ever seen it. She looked… tired.
She caught Parv's gaze, and smiled.
"Eighty points to Gryffindor —and ten to Ravenclaw— for going out of your ways to support the unjustly victimized."
"Then she's—?"
"Free to continue her education," said McGonagall. "After some respite, of course. I have released Miss Granger from all obligations for the day. I trust you can see her to more comfortable environs?"
"Sure thing, Professor." Alicia laid a hand on Hermione's back to guide her away— who, to Parvati's dismay, went along quite listlessly. "Let's go back to the dorms, yeah?"
"…no," Hermione rasped.
She had yet to really look at anyone.
"Alright, then…?"
"I'd rather not burn anything important."
Ah.
The dueling hall it was, then.
They were less than halfway there when Malfoy and Parkinson came around the corner, flunkies and accomplices in tow, faces lighting up with cruel glee when they spotted on their favorite target.
Fury flared through Parvati's mind and magic— but the little ferret had scarcely opened his mouth when a scarlet flash struck him in the chest, knocking him back and launching his wand in a high arc that ended in Ginny's outstretched hand, where it stayed for barely a heartbeat before she tossed it over her shoulder and strode towards him. Crabbe and Goyle made to block her path— only to find themselves looking down the ends of no less than nine wands.
A slap rang through the corridor. Malfoy gasped, stumbled again, and then lurched forward as Ginny yanked him down by the tie, jabbing her wand into his throat.
"If we find out you had anything to do with this," she hissed in his face, "all your daddy's money won't be able to help you."
Malfoy attempted a sneer. "Think so, do you?"
"Do you think gold means anything to Gilderoy Lockhart right now?"
"What are you on ab—"
"In Saint Mungo's, you dolt." Ginny yanked him even closer. "He was only trying to erase a few hours. I'll Obliviate you back to infancy, you greasy waste of magic!"
The sneer faltered. "You wouldn't dare."
Ginny grinned. "Think so, do you?"
"Let go of him!" Parkinson cried— only to find several wands in her face.
"Right." Angelina hooked an arm under one of Ginny's and started dragging her away. "Point made."
"Oi, gerroff—!"
"Come on, Weasley. He might be a wet little shite about it, but he'll remember— and we've got better things to do, yeah?"
Ginny gave Malfoy's tie one last yank before letting go. Harry and the Weasley Twins snickered; Parv-and-Padma (and the Chasers) were preoccupied with getting Hermione out of there before things got any more out of hand.
"We know where you sleep!" Ginny shouted over her shoulder. "Ask Pansy how safe she feels in her dormitory!"
Harry deflected Parkinson's hex, and thankfully chose not to retaliate. The last thing they needed right now was another bloody fight.
In the time it took to reach the old dueling hall, Hermione regained some of her usual vigor. Though her shoulders remained slumped, her stride lengthened and quickened until even the Weasley Twins had to work to keep up, and she seemed to ignore the gazes of the few groups they passed.
It was only when the door slammed open without so much as a twitch of her wand that Parvati noticed just how much her hair had frizzed up, and the occasional spark skittering through it.
She marched into the center of the hall and abruptly stopped, breathing hard.
Parv-and-Padma looked at Ginny and Harry— who looked just as worried and uncertain as They felt.
Harry, of course, did not let that stop him.
"Hey," he said, hurrying to her side. "Hey, the Aurors are gone, aren't they?"
Hermione nodded. Once. Then she started pacing.
It was Harry's turn to look to them for guidance. Parvati tried to look encouraging. He wasn't great with feelings, but he did at least have the whole 'I was friendless until Hogwarts and still have trouble believing people like me' thing in common with her, so maybe…
"So it's alright then, isn't it? They couldn't pin anything on you."
"They weren't trying to," said Hermione.
"…what?"
"They weren't trying to." She turned to face him, stray curls falling in front of her reddened, furious eyes. "They had no evidence. They knew it was all rubbish."
"But then why—?"
"Because the truth doesn't matter!" Her scream rang loudly through the hall, and Harry flinched back, startled. "Why do you think they came in the middle of breakfast? In front of the whole bloody school!?"
"I-I don't—"
"They didn't come to arrest me. They came to ruin me." She turned her gaze on the others. "That article was my public debut, and Aurors showing up to 'investigate' is all the confirmation God-knows-how-many people will need! Their first thought upon meeting me will be 'Wait, isn't this that gold-digging mudblood who toyed with Harry Potter and Viktor Krum?'"
