Chapter Text
The air smells of moonlight and mist, of dark wards and blood magic. There is calm. But it is a thin veil, a poorly made mask over certain violence.
Hermione Granger does not believe in Fate. There is no pre-destined path before her. Her destiny is her own, her choices her own. But if she were a suspicious woman, she might shudder at the gates of Black Manor. She might sip the air and taste the history of an ancient line. She might blink and behind the coolness of her eyelids see her own face, twisted and anguished. Shifting, she might see the threads of magic at the tips of her fingers, threads that lead to a very certain Fate.
Being herself, and being very firmly rooted into what she believes is her reality, she sees none of this. Rather, she sees high gates, behind it an imposing, opulent Manor. She sees thin wisps of clouds drifting over the moon. She sees her hands, pale and still. And she sees wards pulsing around her, humming, threatening.
Expression wry, she folds her arms and waits. Always the first to arrive, she is.
The second to arrive is Mundus Body. He appears with a sharp crack, hands moving to adjust his robes, tilting his trilby back on his head. He pats his pocket and retrieves something that looks suspiciously like a muggle cigarette. Spying Hermione, he gives a grin and wink. Ambling closer with a cocky stride, he lights his cigarette with the tip of his wand, exhaling with a smile of pure bliss.
“Ready?” he asks, cigarette tip glowing.
“As I’ll ever be,” Hermione says.
“First time’s always rot on the nerves. Not to worry. We have your back and you have ours. Happy little family, we are.”
She hums. “Surely it won’t come to that.”
“With this lot? Can’t say. Think they’re above us ministry lackeys. What they don’t know is all their pure blood won’t mean shite to the dementor sucking out their happiness through a silly straw.”
“I’ve never seen one use a straw.”
“Seen a lot in my time,” Mundus says sagely, smirking at her through a trail of smoke.
Commissioner Abel Needless is third to arrive, followed closely by a quick succession of four Aurors. The Commissioner removes his spectacles, giving the lenses a brusque clean. Replacing them, he levels a stern stare at Hermione and Mundus, his dark eyes shining.
“Put that out, will you,” he gestures with distaste at the cigarette smoke.
Mundus takes a final deep inhale and stubs the cigarette on the sole of his shoe.
Commissioner Needless watches him with a stony look. Once the cigarette butt has disappeared into Mundus’s robes, he turns his attention to the group of gathered Aurors. He clasps his hands behind his back and adopts an expression of calm confidence.
“I want this clean and efficient, ladies and gentlemen. No undue threats, no rough handling. We make our presence felt and we leave. We’re here to put them on edge, not to start a war. Clear?”
There are nods and sounds of ascent and the Commissioner dips his chin.
“Very good. Wands out, wits sharp.”
When they are within a foot of the gate, there is another crack and a small elf appears. It regards the group of Aurors with large, dark eyes, its ears quivering. It’s teeth flash and it all but snarls.
“Yous are not invited guests,” the elf says.
Face ever composed, Commissioner Needless produces a thick scroll from his robes and presents it to the elf with a flourish.
“Take this to your Master. I shall wait precisely five minutes before we begin ripping the wards off this fine gate.
Hermione stifles a smile. The elf’s eyes blaze with mutiny but he takes the scroll nonetheless and disappears just the way he arrived.
“The rage on that one,” Mundus comments. “I do so love class outrage. Even from the help.”
Hermione would like to agree, but she keeps her face still, her wand warm between her fingers.
At four minutes and fifty seven seconds, the wards drop with a single pulse and the gates creak inward. Mundus smirks and Commissioner Needless gestures the group forward.
Mist shrouding their ankles, they pass along a stretching cobblestone path. Dark hedges loom over them, the leaves filled with tittering creatures. Above them, the moon falls behind clouds and the world is suddenly too dark. They light their wands and press forward, no one commenting on the closeness of the air or the feeling of extreme hostility pressing at their backs.
In contrast to the outside, the Manor itself is brightly lit and warm, glowing with life. Hermione finds herself curiously casting her gaze about, wondering at all the rooms, all the hidden nooks. She imagines a place such Black Manor must have a magnificent library.
The books would probably bite your Muggle-born fingers right off, she thinks. She finds the thought amusing and suppresses a chuckle as she follows the other Aurors into a spacious room.
A large oak desk dominates the room, clearly the Master’s throne. Green flames lick the inside of the fireplace. There are chairs and couches, and seated on those expensive looking cushions are very familiar, very unfriendly people.
The Aurors do not sit. They fan out across the room, Commissioner Needless remaining in the center of the floor, his expression neutral, shoulders relaxed. The Master of the house appraises him with cool eyes, lips thin.
Hermione takes up a place near the fireplace, finding herself with a good view of the Black family. Mundus leans against the wall next to her. He folds his arms and smiles.
Feeling eyes on her, Hermione moves her gaze until she lands on a familiar sneering face. Bellatrix Lestrange meets her eyes with a mocking smirk, quirking and eyebrow. She flashes her teeth and Hermione feels an old disdain settle in her stomach, cold and oily. She resists the urge to flash a vulgar hand gesture her way.
