XIV. Fifth Column
Hannah nervously twirled the hem of her vest as her gaze warily swept across the unfamiliar room where she was instructed to wait. A sinister atmosphere hung heavy in the room, marred by dim, sparse lighting. The room held only a battered wooden desk and two threadbare chairs. It reeked of must and mildew.
The door's hinges groaned in protest as it swung open, causing Hannah to jump in surprise. Her gaze darted towards the newcomers: Dean, Tonks and Moody. Moody, ever vigilant, squatted in a corner, his piercing gaze boring into Hannah as his hands clenched around his walking stick. Dean sat down beside her, offering a welcoming smile. Tonks, now sporting a vibrant pink mohawk, flashed Hannah a conspiratorial wink. Despite their fleeting interactions, Tonks had always treated Hannah with kindness, in stark contrast to Moody's continual suspicion. His magical eye was intrusively scanning her like a searchlight.
"How are you holding up?" Dean asked, looking concerned.
Hannah gulped, her eyes wide with apprehension as she nodded hesitantly, the daunting prospect of infiltrating the regime looming like a storm cloud on the horizon.
"We understand this is a daunting task. Remember, the choice is yours. You're not obliged to go back if you don't want to," he continued.
Tonks nodded in agreement while Moody rolled his eyes.
"I… I'm ready," Hannah declared, her voice firm.
Remaining here, she wouldn't be of much use to them. The past weeks had taught her she possessed more courage than she had previously realized. She no longer wished to be perceived as weak and fragile and live her life passively. She was determined to make an impact and a difference.
"Very well," Dean replied.
He looked at Tonks expectantly, indicating his readiness for her to proceed.
"Re-entering the regime is dangerous; you will be branded an enemy of the state. Should they uncover any association between you and the Resistance, the potential consequences are severe, including imprisonment in Azkaban or worse," Tonks warned solemnly. "Be aware, the stakes are high, and things could go south very quickly."
Hannah remained silent, holding her breath.
"While we deeply appreciate your commitment, the collective's safety is our foremost priority. That means if you ever get captured, we can't come to your rescue. Nor can we take the risk of you revealing information to the enemy. They're trained to break you under pressure. Their torture methods are numerous, making it exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, to resist," Tonks continued gravely.
Hearing these words sent a cold shiver down Hannah's spine. Suddenly, the full gravity of her situation hit her: there would be no turning back.
"You must remain constantly vigilant. You cannot tell the truth to your loved ones about what you know regarding this base, its members, or how it operates. Nothing," Tonks continued.
She rose, circling the table to approach Hannah.
"Unfortunately, we cannot rely on chance or the mental fortitude of our infiltrators," she conceded. "To ensure your silence, we'll place a spell on you."
"W... What do you mean?" Hannah inquired, puzzled.
"Moody will secure specific information in your mind and seal it. Picture it as a securely locked magical box," Tonks elaborated. "This box will be encased in a substance harmful to your brain. Should you attempt to divulge any information to the enemy or an unauthorized person, the substance will be released. And I don't need to tell you what will happen next."
"I'll die," Hannah murmured, so softly she wasn't certain she was audible.
Tonks nodded gravely.
"Additionally, it serves as an escape should you find yourself in a compromised situation. If you're ever under torture and you want it to end quickly, give them a harmless piece of information about us. For instance, our motto—'Liberty and Dignity.' Just revealing this will trigger the spell, and they're already aware of it," Tonks said, her expression grave.
Her words sent a shiver through Hannah. Tonks' explanation essentially amounted to sanctioning suicide. If the situation ever got out of control—Hannah would have a way to escape it.
"I understand," Hannah finally responded, swallowing hard.
"Right," Tonks went on, "start by keeping a low profile to avoid raising questions about your return. You will be contacted later for further instructions."
Hannah nodded to indicate her understanding.
"Do you believe our cover story will be convincing to your family?" Tonks inquired.
"I think it will."
"Perfect. We'll depart in two hours. Take this time to say your goodbyes," Tonks concluded, smiling encouragingly. "Thank you, Hannah."
Hannah offered a brief thanks before exiting the room, eager to leave its suffocating, somber ambiance. She traversed the hallways to reach the artificial garden, situated on the base's lowest level. There, she encountered Higgs, who leaned against a tree while picking his teeth with what seemed to be an old, broken branch.
Terrence Higgs, known for his lack of sociability, was notably unpopular among the Defiant Ghouls. Some even seemed to fear him, a feeling intensified by his unappealing appearance. However, he seemed indifferent, almost relishing these reactions.
"So, it's time," he commented as Hannah approached. "What did they fill you in on?"
Hannah relayed the details of her conversation with Tonks and the rest.
"They've instructed me to keep a low profile initially," she concluded.
With a dismissive wave, Higgs conveyed to Hannah his view of the instructions as trivial. Casting wary glances around, he ensured privacy before delving into his pocket. He extracted a battered parchment and handed it over to Hannah. She unfurled it and skimmed its content.
Max, she read on the first line. Beneath the name was an address hastily scribbled.
"Here's my contact in London," Higgs whispered, leaning closer. "They'll provide what we discussed."
Hannah slowly nodded.
"Memorize this and burn the parchment before you leave," he instructed firmly.
