Hermione Granger & the Flames of Revolution, Part I

by ThemmeFatale

"'Mudblood' is no mere insult, Professor— no 'mere word'. It is a threat of violence, and I have the right to defend myself." OR: Scenes from the early life of Britain's least-expected -and most radical- Dark Lady. In which magical Britain lights the spark of its own reckoning. (Focused on the growth of her powers, friendships, ideology, & vices, with a side of bisexual drama)

17. When Life Gives You Gillyweed

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.:.

Parvati felt as if she was going mad. Meditation was a distant dream— as was slowing down her heart or breathing normally, and she could not for the life of her stop pacing, which just dragged her mind right back to the sight of Hermione vanishing into the crowd with Ginny hot on her heels, both of them charging off just as they'd done during that awful hunt, which could so easily have gone so horribly, lethally wrong—

"Stop," Padma hissed, seizing her hand. "Surely they wouldn't keep us in suspense if one of our friends had…"

How can we be sure of that? Parv didn't have to ask. How can we trust them at all, now?

What else can we do? Said Padma's tired, frustrated gaze— and the crease between her brows: Then again…

"Pomfrey," she said.

What about Pomfrey?

"She's not let us down yet, has she?"

…well no, but—

"How many Quidditch injuries does she heal every year? How many freakish miscast spell-effects? And during the war…"

…she must've dealt with much more ghastly, frequent spell damage on account of Riddle's younger cultists.

If there was any faculty member they could trust to take care of— whatever had befallen Maia and Ginny and Harry, it was Pomfrey. That was just enough to loosen the knot of dread around her heart ever-so-slightly, to let her lungs take in just a little more air. To make Padma's grip feel more like an anchor than a restraint. They curled up together on a sofa facing the portrait hole, hands joined, and waited until their breathing synchronized.

Then their heartbeats.

Then their thoughts.

The Chasers started a game of exploding snap, but They could not watch— not when every pop and flare reminded Them of curses striking spider-flesh, the scent of charred hair and meat clinging to Their hair long after they'd stumbled back to the castle, and just like that Their stomachs were churning again, bile creeping its way no matter how steadily They tried to breathe—

The portrait swung open.

They were on their feet in an instant, lurching back towards individuality with their hearts in their throats— but it was only prefect O'Niall, pausing a step in to survey the room… until her gaze fell on their group.

"Misses Patil," she called, "the Deputy Headmistress would like to see you."

Parvati's blood ran cold.

If the prefect said anything else, she didn't not hear it— could not hear it over the pounding of her pulse. The walk to McGonagall's office passed in a fearful haze. At last and far too soon, she stood before the Professor's desk, taking in the weariness on her face, the grey hairs that'd come loose from her bun—

"—a seat, Miss Patil."

What?

"We would prefer to stand," said Padma, and Parv squeezed her hand even tighter in thanks.

"Of course," said McGonagall, more softly than they'd ever heard her say anything. "Straight to it, then; Mister Potter, Miss Weasley, and Miss Granger—"

Her heart skipped a beat—

"—are safe."

Oh.

"None of them are in mortal danger."

Oh.

Parv took what felt like her first breath in minutes, a gasp of relief that broke her hold on her tears. She fumbled blindly for the nearest armchair, and all but collapsed into it. A handkerchief materialized on her lap.

"Mister Potter and Miss Weasley sustained fairly minor wounds, which have been all but fully remedied by Madam Pomfrey."

Parv's heart skipped another beat. Her throat bobbed uselessly.

"What—" Padma managed, "what about Hermione?"

McGonagall's lips pursed. She interlaced her fingers on the desk, took a breath, and said:

"I'm afraid Miss Granger's injuries were… considerably more severe."

---

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.:.

Hermione dreamt she lay embraced by flowering vines— which was a marked departure from the recent pattern of her dreams in both pleasantness and uncanny awareness of the dream-state.

The vines, indifferent to her drowsy confusion, preempted any pondering by unwinding from her limbs and nudging her to her feet. The ground underfoot was mostly roots… every single one of which was slowly moving. It was like standing on a vast tangle of very sleepy snakes. The hedges to either side of her were slowly moving too— the hedges of the maze… which she didn't remember having flowers clustered here and there. Especially not flowers with eyes amidst their petals.

How peculiar…

She walked. At first she passed many little clouds of sunlight floating along in different directions, leaving trails of flowers behind them, but the further she wandered the less light floated freely— instead it flowed through the roots and hedges, guiding her deeper into the maze. At long last she reached an archway made of two trees grown together, blocked by a tangle of thorny vines… which, as she approached, began to untangle themselves. Not much, but enough to let her through.

Through that gap, at the heart of the maze, was a grove of ancient trees— and enmeshed in the convergence of their roots was a massive crystalline brain, aglow with swirling brilliance of every color Hermione knew, and quite a few she didn't.

The trees watched with unblinking eyes as she approached.

Then she was unpleasantly awake, staring up at the ceiling of the Hospital Wing, dry-mouthed and heavy and achey.

What…?

It felt like the morning after final exams, if one of those exams was several hours of Nymphadora's 'boot camp'. And she did vaguely recall running up… both a hill and stairs, and down a long hall towards—

Memory returned in a stab of spellfire, panic, and pain. A twinge shot through her aching muscles as the Impostor's manic grin flashed through her mind's eye along with Ginny hitting the wall and Harry—

Harry!

Hermione— tried to sit up, and accomplished very little beyond making herself even more dizzy. Her entire body was heavy and sluggish and stiff, and her arm…

Oh.

Her right arm was sealed in a cast up to mid-bicep, and held atop her belly by a sling.

She... couldn't feel her fingers.

Or her palm.

Or her wrist.

She forced her jaw to unclench and her breathing to slow, but could not banish the memory of her charred, bleeding hand, fingers bent every which way—

Burns. That was it. Pomfrey must've given her some sort of powerful anesthetic— otherwise she'd be in agony right now. That was all it was. Magical healers could regrow bones in days; burns were probably trivial to them. A bit of numbness didn't mean anything. Pomfrey would surely be along soon to tell her she was going to be fine.

Any moment now.

She tore her eyes off the cast and sling, let her head fall back to the pillow, and turned it towards the bright colors in the corner of her eye. On the low table beside her cot sat several boxes of Honeydukes's dark chocolate, a bottle of Butterbeer in a perpetual warming cozy, the runic Rubik's cube that usually rested on Professor Babbling's desk, several envelopes —one embossed with the Patil crest— and, atop a square of dark velvet, the hawthorn wand she'd won from Malfoy.

It was only then that she noticed the absence of her wrist-holsters. Not that she'd necessarily feel the absence of the right one, but she rather doubted it was squished beneath the cast.

Where was her wand?

Nowhere nearby, she would've felt it, but—

The privacy curtain swept open, startling her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger." Madam Pomfrey smiled wearily. "How are you feeling?"

Hermione tried to say fine, and discovered just how dry her throat was. When the coughing fit subsided, there was a glass of water on the bedside table. Pomfrey tapped her wand to the bed frame, casting a pulse of warm light through the runes carved into it. The mattress folded beneath Hermione, lifting her into a sitting position.

"My friends," she said when her mouth no longer felt quite so much like a desert. "Are they—?"

"Miss Weasley is mostly recovered from her concussion," Pomfrey replied, "and while Mister Potter is still suffering some after-effects of the Cruciatus, their other injuries were trivial."

Oh thank G-d.

"Now, on a scale from one to ten, how would you describe your pain?"

If she really focused, she could feel most of the back of her hand and wrist. That feeling was raw and itchy, with a dull throb up her arm every so often, but otherwise not so bad. Pomfrey made Hermione hold an archaic-looking thermometer under her tongue and describe what were apparently the traces of Cruciatus-induced muscular cramps, cast several diagnostic charms that filled the air in front of her with intricate, indecipherable light shows, and jotted some things down. What she did not do was mention the numbness.

Hermione swallowed back a surge of apprehension and forced her thoughts down a different track. "What about—"

"Take these, dear." Pomfrey held out two vials of potion. "Red for pain, green for relaxation."

Hermione choked both down, thankful she'd left enough water in the glass to wash away the earthy flavors only half-smothered beneath sickly sweetness.

"Moody," she rasped, "the impostor, I mean— what happened, after I…?"

"I'm not privy to the details, I'm afraid." Pomfrey reclaimed the empty vials and refilled the glass with a swish of her wand. "You'll have to wait until the Headmaster or Deputy Headmistress visit. Shouldn't be long, now."

"…how long have I been asleep?"

"Just about a day and a half. First for the surgery, and then to spare you the worst of the Cruciatus aftershocks."

Surgery?

Hermione's breathing quickened. Her stomach churned as the sight of her own charred, oozing skin flashed through her mind's eye again—

Harry'd had his arm-bones vanished. He'd been bitten by the most venomous creature on the planet.

Neither incident had required surgery.

"How—" her voice cracked. "How bad?"

Pomfrey hesitated before taking a seat on the edge of the cot, and regarding her with a more softer expression than Hermione had ever seen on her face. "Minerva has suggested that you may find more comfort in… thorough detail than in vague reassurances. Is that correct?"

Hermione swallowed. Her throat felt desert-dry again. "Yes."

The healer regarded her for a moment, as if searching her expression for something. Then she sighed.

"Very well."

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She sat staring at the curtain after Pomfrey left. The prognosis echoed through her mind until its words started to lose their meaning. All other thought was distant. Foggy. Time stretched like cold molasses.

Only when the dryness of her eyes forced a blink did she truly recognize what the healer had left on her cot. Which was probably not a great sign. No one else's bookbag had a zipper, after all. Pomfrey had also left the notes on top of it, so that was where Hermione started. The snakes of the Patil crest slithered around their flagpole beneath her fingers. Inside the envelope she found two separate folds of paper. The first was dated 24 th June— the day of the Task.

Maïa,

Parv & Padma here, with the Chasers; haven't seen Harry or Gin yet, but McG says they're (relatively) fine. She's also told us you were hurt worse, but won't give details— only a lecture about being 'sensitive and supportive'. Haven't seen Delacour or Krum since everything went to pot; rumor is they got bustled off back to their carriage & ship with all their schoolmates. We've been confined to common rooms until the faculty & Aurors have finished 'securing' the school. Not everyone heard Harry shouting about V,

What?

but word's gotten around quickly; Gryffs are split over it. Some think he's cracked from stress + whatever 'actually' happened to Diggory, but a surprising number aren't being idiots. I think your speech on All Hallows might've gotten through a bit.

Check your bag,

Parvati

Hermione couldn't unfold the second note fast enough. Parv had labeled it 25 th June, had written of Harry and Ginny being released from the Hospital Wing & recounting what happened— Wormtail, Cedric, Riddle, some miraculous function of twin wand-cores saving Harry's life an enabling a narrow escape only for him to be dragged off by the Impostor, who Parv thought would've done much worse than interrogate him had she and Ginny not intervened…

Harry won't tell us what happened after you got Cruciated, she had written; He says he was really out of it by then & isn't sure what he saw, & that we should ask Dumbledore, who burst in a few moments later. He was all shifty about it, though— not sure what to make of that.

She went on to describe the Minister all but plugging his ears rather than actually doing anything about Riddle's return.

Hermione wished she could feel surprised.

Probably a very good thing you took the bug out of the picture. Don't worry— I've kept her fed for you.

Delacour came to meals today; she seems fine from afar, but her schoolmates have closed ranks around her, so we didn't get a chance to talk. I've seen Iraultza hex three different boys that tried to bother Delacour— the girl is an artist. She's not been punished, either, because no one can dispute that Hogwarts isn't safe & for all she knew they could've been more dark wizards in disguise. I think Ginny might be in love.

No sign of Viktor, or most of the Durmstrangers; Padma overheard from Belby who heard from Greengrass that Karkaroff is missing.

Oh— Dobby's the one getting these notes to you. I got him to accept three Sickles for it! Call him if you want to write back; no word yet on how long Pomfrey might keep you.

Sweet dreams,

Parv

She quickly re-read both letters to be sure she hadn't missed anything in her mounting drowsiness— but no.