Her years at Hogwarts had been seemingly endless and not very enjoyable. She was quick and intelligent, eager to learn. But she was also proud, too proud to tolerate the casual cruelty thrown her way over something as inconsequential as her birth. And Bellatrix Black was a predator, quick to sniff conflict and eager to incite it. They were opposites, clashing, neither willing to cede.
Now, only air and a few bodies separating them, their history is taut, a fraying rope, a lute string strung too tightly.
In contrast to Bellatrix, the other Blacks are relaxed, legs crossed, expressions closed. Druella and Cygnus Black sit together, his arm at her back. Narcissa sits away from her sister, her expression mirroring her mother, smooth and emotionless. But her eyes, a startling blue, are on Hermione as well, strangely intent as she watches her face. Dragging her attention from Bellatrix, Hermione meets her gaze. She falters at the curiosity she finds there, feels her rage cool, her own curiosity rising.
“What brings you to my doorstep at this hour, Commissioner?” Cygnus Black breaks the silence. His voice is polite and cultured, but there is something beneath the tone, something seething.
“A simple courtesy,” Commissioner Needless replies. “I find we live in troubling times. Muggles dying in strange ways, magic staurating the scenes of their deaths. I feel it my duty to warn you, sir. There is no place for the old ways in this world.”
Cygnus chuckles, his dark eyes dancing. “Ah, but you are misguided. There is a demand for the old ways. A return to glory. Tradition is horribly important, after all. In fact, were we following such traditions, I would duel you to the death for bringing this pack of banshees to threaten my family.”
The Aurors shift at the threat. Commissioner Needless smiles, his head tilting, his glasses flashing in the firelight.
“Not a threat,” he says softly. “A warning. Your bigotry will not be tolerated. If I should find evidence of your involvement, I will lock you in the darkest, deepest cell in Azkaban. I will personally see every ounce of joy sucked from your pathetic husk.”
Cygnus smirks but his wife stiffens, her face paling. “You dare,” she says, lips twisting.
“I do, Madame.”
“How lofty,” Cygnus comments. “So sure your ideals are right.”
“It is wizard law.”
“It’s not about blood, you fool,” Cygnus sneers. “It’s about the mockery your Ministry makes of us. How eager you all are to destroy our entire world.”
“Change is necessary.”
“Never. We will not bow.”
“Oh, but you do,” Mundus says, his smile friendly. “Lord Voldemort, isn’t it? Charismatic chap, I hear.”
Silence.
Suddenly, Bellatrix laughs, the sound startling in its suddenness. She throws her head back, baring her throat.
“Sorry,” she says, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Here I was settling in for a boring night and you lot come here with the most hilarious notions. I thank you, truly. I’ve had such a rotten day and you’ve really perked me up.”
Cygnus smirks. Commissioner Needless all but quivers with rage.
“Sir,” Hermione says, pushing herself away from the fireplace. She puts a tone of caution in her voice and the Commissioner snaps his gaze to her, visibly swallowing as he reigns in his emotions.
“Be warned,” Needless says, his expression dark.
With that he spins on his heel, the Aurors moving to follow. Hermione lingers, eyeing the Blacks with open curiosity. They return her gaze but it is Bellatrix who rises, moving quickly into her space. She grins, raising a finger to tap against a pale scar on her upper lip.
“I remember this,” Bellatrix says. “I quite enjoy seeing it. It gives me this warm, tingly feeling all over. The idea that I marked that pretty little smug face of yours.”
Hermione meets her eyes and says nothing.
Eyes narrowing, Bellatrix steps closer, her breath warm on Hermione’s face. There are storms in her eyes, flashes of something very much like greif.
“You’re on the wrong side,” she says. “You’ll see that soon.”
“And who’s side are you on?” Hermione asks.
“My own, of course.” Bellatrix smiles. She pauses, her eyes scanning Hermione’s face. “We’re very alike you know. You and I, I feel this thing between us. Like a beast.” She blinks, considers. “Makes me want a good sandwich, honestly.”
In spite of herself, Hermione snorts. She steps away, puts space between herself and Bellatrix. The other Blacks watch with intent expressions.
“Granger.”
She turns and Mundus hovers in the doorway, eyebrow quirked.
“Coming,” Hermione says. She pauses, eyeing Bellatrix with a mixture of suspicion and intrigue. She turns and leaves without a word, quickly dispelling the entire forsaken family from her thoughts.
She doesn’t see the eyes watching her leave, doesn’t feel the magic that ties her to the very family she moves away from. But they see it, they feel it in their bones. But then, they very much believe in Fate.
Sunrise finds her on a familiar doorstep.
Hermione pauses, her eyes slipping closed. She breathes, taking in the cool country air, frosty on her lungs. There is something frighteningly clean about a new morning, all pretences and masks slipping, everything laid bare. No denial. No hiding. It’s almost too much. She can’t remember the last time she looked at herself and didn’t flinch away.
“Thought I heard you lurking about.”
Hermione turns, finds a very pregnant Andromeda Tonks grinning at her from the door of her cottage. There is a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, a heavily buttered slice of toast in the other. She passes both to Hermione, leaning up to kiss her cheek.