Hannah flicked her wand, and the parchment burst into flames.
"Now we just need an opportunity," Higgs said in a calculated tone. "Then, it's in your hands."
"Is this really a good idea?" she murmured, doubt suddenly overtaking her.
Annoyance flickered across Higgs' face. He pointed to his cheek, marred by deep burn scars that disfigured him.
"In moments of doubt, I remember the day they disfigured me, the pain so excruciating that I kept losing consciousness. I begged for hours for them to end it. Just think about what they did to me, even though I was one of their own," Higgs continued, his voice fierce, his eyes ablaze with hatred. "So, consider how they'll treat someone like you for the rest of your life."
He grasped Hannah's hand, tightly enclosing it over the parchment's ashes.
"In your moments of doubt, remember that day—the day you lost what was most precious to you," he murmured.
Painful memories surged, causing Hannah's fists to clench—memories she'd tried to bury, yet never could.
"Use that feeling as your guide," Higgs counselled, a dark glint in his eyes. "What does it say to you?"
"They must pay," Hannah declared resolutely, the familiar choking pain pounding in her chest at the mere thought of her son.
Her longing for vengeance was relentless. A grim, joyless grin spread across Higgs' lips. He laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Good luck. You carry our hopes," he stated gravely.
Two hours later, after saying her farewells to the base members, Hannah headed towards the infirmary. With each step, she endeavoured to soak in the base's unique atmosphere. Her brief tenure with the Defiant Ghouls had been intense. She experienced a distinct emotion at the thought of leaving them. The question of her return lingered, shrouded in the uncertainty of the future. In the infirmary, she found Dean.
"Oi," he greeted her, his smile warm and kind.
Hannah returned a strained smile, feeling a knot of unease in her stomach.
"Ready to go? Have you managed to say all your goodbyes?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Who knows? Maybe our paths will cross again," he said, hopeful.
"Perhaps," Hannah responded, her voice flat, almost mechanical.
Silence fell, but Hannah perceived Dean's hesitation, as if he wanted to say more. After a lengthy pause, he finally spoke:
"I've noticed you seem to get along with Higgs. That's quite unusual."
Hannah shot him a puzzled look, surprised by this observation.
"I suppose so," she replied flatly, not knowing how to interpret his comment.
Dean's tone seemed laced with a hint of criticism.
"I'm aware you both share similar experiences with the regime... you've both endured traumatic events," he continued, his tone hesitant as though searching for the right words.
"What are you getting at?" Hannah asked.
"I understand that some of Higgs' views... might resonate with you," Dean said gravely. "And it wouldn't surprise me if he's tried to sway you towards actions not approved by the leaders."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hannah responded, her voice sharper than she would have liked.
Dean appeared taken aback by her abrupt hostility.
"I'm not making any accusations," he hastily added, sensing her defensiveness. "I just want to ensure you understand that reckless violence solves nothing. Stick to the instructions. Remember, our aim is to undermine the enemy by complicating their operations."
Dean continued to watch her intently, attempting to gauge her reactions, seeking some sort of answer. Hannah, however, remained impassive. Relief washed over her as the infirmary door swung open.
"We're going to put you to sleep," Tonks announced, addressing Hannah. "Firstly, to cast the spell I mentioned, and secondly, to ensure you're unconscious during the journey."
Hannah nodded in understanding. This was likely a precaution to obscure the exact location of the base from her memory.
"Lie down," Moody commanded, pointing to one of the infirmary beds.
Hannah shot Dean and Tonks an uncertain glance but complied. Moody raised his wand at her, and she inhaled sharply.
"Good luck," Dean offered sincerely. "Liberty and Dignity."
"May the Phoenix guide you," Tonks added, with a nod of solidarity.
Hannah was on the verge of responding when a sudden wave of drowsiness overtook her. Engulfed in an overwhelming veil of fatigue, her eyelids began to droop. Then, she succumbed to complete unconsciousness.
As her eyes fluttered open, Hannah felt as if she'd been struck by an extraordinarily potent Stupefy spell. Numbness gripped her limbs, and a throbbing headache assaulted her senses. Sitting up disoriented, she tried to regain her bearings. Where was she?
The area around her was swallowed by pitch blackness. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, allowing her to discern shapes. Rising, she realized she was in a bed that felt oddly familiar. Instinctively, she groped around, trying to find her wand. Eventually, her hands found the corner of what she presumed was a bedside table. However, her movement was too sudden, and the sound of an object crashing to the floor, resembling shattered glass, filled the room. Startled, Hannah leapt up in a panic.
Shortly afterwards, the door flew open, flooding the room with blinding light and causing her to blink rapidly. The sudden influx of light intensified her headache, prompting a groan as she clutched at her temple. It was as if her skull was being split in two. Could this be an effect of Moody's enchantment?
"Hannah?" came a voice.
The voice was familiar, one she hadn't heard for weeks. Astonished, Hannah looked up, her eyes fixed on the figure in the doorway.
"T-Terry?" she stuttered, her voice quivering in disbelief.
She watched as Terry rushed towards her, wrapping her in a strong embrace.
"Hannah..." he murmured, his voice shaking with emotion.