Nothing about the Impostor's fate.

Had they let him escape?

Hermione used her uninjured hand to drag the bookbag into her lap and unzip it in search of pen and paper— only for her dental kit, lotion, and satin sleep bonnet to spill out first.

She could have kissed Parv, just then.

(So it was probably for the best that Parv wasn't there.)

The effort of wrestling writing supplies out of her bag one handed and struggling through eleven attempts to write a coherent letter left her lead-limbed, dizzy, and frustrated enough to singe the notebook with her fingers. It was all she could do to get those supplies back into her bag and wrestle her hair into the bonnet before slumping back into her pillow, exhausted.

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When she next woke, the angle of the light through the windows suggested late afternoon. Something vaguely familiar lingered at the edge of her consciousness. She wondered if sleeping through most of the day said more about her injury or the potions she was on. After managing to lever herself up for a drink of water, she found her place in une Histoire Approfondie, and for a long few moments stared blankly at the page. She recognized the letters and the words the comprised… but try as she might, her brain refused to absorb any meaning.

Then the curtain swept aside and Freddie Mercury swanned in, clad in an electric yellow jacket and white pantsuit.

"There you are, darling!" He beamed. "And already back in the books, I see! Marvelous, just marvelous."

He sat on the foot of her cot with all the poise of a pureblood princess… or someone raised by a former pureblood princess. Hermione couldn't help but smile.

"Hello, Mister Mercury. Come to serenade me, have you?"

"Of course, darling!"

"Oh, good." She closed her book. "I would so love to hear Bohemian Rhapsody…"

'Freddie' took a deep breath, paused, and slouched back into her usual violet-haired form with a melodramatic sigh.

"Still working on that bit," said Tonks. "Turns out mimicking someone's singing voice is a bit more complicated than just adjusting the vocal whatsits. Not that I've messed around with that!"

"Of course not," said Hermione. "You would never be so reckless as to recklessly experiment with your own internal anatomy—"

Tonks made a face.

"—and I would certainly never suggest otherwise to your mum."

Purple eyes narrowed. "…what d'you want?"

Hermione thought for a moment, resting her bonneted head on the pillow. "Any Auror orientation and training literature you're not legally forbidden from sharing."

Tonks blinked in surprise. "…Yeah, alright. A lot of it is 'your-eyes-only', but I'm pretty sure I still have the pre-qual study guide Sprout gave me somewhere. Which reminds me!"

From somewhere in that flamboyant jacket she pulled a muggle pencil case.

"Self-writing quills. Wouldn't want you to fall behind on taking notes about everything ever." From anyone else, it might've sounded catty. From Tonks, it just sounded honestly cheerful. "Oh, and Mad-Eye says thanks."

Hermione's head snapped up from the pencil case. "What?"

"The real one, I mean." Tonks glanced back at the curtain before leaning closer, a spark of mischief in her eye. "M'not strictly 'sposed to tell you this, but the perp had'im trapped in his own trunk all year."

So that was how he'd fooled the Map…

"That's how he played his part so well— he had the real thing for reference."

It seemed so humiliatingly obvious, in hindsight.

"If you hadn't kept'im busy, he might've had time to, er…"

"Kill him," Hermione murmured.

"…I was gonna say 'cover his tracks', but yeah. Not t'mention whatever he had planned for Harry."

Hermione forced a smile. Now was not the time to air her feelings about consolation prizes.

The curtain swept open again— this time for Andromeda, once again wearing dark witch's robes, who barely even glanced at the cast on her way to Hermione's side.

"Hello, cousin." She was smiling, but her eyes were sad. The words took a moment to sink in.

"Ah," Hermione said, cleverly. "You're… in contact with— Padfoot, again?"

"I don't have to be," said Andromeda. "Not for this. Which you would have figured out by now, if you'd given yourself any time to relax in the last four months, young lady."

The urge to cringe was fleeting, but so was her indignation. She simply didn't have the energy.

"If I hadn't spent so much time studying," she forced out, "I might very well be dead right now. Along with Harry."

"Or," said Andromeda, not unkindly, "you might have thought up a better course of action than two adolescent witches charging in after a Death Eater."

Hermione averted her eyes, face warming.

"What was your plan?"

That burned. There was no excuse; she was the planner, the forward-thinker. She had to be. Everyone relied on her for it— Harry and Ginny had trusted her to keep them safe, and she'd very nearly got them both—

Andromeda took her uninjured hand, and gently squeezed. "I don't mean to scold. Only to advise. But that can wait."

Onto the cot she placed an all-too-familiar satchel… with Granger & Granger Family Practice embossed in its leather. Hermione's heart sank. She watched numbly as Andromeda unpacked things from it— an envelope, a thermos, a small tub of shea butter, a Lys-des-Cendres brochure…

"How—" her throat was dry again. "How much do they know?"

Andromeda sighed. "The Headmaster has informed them that you were injured by a trespasser, are out of danger—"

(Hermione maturely refrained from scoffing)

"—and are recovering more swiftly than would be possible in any muggle hospital."

"…that's it?" She didn't want her parents to know everything that went on at Hogwarts, but for the Headmaster and Chief Warlock to just omit that he'd let an actual terrorist roam the school for months—

Hermione took a calming breath.

"I'll owl them your prognosis as soon as we leave," said Andromeda. Then she produced a compact mirror and flipped it open, warm orange magic pulsing through her fingers and into the runes engraved around its rim. "Ted, dear?"

"—here she is now," came Mr. Tonks' voice. "Hello, love. She awake?"

"She is." Andromeda passed the mirror to Hermione… and by the time Hermione got it aimed at her face, Ted was nowhere to be seen.

Her parents did not appear to have slept much in the last few days.

Hermione attempted to greet them. It was somewhat difficult with her heart in her throat, racing as it was—

"Oh," her mother gasped, hand flying to her mouth— "Grâce à dieu."

"There's our little torch," her father said in Igbo, a fragile smile on his face. "How are you feeling, obi m?"

"…um. Bet—" Hermione sort of— lightly choked, and was promptly supplied more water by Andromeda. "Better than I would have expected?"

This failed to reassure them.

"Well enough to travel?" Her mother asked… and Hermione was tempted, a homesick pang through all the tender, tired parts of her (which was most of them) at the thought of curling up in her childhood bed, away from cold stone and endless scrutiny and brazen disregard for truth and constant fucking danger—

But no.

The term wasn't over yet— there were four full days left for any number of stupid, horrid things to befall Harry and Gin and maybe even Parv and Padma and Viktor and Fleur and G-d only knew who else— and she hadn't even had a chance to talk to any of them yet—

None of which her parents would accept as sufficient reason to remain at the school that had so utterly failed to guarantee her safety.

"I'm not sure," she managed. "I'll… defer to Madam Pomfrey, about that. I'm not dizzy anymore, and the pain is— mostly gone, but—"

"Then surely you're well enough to convalesce at home, non?" Asked her mum.

Hermione's began to sink. "I-I mean, she hasn't even mentioned letting me out of bed yet, so…"

"What about a normal hospital?"

Oh, that was easy— "What would we tell the doctors when the injury resists healing in ways that mundane science can't explain? Or if some parts heal faster than they should be able to?"

Her parents exchanged a Look.

"Is that… very likely?" Her father asked.

Andromeda scooted over beside Hermione to be seen in the mirror. "I've transcribed her prognosis and owled it to you; it should arrive sometime this evening. In the meantime, yes— it is a magical injury, which will require magical care for some time. Think of Madam Pomfrey as… a necessary specialist."

"What about St. Mungo's? Surely an actual hospital would be better than an overworked school nurse…"

"She does have several apprentices," said Andromeda, "and a number of very experienced elves helping out— but you're not wrong. It's certainly worth considering once she's safe to floo."

"Oh. Is that… no of course, magical injury, magical travel…"

"Public hospital," said Hermione, "protected by wards less than four centuries strong, to Hogwarts' millennia. Guarded by Aurors."

Only after she'd said it did she think to glance at Tonks… just in time to see her brows pinch together and the roots of her pink hair turn briefly black.

(How much did she know about Proudfoot and his mates?)

Tonks said nothing, which was itself rather damning.

(What was it like to work with petty, bribable thugs?)

As if conjured by the thought bureaucratic corruption, the drowsiness made a sluggish return. By the end of the conversation her eyelids were drooping, and words and phrases were beginning to blur into meaningless noise. She managed a murmured goodbye to her parents, unsettled by their tired, worried gazes. Only as Tonks and her mother stood to leave did she remember—

"Wait."

Andromeda paused. "Yes, dear?"

"Will you teach me to Apparate, over the holiday?"

Her eyebrows ticked up.

"Once Pomfrey clears me for magical travel, I mean."

Andromeda's gaze darted from her face to her bandages and back, and she sighed. "I suppose that would be prudent. Very well."

"What about Occlumency?"

Her eyebrows climbed higher. "I… could teach you the fundamentals, but…"

"I know the fundamentals," said Hermione. "What I need is practice."

Against someone who wasn't at least half-mad or operating under the constraints of a false identity, specifically.

Andromeda hesitated, lips pursing ever-so-slightly, and Hermione wanted to explain that she'd developed her grasp of the fundamentals primarily through the Dhyanic method practiced by the Patils rather than the much more draconian 'fortress' method espoused by the Blacks, but her mouth did not cooperate— and then Pomfrey bustled in with more potions, salves, and a bundle of bandages.

"We'll discuss it once you're on your feet again," said Andromeda— which was as good as a yes.

Hermione laid back, and for the first time in months, truly welcomed sleep.

---

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.:.

Parvati sat at the study table they'd snuck into the old dueling hall, nursing her second cup of tea and trying not to stare at the spots where Hermione's rage had scorched the wood, when a soft pop cut through the conversation.

An elf had appeared several paces away, clad in a healer's red and white, ears twitching at the sudden silence. Parv's heart launched itself into her throat.

"Good morning," said the elf. "I'm asked to inform you that Lady Granger is being ready for visitors."

A half-dozen chairs screeched back from the table. Parv was halfway to the door before she truly noticed the honorific, and the slight oddness of it got her brain working again— at least enough for her to turn and say: "Thank you! Do you accept tips?"

Their laugh-lines deepening as they smiled, a twinkle in their eyes. "Far be it for a humble elf to be rejecting a gift from one of Hogwarts' finest… even if she has already given far greater than coins."

…it probably said something unflattering about her that she hadn't stopped to ponder how the school's more permanent denizens might feel about their coven-ing, but she could think about that later.

Padma was the first to notice that Harry was lagging behind them. He was all tense, a cagey sort of look in his tired eyes.

"Alright, mate?" Asked one of the Weasley Twins.

"Yeah, I just—" he avoided their gazes. "Don't want to crowd her, is all. And I did already visit her— before Pomfrey let me out, you know. Anyway, I have to— to talk to the Headmaster, so. Tell her I said hi?"

The worrying part wasn't the lie, or the uncertainty of which part of that was the lie— it was how little energy he had to spare for it.

"…we will," said Ginny, and that was apparently all he needed to nod, turn tail, and walk away.

Padma started after him, only to hesitate, torn.

"He does have the Cloak and Map," said Parv, if only to avoid parting ways just yet.

It was a cold comfort; having the blasted things didn't mean he'd use them wisely.

But then the Twin Terrors each clapped Ginny on one shoulder, and hurried after him. She was the first to start moving again— and quickly, for a girl with such short legs.

"That elf," she said a staircase later, "it did say Lady Granger, right? M'not still concussed?"

"…no," Parv replied. "It definitely did."

"Anyone talked to a Hospital Wing elf before?" Asked Katie. "Could just be one of their quirks."

"Could be," said Gin.

But no one believed it was.

Parvati's heart rose into her throat as they approached the Hospital Wing.

Maia might've been out of danger (for a very specific definition thereof) but McGonagall's refusal to share any details about her condition was a lead weight in Parv's belly— and the last time something went so awry, Maia had all but renounced Wizarding Britain… and nearly torn a room apart with the sheer, undirected force of her rage. And that was due to malfeasance from people she hadn't trusted. Hadn't defended against suspicion.