"Hold on—"
"That suspected rapist?"
"Hermione—"
"The one who probably only avoided Azkaban because of Dumbledore's meddling?'" She advanced on Harry like he was Malfoy, dozens of sparks flickering through her curls. "I'll be unemployable! No one will endorse me as a candidate for secretary, let alone apprentice!"
"We will!" Cried Parvati, and was instantly pinned in place by Hermione's glare. "We're no Greengrasses or Shafiqs, but— but House Patil's recommendations still carry weight in multiple trades. And our parents would hire you in a heartbeat!"
"Me too!" Said Harry. "I'd endorse you, I mean— for whatever you wanted! All this Boy-Who-Lived bollocks has got to be good for something, yeah?"
Hermione laughed. It was not a happy sound.
"Of course," she spat. "God forbid I amount to anything on my own merit, rather than by the good graces of wealthier, more well-bred mages."
Parvati saw where she was coming from. That didn't make it hurt any less to be referred to with such venom.
"But you don't have to!" Ginny stepped forth into the heat of Hermione's glare. "Look at Bill or Charlie— they've done bloody well for themselves despite, y'know, our situation..."
"Poverty doesn't erase your blood status."
"Right," Ginny scoffed. "'Cos us 'blood-traitors' get so much out of that."
"Really." Hermione actually bloody sneered at her. "You really think it's even remotely equivalent?"
"Well… maybe not equivalent, but—"
"You were raised in this world!" Sparks flew off her fingers with every sharp gesture. "I've had to work for every scrap of knowledge you take for granted! I've had to sacrifice leisure and sleep and time with my family just to catch up with what you all learned as children!"
The last word rang in the air like a deadly incantation… and tears began to spill from Hermione's eyes.
"All for nothing."
"No it's n—" Parvati started forward, reaching out— but Hermione had already turned away, hands clenched in her hair.
The scream was wordless, this time. It was also much more powerful.
Parvati recoiled, hands clapped over her ears as chairs clattered across the floor, books toppled from the rattling shelf, and every bullseye on the far wall burst into flame.
Then all was quiet save for the crackle of burning wood and the rasp of Hermione's labored breaths. She had fallen to her knees, staring at nothing in particular.
In the cold grey emptiness of the dueling hall, she looked terribly alone. Parvati could not bear it.
Ears still ringing, she all but dashed across the distance between them before catching herself, reaching out slowly enough to give Hermione time to sense it before she laid hand between those slumped shoulders.
Hermione did not relax, but neither did she recoil. Parv carefully drew closer, and embraced her once more. She felt every labored breath, every angry thud of Hermione's heart, every slight shift of the back muscles she'd grown hauling all those books around—
"Bollocks," said Ginny.
That garnered a reaction, a slight turning-of-the-head, and a rasped: "What?"
"Bollocks," Ginny repeated. "I mean yeah, sure, people are gonna be idiots about you— but that's no great surprise, is it? You've got brains, power, family, and friends. That's more than Tom Bloody Riddle had. You won't have to scare or manipulate us into helping you out."
"Right." There was no joy in Hermione's smile. "So I can get another visit from the Aurors? Another little interview about what I did to compel upstanding purebloods into aiding my schemes?"
Ginny didn't appear to have any response to that. Neither, to be fair, did Parvati.
Hermione got to her feet, shrugging off Parv's attempt to help. "I've broken laws, Ginny. Laws the Ministry actually cares to enforce when the offender can't pay them off. If they ever seriously interrogate me, I'll be lucky to even get a trial."
"Then we won't let them interrogate you!"
"Fancy dueling some Aurors, do you?"
Ginny stood to her full, unimpressive height, chin tilted up. "I'd rather flash 'em a false Snitch, but I'll do what I bloody well have to."
"As will I," said Parvati-and-Padma.
Finally, Hermione smiled with something resembling real happiness. Also exhaustion.
They all realized at once that Harry hadn't said anything.
He wore a pensive frown, green eyes fixed on the floor with that Seeker's focus. "You don't need our help to… to amount to anything. You're the most brilliant witch I know. But safety…"
"None of us are safe here," said Hermione. "None of us can be safe here with the Ministry… the way it is. We're just not rich or respected or… powerful enough."