It was rare for her to see her husband cry. In truth, she had only seen him cry twice before this moment. The first time had been during the sudden passing of his father, just a few months after their wedding. The other time was the harrowing night they learned of their child's demise. Terry typically refrained from openly expressing his emotions. Yet, held in her embrace, he wept unrestrainedly like a child.
Reuniting with her husband unleashed a deluge of emotions long held back. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she allowed her own emotions to flow unchecked.
"I was terrified. I thought I had lost you," Terry sobbed.
He clung to her as if she were his lifeline in turbulent waters. Light returned to the room, and as Terry pulled away, she saw his eyes brimming with tears. His appearance, having aged as though a decade had passed in just a month, left her stunned. She realized the extent of his worry during her absence. A surge of guilt welled up inside her, twisting her stomach into tight knots.
"I... I'm sorry," Hannah whispered, clearly distressed. "I'm so sorry, Terry."
"I'm grateful to Voldemort that you're safe. Had I lost you too..."
She bristled at his words, an involuntary grimace crossing her face at the mention of Voldemort. However, he seemed oblivious to her evident revulsion.
"I'm here now," she reassured him, gently taking his hand.
In the ensuing minutes, she stayed silent, offering what comfort she could. Then, as his sobs subsided, she asked:
"How long was I asleep?"
"A few hours. The nurses said the potion's effects should fade shortly," he explained.
Hannah pondered the mention of 'nurses.' Crafting a plausible excuse for her prolonged absence, she and Tonks had settled on this narrative. Hannah had concocted a story of being committed to a specialized centre for those suffering from mental distress. Found wandering the regime's streets after a violent breakdown, she had been too ill to identify herself, preventing any contact with her relatives. It was only post-recovery that her family had been traced.
Hannah knew her history with mental health wouldn't raise any suspicions in Terry. After all, he had been the first-hand witness to her deep depression.
His eyes, unwavering and laden with concern, remained fixed on her. Hannah diverted her gaze, an attempt to escape the weight of her guilt. She felt terrible for deceiving him. However, she had no other option. By withholding the truth, she was protecting him. Terry couldn't know anything. Moody and Tonks had explicitly stated the consequences.
"I should have stopped you that night... I've blamed myself for not insisting more that you stay," Terry said, visibly shaken. "Had I known... I never would have allowed..."
Terry blamed himself, though he bore no fault. Her heart ached, seeing him so dejected. She reached out, grasping her husband's hand to stop him.
"It isn't your fault, Terry. I should've listened to you. But it's over now; I'm here. I'm here," she reassured him.
In the days that followed, Hannah faced the consequences of her abrupt disappearance. Not only Terry, but Hannah's parents too had been fraught with worry. All of them had feared the gravest outcome. It seemed the Aurors had shown little concern for the disappearance of a Half-blood, merely adding her name to a list of missing persons. They had asserted that beyond forty-eight hours, her chances of being found alive were minimal. Terry, their relatives, and the neighbourhood had exhaustively searched for her.
In the wake of her return, Terry's attentiveness towards her intensified remarkably. His reluctance to let her out of sight hinted at a fear she might once again vanish. Despite the joy of reuniting with her husband and loved ones, Hannah experienced an unshakeable sense of detachment in their company. A profound transformation had taken place within her and she was no longer the person she once was. Unbeknownst to them, she hid her true self behind a mask of tranquillity. Yet, her loved ones seemed unaware by the changes within her. She struggled with this disconnection, mustering forced smiles and reassuring them of her well-being.
"I'm much better. I promise not to do anything like that again," she said, her tone filled with apology.
On the surface, her life quickly resumed its usual routine. She waited patiently for Terry's return to work before contemplating her plans. Although Tonks had advised keeping a low profile for the first few weeks post-return, Hannah had no intention of adhering to these instructions.
Venturing back onto the regime's streets was particularly nerve-wracking for her. As she walked in public, Hannah felt certain she was under surveillance from all angles. Her anxiety intensified whenever she neared Death Eaters, known for their vigilant patrolling of the busiest streets, seeking disruptive elements.
Gathering a sliver of courage, Hannah found herself before a dilapidated shop in Knockturn Quarter. The shop's wobbly signboard, with its ink half-faded, read 'Borgin's Bizarre Baubles.' Although she had often passed by this shop, Hannah had never dared to enter. Entering the shop, the young woman noted dusty shelves laden with bizarre contraptions reaching up to the ceiling. Her gaze lingered on a glass bottle containing what seemed to be a human tongue, floating in greenish water. A hunched man with long grey hair falling over his forehead, appeared behind the counter. This, she presumed, was Mr. Borgin, the owner himself.
"Valour and vigour," he greeted, his voice gravelly.
"Valour and virtue," Hannah responded.
Hannah passed a list to him, detailing several items. The man adjusted his pince-nez, skimming the list. His brows furrowed as he continued reading. Eventually, he raised his eyes to Hannah, a suspicious glint in them. She forced a smile onto her lips. Borgin, without comment, vanished among the shelves to fetch the listed items. Hannah was relieved when he accepted the Galleons she placed on the table without fuss.
Not until she was safely back within the confines of her home did Hannah's anxiety begin to ease. She quickly concealed her recent purchases in the attic of the house. Terry never ventured into the attic.