Parv took all thoughts of what the Impostor might have done to her during those unsupervised detentions and smushed them down into a very small box at the very back of her mind.

The sight of Hermione sitting up on a cot with her head bent over an old book struck Parv with a wave of relief so strong that only Padma's grip on her hand kept her from stumbling. She nearly tripped over herself in her haste to reach Hermione's side, and was reaching out for a hug when she registered the bandages and sling binding her right arm.

Her wand arm.

"Parv." Her unbound hand settled over Parvati's. Her smile was weary, distracted, and all too brief. "Where's Harry?" She asked.

(Which should not have hurt like it did)

"Avoiding you," Ginny replied. "Like an idiot."

Hermione frowned pensively. "What about Mood… the impostor?"

The Coven exchanged several glances.

"Harry's not told you either?" Asked Parv.

Hermione frowned more pensively. "Harry's not told me anything. I've not seen him since I woke up."

Further glances were exchanged.

Had… he only visited while she was asleep?

"Well." Parv cleared her throat. "He's not told us what happened with the Impostor after he…"

"Maimed me?" Hermione supplied.

The muggle-isms she'd taught them truly were a boon; nothing could have described what happened in Parvati's head just then so aptly as 'record scratch'.

"You—?" Her heart was pounding again. "What?"

"Skip that part, did he?"

"He…" her mouth was dry. "…said that Mood— the Impostor— hit you with some sort of blasting curse and then— then c-cast the Cruciatus, but…"

She trailed off.

Hermione huffed. Closed her book with her uninjured hand, and slid it aside.

"Well," she said. "I suppose he didn't have the best vantage point, tied to that chair. Probably for the best. It wasn't a pleasant sight, and his storytelling tends to lack detail."

A pause. During which she did not meet anyone's gaze.

"You wouldn't happen to have a dicta-quill, would you? Any of you? I have managed to take some notes left-handed, but it's just not as efficient, and—"

"Maia," said Parv. "What happened?"

Another pause— longer this time. Hermione's gaze remained fixed on the little tent her feet made in the cot-sheets. Then:

"The Impostor did cast some sort of blasting curse. An incendiary one, I suspect. But it didn't hit me."

What?

"Not directly, at least. Stroke of luck, that."

"But then…?"

"The curse hit my wand," said Hermione, "with enough force to ignite its core."

For a moment, Parvati could only stare— first at the false calm on Hermione's face, then at the bandages and sling swaddling her arm.

She'd heard of wands exploding before, but it was supposed to be a one-in-ten-thousand freak accident— both because the odds of just the wrong spell hitting such a small moving target were incredibly low, and the cores most likely to break violently were…

Dragon heartstring.

Fuck.

"The resulting explosion," Hermione continued, in the same tone she'd use to recite from a textbook, "shattered many of the bones in my hand and wrist, and caused fourth-degree burns up to mid-forearm. Did you know that magical healers use the same classification system for burns as their mundane counterparts? I wonder what other medical knowledge has crossed over. St. Mungo's gives vaccinations, so they obviously have some sort of grasp on germ theory, but—"

"Maia," Parv choked out— and at last, Hermione met her gaze.

Then she slumped back into her pillows. A moment passed under leaden silence.

"Fourth degree burns," she said flatly, "fully penetrate the skin and cause damage to the underlying tissues. Which, in my case, meant muscles, tendons, a-and—"

—her voice wavered, Parv's heart skipped a beat—

"—and nerves."

"Fuck," said Ginny.

"Madam Pomfrey was able to fully regrow the bones and get a strong start on the muscles and tendons. Under… more typical circumstances, my nerves would be well on their way to complete regeneration as well, but—" Hermione's throat bobbed. She wet her chapped lips. The fingers of her uninjured hand curled into the sheets. "But this was caused by a vicious curse reacting with the latent fire-magic of my wand, further catalyzed by the unraveling of the enchantments woven into the surrounding wood. Madam Pomfrey says the burn looks more like the result of Fiendfyre than anything else, in that the residual ill-intent is… complicating the healing process. The muscle and skin may be mostly recovered in anywhere from several weeks to the better part of a year— and even then I'll need to re-train myself to write with that hand. I plan to be ambidextrous by then, but still. Annoying."

And really, what do you say to something like that?

"The silver lining, of course, is that the nerve damage has spared me quite a bit of pain. With it immobilized, I can barely feel anything at all past the wrist. Pomfrey says the nerves can be regrown much better by magic than by any mundane method, of course, but to what extent won't be clear for some time. I understand there are some tests to be done once the cast comes off that will tell us more."

The speechlessness persisted. Parvati felt ill.

"So," said Hermione, voice tight with the effort it took to hold back whatever emotion she was so stubbornly holding back— "All in all, quite a memorable lesson on the stupidity of charging into fights one isn't prepared for. How's Harry?"

Parvati didn't remember getting up. One moment she was staring, and the next she was pacing, unable to summon words or think anything other than how did this happen how could they let this happen—

Through the dull roar of her thoughts, she didn't really hear how Ginny replied.

"I'll write to our parents," Parv-and-Padma blurted. "Pomfrey is brilliant, but also very busy and not a curse-damage specialist— but our parents will either know someone or know someone who knows someone—"

They were very warm, suddenly enough to startle the words out of their mouths… but though they were blushing at all the attention (it had been quite a while since they twin-talked for that long), the feeling was bigger than that— more akin to a warming charm, but wrapping around rather than washing over.

No one had their wand out.

"I would appreciate that," Hermione said tonelessly.

Parvati burst into tears.

Next she knew she was on the cot, Hermione's free arm firm around her shoulders. Relief, horror, and sheer bitter unfairness blurred together too fiercely for her to even feel nervous about being held so wonderfully, torturously close. All the tension bled out of her. Only as the tears slowed to a trickle did she regain the capacity to feel embarrassment.

"Sorry," she croaked, lifting her head from Hermione's shoulder— Gods, what a mess; to visit someone in hospital and make them comfort you—

"Considering the abundance of criminal behavior in this castle," said Hermione, "I think you can be forgiven for dampening my shirt."

Parv had hidden her reluctant smile in aforementioned damp patch before she even considered how intimate it might look. She then stiffened, which was even more suspicious. Thankfully Hermione's wonderful, unstoppable brain was already on to the next thing.

"Angelina," she said, "we—"

"Angie, love, we've been over this—"

"Angie. How many other muggleborns can you gather on short notice? Somewhere with a minimum risk of eavesdropping."

Angelina's smile faded. "Dozen or so, maybe?"

Hermione gave a stiff nod. "Have to start somewhere, and they can spread word to their friends…"

"Wanna let me in on the plan, 'Bug?"

Hermione blinked and stared for a moment, a faint crease between her brows. "We need to organize. Communications networks, evacuation plans, safehouses, et cetera. I'm too visible and controversial to take the lead on this just yet— and you're much more popular than me anyway, so."

"Er—"

"Half-bloods and purebloods too, if you're absolutely sure they can be trusted. I haven't been able to write down my ideas, obviously, but—"

Padma drew her wand and summoned a muggle notebook from her bag, ballpoint pen conveniently clipped into its ring-binding.

"—oh, thank you."

"Maia," Angelina cut in. "We're already talking about it. Some of us, at least. Those of us that aren't being idiots about the whole thing, at least. And you need to rest up first, yeah?"

Hermione squinted at her, then turned to Parvati.

"You mentioned that," she said. "In the note. People 'being idiots'. What exactly…"

Parvati hesitated. So did everyone else. A number of nervous glances were exchanged.

"If you think," Hermione ground out, "that being forced to sit on my arse with the knowledge that I'm being denied information will be at all conducive to rest—"

"They think he's lying," said Ginny.

Hermione blinked. Stared. "Elucidate."

"Not sure 'bout exact numbers, but a lot of 'Puffs and 'Claws've been loud-whispering and asking Gryffs if Harry's off his rocker. Lot of the snakes've been acting like he's definitely off his rocker, but half of them are probably acting on daddy's orders to do so. As if he'd need to act out for attention. As if he wants it."

"They think he's lying," Hermione echoed. "About Riddle."

"Yeah."

"After he came back with Cedric's body, covered in his own blood."

"Well, most of'em don't exactly know it was his blood, but... yeah?"

Hermione just… stared at her for a moment. And then kept staring for what felt like a solid thirty seconds, punctuated only by a subtle shift from staring at to staring through, until—

"Right," she said, voice still unnervingly devoid of inflection. "Never mind, then."

"You—" Angelina paused. "What?"

"I actually expected common sense from our peers," Hermione replied. "Clearly I'm in no state of mind to be planning anything. I'll… sleep on it, I suppose."

And before they could further examine this jarring lack of certainty, the bells called them to class.

For a moment, no one moved.

"Go," said Hermione. "Depriving yourselves of knowledge won't help anyone."

It was of some slight comfort that she still talked like a thesaurus.

The Chasers insisted on sticking around to keep her company. Parv, Padma, and Ginny, what with their strict mothers and lack of imminent Quidditch careers, dragged their feet towards class— which was how they ran into Viktor Krum just outside the Hospital Wing. His face-journey at the sight of them suggested Parv had failed to fully erase the evidence of her tears.

"She's—" she faltered. Alright? No. Fully recovered? Far from it— maybe forever—

"Awake" said Ginny, "and already scheming again. Anything more she can tell you herself."

Parvati found herself extremely reluctant to move. From between Krum and the Hospital Wing doors, specifically. Hermione was busy. She had neither the time nor the energy to spare on some broody boy-toy who couldn't even be bothered to brush up on his resistance to the curse she'd specifically warned him about—

None of which would sound at all reasonable out loud.

"What is 'scheming'?" Asked Krum.

"Thinking. Planning."

He nodded, and shifted nervously.

"Do you know vhy she trusted Moody?"

…hm.

"Wasn't Moody," Ginny replied. "Not really."

"But she thought it was."

"So did everyone else," said Parv, perhaps a smidge more sharply than necessary.

Which was… sort of lie-adjacent, really. But it wouldn't be fair of her to expect Hermione to see through a disguise that fooled Albus Bloody Dumbledore.

"She is… busy?" Asked Krum. "Vith scheme-ing?"

"Yes," said Parvati, before Ginny or Padma could say otherwise. "Britain is about to become very dangerous for muggleborns. She means to do something… about it…"

…and she had the ear of an international Quidditch star.

Which, shamefully, did not make Parvati want to let him see her any more than she had a moment ago.

She really needed to meditate.

"You," she forced herself to say, "might be able to help. With whatever she's planning."

Krum scowled pensively.

"The Ministry is already trying to bury this. To lie about what happened, and paint Harry as— attention-seeking, or mad, or whatever will make people less likely to listen to him. And they won't listen to Hermione. But they will listen to you."

"…and to Delacour as vell," he said. "The French vill, at least."

Parvati could feel Padma smirking as she agreed.

Ugh.

---

.

.

.:.

Hermione was cataloguing the many functions of the runic Rubik's cube Professor Babbling had lent her when the curtain rattled aside to reveal the dark, dour form of Severus Snape.

Though he could have been beaming, and she wouldn't have noticed— not at first. Not with the tumorous magic of the Dark Mark burrowed into his aura.

Every muscle in her body tensed. Her free hand twitched towards the hawthorn wand stowed in her sleeve— a motion he clearly saw.

For a moment they stared at each other, his eyes dark and unreadable, her heart slamming against her ribs—

"Honestly, Severus." McGonagall swept past him and conjured herself an armchair.

Snape remained standing and staring, a potions bag gripped in one pasty hand.

She'd known it was there —the layers of enchantment woven into his robes had never fully hidden it from her magesight— but to see it active again, pale tendrils worming their way up his forearm…

It seemed exceedingly foolish, in hindsight, to trust Dumbledore's judgement about him. But his attitude problem did seem rather superflous when weighed against the lack of serious injuries and deaths in his classes, and he had acted to protect Harry on several occasions. Informant seemed the most obvious explanation… but what exactly was his arrangement with Dumbledore? What was keeping him in line, with his old master reincorporated?