"Well, that's what I mean," he said. "It's like you've been saying— we've got to work harder and smarter than everyone else, right? And I've been reading up on all the fancy pureblood House stuff you got Missus Tonks to send me."
"...and?"
"Well, it's not bloody fair, is it? Take Sirius, for example. If House Black'd still had a Lord —or Lady— when he broke out, they could've given 'im sanctuary, and there'd be nothing the Ministry could do."
Harry hesitated them, clearly uncomfortable speaking so much in front of an audience, but pressed on.
"Sure, he'd be stuck wherever the Lord —or Lady— put him, and it'd cause all sorts of problems between the House and the Ministry, but it beats a date with the Dementors. And they could've used all that to negotiate for a trial. Plus there's this thing called, er… scandalum…"
"Magnatum," said Hermione. "I'm aware."
"Right, and it would've made serious trouble for Skeeter if she'd written... well, you know, about a member of a 'noble' House—"
"I'm aware."
"And it's usually way harder to even get permission to arrest a—"
"I am aware."
"Right." He glancing at Parvati and Padma for reassurance. "Anyway, it got me thinking…"
"About?"
"Bonding rituals."
"…what?"
"The, er, sibling kind, specifically— Sirius told me he did one with my dad, to… 'magically reinforce' their brotherhood, I think's how he put it— a-and I was curious, so I looked up rituals y'might use to do that. Plus I'm like, properly 'Lord Potter' now, 'cause of the whole Tournament technicality thing, you know, so I can legally adopt people into the House as well as just magically…"
"Harry," said Hermione, with that same heartwrenching expression she wore when she feared someone was only feigning friendliness in preparation for some cruel prank. "What are you saying?"
"Well," He swallowed, shrugged— "I figure you're already doing the job of a big sister."
Okay, now Parvati was tearing up.
"Looking out for me, bossing me into looking out for myself better…" with visible difficulty, Harry met Hermione's gaze again. "You might as well get the proper benefits, right?"
"You mean…?"
He seemed to brace himself as he nodded.
Verbal confirmation! Parvati somehow refrained from shouting. She's just as self-conscious as you are!
"'Course, I haven't practiced the ritual." Harry ducked his head. "So it'd be a learning opportunity for both of us, but…"
"A-are—" Hermione faltered, eyes wide and wet. "Are you sure?"
Another shrug.
"If I'd grown up with a sister," he said, "I like t'think she might've been like you."
For all her bookishness, Hermione could be remarkably quick when impassioned. Scarcely a heartbeat passed between the end of his sentence and her nearly bowling him over with a hug.
Fleur missed elevators. The Academie's renaming had gone hand-in-hand with extensive remodeling, in a time of fierce disdain for all things baroque. Several grand staircases remained, but nearly every tower and tall building had at least one elevator. She doubted Hogwarts had been remodeled since the advent of indoor plumbing.
Sure, all the stair-climbing was great for her ass— but what did disabled students do? Were there ramps tucked away somewhere, or did the staircases transform? If they could swing all over the place, it couldn't be that hard to make them reshape a bit…
"And you wonder why—" Sulian huffed, "they think you're a snob."
"Excuse me?" Fleur paused on the landing so he and Maewenn could catch up. "If anything, I am the opposite of a snob. I would prefer this place to look more common. Our esteemed hosts are the ones who can't make it through a conversation without alluding to their old money. The chatty ones, at least."
"That handsome Quidditch player didn't allude to anything of the sort," said Maewenn, "and she was chatty enough."
Sulian grinned. "Ah, is that what you call it?"
Fleur's cheeks warmed. Alicia was rather handsome… and her only allusions had been to their similar tastes in poetry. Pity she was enamored with another.
"Do you think she's up there right now?" Maewenn's Song tinkled with mirth.
"What does that matter?" Fleur started up the final flight of stairs, profoundly regretting her decision to wear heels. "She's not the one in distress."
Two dozen steps and one conversation with a portrait (that she might have called overprotective in a more civilized nation) later, the frame of said portrait swung open to reveal the poised form of Parvati Patil. Fleur heard a flutter of attraction, quickly stifled beneath wariness— too quickly to have been achieved by anything but well-honed mental control. Interesting.