In the ensuing days, she meticulously planned her visits to diverse shops, discreetly gathering the necessary items. Discreetly, she withdrew money from the savings Terry had stashed in a box in the pantry.
Many Unbloodeds opted to personally safeguard their modest savings, instead of entrusting them to Gringotts. The bank was infamous for its steep fees and discriminatory policies against lower-ranking wizards.
Gathering all the essentials took Hannah nearly three weeks. Meanwhile, further instructions from Tonks were still pending. Eventually, Hannah proceeded to the address Higgs had provided on the crumpled parchment the day of her departure. To her astonishment, she stood before a quaint, inviting house nestled in a charming village west of Hampstead. The house, adjoined to a bakery, exuded a homely charm.
Hannah rang the doorbell, which echoed a mermaid's pleasant melody as she tightened her grip on her shoulder bag while casting anxious glances around, on high alert. The door swung open, revealing a petite, round woman with long blonde hair. She was clad in a red-checkered apron. At her feet, a curious toddler peered up at Hannah, having slipped in front of the door.
"Pure be the blood," the woman greeted warmly, her smile radiant.
"Victorious be his coming," Hannah responded, her voice hesitant. "I'm here to see Max,"
A flicker of understanding passed through the woman's eyes.
"Oh, I remember you," she exclaimed. "You've come to sample our specialties for a large order, haven't you?"
"Yes, that's right," she affirmed, albeit with uncertainty.
"Let's go, then. The shop is right next door. Just a moment. Darling?" the woman cheerfully called to someone out of Hannah's sight. "I'm doing a quick tasting with a customer. I'll return in an hour. Would you mind finishing up dinner for the children?"
Hannah heard a male voice reply, but couldn't discern his words.
"Follow me," the woman told Hannah as she carefully closed the door of the little house behind her.
The woman ushered Hannah into the neighbouring bustling bakery. After inviting Hannah in, the woman quickly locked the door behind them and lowered all the blinds. Inside, despite its cramped space, the bakery was immaculately tidy. The room was adorned with pastel-coloured furniture, creating a warm atmosphere. The air was filled with a delightful cinnamon aroma, tantalizing Hannah's senses.
"Are you... Max?" Hannah asked, her voice tinged with hesitation.
"Yes," the woman, Max, replied, eliciting a puzzled frown from Hannah.
Max chuckled, an amused, slightly mocking expression crossing her face.
"You were expecting someone different, weren't you?" Max guessed with a knowing smile.
Hannah responded with an uneasy shrug. Having envisioned a man based on Higgs' description of his 'contact' and their expertise, she was taken aback.
"Happens all the time," Max disclosed with amusement. "The full name's Maxine, actually. Who sent you?"
"Higgs," Hannah replied.
"Glad to hear he's still kicking," the woman remarked with irony, heading towards a door marked 'Kitchen' in childlike handwriting.
Hannah trailed behind, her mind teeming with a myriad of questions. Max ushered Hannah into a small kitchen, where several ovens were lined up side by side. A plethora of baking utensils were meticulously arranged on lilac shelves, filling the kitchen.
"So, what have you got for me?" Max asked, her eagerness palpable.
Hannah quickly set to work, unpacking the tools and ingredients she had gathered and arranging them on the kitchen island. Max examined them closely, her gaze intense as if rapidly processing her thoughts.
"I see," Max murmured, her eyes subtly widening in realization.
She furrowed her brows in concentration.
"I'll need about an hour to create the base. The final part needs to be added when you're ready to use it. I'll show you how," Max indicated before taking a seat around the kitchen island.
Hannah observed Max's work with keen interest, fascinated by her expertise.
"It's not every day someone asks me for such a mechanism," Max commented, maintaining her focused expression as she used a blowtorch to split a block of metal.
After an hour of intense work, Max regarded her creation, a look of satisfaction crossing her face. She then began giving Hannah instructions.
"It's crucial that you follow these steps precisely in the sequence I've outlined. A single error could lead to awful consequences, so be precise," Max cautioned, her tone grave, wiping her sweaty forehead due to the heat built up in the room.
Hannah nodded to indicate her understanding. She hoped she could remember the instructions, as she didn't want to risk writing them down. Interacting with another member of the Resistance brought Hannah a sense of happiness she hadn't felt since her return. In that fleeting moment of lowered guard, she experienced a rare sense of relief. The burden of harbouring such a weighty secret was proving difficult. Evidently, Moody's spell was harmless when conversing with someone already privy to the secret. She learned that Max had also been subject to the spell.
"Over time, you adapt to living dual lives," Max assured, her smile encouraging.
She revealed that her husband was completely unaware of her double life, and Hannah was impressed by the solid alibi Max had managed to create to hide her affiliation with the Resistance.
"Better I don't know your plans for this," Max stated, passing her the box with the assembled device. "The less I know, the safer it is."
Hannah thanked her warmly.
"See you soon," Max called out, her voice lifted as they stood facing the shop.
With the box firmly tucked under her arm, Hannah left the bakery, her mind teeming with thoughts and plans. Manoeuvring through the village streets, she felt a burgeoning sense of empowerment. She was aware of the immense risk, yet the potential reward loomed even larger.