All this raced through Hermione's mind in the time it took McGonagall to sit.

"Good afternoon, Miss Gra—"

"Have you caught him?"

McGonagall blinked.

(When was the last time someone interrupted her?)

"The impostor," Hermione pressed. "Don't tell me he escaped."

For several very long seconds, the Professors continued to stare .

"What," said Snape, "do you remember?"

She carefully kept her gaze off his Mark as she considered how best to respond.

"I'm afraid it's all quite a blur, Professor. Why? Have you discovered who was actually roaming the castle with unchallenged authority over hundreds of children all year?"

"Why," said Snape, "are you so sure it was an impostor?"

Hermione barely managed to refrain from asking Do you think I'm an idiot, and only because Snape's reply would've been equally snippy.

"Moody wasn't imperiused during the war," she replied, "and by all accounts, he'd only gotten more paranoid since. Has gotten? He must still be alive, if it was polyjuice."

"He is," McGonagall cut in. "The man who cursed you was Bartemius Crouch Junior."

That took a moment to sink in— and push a mirthless laugh out of Hermione's mouth.

Of course.

Of course it was more Ministry corruption.

"We learned this from the real Alastor Moody," Snape added, "who Crouch kept in a trunk… until his death."

…wait, what?

"He was dead when we arrived, you see." Snape watched her like a hawk. "Burnt black."

The sight and stench of charred flesh flashed through Hermione's mind… followed by the memory of fire pouring out of her wand— but he'd survived that, and…

Oh.

"And you couldn't check my wand," she said numbly.

Dead.

Her outbursts of accidental magic had been getting more and more explosive, but to burn an adult wizard to death…

Hermione had known she might have to use any number of potentially lethal spells in self-defense, sooner or later. She'd tried and failed to find literature that adequately described the psychological experience of killing people (the Grimmauld library was not the place to look for anything representative of normative human psychology, her time in mundane libraries had been limited by necessity for years, and the sort of men that wrote war memoirs tended to be rather minimalist with their descriptions); Sirius claimed his first kill was in the heat of battle, fight-or-flight and a hefty dose of rage overwhelming any hesitation.

She'd expected to at least notice making hers.

She stared at the Rubik's cube in her lap, and waited to be struck by horror or disgust or regret or… something. Anything.

But there was only a vague sense of relief.

The Professors, she realized, were likely waiting for the same thing. She had no confidence in her ability to feign remorse. Nor should they expect remorse, for that matter— not after they'd so spectacularly failed to detect a terrorist masquerading as one of their old colleagues.

"Well," she said. "My accidental magic always was a bit incendiary."

The Professors exchanged a Look. Hermione could not read it.

McGonagall steepled her fingers. "You recall nothing of what befell the impostor?"

"No, Professor. I don't remember much of anything after… his counterattack."

"Much of anything," said Snape, "or anything at all?"

Hermione took a deep breath before answering. "I was a bit distracted by the Cruciatus and its after-effects, Professor."

Snape continued to stare for a beat, then abruptly turned away to set his potions bag on the side tale.

"In hopes of forming a fuller picture of events," said McGonagall, "we searched the bags and pockets of everyone present…"

Ah.

"…which was how we found you in possession of a wand last known to belong to Draco Malfoy."

Merde.

"I will assume that you are well aware of the penalty for the theft of the wand of a noble heir—"

Confiscation of the offender's wand. One week of indentured servitude for every day the heir's wand was kept from them— under threat of Azkaban.

"—and move on to the question of how you acquired it without incurring retaliation."

Hermione swallowed, throat dry, and took a few deep breaths.

"Shou—" her voice cracked. She swallowed again. "Should I prepare to greet the Aurors?"

McGonagall regarded her a moment longer, then sighed. "Of course not."

Hermione's next breath came more easily. Her heart did not stop racing.

"Then what bearing," she said, "does my wand have on the current situation?"

"We are obligated to a certain level of diligence when evidence suggests one of our charges has been subject to… unlawful memory modification."

Diligence. Hermione barely held back another bitter chuckle— but could not help but snipe: "And how quickly you noticed."

"You admit," said Snape, "to robbing and obliviating Mister Malfoy?

Deep breaths. Project confidence.

"I didn't rob anyone," Hermione replied. "I won that wand fair and square, according to the very traditions your esteemed charges are so rabid about. Professor."

Snape arched a single eyebrow. "You bested Malfoy in a duel?"

"Duel implies a degree of formality and mutual understanding. Malfoy never imagined an underage mudblood might dare to hex him outside the safety," she sneered, "of Hogwarts. He thought it was a brilliant idea to threaten me while outnumbered three to one with no witnesses. And you know how those three are— Malfoy, Harry, and… Ronald. He never saw it coming."

"And then you altered his memory."

"Ob~viously."

This garnered another, slightly less subtle eyebrow-twitch. "How?"

"I reapplied the confundus charm and physically tripped him to create an alternate memory explaining the loss of his wand. Then I obliviated him."

Another long moment of staring ensued. Then:

"You are aware, of course," Snape drawled, "that obliviation can be undone by a dedicated expert."

"That is why I added the extra steps, yes."

"Premeditated, then. Do you often make such plans for your peers?"

"Only the bigots, Sir."

His lip twitched this time, and something flickered through his aura too quickly for Hermione to interpret. "How uncharacteristically lax of you, Miss Granger. Politics do not matter to the Imperius Curse, after all."

"That's…" hm. "An excellent point. Thank you, Professor."

Snape closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sat down in one of the visitor's chairs. "Miss Granger. What do you imagine might have happened if someone not of the faculty had discovered this wand in your possession and recognized it?"

"I imagine there would be Aurors present for this conversation. And a Ministry-employed legilimens."

"Yes," said Snape, a hard edge in his voice, "and even a fleeting glimpse of your face anywhere near the loss of his wand is all the Ministry would need to throw you into a cell and coerce you into confessing to any number of crimes, true or false, depending how petty Lucius Malfoy happened to be feeling that day!"

…which was an interesting thing for a Death Eater to get worked up about. Something to ponder, later.

"Really?" Hermione asked. "And exactly how much of the Ministry does he have in his pocket?"

Snape glared. Took a deep breath. "Granger. How did you become confident enough in your proficiency with the memory charm to cast it on Heir Malfoy?"

"Crows." No laws against that. "Corvids have a remarkable memory for human faces, you know, so I figured they were the best non-human subjects available."

"Andromeda Tonks allowed you to practice mind magic on live animals on her property?"

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. Her gaze darted to the pale tumor in his aura. "What?"

"Spare me," he sneered. "The entire faculty is well aware of Madam Tonks' little mentorship program."

Right. She had been at it over a decade, but—

"Miss Granger." McGonagall leaned forward, gaze searching. "Self-defense is one thing, but memory charms…"

It wasn't just that she sounded disappointed. It was the worry.

Since waking up in the Hospital Wing, Hermione had felt half-asleep— her emotional reactions slow and… muted, sort of— but that judgement, from that mentor-that-wasn't, with that bastard standing right there and looking at her like there was something wrong with her for wanting to be safe in the school they were supposed to be responsible for—

Well.

She couldn't have held her tongue if she'd wanted to.

"Now you worry?" She hissed. "Now you worry— about steps taken to protect myself from the fruits of your negligence?"

McGonagall flinched back. "Miss Granger—!"

"No! It is my turn to speak, and your turn to listen. I've known from the start I'd have to work thrice as hard to get half as far. Because of the Tonkses. For that, you have my gratitude. But every year since has only made it clearer that I cannot trust you with my safety any more than I can trust the Ministry to be competent at anything other than corruption. And now the cult leader who apparently started recruiting while he was still one of your students is back to start mass-murdering again!"

For whatever reason, neither Professor cut in while she paused for breath.

"My maternal grandparents are French-born Jews," she said. "I can bloody well tell where this— this festering tumor of a society is headed. I have never been safe at this school, and unlike some people I don't have some mysterious super-enchantment protecting me outside of it. My family is in danger because you couldn't be arsed to notice the actual bloody terrorist wearing your friend's likeness like a cheap suit before he blew up my fucking hand!"

Again she paused for breath, chest heaving, heart pounding, trembling with anger.

"How?" She demanded. "How could you not notice?"

For a long moment afterwards, the only sound in the Hospital Wing was her labored breathing.

Then McGonagall took off her glasses, clasped her hands in her lap, and thought for a moment before answering:

"You are not wrong to call it negligence. After the events of these past four years, we should have watched the Defense professor more closely— not less so. That said, Crouch used a combination of potions, curses, and legilimency to plunder Alastor's mind for the knowledge to better impersonate him. Between that well-researched performance and our… unusually busy schedule this year… well. It does not excuse our oversight— but that oversight was not willful. And if your friends are to be believed, they made it clear to you that Crouch's conduct during your detentions was inappropriate."

"I never thought it was appropriate," Hermione replied. "Only necessary. Which they didn't dispute, because they couldn't. Where else was I going to get practice resisting the Imperius?"

"So you never suspected that a professor cursing you in private might be a sign of something seriously amiss?"

Hermione opened her mouth to deny it… and realized she couldn't. Not truthfully. She wasn't sure it was possible for her to not be suspicious of a Defense professor, at this point— but it had seemed that for every reason to be suspicious, there was another, more compelling reason not to say anything. To keep him around so that she could learn. And every time suspicion reared its head again, she'd told herself that the faculty must have been watching him closely— so she didn't have to. That a teacher who was so bluntly honest about the dangers they faced, who gave her the chance to actually test her skills, couldn't possibly be bad news.

No.

It was worse than that.

Those fleeting moments where his gaze was just a little too sharp, a little too wild, those twitches of his wand-hand when certain students spoke, the intense focus with which he 'demonstrated' the Unforgivables…

She'd known he could all too easily be very bad news. She just hadn't wanted him to be.

The anger left her in a single, winded exhale. She slumped back into the pillows, stomach rolling.

How much of this could she have prevented, if she'd just been honest with herself?

Her hand, Harry's trauma, Ginny's concussion, Cedric's death, Riddle's return—

Her stomach lurched.

How much of this was her fault?

Hermione lurched to lean over the side of the cot, and spewed her breakfast into a bucket that hadn't been there a moment before.

Which did at least give her an alibi for the shudders. And the tears.

By the time she regained control of herself, the only sign Snape had ever been there was three opaque vials on the bedside table, labelled with instructions. McGonagall vanished the mess with a flourish of her wand, conjured a glass, and filled it with water condensed from the air— all while looking supremely unbothered. As if Hermione's distress was nothing more than a bout of— exam nerves, or something.

The anger roared back with a vengeance.

"Do you think," Hermione— sort of croaked, really— "that you'll survive this time around?"

The professor blinked. Stared. "I beg your pardon?"

"Riddle's new reign of terror. The impending war. Given that the Ministry can't even keep track of of the terrorists they have captured, and you apparently can't notice one right under your nose." Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was cringing— but it wasn't enough to stop the words from pouring out like more bile. "Come to think of it, do you think Riddle will even bother trying to assassinate you? It's not as if you've actually done much to combat his agenda where it really counts, after all."

McGonagall's eyes grew wider than Hermione had ever seen them. Her lips pressed thin. Indignation flared and fizzled through her aura… only to be washed out by a wave of sadness.

She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"You've a right to your anger," she said. "I never meant to deny that— only to encourage you to… control and direct it more productively. To help you better navigate a world that is often so hostile to newcomers. Especially the exceptional ones. The spirited ones."

She paused then to regard Hermione with exhausted eyes.

"I see now that my failures to ensure your safety have utterly sabotaged my attempts at guidance. That I have done you a great disservice. I will not insult you further by asking forgiveness— but I will advise that you save your ire for… those of us that have wronged you, rather than the wizarding world entire."

Which, to Hermione, really just demonstrated an appalling misunderstanding of structural inequality, especially from an educator, but—

"Bitterness," said the woman who could have been her mentor, "can all too easily cloud even the brightest of minds."

How many muggleborns had she seen come to resent the world she'd introduced them to? How many had she seen quit it entirely?