"Good afternoon," the girl said in Français, features schooled into a polite mask. "Please pardon my rudeness; we've all been encouraged not to invite any non-Housemates into our common rooms without first confirming their purpose. The portraits are not always wholly reliable when it comes to school security."
She looked perfectly courteous and at ease, but her Song was dominated by discordant notes of exasperation and… was that envy or jealousy? They were tricky to tell apart, sometimes…
"Of course," Fleur replied. "We'd hoped to check in on Hermione and offer our support over lunch yesterday…"
But she hadn't shown her face in the Great Hall since that horribly interrupted breakfast.
"She's… in better spirits than she was." Even admitting that much caused Parvati buzz of discomfort just a bit too sharp to not be personal. "But I'm afraid she's not quite up to visitors at the moment. I'll give her your regards, shall I?"
Hm.
"Yes, but…" Fleur stepped forward, bowing her head slightly, and made a brief little show of starting to reach for the girl's arm before seeming to thinking better of it— "Please— she's alright? The Aurors didn't…"
Exaggerated though the delivery was, just voicing the fear made it all the stronger and more horrible—
"No," Parvati said quickly. "They didn't touch her— with word or spell. But…"
"It was bad enough even without."
The buzz grew quieter. "Yes."
A raised voice from the common room seemed to stiffen her spine, and she stepped back— not to let them in, but to distance herself from... who? Fleur the woman, or Fleur the Veela? True, there was none of the fearful lust or disdain that so many of her schoolmates emanated, but the wariness was quite strong.
"Thank you," said Fleur, and from her purse drew her copy of Inextricable: une Histoire Approfondie de la France. "Would you mind passing this along to her? It explores how the magical and mundane histories of France are interwoven. I thought she might like it."
"Of course," said Parvati, clearly aware of just how much Hermione would like it and displeased that it came from Fleur as she accepted the book.
Maybe it was the displeasure of hearing the lovely little melodies of attraction stifled beneath notes of doubt and denial half a hundred times a day. Maybe it was desire for at least some of the drama surrounding Hermione to end in happiness. Part of it was definitely annoyance over a girl she'd honestly like to befriend responding with misplaced distrust, envy, and jealousy.
Whatever the cause, Fleur couldn't resist asking: "What is it you think I'm going to do?"
"I beg y—"
"Seduce her away from you?"
Parvati's mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Her eyes went wide; her cheeks went pink. Several different feelings rang through her Song... but others were conspicuously absent.
"Ah," said Fleur. "Shock, but no disgust."
"I'm not— I have no idea what you—"
"Of course, of course." Fleur waved it away, and sighed. How best to put this? "Look she's awfully cute —I've no doubt she'll be a real beauty once she finds the confidence— but I have more than enough drama in my life without meddling in whatever she Viktor have going on. Or whatever she and you have going on, for that matter…"
("She said, meddling," Sulian muttered.)
Parvati's eyes grew even wider, darting around in search of eavesdroppers.
"It's not like that!" She hissed.
Maewenn hummed. "And you sound so happy about that."
That, evidently, was a step too far. Parvati drew herself up as tall as she could, expression firmly neutral once more, and with perfect politeness, said: "Thank you for stopping by. I'll relay your regards, and your book."
"Thank you." Fleur stepped back— but then paused at the screech of genuine fear in Parvati's aura. "To be clear, I have more than enough drama in my life without spreading yours around, too."
The girl obviously didn't fully believe her, but she couldn't change that. That didn't means she couldn't help at all, though. A bit of Grand-mère's wisdom came to mind.
"Regret may have thorns," she said, turning to go, "but self-doubt has poison. Careful which you nurture."
January 30th, 1995
Minerva was beginning to think, as she followed a familiar medley of scents between mossy tree-trunks and over leaf-strewn hillocks, that she may have misjudged Hermione Granger. Granted, prior experience with the sort of students that typically snuck into the Forest in the wee hours smelling of things like fresh-cut juniper, rowan, and lightning-struck silver had left her with certain biases— but even the brightest muggleborns, regardless of faith, usually shied away from Aulde Ritual. Miss Granger leading a nascent coven in such practices less than halfway through her fourth was uncomfortably reminiscent of the… less-storied exploits of Lily Evans, which Minerva had sympathized with (and occasionally subtly encouraged) as sensible reactions to an increasingly hostile environment. That one of the most promising young witches currently enrolled felt the need to resort to such methods on school grounds despite the presence of Aurors who had already shown malice towards her, without so much as consulting a single Professor, was a blow from which it would take Minerva's self-esteem some time to recover.
