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alcoholicseraphim · 7 years

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The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter 10- Year I- Synchronized Estrangement

"He's safe. Come to my office." Albus's voice lacked its usual chipper quality, which was worrying. He sounded tired. His phoenix Patronus was no less weak than usual, but its feathers seemed to droop and it didn't appear quite as energetic as she was used to.

Had he been up all night? It seemed absurd to mother a man who'd celebrated his centennial, but Hermione couldn't help it. It was a good sign, perhaps, that he didn't feel like he needed to cover up weaknesses with her. She wasn't sure what to think.

The grounds outside were bright and green, as seen from Hermione's perch in a window alcove on the sixth floor. If she searched she would probably find Hagrid toiling away somewhere. Hermione got up and walked toward Albus's office. She passed the occasional student, generally Ravenclaws since she was near their tower. She made eye contact with a few, but none so much as waved. This wasn't unusual in the slightest, so Hermione wasn't upset by it. She had far more important things to worry about than her lack of popularity.

It hadn't been that long ago since she'd last visited the Headmaster in his office. Only a few days, she thought. The password hadn't yet been changed from "Peppermint Toad". She could feel the stone eyes of the gargoyle's on her back as she trudged up the spiral staircase. She knocked on the door and didn't wait for an answer before opening it.

"Albus, what happened?" Hermione asked before even shutting the door.

His face reflected his tone from earlier, wrinkles appearing where Hermione hadn't noticed any before and his lips set so thin they looked like a wound. His nose seemed especially crooked. "Sit," he said, gesturing tiredly to the chair facing his desk. Hermione obeyed without question. It was several moments before Albus opened his mouth to speak again. "You were indeed correct. Voldemort's Death Eaters sought to capture or kill my brother. He did not, however, need my help, and he was very cross at me for interfering."

"Oh," said Hermione in a small voice. She was well aware that Aberforth and Albus didn't get along at all. "You fought. Is everything... Is everything all right?"

"We have been through far worse before." Albus folded his hands. His half-moon glasses clung to the very tip of his nose. "I would not be surprised to find that his ire does not limit itself to me."

Aberforth was angry with her. Of course, that was the risk she'd taken in getting Albus involved, but surely he understood that she was only worried for him? She needed to talk to him, get this mess sorted out. "I understand. Is he violent?" Hermione hoped not. She'd seen him angry before, but that was after years of war. Had he always been volatile?

"No, I don't believe he is, but perhaps he simply no longer has the strength to attempt to break my nose again."

"Is that all? You should get some rest." Hermione leaned forward and touched the old man's hand, trying to convey her sympathy through the contact.

Albus seemed to appreciate it, as the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. "Good advice, and advice I will follow. I suggest you attend today's classes and go see Aberforth after supper."

"Goodbye, Albus," Hermione murmured, standing up to leave.

"Oh, and one more thing," Albus said abruptly. "Aberforth isn't the only friend you should reconcile with." She didn't have to look at him to know that he was smiling in that infuriatingly benign way.

The arsehole had been waiting to impart those bloody golden "words of wisdom". Without turning back, Hermione said, "I have it under control. Goodbye, Albus."

*|II8II|*

"The Dark Lord is making plans," said Mulciber conversationally through a mouthful of potatoes. His fork clinked against his plate, making Regulus wince. His manners were abhorrent.

Snape laughed, a sound which resembled a bark and lacked any mirth. "Tell me something new. When isn't he making plans?"

Mulciber scowled around his food. He swallowed, thankfully, before replying, "No, I mean real plans. Plans that affect us."

"How so?" Avery asked, leaning forward. His dirty blond hair fell over his face, so all Regulus could see was his twisted mouth and button nose. He didn't have to see the other boy's eyes to know that he was staring at Mulciber.

"I only know what my cousin told me," Mulciber said. He put another forkful of potatoes in his mouth and chewed, obviously trying to up the suspense. The boy had no idea how transparent he was. How pathetic.

"Get on with it," said Avery. "If you don't hurry up and tell us we'll have to deal with it as it happens."

"Well," Mulciber said, "you do remember that whole business with that Cup Granger stole from the Lestrange vault?"

"Of course we do, it was only a few weeks ago." Snape, as usual, didn't waste an opportunity to deride their obtuse classmate.

"Do you want me to tell you or not?" Mulciber snapped. Snape didn't reply, but Mulciber continued regardless. "That Cup was apparently important to the Dark Lord. He wants to find Granger and force her to give it back."

"It's more likely," Regulus spoke up, "that he wants to figure out how she took it. No one's ever stolen from Gringott's before, maybe he thinks she knows something new." It was just a Cup. If it were so important to him, why would he give it to Regulus's cousin? Everyone knew she was as unhinged as she was devoted, and her husband wasn't much better. Regulus wouldn't trust either one with so much as a self-watering potted plant.

Avery scooted even closer. "Maybe. So, sure, he wants to find the Mudblood. How does he plan on doing that? No one can come in or out of Hogwarts without the Headmaster knowing."

Snape shook his head. "Not exactly. It's just not safe."

"What?" Regulus blurted. This was new; what vital secret had Snape kept close to his chest?

"The Forbidden Forest. The wards don't encompass the whole thing, so if you walk far enough you could get out or come in," Snape said, as if it were obvious. To be fair, Regulus couldn't help but agree. How had it never occurred to Regulus before, in all the many afternoons spent daydreaming up ways to leave the castle? It made so much more sense for the Forest to be off-limits, too, if there was such a flaw in the wards.