Why hadn't she done anything about the reasons why?

Hermione had to take several deep breaths before she could trust herself to open her mouth without more venom spilling out.

"Thank you," she managed, "for your advice, Professor."

McGonagall watched her a moment longer. Hermione couldn't read her expression, and didn't care to read the fluctuations of her aura.

"Rest well, Miss Granger. A mind such as yours deserves to be well-rested."

And with that she finally left.

.

.

Hermione was staring at the ceiling, trying to feel anything other than suffocating guilt and simmering rage, when the jingle of coins reached her ears. She turned her head just enough to see Dobby set a coin-purse on the bedside table.

"…what."

He cringed. "Deepest apologies, Miss Grangy. I'm not meaning to distract from your ponderings, truly—"

"S'fine, Dobby. What's in the bag?"

"Mister Harry Potter's winnings, Miss. Most he's giving to poor Mister Cedric's family, so very kind of him— but the rest he's wanting you to have, Miss."

And just like that her eyes were leaking again, blurring her vision as guilt —and a heft dose of fear— did its level best to smother the life out of her.

Oh, Harry.

So bloody thoughtful, even when he couldn't stand to be around her.

With just a few words to the right people, she could have saved him watching his friend die. From being tortured by the monster who killed his parents.

In his shoes, she would never forgive that— and maybe that was for the best. Everyone always thought she had all the answers. Now at least one person would know how stupid she could be. How utterly selfish.

Had it even truly been for Harry that she'd gone to such lengths? Convinced Sirius to stick around and talked her way into the Black Library?

Or had she just been trying to satisfy her own thirst for knowledge? To soothe her own fear of not being the best? She wasn't sure. She thought fear for Harry's safety had at least been one of her primary motivations… but clearly, at some point, she'd developed considerable skill for fooling herself. For making others go along with that foolishness, even when they knew it was wrong. Even when they knew it was dangerous.

She probably should have felt shame, at that— and the guilt about 'Moody' specifically was still there... but in that moment, what pierced the fog inside her head was sudden, smug satisfaction.

---

.

.

.:.

Severus knelt and bowed forward until his mask clinked against the cold marble floor, drawing all the fear, resentment, and futile rage associated with Dumbledore to the surface of his mind as he awaited a thorough mental probing.

None came. Perhaps to savor his apprehension.

His skin crawled beneath the Dark Lord's gaze.

"Ssseveruss. We were beginning to think you might not make it to thiss little ssoiree."

A chorus of false chuckles echoed through the room.

"I beg your forgiveness, My Lord." Severus placed his wand on the floor before him. The fact that he carried a second did not dilute the potency of the gesture. "Barty's death has left Dumbledore rather desperate for answers."

"And kept hisss whipping boy busy," said the lich. "Rise, old friend, and raise a glasss to our fallen comrade. Hissz~ssacrifice shall be remembered for ages to come."

Severus got to his feet just in time to catch a goblet before it floated right into his chest. With his free hand he removed his mask, baring his face to the scrutiny of those crimson eyes.

"To Barty!"

When the Dark Lord bid you drink, you drank deeply.

Veritaserum had no flavor or odor. Severus would have suspected it the instant he failed to detect anything odd about the wine— if the Dark Lord had ever made a habit of using it before. He hadn't. He'd never needed to.

Severus resolved to ponder it once he wasn't drugged.

"Tell me, Sseverus… what was the manner of Barty's martyrdom?"

"I did not see it happen, My Lord, only the aftermath— but he clearly burned to death. Rather quickly."

The silence was leaden as he considered this, until—

"Show me."

Severus called forth his memory of bursting into the Defense office, and met the Dark Lord's eye.

It was like oily icewater pouring into his mind, engulfing the images— the Weasley girl slumped by the door, Granger burnt and bleeding before a shattered cabinet with a panicked Potter crouched beside her, and a charred ruin of a corpse smoldering in the center of the room.

The Dark Lord's interest sharpened, digging into the memory with all the finesse of a bear trap as he scrutinized every last detail— the wand in Potter's hand, the rope-marks on his arms, their source scattered around the scorched armchair, ends blackened—

Later, Severus would feel considerable relief that he'd isolated it from other memories of Granger's particular talents. In the moment, there was nothing but pain, vertigo, and furious obsession so intense it bordered on lust.

(Perhaps that was simply the only thing his human brain could interpret it as. The Dark Lord's had been abnormal enough before it was atomized and magically reconstructed.)

Then came a sudden, jarring flash of foreign memory— blinding light and terrible heat searing through every nerve—

Then Severus' mind was his own again— and the air around him thrummed with fury not his own, instantly rousing the instinct to stay very, very still. The hair of his arms and nape stood on end.

"Sso…" hissed the Dark Lord, "the boy caught a ssecond wind."

Severus dared not speak. No one did.

"What do you know of his accidental magic?"

He swallowed, mouth dry. "Precious little, My Lord. There are few things about which Dumbledore is more miserly than details of Potter's upbringing."

"Ah, but of course." His horrid gaze slid away, down the table, and Severus breathed just a little bit easier. "Lucius?"

Malfoy's hand twitched around the stem of his goblet. His throat bobbed.

"My contacts have yet to report anything about Potter's accidental magic, My Lord, and the Reversal Archives remain closed to them. I feared moving too openly before your return—"

A rasping rattle of a chuckle chilled the room.

"Ah, Lucius. You always did tell such pretty lies."

"Forgive me, My—"

"I asked you for information. Not for groveling."

Lucius bowed his head. "Of course, My Lord— and while I have nothing on Potter's life outside Hogwarts, his pet mudblood is on the List."

"Oh?"

Fuck.

"Do tell."

"Apparently," Lucius cleared his throat, "her first detectable outburst left blistered burns on the hands of a muggle whelp who'd dared touch her books."

Severus ignored the urge to put his face in his hands.

Of course it had.

He pulled every bit of petty disdain he felt towards the girl to the forefront of his mind, and scoffed: "Such an outburst would not be wildly out of character for her now, My Lord. The latest in a long line of mudbloods who believe that bookishness can compensate for lack of talent."

The Dark Lord considered him for a moment through those cold reptilian eyes. Then:

"Surely Luciuss did not mean to imply that dear Barty, the mosst loyal and dedicated of my knightss, wass~ssslain by a ssixteen-year-old mudblood."

He may as well have vanished all the air from the room— and everyone in that room promptly and emphatically forgot how a fourteen-year-old half-blood had made a fool of him mere days before.

"N-no," Lucius choked out. "Of course not, My Lord. The gulf of talent and raw power between singeing some muggle and— and immolating a full-grown champion of Purity is…"

"Indeed," hissed the Dark Lord. "But I know it musst be… difficult for you, to ssee your heir sso conssistently outdone by thiss particular mudblood."

A muscle twitched in Lucius' jaw. It would have taken near-total darkness to conceal the reddening of his face.

"He will be overjoyed," Severus drawled, "to learn of her maiming."

Several snickers were poorly hidden.

"A waste of magic she may be," Lucius grit out, "but there are few with whom Potter is closer. I can learn where she lives, and—"

"Await my command," said the Dark Lord. "We sshall break Potter's sspirit when the time is ripe… and until then we shall be as sserpents in the grass, unsseen and unheard until our jaws ssnap shut. I have spoken."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Now, Ssseverus… tell me of the old man who fancies himsself your massster."

Only as he finally left the manor, many long, tense hours later, did Severus let himself think of Granger's defiant glare and well-organized mind. Of Potter's bullheaded recklessness, and where it was all but guaranteed to lead him without her aid and counsel.

Of how close he came to crossing the Channel, after Lupin nearly mauled him.

Of what he might have done if the werewolf's jaws had closed around his wand-hand.

What would have been stronger in the aftermath, he wondered— his despair, or his rage?

---

.

.

.:.

Existing near Fleur Delacour was discouraging enough on a good day.

Hermione was not having a good day.

Her hair was stuffed into a bonnet to protect it from the scratchy pillows of the Hospital Wing, her lips mangled from involuntary gnawing, and she could feel the bags under her eyes.

Fleur stepped past the curtain looking for all the world like she'd just changed out of her ballgown— into 'casual' robes that had probably cost more than Hermione's ballgown.

"There she is!" She beamed. "My savior!"

Hermione's train of thought, already under considerable momentum and torque, derailed entirely.

"What?" She managed.

Fleur sashayed over and sat on the foot of the cot like a queen claiming her throne, skirt riding up toned thighs as she crossed her legs—

"If not for your warning," she said, "I would not have been so quick to recognize what was wrong with Viktor— and if I wouldn't have reacted quickly enough to fend him off. He might have done far worse than stun me, given a few more minutes."

Hermione immediately felt guilty for not thinking of that.

Fleur, cheating empath that she was, laid an unfairly well-moisturized hand on top of Hermione's own (though she did at least keep the psychic tendrils to herself).

"My safety isn't your responsibility— and Harry's shouldn't have been."

But it is.

Fleur's smile got a little less carefree, a little softer and sadder. More honest. "I've told my family and my Headmistress what you told me about Riddle. About the state of things here in Britain. Soon the magical authorities of France will know to be on alert. An entire country may be safer because you chose to trust me."

"Pity it's not the one I live in," said Hermione.

"For now," said Fleur, as if remarking on the weather. "I know, I know. Far be it for me to try to convince you to leave this barbaric place for more… democratic pastures. You do, however, have a standing invitation to Chez Delacour. I won't pry about your injury, but I know I would much rather convalesce on a Mediterranean beach than some dreary castle."

"I'll mostly be convalescing in London, actually."

"Ah, much closer to international portkeys."

"I'll talk to my parents about it."

Fleur squeezed her hand. "You think they'll withdraw you from Hogwarts."

Hermione closed her eyes. She was not going to ugly cry in front of a supermodel.

"Ah," Fleur murmured. "You know they will."

"Can you stop being so bloody perceptive for five minutes?"

"I'm not sure. But for you, I will try."

That brought a slight smile to Hermione's lips.

"Sorry." Fleur let go, reached into her robes— "I just…"

—and pulled out what looked very much like a tube of fancy lipstick, complete with an ornately engraved casing. Before Hermione could so much as formulate a question, Fleur had taken firm-yet-gentle hold of her chin and deftly applied the stuff to her chapped lips. The touch was so distracting that it took Hermione a moment to notice that the dryness and slight stinging had vanished.

"One of my Aunt Melite's concoctions." Fleur hesitated, then set it on the bedside table— along with a slip of muggle paper.

"What—"

"My address. For mundane post."

"Oh. Do you not use owls?"

"Sometimes. Elves are faster, can carry more, and are much harder to intercept. Also unionized."

A dozen questions crowded the tip of Hermione's tongue— and nearly spilled out before she saw the slight smirk on Fleur's lips. "…you're trying to tempt me into visiting."

Fleur blinked innocently. "Is it working?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Why ask questions you already know the answer to?"

"Amusement." She took Hermione's hand again, lifting it off the cot and caressing the knuckles with her thumb. "I won't tell you not to worry. Gods know you have plenty of reasons to do so. But don't forget to make time for yourself, yes? To savor what deserves savoring."

"Could you be any more French?"

"Yes," said Fleur, laid a hand on her cheek, and leaned forward to plant a soft kiss just left of her lips. A sweet shock raced down Hermione's spine, like a warming charm to the face and— well. Other places. Which rendered the next words out of Fleur's mouth so much meaningless noise, and delayed any coherent response until the bloody menace was already on her feet, halfway to the curtain.

"Wait," Hermione choked out, cheeks aflame. "You— the press."

Fleur arched one perfectly-plucked brow. "What about it?"

"Have you been interviewed?"

"No. My family and the faculty have… closed ranks, so to speak." She tilted her head to one side, catlike and curious. "You have an idea."

"Several," said Hermione. "How would you like to humiliate the British Ministry of Magic?"

"Why Miss Granger." Fleur clutched at her nonexistent pearls. "Are you trying to seduce me?"

Honestly.

It was more out of a sort of exasperated competitiveness than actual confidence that Hermione asked: "Why? Is it working?"

Fleur grinned. "She can be taught!"