Galling though it was, she could not honestly bring herself to blame the lass for her distrust... which, if she revealed her presence, would disrupt their focus and taint their Intent. So there she was, stalking several of her brightest pupils —and all three of her Chasers— through the Forbidden Forest in the middle of bloody winter. Before sunrise.
While whoever had snared Harry into the Tournament was still at large!
Even with Albus' assurances and the local wolves and centaurs keeping watch (and hadn't that been a shock, to learn just how the lass had won their respect), she had to wrestle down the urge to dart in and drag the boy back inside by his ear. And that was before she picked up the distressingly familiar stench of an unwashed Sirius Black.
He awaited them in a grove of ancient Ash trees that harbored the lopsided, rain-smoothed ruins of a henge, his fur so dark beneath the new moon that even her feline eyes could barely discern his shape until he lifted his snout and sniffed. For a moment grey eyes met amber across the clearing. Then he turned his gaze to the approaching Chasers, who would seem (to those without a superhuman sense of smell) to be accompanied only by Parvati Patil.
A moment later Harry, Miss Granger, and young Ginevra shrugged off that damnable cloak. Sirius let out a woof and bounded over, returning to human form mere paces away to sweep Harry up in a fierce embrace— the sight of which soothed the startled Chasers enough for them to stow their wands.
Had she been bipedal just then, Minerva might have teared up a bit.
She had not, of course, expected Sirius to greet Miss Granger with similar (though not quite equal) affection. Neither, it seemed, had Miss Granger; she stiffened and hesitated before returning the embrace. Her housemates were clearly surprised… but only the Chasers seemed confused.
Sirius was overdue a wash (though Minerva was admittedly far more awaren of that than her students), but he had groomed himself enough to not quite resemble the feral fiend from those wanted posters, and was clad in what passed for proper day-attire amongst muggles. Combined with whatever Harry had told them of the man, it wasn't long before he, the Chasers, and Ginevra had established a tentative, bantering rapport… which Miss Granger soon interrupted with:
"We have approximately twelve minutes until sunrise. Sirius, have you reviewed the schema?"
"Oh!" He staggered back, clutching at his heart. "Ye of little faith!"
Hermione crossed her arms.
"I'll have you know I've read it back, forth, and sideways. Not much else for to do out here, is there?"
Even from across the darkened clearing, the facade of his nonchalance was woefully thin. Minerva could not clearly recall what his voice had sounded like before Azkaban— but she knew it had not been so rough.
"And?" Asked Hermione. "What do you think?"
"I think we're all damn lucky you're on our side, kitten."
"Ugh." Alicia screwed up her face. "Absolutely not."
"Wot?"
"That nickname, mate."
Katie nodded. "S'proper sleazy."
"Honestly," said Angelina. "Y'talk to birds your own age like that?"
"That's not—" Sirius crossed his arms. "It's a compliment!"
"How?"
"Because— Gryffindor! Obviously! And Lioness didn't sound right, plus, y'know, she's a tad on the small side…"
"Just call'er Maïa, mate."
"If you're quite finished," said Hermione, "we're down to ten minutes."
"Right." Sirius clapped his hands together. "On with it, then. S'your show, k— er, Maïa."
"Sirius. The schema?"
"What about it?"
She took a deep breath. "What do you think of it?"
"Oh, right. Looked fine t'me."
"Fine? Sirius—"
"What? The last time —the only time— I did this was before you were even a twinkle in your mum's eye. You're the one who's been memorizing diagrams and incantations and whatnot."
She did not appear to find this reassuring.
"Look," said Sirius, "you're not exactly aiming to change anything, yeah? It's about recognizing and… honoring what's already there. I-if Jamie and I could do it without hurting ourselves, half-cocked little muppets that we were, then you lot have nothing to worry about."
He… wasn't exactly wrong— but to hear a blood ritual discussed in such a careless, imprecise manner...