Leaning back, she casts a critical eye over her disheveled robes, the dark circles under her eyes. “Late night?”
Hermione makes noise in the affirmative, mouth full of toast.
“Come on, then. There’s more where that came from.”
“Mione,” Ted greets her with a grin from over the top of his Muggle newspaper. He whistles as he observes her unkempt state, tsks in sympathy. He pushes the coffee pot across the table.
Chuckling, Hermione sinks into a chair. Not a moment later Andromeda clatters a plate to the table, piled high with steaming food.
Hermione catches her wrist as she starts to move away. “Won’t you sit down? There’s no need, really.”
Andromeda pinches her chin fondly. “You’re sweet. But if I sit still too long this little one starts to dance. I’m afraid she nearly kicked a lung loose last time.”
Both Ted and Hermione wince. Laughing, Andromeda moves away, busying herself with wiping down counters.
Disturbed by the amount of energy pouring off a woman very likely to pop any instant, Hermione turns to her food. Ted slides the first page of the newspaper to her side, turning his attention to the second as she shakes out the page and begins to read. They remain like that for a time, a calm little bubble, warm and routine and Hermione feels as if her heart can’t take a single bit more without shattering into a million beautiful pieces.
“So,” Andy says, finally settling down with her hands around a steaming mug. “How were they?”
“Imperious,” Hermione replies. “But healthy.”
Ted takes Andy’s hand, gives it a squeeze.
Andy sighs. “I wish I could stop caring. If they are doing those things to muggles….” She pauses, jaw muscles twitching. “But I love them. I can’t make it go away.”
Hermione takes her other hand, strokes her knuckles. “There’s no evidence one way or the other. Merely an assumption based on blood purity. I find the fact disturbing, if I’m honest. How we can claim the high ground and remain as prejudiced as our opposition, I don’t know.”
Andy shrugs. “I know them. They are fervent in their beliefs. I don’t doubt what they are capable of. And what they’ve done to Bella, I hate them for it. I fear for Narcissa. Sold off like cattle to Malfoy, good for breeding and beautiful face, but nothing else.”
Hermione hums, releasing her hand as she leans back in her seat.
“I’m sorry,” Andy says, cupping her cheek. “Now isn’t the time. Why don’t you take the guest room? Get some sleep.”
Hermione smiles, but her eyes are sad, her gaze distant. “Don’t apologize. I can’t imagine how frightening it must be to be able to do nothing at all.”
“It’s not your place to save them, love,” Ted says. “They make their choices. You’ve made yours.”
Andy smiles at him and squeezes his hand. Hermione leaves them together, trudging slowly to the guest room. She smiles at the smell of this place, sunlight and fresh sheets. She closes the curtains and shrugs out of her clothes in the darkness, sighing as she sinks into the mattress. Her eyes close and she exhales. Ghostly, her fingers drift to her lips, touching the scar Bellatrix gave her in 5th year.
It was the culmination of two weeks worth of taunts that came to a head as she made her way to Potions class. There was Bellatrix, smirking, eyeing her with those dark eyes. A flick of her wand and the essays in Hermione’s hands burst into flames, quickly consumed and crumbling to ash.
There she stood, Andy at her side shouting, hands waving, Bellatrix watching, watching. She looked up and the world had gone hazy, her breath the only sound in her ears. And before she could gather her thoughts, her rational self was sucked down the drain, something savage and enraged overriding her sense of control. She was on Bellatrix, hands twisted in her robes. They fell to the floor, struggling, their bodies tangled and violent, intent on doing each other as much damage as possible.
And suddenly it was over. Bellatrix was pinned, Hermione holding her wrists to the floor. They stared at one another, panting, oblivious to the clambering around them. For a moment it was only them, and there was something there, some needy, wanting thing. A drop of blood slid down the bridge of Hermione’s nose, stained Bellatrix’s white shirt. They both stared at the blood, watching the red spread.
Hermione released her and Bellatrix sat up until they were chest to chest. She raised a hand, wiped a smear of blood from the corner of Hermione’s mouth. The tenderness of the touch rocked her, made her ache. She felt like she might cry, might just die.
“Sorry,” Bellatrix said, staring at Hermione’s lips. “I don’t know what comes over me. It’s not who I am.”
Hermione blinked. Bellatrix’s breath was warm on her lips and she felt herself drawn forward, into her dark eyes, something suspiciously like desire curling in her stomach. Their lips ghosted, barely a breath away.
And then they were being pulled apart and the shouting of the world came back, thunderous, overwhelming.
Bellatrix escaped with a swollen eye, Hermione with a split lip and a bloody nose. Neither witch healed the wounds, feeling that such an action would somehow erase that brief moment of calm, make it like it never happened. And so they wore their wounds and nodded when they passed. But they never sought one another out. Always there was something between them, be it bodies or walls. They were certain that even a moment alone would be dangerous, would cause the entire world to implode around them.
And then summer came and when the next school year started, Bellatrix was gone. Graduated. Married off and forgotten.
But the scar.
Hermione sighs and drops her hand to her side. Her eyes close and she fades away, caught on a drift of sleep.