---

.

.

.:.

If there was a silver lining to the whole bloody mess, it was no one saying a word about the dagger on Ginny's hip. It did draw all sorts of interesting looks, though; McGonagall's face took an interesting little trip from miffed to sad, oddly enough— and the idiots, of course, took it as a sign of bloodthirst from the Mad Potter's main squeeze.

Some of them, in fact, took it so gormlessly that way that they unwittingly provided a solution to the Mystery of the Missing Potter.

"Oi, Weasley!"

Ginny fought down a satisfied smirk, and turned. Hermione's spare wand-holster was snug 'round her wrist. The corridor was perfect; out of the way and deserted, other than the four very huffy 'Puffs advancing towards her— all, she noted, from the Quidditch team.

"Alright, lads?" Ginny cocked her hip and flipped her hair like she would on the pitch.

Zacharias glowered harder. "A bloody game t'you, is it?"

"What're you on about, Smith?"

"Sounds like a yes." Milly Wright drew her wand.

"That it does," said O'Flaherty, pacing left to box Ginny into the corner.

"Here's what's going to happen," Smith blustered. "You're going to tell us what really happened to Cedric, and in exchange—"

"What?" Asked Ginny. "You won't start tossing hexes unprovoked while Aurors are still scurrying around he castle?"

"Unprovoked?" Wright all but gnashed her teeth. "You're wasting your time, trying to talk sense with her. Just as mad as Potter, she is."

"So that's how it is." Ginny fought to keep her tone light, her expression aloof— "Easier t'call someone mad than actually try to understand'em. And you call yourself a witch."

"Slag!" Wright hissed, raising her wand. "Think you're some pureblood princess just cos Potter gives you the time of day?"

"Enough!" Smith stepped forward. "Just tell us what really happened, and—"

"You'll assume I'm lying," Ginny rolled her eyes, "and do whatever you were going to do anyway. Might as well get on with it."

"Hear that?" O'Flaherty's wand came up— "She asked for—"

"Stupefy!"

—and clattered to the floor. Hexes struck the wall as Ginny lunged sideways, grinning as she cast: "Slaesik!"

"Fuck!"

"Flagello!"

"Agh—!"

"Exaero!"

"Prōtegō!" Smith roared. "Don't just stand there— get her!"

Talking first was their first mistake; it gave her time to size up how they held their wands and placed their feet, how that changed as their anger boiled over.

Their second was using kiddy hexes— and expecting the same in return. One whip-curse had Wright writhing on the floor, clutching her tit, and by the time a knockback jinx threw Ginny into a suit of armor, Herb Fleet's hair was on fire.

"Exarmā!"

Fuck.

"Levācorpus!"

At least, Ginny thought as the corridor spun upside-down, I wore denims today.

"Vicious little cunt." Smith advanced, shaking her in midair with little jerks of his wand. "I was going to go easy on you."

"Your mistake," said Ginny.

This provoked a slap. An actual, hand-to-face slap. Which startled a laugh out of her, which did not improve the whole situation at all.

"Barmy as Potter," Wright spat, still holding her tit. "What the fuck did he do to Cedric, you crazy bitch? What are you fighting so hard to hide?"

"Your mum's knickers," said Ginny.

It was probably for the best that they were finally interrupted just then.

"LŪMINĀ!" Harry bellowed.

She just barely closed her eyes in time— and the charm was still bright enough to sting them through her eyelids. Only years of secret flying practice (and more falls than she'd ever admit) let her tuck her head before the floor said hello to her ribs.

"Exarmā! Exarmā! Exarmā!"

If there'd been any breath left in Ginny's lungs, she probably would've used it to jeer as the 'Puffs fled with their tails tucked between their legs.

"Ginny!" Harry fell to his knees beside her, wide-eyed and frantic. "Bollocks— alright, deep breaths, that's it, just…"

So frantic, in fact, that he didn't even notice her gripping his tie or winding it around her hand.

"Ca—" she coughed, cleared her throat, and sucked in some more air.

"What? What is it?"

Ginny sat up with a wince, and gave his tie a tug. "Caught you."

Harry blinked.

"…What?"

"No more hiding."

He stared at her for a moment. "You— started a fight just to—?"

"Yup."

"Gin—"

"What else was I supposed to do? S'not like I can ask the portraits, with you wearing that bloody cloak all the time. Besides, it worked."

"But— alone?"

"Smith's a wimp. Wouldn't've tried shite with the Chasers around. Or the Patils, for dumb pureblood reasons."

"Ginny, if I hadn't got the Map back—"

"Dobby would've told you."

"…you don't know that."

"Didn't for sure, 'til just now. How has Padma not taught you to fix your face yet?"

"I—"

"I'm joking. Never change." Ginny let him help her up without letting go of his tie. "Except for this… avoidance. It's been four days, Harry."

He cringed. "I know, but—"

"But nothing! Come on." She turned and started marching towards the Hospital Wing, still holding tight.

"Gin—"

"Four. Days."

"Since I nearly got her killed!"

…ah.

Ginny stopped, and turned to look him in the eyes— which were downcast under furrowed brows. His shoulders were tense, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"She got hurt trying to save me from Crouch. Who I just— walked off with even though I knew it was an inside job! And then I just sat there tied to that bloody chair while he tossed you around!"

Ginny refrained from putting her head in her hands. "Harry. You were in shock. Anyone would've been useless after what you'd been through— if they even survived it in the first place!"

"Cedric didn't," Harry grit out. "I knew it was some sort of trap from the beginning, I had you and Hermione and the Chasers and everyone helping me prepare, and I still let him die."

"How do you think Hermione feels?" Ginny let go of his tie, lest she start shaking him by it. "You saw how she was, tearing her hair out trying to plan for every single bloody way things could possibly go wrong. She defended Crouch when we all knew something was off there! And yeah, she should've reported him—"

"Oi—"

"But it's not her fault he had the run of the school— and it's not yours either."

Forget curse-surviving. Harry's true gift lay in making utter bullheadedness look cute. Bloody unfair, it was.

"Honestly." Ginny hooked her arm through his (which was less likely to freak him out than outright grabbing), and continued on her way. "You really are brother and sister."

He was quiet for a while, and only slightly resisted her pull. Then:

"She's… not angry with me?"

Only through great force of will did Ginny refrain from shouting Are you deaf?

"Harry. She's afraid that you're angry with her."

"…oh."

She let him stew in that for the rest of the walk. By the time they reached the Hospital Wing, he was practically vibrating with nerves— and stopped dead a few strides from Hermione's curtain. Ginny was tempted to give him one final nudge, but just before she could he squared his shoulders and marched through. You'd think he was facing another fight, instead of a girl who'd worked herself half to madness to keep him safe. Hermione, the brilliant fool, probably wasn't doing much better.

Ginny adored them both, but Merlin.

She leaned on a windowsill watching fog drift over the mountains until Harry poked his head out, and said nothing about his shiny, red-rimmed eyes.

"C'mere," he said, holding the curtain open. "She wants a word."

She tried not to look too smug as she stepped through. Hermione was sitting up on her cot, which she'd turned into a nest of texts and notebooks. Some were floating, which was probably a good sign.

"Busy-body," she grumbled, but there was no bite in it.

"You're welcome." Ginny plopped down at the foot of the cot. "Bloody well fought to reunite you."

"My knight in shining armor," said Hermione. "Minus the actual armor, which would have made starting a fight with four angry Hufflepuffs much less foolhardy."

"Well, you know how much I value fairness. Less'n four just wouldn't've been sporting, would it?"

Hermione's lips briefly twitched into a smile, but there was something hesitant in her gaze— and something determined.

It was the same look she'd worn the first time they talked blood magic.

"Out with it," said Ginny. "Can't be worse than burnt spider guts."

That got a wince.

Could it be worse than spider guts?"

"What do you know," said Hermione, "about the long-term effects of solitary confinement?"

Thus began the radicalization of Ginevra Rhiannon Weasley.

.

She was still simmering with righteous, impotent fury as she stood in the shadows of the Chamber, watching Hermione unscrew and upend a canning jar. Ginny watched the resulting pile of dirt and leaves like a Snitch preparing to bolt. Hermione sat back down at one of the desks they'd brought down, and waited.

For a moment all was still, except for sound of distant dripping.

Then a tiny iridescent shape wriggled out of the dirt. Ginny took aim. Maia and Parv pretended to study.

The bug scurried.

"Dētegāre!"

Ginny's charm flashed through the gloom— as did the light of Colin's camera. She blinked, and missed the impact. One second there was a beetle fleeing for its life; the next there was a glowing, rippling blob, sprouting arms and legs and clothes as it grew—

Rita Skeeter fell to her hands and knees, trembling like a leaf as her eyes darted around what was, even with the sofa and posters, still a dimly-lit cathedral-sized room with the bones of a giant snake front and center. Even having helped catch the cunt, Ginny barely recognized her; her hair looked more a bird's nest than Hermione's had after the hunt, full of the same dirt that streaked her face and rumpled clothes. She was blinking like someone'd hit her with a supersensory charm, head twitching to and fro, hands twitching as if to adjust the glasses she wasn't wearing, and when Hermione's disarmer struck she startled like it was a hex— but did not actually seem to notice her wand flying away.

"Cessā."

For the first time, Ginny wondered how a spell could stop someone twitching and trembling, but leave them able to breathe and look around. She blamed Hermione.

Parv cast an orb of magelight into the air above Colin and his camera. With a swirl of her wand, Hermione turned Skeeter to face it.

"You don't look so good, Rita." Her voice echoed eerily through the Chamber. "But surely you still recognize a tool of your trade."

A whimper was the only answer.

With another, lazier swirl, she turned Skeeter to face her— which got another, louder whimper out of her.

"Do you still recognize me as well?" Hermione tilted her head. "Or is eye contact with a human simply daunting to those buggy instincts?"

Ginny quietly padded over for a view of the bug's face, but kept to the shadows.

A flick of Hermione's wand shoved Skeeter to her knees. Another freed her head from the phantom vice.

"Do you understand what just happened? Yes or no."

Slowly, with a great deal of of twitching and jaw-clenching, Skeeter's wide-eyed panic became a furious glare.

"Colin, would you be so kind as to…?"

The boy scurried over to slide a photo onto her desk. She peered down at it for a moment, then floated it over to Skeeter— who stared at it for a moment before suddenly straining against the spell, huffing and grunting and letting out muffled little almost-screams. Maybe she'd forgotten she'd have to open her mouth to do it right.

"Nod if you understand."

It was almost impressive how much impotent rage the bitch managed to cram into one little jerk of a gesture.

"Good." Hermione forced her to stand. It looked even less comfortable than the kneeling had. "You have a very simple choice to make, now. Either you can come here and sign this contract, or you can go back in the jar and remain there while I send these photographs to every major newspaper in wizarding Britain."

Skeeter ground her teeth a moment longer, nostrils flaring, chest heaving, then rasped: "Wuh. W-what. Does it. Say."

Hermione sat back, smiling like she'd just outscored Malfoy in potions.

"Come and see," she said. "And be sure to read thoroughly. It would be unfortunate for you to overlook any of your new obligations."

---

.

.

.:.

July 1st , 1995

Riding the Express back to London was always somewhat of a melancholy experience. Even the most exciting invitations and summer plans couldn't quite dispel of the effects of watching misty, mountainous Scottish highland give way to progressively more urbanized muggledom. Maia had been the one to articulate that, so Parvati wasn't bigoted for thinking it.

Maia wasn't articulating much of anything this time, which wouldn't have worried Parv overmuch if she'd been using the ride to cram in some last-minute studying while the coven was still present to bounce ideas off of— but there was no literature in sight. Nary a notebook. Instead, Hermione had spent the last two hours either staring blankly out the window or shooting uneasy glances at her, Padma, Ginny, and the Chasers when she thought they wouldn't notice.

It was almost as if she were trying to make up for Harry's glaring absence by impersonating him. (Dumbledore's assurances of his safety that morning had done little for anyone's peace of mind. Either a few hours on the Express were risky enough to warrant sending Harry home by alternate means, and the Headmaster simply didn't care about the safety of Harry's closest friends, or there was something else going on. Possibly both.)