Had it been anyone but Miss Granger in the lead, Minerva would have stopped things right there. Instead she kept close watch on their preparations. Harry and Sirius kindled a small fire in the center of the henge, feeding it juniper-wood and magic. The others retreated past the perimeter of the grove and quickly but carefully sealed themselves out of it by pouring lines of salt across every gap betwixt the trees save one, due east of the growing flames. That was where Hermione waited, shucking off her cloak, tie, trainers, and stockings, leaving naught but her skirt and blouse to shield her from the cold— and nothing 'twixt her feet and the frost-kissed earth. Though the air turned her breaths to puffs of vapor, she did not shiver.
Sirius hovered a kettle over the fire. Soon the scent of warm rowan-berry ale joined the sweet, earthy freshness of burning juniper… and not long after that the pale light of dawn began to spread through the gloom, suffusing the smoke and gleaming off the knife in Harry's hand.
"Excipimus auroram et omne quod affert," he called.
"Qui frigidi sunt," Sirius intoned, "ad ignem nostrum veniant et calefaciant se."
Miss Granger took a deep breath, and approached with measured, steady steps.
"Who comes before the scion of House Potter?" Sirius asked. "Who comes before his Godfather?"
"Hermione Ijeoma Granger."
"What do you seek?"
"I seek the brother of my heart," she called out—
"And you have found him," Harry called back, awkward in his tentative joy, "for I know you as my sister, by your deeds and my choice."
Hermione beamed, and visibly restrained herself from dashing the last few paces until Sirius said: "Be welcome at our fire."
She reached its edge practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, teeth and eyes bright.
Sirius tipped the kettle to pour steaming ale into two old mugs Minerva recognized, with a pang in her heart, from tea with the Potters. He passed both to Harry. Harry passed one to Hermione, and they drank simultaneously.
"What would you have of your brother by choice?" Asked Sirius.
"His presence by my side as we face the world together," she said, "our bond sealed and sanctified."
"With what would you seal it?"
"With my blood, and whatever power dwells within it."
"And mine to match it," said Harry.
"Then let it be so." Sirius stepped back, away from the fire. The next part was for the siblings alone.
Both children stripped off their shirts, leaving Harry's chest bare and Hermione's clad only in a muggle brassiere. Their matching amulets gleamed in the firelight. She took another steadying breath, and offered her hand. Harry took it with the same care he handled photos of his parents before pausing for a moment to search her eyes. Then he set his jaw, set the knife-blade to her palm, and slid it across, drawing a quiet hiss through her clenched teeth. As the blood began to spill, eerily bright despite the gloom, he let go to cut a matching line across his own hand.
Both rubbed their own palms together for a moment. Then they reached out, clasped their right hands tightly together, and pressed their left over their sibling's heart.
The air grew still and heavy, as of the calm before a storm, silence pierced only by their joined voices speaking:
"Your path is my path. My strength is your strength. Your fight is my fight."
The fire turned a verdant green, tossing out of sparks that swirled around the two, drawing blissful gasps from their throats—
Then it flared crimson, and Hermione went stiff as a corpse.
.o.
The initial sensation, beyond that of Harry's physical and spiritual grasp, was not unfamiliar. Hermione felt as if she were being watched very closely by something many times larger and stronger than herself, not unlike entering Grimmauld place for the first time— just more (and, mercifully, without that horrid oiliness).
That was where the familiarity ended.
What no one involved had paused long enough to consider in their stress, worry, fear, and fury was whether a blood-bond formed with one man might live on in his son. If they had, they probably would have realized that Sirius' presence as both the father-figure of the ritual and the sole surviving man of his lineage was all but guaranteed to grant entrance to a second, much more bellicose current of half-starved magic.
Her introduction to the Potter Magic, she would later reflect, felt like a bear-hug from an actual bear that was very happy to see her— rather forceful, but only out of eager affection.
The Black Magic seized her with all the tenderness of an adrenaline rush delivered via lightning bolt, sending overpowering greedy glee searing through her every muscle and nerve.
The two did not seem to get along very well.
Welcoming heat and burning cold clashed and roiled around and within her. She couldn't breathe, could barely think, could just barely feel herself twitching and spasming in Harry's arms (and wasn't that fascinating, how clearly she could feel him despite it all?).
Then both were engulfed in a surge of soothing warmth that somehow overwhelmed them but not her, and left them both languid in its wake.