Arriving home, Hannah was startled to find Terry in the entrance hall. She hadn't expected him to be back.
"Terry, you're back early," she said, striving to conceal her nervousness.
He nodded, his gaze settling on the box of pastries she held.
"Cupcakes?" he inquired, his voice filled with enthusiasm as he approached.
A sudden wave of panic washed over Hannah. Before she could react, he had already snatched the box.
"NO!" she screamed. "Don't open it!"
But Terry had already opened the box, puzzled at her outburst. Hannah froze and watched him helplessly, mentally bracing herself for the imminent questions.
"Have you eaten them all already?" he asked, sounding disappointed.
Hannah gazed at him in confusion, puzzled by his question.
"There's nothing left but crumbs," Terry pointed out, showing her the box's insides with a knowing expression.
Hannah stared, stunned to find the box empty. Only crumbs remained. She nearly burst into laughter.
"I... Yes, that's right," Hannah stammered, relieved. "I'll make another batch of cupcakes for you tomorrow, promise."
Terry gave her a happy smile, which she forced herself to return. She made her way to the kitchen, and, ensuring she was alone, reopened the box.
"Revelio," she muttered, aiming her wand at the box's edge.
The crumbs vanished, revealing the box's true contents. Realizing it was an illusion charm, she laughed nervously. Max had anticipated everything. While Terry showered, Hannah quickly stowed her new acquisition in the attic.
"Is everything alright, Hannah?" he inquired hours later.
After a silent dinner, they had settled on the living room sofa, accompanied by the gentle strains of Celestina Moldubec classics from the radio. Throughout the evening, Hannah had remained distant, gently deflecting Terry's efforts at conversation. Terry, perceptive as he was, seemed to have noticed her growing anxiety.
"Everything's fine," she lied, turning to face her husband with a forced reassuring expression. "I'm just a bit tired tonight. It's been a long day, been to a few shops, looking for work."
Terry appeared pleasantly surprised.
"I'm glad to hear that," he responded. "Getting out more, socializing, would do you good."
Presumably, he thought her prolonged stay at home might trigger a relapse. She understood that he remained concerned about her mental state.
"I wasn't there for you as I should have been when we lost Alfie; I was present in body, not in spirit," Terry admitted ruefully. "I don't want to repeat that mistake."
His admission unsettled her. This subject had remained untouched between them until now. Their communication gap had distanced them in their relationship.
"I made vows when we married, and I'm committed to keeping them. Know that I'm always here for you, and... I'll try to communicate more," he continued, his tone determined.
Hannah knew that engaging in such conversations was not Terry's forte. Seeing him make this effort should have filled her with happiness. Yet, a puzzling detachment from him lingered within her. It felt as if she had become a mere spectator in her own life. What once was a comforting daily routine now seemed hollow, leaving her unfulfilled. Compared to the events unfolding outside, it all seemed superficial and ludicrous.
"Promise me you'll tell me if things aren't going well?" he implored.
Hannah nodded, feeling a lump form in her throat. This was exactly what she had longed to hear in the months of hardship following Alfie's death. She had yearned for her husband to grieve alongside her and to openly express his sorrow.
Ironically, she was now the one not being transparent. She concealed information that held severe implications for their lives. Terry enveloped her in a hug, and she allowed herself to be held, nestling her face in the crook of his neck.
"I love you, Hannah," he murmured softly into her ear.
She remained silent, fighting to hold back the silent tears streaming down her cheeks. She tried convincing herself that she was doing all this for their sake. To secure a proper future for them both.
A future where liberty and dignity were not just ideals, but realities.
/
Theodore rapped gently on the frame of the ajar door to one of the more intimate lounges in Nott Manor. Inside, he found his mother, Gislena, in deep conversation with Tamsin, the end-of-life doula assisting their family. Tamsin had become a regular visitor, spending several hours with Gislena two or three times a week. Occasionally, Theodore and his father were required to join these sessions. Theodore continued to find it deeply challenging to open up about such personal matters to a stranger. As he entered, the two women turned towards the door, halting their discussion.
"I should leave now. See you tomorrow, Gislena," Tamsin said softly, making her way to the door.
As she passed, she gifted Theodore a warm smile, which he met with an unyielding stoic facade. He bore no personal grudge against her, yet her constant presence was a poignant reminder of his mother's condition which deeply affecting him.
Once the woman vanished around the corner, Theodore stepped into the room, taking the chair Tamsin had just left. His mother lay reclined on a tufted sofa, her legs draped with a blanket. Theodore regarded his mother with concern, noting her condition seemed to worsen each day. Her face had grown increasingly gaunt, the stark outlines of her bones now prominent at her jaw and neck. Her complexion had become dull and earthy, with dark circles permanently hollowing her eyes. A scarf, carefully tied around her head, concealed her increasingly sparse dark hair. The dramatic alteration in her appearance rendered her almost unrecognizable to him. Only her eyes still held their characteristic warm glow, lighting up at Theodore's arrival.
"Leaning in closer, Theodore asked gently, 'How are you feeling today, Mother?'"
He gently picked up the end of the blanket that had fallen to the floor and carefully draped it over her legs again.
"From the neck down, I can't feel a thing," Gislena quipped. "These calming potions are so potent... they whisk me back to my youth, reminiscing about Billywig powder shenanigans with friends in the Hogwarts dungeons."