Parvati, for her part, was struggling to keep her eyes off Hermione's cast. That she was hardly the only one didn't make it less rude— but she'd realized, just the other day, that she couldn't remember the last time she saw a mage wear a cast, or a sling, or anything of the sort. It only took moments for a trained healer to mend minor fractures, and only a day or two to re-grow shattered bones. The only injuries magic couldn't heal in less than a week tended to come from the sort of curses that typically landed people in St. Mungo's or some summer cottage.

The sort of curses that'd come up in post-war trials.

The sort of curses that never healed.

And then there was how frustrated and tense Hermione got every time they tried to take notes or carry things for her, as if she were heartbeats away from snapping at them.

Or accidentally setting something on fire.

Not that Parv thought she'd ever seriously burn one of them. A minor singe, maybe— but even reeling from that horrid Auror visit, her fire had only touched the bullseyes they'd hung in the dueling hall.

(Was that a sign of her self-control even in the throes of rage, Parv wondered, or of some instinctive aversion to harming her coven? An aversion, perhaps, to harming the member of said coven that'd been closest to her in that moment?)

A wince and an awkward shifting of the shoulders snapped what remained of her restraint. Parv laid her right hand over Hermione's left on the seat between them.

"So," she said —and if her voice was a little too gentle, her gaze a little too soft, it wasn't as if Hermione was paying enough attention to notice— "when's the soonest you can come over, you think? We'll need a few days to see if I can even begin to translate our books on Maratha warding —the war-priests all fancied themselves poets, you know— but I'm sure you'll find something workable in no time. A lot of it draws on the old Harappan stuff—"

"Much the same way British wizarding draws on Roman tradition," Hermione murmured. "You've said."

"Oh. Well—"

Hermione turned her hand over and squeezed Parv's, vanishing the words from her tongue.

"Maybe you should start teaching me Sanskrit," she said. "It's as good an alternative as any."

"What?"

"To Latinate magic. To Britain."

Parv's heart sank. They hadn't spoken of that, yet, though it'd hung over them like a pall. She'd almost convinced herself she was wrong.

"Do—" she swallowed. Forced false calm into her voice. "Do you think it'll be Lys-des-Cendres, then?"

"Maybe. My parents were ready to send me there after second year— and that was without any visible injury for them to fuss over. Australia was also mentioned, though." Hermione smiled ever-so-slightly. It didn't reach her eyes. "I think I'd prefer India."

"Well then." Parvati forced herself not to grip Hermione's hand too tightly. To mirror her smile. "First off, you should start calling it Prajāsattāka, if you want to fit in."

A quiet huff; the tired ghost of a laugh. "Now that would be magical."

What?

"Fitting in," said Hermione— and before Parv could even begin to figure out how to respond to that, she'd looked away to call out: "Katie. Alicia."

Bell and Spinnet looked up from their Quidditch diagrams.

"Are your homes connected to the Floo Network?"

"'Lisha's is," Bell replied. "My mum doesn't trust it."

"Do you know how to sabotage that connection without alerting the Ministry?"

"…No?"

Hermione nodded. "I'll look into it and write to you."

She then turned back to the window, and didn't speak again for at least an hour… but neither did she let go of Parv's hand.

What few travelers happened to glance at the benches of platform 10, on their hurry through King's Cross, could be forgiven for assuming the Doctors Granger were awaiting the arrival of a tragically orphaned young relative or something equally grim. There were only so many reasons for such a handsome, professional-looking couple to look so tense and anxious in the midst of a train station, and the way they were gripping each others' hands for dear life didn't scream 'relationship problems'.

The Grangers, for their part, could be forgiven for wondering why the Patil Twins were accompanied by two muggles. They had not, after all, ever seen Prajnan and Varsha without any trappings of Maratha magedom— let alone dressed as if for a mundane job interview. Prajnan was wearing actual business suit, while Varsha looked quite smart in a tailored pea coat, nary a stitch of saffron in sight.

Then they spotted Hermione, and it became quite impossible to think of anything else.

Despite the flying books and fiery surprises, their daughter had never been particularly prone to injury; she simply preferred reading to activities that carried a risk of skinned knees and twisted ankles. On the rare occasion that she did come home with bumps and scrapes, it was almost always the work of some spoiled little bully shoving her on the playground.

To see the arm she used to turn pages and take notes trapped in a cast and sling— to know it was no childish squabble, but the work of a full-grown man—

Amadi took a very deep breath, and let it out very slowly. Joëlle's grip on his hand, tight nearly to the point of pain, was a welcome anchor. The three mixed girls escorting Hermione through the station like the bodyguards of a particularly controversial minister were a welcome distraction. Then there was Parvati (distinguishable by her red-and-gold tie), who was holding her hand in the way of someone who'd prefer to be carrying her.

"My friends." Prajnan's handshake was more of a sympathetic squeeze. "It is good to see you well."

Amadi managed a nod, and not much else. Someone had braided his baby's hair, but it clearly hadn't been conditioned in at least a week, dry frizz all around her abnormally pale face. He'd never seen such bags under her eyes. He'd never seen her so reluctant to approach him. The way she slowed down and avoided his gaze, clinging to Parvati— she looked almost fearful.

The rage that had burned in him since Andromeda's visit sputtered, shrank— and without it, he was at a loss.

"Thank you," said Joëlle— and if she didn't actually look at the Patils, no one mentioned it.

Prajnan nodded, and stepped out of the way. Varsha gave Joëlle's hands a quick squeeze before following suit.

Hermione hesitated. Joëlle didn't. Amadi joined the ensuing bear-hug, mindful of the cast.

Then he did his best to look happy as Hermione introduced her new friends— three star athletes, of all things, who really did seem to fancy themselves her bodyguards. It should've been endearing. It should have been a joyous occasion.

Instead it just made him even more uselessly furious at every adult in that bloody castle— and at himself for sending her there in the first place.

As Hermione said her goodbyes, Prajnan took the Doctors Granger aside.

"I must ask," he said, "how fully you've been apprised of the… likely direction of things, on our side of the curtain."

"Well," said Amadi, "obviously our ability to verify and research is somewhat limited, but the Tonkses were… quite thorough, I would say."

Prajnan nodded, rather to himself. "Then you can imagine why I might feel compelled —obligated, even— to open my home to you for as long as may prove necessary."

Amadi… had to run that back in his head— and then thought, quite against his will, of the French families that had sheltered Joëlle's parents through the War. He'd always liked to think he might've been brave enough to do the same, in their shoes.

Thinking of the likely direction of things in that vein shoved him to the verge of panic. He wrapped an arm around Joëlle's shoulders almost involuntarily.

"I… suppose I could imagine," he managed. "Sorry, are you... it rather sounded like you just offered to put us up indefinitely."

"Good," said Prajnan. "Last time the danger persisted for some months after the 'war' was considered over, you know. And it's not as if we lack the space."

"Right." Amadi's mind raced in several directions at once— the size of Chez Patil, the nightmare that commuting by floo and train would be, how bad the Patils obviously expected things to get to warrant such a—

"And it may end up being a somewhat communal situation," Prajnan went on. "I've extended similar offers to the families of some of the girls' other peers as well— have you met the Thomases?"

"And the Walkers," Joëlle muttered, sounding just as dazed as Amadi felt.

"Wonderful." Prajnan clapped his hands together. "We're nowhere near as fortified as the Abbots, mind, but we do have some of the best protections gold can buy, with a… very reactive twist, shall we say."

He tipped his head towards Varsha— who, for all the subtlety of her muggle disguise, was still wearing silver snake earrings.

"We—" Amadi paused. "That is—"

"You're too kind," said Joëlle.

"Our world," said Varsha, "is not kind enough."

None of them spoke for a moment, after that. The athletes, Amadi noticed, had disappeared into the crowd— and a tiny ginger who must've been hiding in their shadows was punctuating her parting words to Hermione with emphatic chest-pokes.

"Think on it," said Prajnan. "I'm sure I've made it sound much simpler than it will actually be."

"Yes," said Joëlle.

"Perhaps," said Varsha, "we might discuss it further over tea?"

"Of course." Amadi cleared his throat. "That would be— ideal. We'll write."

"Marvelous!" Varsha took her husband by the crook of his elbow and guided him back towards the children— the same way, Joëlle noted, that Parvati was holding onto Hermione. Parvati seemed to notice the same, and froze for a moment before taking her hand instead.

Both of them relaxed ever-so-slightly upon hearing of the invitation, but only slightly. Parvati waited for Hermione to hug her— but then hugged back as if one of them was going to war.

Part of Joëlle was profoundly relieved that her baby had finally found some girlfriends. The rest of couldn't seem to choose between anger and misery over knowing she had to separate her from them.

She spent the drive home in the back seat just to hold Hermione's uninjured hand, and Amadi played some of her childhood favorites on the radio, but none of them spoke. Worse yet, Hermione didn't read— just stared out the window, watching London slip by. Joëlle tried brace herself for the impending conversation, to prepare herself for arguing, for pleading, for tears.

Then they climbed out of the car, and found three large, antique oak-slat trunks sitting on their porch, complete with gilded corners and locks. One had a note taped to its lid, which Amadi was reaching for when Hermione shouted: "Don't!"

The fear in her voice froze him solid— and then she was beside him, peering at each trunk in turn with narrowed eyes, good hand held out as if towards the hearth in winter…

"Oh," she sighed.

"What?" He stepped back, fighting the urge to pull her along with him. "What is it?"

Hermione plucked the note— which, he saw, was stamped with the likeness of a paw-print.

"Another impulsive fool," she said, "trying to help, I expect. D'you mind? I'd rather not test Ministry sensors right now."

The Doctors Granger exchanged an uneasy look.

"They're safe," said Hermione. "On the outside, at least."

They made her read the note aloud— though she refused to do so until they'd dragged the trunks inside.

"It's coded," she huffed. "A variation of the Voynich Cipher— one moment, sorry."

She hurried over to the couch, unzipped her bookbag, and with one deft finger-motion brought a notebook sliding out into her lap.

Amadi stiffened. "What— the Ministry—?"

"Primarily monitors wand-magic," said Hermione, "and larger, public emanations. Minor, wandless, indoor stuff is fine…"

She then bowed her head and started scribbling.

Joëlle did not sit so much as sort of flop onto the couch. Amadi joined her, and did his best to provide passive moral support as he waited for his heart to stop racing.

"Right." Hermione sat up, a pensive crease between her brows. "This is… not going to make sense to you."

Amadi crossed his arms.

"It barely makes sense to me…" she shook her head as if clearing it, and read: "'Maia— some old friends have come to visit; Banshee's haunt is full up, but I'd hate for you to fall behind in your studies.'"

She paused then, clearly confused.

"Hermione?"

"Sorry— 'Besides, there's been some talk of brightening up the place— library included. Knew you'd object. Ta, Your Friendly Neighborhood Bookkeeper."

That drew her attention back to the trunks. For a moment she hesitated, frowning, then hurried over to press her thumb to the lock of one trunk and said: "Padfoot."

Nothing happened.

"Cŵn Annwn."

Still nothing. She paused again, eyes narrowing…

"An edge you shall have."

Something clicked, Hermione flinched— and all three trunks unlocked.

The first two were packed full of books— thick, antique, leather-bound things, half of them labeled in Old English or norse runes. The familiar sight of Hermione fawning over the titles was such a relief that it took Amadi a moment to truly notice the third trunk, which was full of… well.

Treasure.

A mess of silver and gold straight out of some old pirate film gleamed in the electric lights— coins, medallions, chains, goblets, dining utensils… and atop it all was another plain little fold of a note.

For a long moment the Grangers stared, dumbfounded.

Amadi tried to estimate the worth— and, after failing abysmally three times in a row, picked up the note.

Found this under an armoire, it read. Paranoid old hag, mum was. Figured you'll put it to better use than I.

He looked at his daughter— who was fidgeting under the half-dazed, half-stern gaze of his wife.

"More you neglected to mention?" Joëlle asked.