Hermione blinked up at the panicked faces of Harry and Sirius, and felt both of them with striking clarity. It was like hearing two distinct chords of a song she knew by heart— and which she hadn't even realized was being muffled until it suddenly wasn't.
.
.o.
Far to the east, over forests, mountains, and crashing, frigid waves, a wild-haired witch stopped screaming for a moment.
.
Far to the South, over hills, rivers, and a great many roundabouts, Andromeda Tonks paused mid-line, quill poised above parchment. Grey eyes darted quickly back and forth, dark brows pinching together in thought.
Then she smiled.
.
If Narcissa Malfoy felt anything out of the ordinary, she did not let on to her guests. Granted, the esteemed Lady Parkinson had stopped worrying about the subtleties of other people's expressions after providing an heir and spare, and Lady Rosier, had she lived in a more enlightened society, might have self-identified as autistic— but still. Had Narcissa lived in a less cloistered society, she might have been an absolute fiend at Poker.
The sight of McGonagall scolding Sirius like a naughty first-year somewhat dulled the sting of receiving undeniably well-deserved detentions.
Rita was perched on Parkinson's shoulder, listening for anything useful in the torrent of impressively petty rubbish the little tart spewed as she strutted through the corridor, when a flash of red light knocked that shoulder out from under her. Thankfully the instincts of her beetle form took care of pesky things like flying away from unwelcome surprises, leaving her mind free to take in the sight of Parkinson sprawled on the floor and wonder where the bloody hell that spell ca—
An invisible vice seized her mid-flight. She tried to flex her wings and legs, only to find them pinned against her shell, tight on the verge of crushing.
From somewhere behind her came a hiss of smooth fabric and a crinkling of parchment.
"As I thought," said an uptight, slightly shrill, vaguely familiar voice. "Lancelot, if you would?"
Footsteps approached. Rita renewed her struggle, twitching and wiggling to no avail.
Then a shadow fell over her, and up from below came the gaping translucent maw of a glass jar.
No!
The sound of the lid being screwed was like a rockslide to her antennae. Too late, the phantom vice released her— and panicked instinct flew her right into the glass no less than thrice before she regained control.
Which was when she noticed the horribly recognizable face looming on the other side of that glass, peering down at her with huge, piercing eyes, lips curved into a smug smirk.
Dread struck fast and frigid.
"Did you know, Rita, that your aura remains noticeably human even while your body isn't?"
Rita buzzed her wings angrily for lack of vocal cords.
"It's actually more noticeable than that of a larger Animagus. Due to the discrepancy in size between your human and insect forms, I suspect."
"Er…" another, quieter voice cut in— "You sure you want her to know you can…?"
"No," said Hermione Granger. "But it hardly matters what she knows now if she can't remember it later."
…what?
"And Parkinson?" Asked yet another voice, smooth and cultured. "The last lesson doesn't seem to have stuck."
Granger finally looked away. "No, but she'll probably have an alibi…"
"Fair bet, yeah."
"She didn't see us, though. Unlike you, Rita." That piercing gaze returned, bright with reflected torchlight, drilling right into some primitive part of her beetle-brain that sent her skittering back as far as she could— which wasn't very far at all. "How many lives have your ruined, I wonder? How much gold has it made you?"
Oh, fuck.
("Right— Gin, let's drag her out of the way a bit, shall we?"
"Ooh, y'think there's a broom closet nearby?")
"You must know how your work has… inspired the neanderthals that inhabit this castle, buzzing around as you have been. Maybe you even saw the Aurors escort me out of the Great Hall. Maybe—"
—she leaned closer, those terrible eyes agleam with reflected torchlight— "that article was commissioned."
Shite shite shite fuck—
"Two and a half months, Rita. Every. Bloody. Day. That's how long I've been tormented because of your article and what it encouraged. What it facilitated. So..." She bent to place the jar on the ground and shrugged off her cloak. "…I think that will be your minimum sentence."
No! Rita tried and failed to scream, wings launching her up against the glass in panic and rage that achieved absolutely nothing.
Heavy black wool fell like a funeral shroud, blocking out all light and muffling all sound save for Granger's horrid, spiteful voice—
"I'll give you two and a half months to reflect on what you've done."
No!
"After that… well. I suppose we'll see."
No no no no—
"Silencio."