Theodore smiled at her remark. Gislena always managed to find humour and positivity in every situation, no matter how grim.
"I haven't seen you much these past few days, Theo. Busy with the theatre?" she inquired with interest.
A wave of guilt washed over Theodore. His hours at the theatre had lengthened, paralleling the deepening of his relationship with Hermione. Time seemed to slip away when he was in her company.
Although painful to admit, being with her infused his life with a zest he found nowhere else. The deterioration of his mother's health had deepened the depression he battled. Hermione was unaware of the light she brought into his life, a sensation he found almost addictive. However, he knew that his relentless pursuit of her company amounted to neglecting his duties as a son.
"I'm sorry, I've been somewhat... preoccupied lately," he said at last.
He hesitated briefly.
"Actually, Mother, I've... well, I've met someone," Theodore confessed.
A faint smile formed on Gislena's lips.
"I was curious when you would finally share this with me," she remarked cheerfully.
Theodore's eyes widened, stunned by her comment.
"What—How did you—?" he stammered, flustered.
"I'm your mother, Theodore. Some things you just can't hide from me. I've noticed the change in your face and demeanour. You seem happier, more... relaxed," Gislena explained, adopting a contemplative expression. "Seeing you like this fills me with immense joy, Theo."
Her words calmed Theodore, and some of his guilt dissipated.
"Tell me about her," Gislena urged, an excited gleam in her eyes.
"She's remarkable, Mother – intelligent, kind, beautiful, and so genuine. She's... She's just different," Theodore said, his excitement palpable.
There were so many words he could use to describe Hermione, yet none seemed adequate. Gislena let out a soft laugh that turned into a cough.
"By the grace of Voldemort, what has this woman done to my son?" Gislena exclaimed, pleasantly astonished by his sudden enthusiasm.
Rarely had anything, except his music and family, ignited such passion in Theodore. Hermione was now one of them. In almost all other matters, he had displayed a deep-seated nonchalance and disinterest. His mother knew all too well of the mood disorders he'd struggled with since childhood. Throughout his life, profound melancholy had gripped him, this chronic despondency colouring many aspects of his existence. Amidst the dark and dreary cloud enveloping his mind, he found a ray of sunshine in Hermione, potent enough to dispel his apathy.
"When will I get to meet this mysterious young lady?" Gislena eagerly asked.
"Soon," Theodore assured. "I don't want to rush her, but I'm truly eager for you to meet her, Mother."
Upon arriving at Damasus the Decadent's Theatre an hour later, Theodore made a beeline for the library. Now, each morning brought with it an eagerness to see Hermione. As he approached the library, he heard a voice rise, echoing down the corridor.
"Your work here was supposed to be finished in two weeks," said a woman in a stern tone.
He recognized the voice as Agatha's, the theatre director. He could clearly detect irritation in her tone.
"I'm sorry, it's just taking longer than expected," Hermione replied apologetically.
"Maybe if you hadn't spent all your time chasing distractions, your mission would be complete by now. Shall I inform Mr. Macmillan of your unprofessional behaviour?"
"No... please..." Hermione pleaded, her voice filled with urgency.
Theodore frowned. He could hear the fear in her voice. When he entered the room, the women's conversation ceased as they turned towards the door. Agatha looked unsettled by his abrupt entrance. She wore an expression of embarrassment, akin to being caught in a misdeed. Hermione appeared frightened, her discomfort palpable to Theodore.
"Is something the matter, Agatha?" Theodore asked, his tone icy.
She shook her head, her demeanour completely changing in front of Theodore.
"Not at all, Mr. Nott. I was simply checking on Miss Granger's progress," she replied.
"Who asked you to do that?" he continued.
"I believed it was my responsibility to monitor..." she began, stammering, clearly taken aback by Theodore's reaction.
Even he was taken aback by his own assertiveness. Typically averse to conflict, Theodore rarely raised his voice. He was more the kind to stand back and observe from a distance. However, seeing Hermione's vulnerability in the face of Agatha's clear intimidation infuriated him. The audacity of her threats against Hermione was unfathomable.
"That's irrelevant. The duration of her assignment is my decision. Direct any requests for Miss Granger to me," he declared firmly.
Agatha quickly nodded, visibly taken aback. It was rare for Theodore to show authority with the theatre staff. He didn't like to use his status to command respect. However, this woman had gone too far, and he wouldn't let her get away with it.
"Understood, Mr. Nott," Agatha responded, her voice now nervous.
She glanced at Hermione, who remained motionless.
"I apologize," she said hastily, exiting the room with her eyes fixed on the floor.
Theodore turned to Hermione, who appeared close to tears.
"I'm sorry. I don't understand why she acted like that; it's unlike anything I've seen from her before," he apologized, moving towards Hermione.
He made a gesture to take her hand, but Hermione pushed it away.
"Obviously, she doesn't behave like that with you," she said, her voice trembling, clearly upset "But we both know why she acts this way with me."
He was surprised by her accusatory tone.
"Hermione, I don't understand..." he began.
"That's exactly the problem, Theodore. You don't understand," she suddenly erupted, her voice full of emotion. "You have no idea how I'm constantly treated and belittled for my status. And you'll never understand because they act differently around you."