Hermione avoided eye contact even harder than she'd been avoiding eye contact already. "…Sort of?"

The Doctors Granger crossed their arms in unison.

"Well, I've told you about the Defense curriculum, I just… may have omitted some of what I've done to compensate for its shortcomings."

"Hermione." Amadi put his face in his hands. "What does this have to do with self-defense?"

"It's from my tutor," she said. "He's from an old, dwindling magical family, and is… a bit of a hermit? He's surrounded by ridiculous wealth, I mean, and has very few people in his life to share it with. I knew he was sort of… vicariously spiting the family legacy by indulging me, but this is… something else."

Another moment passed in silence.

"Well." Joëlle cleared her throat. "Obviously we can't accept this."

Hermione cringed. "He's… not exactly in a position to take it back."

"And why not? What exactly is the nature of your relationship with this man, for him to be sending you literal treasure troves on a whim?"

"It's not— he's a bit impulsive is all, but—"

"What does that mean?"

"Well, wizarding Britain doesn't exactly have a robust mental healthcare system!"

"He's mentally ill? Hermione—"

Amadi gave Joëlle's shoulder a gentle squeeze, and did his best to project calm as he looked at his daughter. "Hermione. We can't help you with situations we know nothing about."

Finally, finally, she looked him in the eye. Hers were reddened, bleary from poor sleep, and even more hesitant than she'd been in the station. Not even after her second year had she been so reluctant to talk to him. So tense at the mere prospect.

Then she let out a sigh far too weary to be coming from a sixteen-year-old, and slumped back against the foot of the couch.

"His name," she said, "is Sirius Black. You've probably heard of him."

They had— though they didn't quite recall from where, at first.

She remedied that quite thoroughly... and as they stared, aghast, she kept on talking.

The Tonkses had been very forthcoming about the world they'd sent their daughter into— but even those frank, slightly cynical explanations had nothing on the sheer breadth and depth of corruption, incompetence, and injustice Hermione had been exposed to in the past year alone.

Amadi got up to pace, if only to give his simmering rage some meagre semblance of a purpose. Joëlle got up to make tea, and came back with wine. For the first time in years, they drank before sundown. Hermione watched warily, as if they'd started sprouting fur or something. Like the literal werewolf that had very nearly mauled her on school grounds.

"I," Amadi managed at length, "have been in touch with some of Ted Tonks' expatriate friends. In France."

Her parents braced for arguing, for pleading, for tears— but Hermione just nodded, and tonelessly said: "I've spoken to Madame Maxine. The Headmistress of Lys-des-Cendres. I have her post address."

Joëlle and Amadi exchanged a worried glance. Hermione noticed, and shrugged.

"You've already decided to send me abroad," she said. "You'd decided before I even told you what's really been happening. Could anything I say now possibly change your minds?"

They said nothing. They didn't have to.

Hermione dropped her gaze to the carpet, and took a shaky breath. When she looked up again, her eyes were wet— and when she spoke again, her voice wavered.

"I'm tired, mum."

Joëlle was gripped by two urges at once, then, as visceral as they were impossible; Hermione was no longer a baby she could bundle up away from the world, after all, and Albus Dumbledore was not within strangling range.

Instead she hugged her daughter as tightly as she could for as long as she'd let her, and gladly bore the tears that soaked her shirt.

---

.

.

.:.

Five days after Dumbledore apparated him straight from Hogwarts to Privet Drive, Harry lurched awake to the sound of a beak tapping against glass. One near-concussion later (courtesy of the blanket twisted around his legs) he inched the window open as quietly as he could. Hedwig gave him a measuring sort of look, a gentle head-peck, and fluttered inside with a parcel clutched in her talons.

She then paused understandingly as he waited, heart pounding, for the creak of floorboards or the thud of heavy feet on the stairs. Only once he breathed out did she hop over and offer the parcel— which was addressed in neat, familiar handwriting he would recognize anywhere. He couldn't tear it open fast enough— only to pause, dumbfounded, as a Nokia 2110 tumbled out into his lap.

He recognized it, of course, because of Vernon's bragging.

Which, incidentally, was also how he knew it cost seven hundred bloody pounds.

Nwanne nta, read the note —Igbo for little brother, he remembered with a warm sort of lurch in his chest— don't worry. I bought it with a small fraction of Walburga Black's hoard.

Who?

She was Padfoot's mother, and a large part of the reason he fled to your family.

You'll find my home number under 'contacts'.

Call me .

Love,

Ta grande soeur

Harry ignored the suspicion that she was nudging him to learn more languages again, and set about trying to figure out the phone. It was odd, to hold a muggle device more foreign than talking portraits and moving staircases— but he did eventually find the number, and had his finger over the button before a thump from elsewhere in the house jolted him back to his senses.

Twenty minutes later he settled into the branches of a tree too far from Number 12 for Petunia to see and too tall for Dudley to climb, and pulled the phone out of his pocket.

The first ring cut off before it could even finish.

"Hello?"

Relief hit him so hard he nearly fell out of the tree.

"Harry? Are you there? Can you hear me?"

"Y-yeah!" He choked out. "Yes, I'm here, are you— alright?"

He winced, but couldn't exactly take it back—

"Am I alright? Harry—" A huff crackled through the receiver. "My arm hasn't fallen off, if that's what you mean."

What? "Was— that a concern?"

"No. And having to write left-handed is honestly worse than the occasional twinges. What about you? I take it you're back at… the usual place?"

Harry paused, remembering Dumbledore's warning about the risk of owl-post getting intercepted.

"Yeah," he replied. "But between the threat of Padfoot and whatever the Headmaster said, the… wardens have mostly left me alone so far."

"Good," said Hermione. "You'll tell me if that changes."

It was not a request. Harry found himself smiling for the first time since before—

Since before.

"I—" he paused. He'd shared his blood and magic with her. He'd told her about the dreams. She'd gone looking for giant spiders just to make him a little bit safer. He could tell her anything. He could. "I'll— try."

For a few seconds she said nothing, and his heart lurched faster—

"That's all I'm asking."

He breathed out. "Okay. Yeah. I can try. Anyway, what've you been up to?"

If he didn't actually recall much of what she said, well. No one was around to ask, or interrupt, or make him pay for relaxing— and just hearing her safe and sound made it rather impossible to do anything else for a while.

---

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.

.:.

On July 10th 1995, the Grangers welcomed a most unusual pair of guests. Ted Tonks, of course, was remarkable in his own quiet way— but the two mages that accompanied him rather stole the show.

One was a middle-aged black man with a hint of copper in his curls, the face of someone who spent much of his time smiling in the sun, and a kente cloth sash worn over his otherwise mundane business suit.

"Kenneth Clarke," he said, giving Amadi's hand a firm, calloused shake. "Doctor of Horticulture."

"He was four years ahead of me at Hogwarts," Ted explained, "but finished his schooling at Mjiwazamani.'

The other was a tall woman of mixed race in an outfit that granted Hermione sudden, jarring understanding of Parvati's fixation on fashion: a tailored slate-grey pantsuit offset by an intricately patterned, many-colored headwrap, matching hoop earrings, and beaded necklaces of an abundance that seemed to convey a sort of carefree disdain for the drab standards of British dress-sense. The golden eyeshadow and lipstick were matched perfectly to her skin tone. She could've been anywhere from twenty-five to forty, and had a gaze to rival McGonagall's— unremarkable in color, yet piercing in effect.

"This," Doctor Clarke said with the sort of gravity one might reserve for a foreign dignitary, "is Doctor Atueya Arantza Ezkibel wa Agĩtamaiyũ, who's come along to represent the… upper faculty of Mjiwazamani."

"And," she spoke with BBC-worthy Received Pronunciation— "to see the sights. They keep me quite busy, you know. I have so few good excuses to leave the heartlands, much less travel this far north."

There was, Hermione noted, something vaguely reminiscent of Narcissa Malfoy about her— which was somehow nowhere near as repellent as it should have been.

"Well," said Hermione's father, "welcome to London, Doctor…"

"Ezkibel will suffice. And Cognitive Psychology, to answer your next question."

"Pardon?"

"The field of my doctorate."

"You teach cognitive psychology at a school of magic?" Hermione blurted.

Doctor Ezkibel's smile made the subtle transition from perfect politeness to genuine interest. Something about the eyes again…

"Among other things," she replied. "We are, in some ways if not others, less shackled by tradition than the bastions of more… undisrupted societies, so to speak. But we didn't come to give history lesson."

Joëlle shot Hermione a quelling look just barely in time to stop her from asking if they minded giving one anyway.

"Of course." Amadi gave a nod that was halfway a bow— something Hermione had only ever seen him do around her grandmother, come to think of it— "please, make yourselves at home. Tea?"

"If it won't be too much trouble." Doctor Ezkibel followed to the living room with graceful, unhurried strides. "You've a lovely home— and a talented daughter, to imbue it wish such warmth."

"I could not agree more."

"You could," said the Doctor. "And, with any luck, you will."

He didn't seem to know what to say to that.

Hermione didn't really hear much of the small talk that passed primarily between Ted and Doctor Clarke as they settled in, on account of struggling to contain her rapidly-multiplying questions— and when the tea was served, her mother spoke up before she could.

"I'll be frank," she said. "We've spoken with alumni and faculty from Lys-des-Cendres," she said, "and Hermione has befriended some current students. It sounds far superior to Hogwarts in terms of both diversity and safety. You've come a very long way to try to convince us not to send our daughter to the nearest, most promising alternative."

"True," Doctor Ezkibel said easily. "But also to gather information on the likelihood of regime change in one of the wealthiest and most influential magical nations in the world."

—here she paused to sip her tea, entirely nonchalant about the pall she'd just cast over the room—

"And, of course, to persuade a very promising young mage to avail herself of what our institution offers."

"You seem very sure of her 'promise'," said Amadi, tactfully leaving off the for a perfect stranger.

"I wouldn't say 'sure'." Doctor Ezkibel took another sip. "Confident, perhaps. I am generally relied upon to judge things like character and potential, you see."

"Something of a talent scout, then."

"I suppose so." She gazed at each of the Grangers in turn, then glanced at Hermione's cast before meeting her eye again, almost searchingly… and Hermione suddenly found her mind clearer than it had been in months.

Before she could do more than notice, however, the Doctor's voice spoke as if from memory:

Pardon the intrusion, but…

Hermione stiffened, trying to summon the flood of information she'd used to keep Crouch out— to no avail. She was— stuck, somehow, unable to focus on anything but the present moment and the undercover mind-reader in front of her—

…I must say, you don't seem the type to run from a fight.

Indignation and no small amount of curiosity eclipsed the urge to call her out.

I am not running, Hermione thought. It's— more of a strategic retreat.

Ah, the Doctor replied. Live to learn to fight another day, is it?

And before Hermione could respond to that, her mind's eye was full of memories not her own— a vast field of paired fighters boxing and grappling, a figure blurring across a sandy arena to slap the wand from his opponent's hand, a bespectacled old man grinning as his student's spells bounced off his shimmering vest, two sweating young women locked in a staring contest that was clearly more, twitches of their jaws and fingers betraying psychic jabs and feints—

Then they were gone, and the only thing in her mind was ravenous curiosity.

Ted and her parents did not seem to have noticed anything amiss, which made no sense… unless Hermione and the Doctor simply hadn't been staring at each other for more than a few seconds.

The transparency of the bait did not make it any less enticing. If anything, the speed and subtlety of its delivery made it even more intriguing— and the look in the good Doctor's eyes said she knew it.

"Very well." She paused for another sip. "To the pitch, then. It is my understanding, based on the testimony of émigrés such as Doctor Clarke, Mr. Tonks' perspective, and correspondence with some of my colleagues overseas, that Mjiwazamani has much more in common with the Hogwarts of the fifteenth century than the Hogwarts of today. It contains some of the most comprehensive and diverse schools of magic in Africa, yes…"

Wait— schools plural?

"…but that is far from the only thing it contains. It is, first and foremost, a sanctuary."

She sat back and crossed her legs then, the faintest hint of a smug smile on her lips.

"Shall I go on?"