In a sudden burst of anger, Hermione brushed away the tears forming at the corners of her eyes.
"And even if they pretend when you're around, it doesn't change what they really think of me. That I don't belong in this place," she murmured, a wounded look in her eyes.
Theodore watched her, horrified, not knowing what to say.
"You don't understand, Theodore. This whole situation between you and me could have serious consequences for me. "
She buried her face in her hands and let out a frustrated cry.
"Hermione..." Theodore began.
"I have work to do. And I'm sure they're waiting for you too. You should go, Theodore," she said, turning away, her voice devoid of emotion.
Theodore's expression faltered at her reaction. Being pushed away like this pained him. Understanding her frustration, he refrained from pressing further, fearing it might exacerbate the situation.
"Alright. I'm truly sorry," he repeated, hoping for some response from her.
He noticed Hermione's expression hardening, as though his apologies only aggravated her further. Without uttering another word, Hermione turned and strode towards the shelves. Theodore stood motionless, arms hanging limply. He exited the room, burdened by a heavy sense of sorrow.
/
Those who knew Miriam Strout, either closely or familiarly, were aware of her lack of empathy. She harboured a profound contempt for those who indulged in self-pity, depended on systemic support, or lacked control over their destinies.
Her acquaintances were perplexed when she chose to pursue Mediwizardry, a field typically associated with empathy, selflessness, and altruism. Her choice of this path was primarily to follow in her father's footsteps, a renowned Wizurgeon. Miriam's motivation for becoming a Mediwitch was its social allure and financial rewards, not a genuine calling for the profession. It was far from a passion for her.
Twice unable to secure a spell pathology internship, the prized field, Miriam shifted her focus to specializing in gynaecomagic obstetrics. Above all, Miriam abhorred treating lower-ranked patients in her job. Her aspiration was to be part of an exclusive, high-end private clinic. The allure lay in the higher salaries compared to the public sector and the freedom to restrict patient admissions. However, being at St. Mungo's, a public institution, Miriam had no autonomy in these matters. Consequently, she grudgingly accepted her predicament.
Miriam fervently adhered to the ideology of Blood Supremacy. In her view, Half-bloods were inferior, tainted by their impure heritage. If presented the chance, Miriam would have advocated for their total extermination, along with Mudbloods. In her opinion, few grasped the extent to which these hybrids' tainted genetics could corrupt future generations. They threatened the superior genetic heritage of pureblood wizards like her.
Her professional frustrations culminated in a life-altering encounter. On a blustery autumn day, after a busy shift, Miriam sought solace in the Tipsy Grindylow, a nearby pub. Her demanding career provided scant opportunities for a family life. Miriam consciously chose to remain single and without children, considering them nothing but hindrances. Deep down, she carried the aspiration that her life was meant for a higher, more noble calling.
In the Tipsy Grindylow that day, she stumbled upon that very calling.
Following a draining day, she indulged in her guilty pleasure of two glasses of fire whiskey, accompanied by a rare steak and a baked potato drenched in garlic butter. Overindulgence inevitably loosened Miriam's tongue. Following her well-worn routine, she embarked on a lengthy monologue aimed at Derrick, the bar owner. He always appeared to give her his undivided attention, keeping her glass filled, whether he was genuinely interested or not.
Her rants often incorporated disparaging comments about lower-ranked wizards and advocated for stringent measures to control their population. With a weary sigh and her glass now drained, Miriam's attention shifted to a man who took the seat next to her at the bar. He gestured to the bartender for a drink.
Miriam cast a weary glance at him, wondering why he chose the stool next to hers from all available options. She was not a particularly social person and didn't appreciate her personal space being invaded.
On the verge of a snide remark, Miriam paused, dissuaded by the man's intimidating aura. The sides of his head were cropped, save for a long central braid that fell halfway down his shoulder. His eyes narrowed, and a thin scar sliced from his left eyebrow to the middle of his cheek, cutting across his eye. His attire consisted of an impeccably tailored suit, complemented by a strong yet sophisticated cologne that wafted to Miriam.
Despite her unfamiliarity with him, Miriam rapidly discerned that he was not someone to provoke. As the bartender filled his glass, the man swirled it slowly before bringing it to his lips. Miriam noticed a tattoo resembling a reptile on the back of his hand. As if sensing Miriam's gaze on him, turning towards her, the stranger locked eyes with her, his gaze dark and enigmatic.
"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," he admitted.
His nasal voice, in stark contrast with his menacing appearance, took her by surprise. One wouldn't anticipate such an odd voice from an otherwise daunting figure.
"Which part?" Miriam asked, eyeing him suspiciously. "I did say quite a bit."
"The part about measures against Unbloodeds," he stated calmly.
Miriam nodded, feeling a sense of recognition for her opinions.
"Do you work at the hospital?" he asked, eyeing her St. Mungo's robes, which bore her name, rank, and department.
Miriam nodded again.
"Suppose I told you there's a way to realize your ideas?" he whispered, his voice hushed.
Miriam, inexplicably captivated, felt compelled to consider the man's intriguing proposal. This conversation marked the beginning of her unexpected involvement in a covert operation. Gadiell, as he introduced himself, had a nationwide network of clients eager to pay considerable sums for illegal goods not available through legal channels. At first, it entailed procuring coveted medicinal potions and restricted controlled substances—reserved for medical use. Over months, Miriam, enticed by substantial compensation, siphoned off entire stocks of hospital supplies to Gadiell. He sold these to third parties at exorbitant premiums.
Soon, Gadiell's requests escalated to even more elusive commodities: human organs. Miriam conspired with a hospital Healer, gathering information on lower-ranked patients close to death. They then secretly harvested specific organs without consent, destined for the black market. Occasionally, Miriam performed surgeries on vulnerable, impoverished patients willing to sell non-vital organs in exchange for monetary compensation. These surgeries were conducted in a discrete warehouse, with logistics managed by Gadiell. Miriam learned that Gadiell was a lieutenant for 'The Viper,' a feared underworld baron ruling London's criminal sphere.
One day, Gadiell approached Miriam with a startling proposition.
"A couple is struggling with conception. They're willing to pay handsomely for a newborn," he conveyed in hushed tones.
Their dealings consequently evolved into human trafficking, a complex and risky operation demanding extensive preparation. Within this clandestine market, the intrinsic worth of a child was determined by their genetic lineage. She meticulously sifted through records to find children matching Gadiell's clients' criteria. Miriam strictly avoided dealing with children from pure-blooded families. Highly sought after were the 'seventh generation' babies. Under the regime's decree, an individual could claim Pureblood status only if all six previous generations were wizards, a lineage deemed sufficiently cleansed of any Muggle heritage. Consequently, two Half-blood parents could give birth to a child classified as a second-rank Pureblood.
This was precisely the case with the Boots, a couple assigned to her care. On their initial hospital visit, the couple confided in Miriam about their struggles to conceive.
"We failed to detect any underlying causes," Miriam informed the couple coldly after the tests.
Although she noticed their despair etched on their face, Miriam remained indifferent to their plight.
"Surely there's a solution, right?" the husband implored, looking expectantly at Miriam. "Treatments to help us conceive."
"Indeed, there are some options, but the criteria are stringent. Unfortunately, you don't meet them," Miriam responded with a dismissive tone, finding the conversation burdensome.
To her astonishment, they reappeared at the hospital two months later, their faces radiant with joy and anticipation as they embarked on their first prenatal consultation. Their unexpected pregnancy appeared nothing short of miraculous. Sensing an opportunity, Miriam put her well-rehearsed plan into action.
She maintained a consistent modus operandi. Initially, she ensured her assignment to such cases, followed by a vigilant monitoring of these women, safeguarding the smooth progress of their pregnancies. The pivotal moment of her plan was the delivery itself. Ensuring her scheme went unnoticed, even by her colleagues, was imperative. On occasions, she enlisted an accomplice within the department, who provided assistance during deliveries for a share of the profits.
Hannah Abbott-Boot's childbirth took an unforeseen turn. A series of complications ensued, plunging Miriam into a state of panic as she recognized the baby's impending distress. For Miriam, losing the baby was unthinkable. Following a gruelling Caesarean section, Miriam hastily gathered the small, unresponsive baby into her arms.
"Where is my baby?" Hannah asked, her voice strained. "Why can't I hear him? Why can't I see him? Terry! Where is our baby?"
"He's choking on amniotic fluid and can't breathe. We need to take him," Miriam announced urgently, swiftly exiting the room.
A bluish tint to the baby's face signalled oxygen deprivation in his bloodstream. Thirty minutes into providing ventilation and pressure, Miriam heard the baby's first cries echo, indicating his alveoli were finally open and taking in air. Overwhelmed with relief, Miriam let out a nervous laugh, marvelling at the baby's seemingly miraculous survival.
From the pocket of her hospital robes, she retrieved a vial containing a pale, thick liquid. Gently opening the infant's mouth, she administered a drop of the elixir. The baby instantly became motionless, his skin slowly taking on a greyish hue and hardening upon touch. He appeared dead. She had administered him the Draught of the Living Dead, a powerful potion inducing a death-like sleep. The potion's effects were eerily lifelike, mimicking the physical signs of death with chilling precision. However, there existed an antidote, the potent Wiggenweld restorative elixir, capable of reversing the potion's effects. Relying on this deceptive ploy, Miriam could orchestrate the abduction of newborns, leading parents to believe their child had died due to birth complications.
Wrapping the baby in a blanket, she returned to the parents' room, her face etched with feigned sorrow.
"We couldn't save him," Miriam announced as she presented the still and seemingly lifeless baby to the distraught parents.
While most would be deeply affected by the sight of parents grieving their child, Miriam remained coldly detached, her conscience impervious to their anguish.
She felt nothing for people like them.
To her, it was just another day at work, one where she found a certain satisfaction in her actions. She was ensuring the child a future in a nurturing, privileged environment, where careful upbringing and education would erase any inherited damage from his twisted lineage. Miriam held the conviction that, despite the diluted hybrid blood in a child's lineage, residual mental flaws lingered. However, she believed these flaws were not beyond eradication.
Miriam saw her actions as a service to the magical community. She harboured the hope that, one day, her contributions to Voldemort's cause would be duly recognized.