Still, how could such a huge defect have been allowed to exist? In the thousands of years since Hogwarts was founded, why hadn't the wards been strengthened? "How hasn't that been remedied by now?" he asked.

Snape sighed. "There's no such thing as a perfect defense," he said. Quoting a textbook, probably, the prat. "In exchange for such strong wards, they had to leave a whole side open. That's not to say one can fly in, but if you're willing to travel at ground level through the Forbidden Forest, then you can conceivably come and go as you please. The Founders made the Forest so deadly by design. I don't believe anyone's ever successfully utilized the flaw, though."

"It is a bit daunting," said Avery, beginning to be distracted once again by his food.

"Just a bit," Regulus agreed snidely. Avery flashed him a grin. Was he only pretending to be stupid? That was a decidedly Slytherin thing to do, but Regulus liked to think that the five years they'd known each other would inform him of any hidden intelligence. He would have to think about that.

"I wonder," said Mulciber, an uncharacteristically sly leer twisting his features, "how we can use this." Mulciber, on the other hand, was undoubtedly dull, a Slytherin lacking in cunning but making up for it with ambition. His cruelty, disloyalty, and utter cowardice disqualified him from any other House, so he shared space with the snakes. Exchanging glances with Snape, it was clear that the other boy shared his disdain.

"You have an astoundingly short memory," Snape deadpanned. Regulus snickered at Mulciber's thoroughly affronted expression, but he felt his stomach begin to clench.

"What are you talking about, Snape?" Mulciber hissed, trying to appear menacing. It only made Regulus laugh harder.

"The Dark Lord," Snape prompted, somehow keeping his face completely straight.

"We can lead Him to Granger!" Mulciber said, sitting up straight. "If anyone could get through the Forbidden Forest, it would be Him. We must tell Him!"

Unease swam in the pit of Regulus's stomach, making him nauseous, but he couldn't come up with a reason to discourage that plan of action. Of course he'd seen where this was going, but he'd thought that Snape wouldn't guide Mulciber to the logical conclusion. As far as Regulus knew, Snape had nothing against Granger, at least not enough to wish her death. Regulus wanted her out of the picture, but not like that. Just imagining what the Dark Lord would do to her was enough to make his insides contract. However, he wasn't nearly fanatic enough to feel safe in expressing opinions like that. Any dissent voiced now would be seen as a betrayal to their Lord.

He was saved from having to say anything by the arrival of the post owls, likely bearing responses to letters sent that morning. There were far fewer than there were at breakfast. A dingy-looking barn owl landed in front of Regulus. He eyed the bird in distaste and edged his hand forward cautiously to untie the letter from its leg. The moment the tie was undone the owl took off, the letter not quite detached. It fell onto Regulus's (fortunately empty) plate. Ignoring Avery's nasally guffaws, Regulus unfolded the letter.

Black,

I have a favor to ask of you. Yes, I know you don't owe me anything. This isn't for my sake, it's for Sirius's.

Hermione Granger asked me to tell Sirius a lie about why she's avoiding us. The easiest way to do that, I think, is to make him think that she prefers the company of Slytherins. His prejudice is so strong that I'm positive that will work. All I'm asking from you- and anyone else you may choose to bring into this- is that if Sirius asks, tell him that Hermione spent hours of time in the Slytherin Common Room. She's given permission to add any details, even if they paint her in a bad light.

I hope you'll consider it. I don't have permission to tell you why it's necessary, but please believe me that this is important.

Regards,

Remus Lupin

This was a ready-made solution, fallen into his lap without even the slightest effort on his part. If what Lupin claimed was true, then Granger had signed a blank check to him. He had her bloody blessing to ruin her reputation so thoroughly that even Sirius would turn away in disgust.

Perhaps Lupin was lying. That was always a possibility; however, being a Gryffindor, Lupin was far more likely telling the truth. Still, Regulus resolved to send his own letter to Granger, confirming Lupin's words. He wouldn't want to meet the business end of her wand. Regulus wasn't the type to underestimate his opponent, and he knew too much about Granger's accomplishments to doubt for a second that if she wanted him dead that would be what happened. He could hope that her Gryffindor righteousness would prevent that if it really came down to it, but he preferred not to take the risk.

Regulus looked up to see all three of his companions observing him, clearly wondering about the letter. They knew by now what his mother's owl looked like, and Hogwarts owls were distinctive in their pathetic appearances. Should he show them? Permission to do so was explicitly included in the letter. He had little time to send a letter to Granger right then, and it would be more difficult to bring up should he wait. He trusted them- or rather, he trusted Snape- not to go barreling into this without first making a plan. Snape would certainly agree to help. He was willing to do anything that hurt Sirius.

"Snape," Regulus said, handing over the letter. Snape stretched out his deathly pale hand and took it, reading through it once quickly, and then again with more patience.

"Is it a setup?" Snape asked, still examining the bit of parchment.

Regulus shrugged. "It's possible. I plan to send her a letter."

Snape tapped the tabletop with his index finger, a slow smile spreading on his face. "I'm in," he declared, glancing over at the Gryffindor table. When Regulus followed his gaze, he saw Sirius making a general fool of himself with Potter. Snape couldn't stand to see them happy, that much was obvious.

"We'll come up with a plan later," Regulus suggested. He didn't have to indicate Mulciber and Avery for Snape to understand.

"Send the letter, then we'll talk." Still grinning in that manic way Regulus was familiar with, Snape got up and left the Great Hall. Regulus chuckled, amused as always by his dramatics.

"What was that about?" Mulciber asked, watching in disappointment as Regulus set the parchment on fire.

"You'll see," said Regulus, and spoke not another word for the rest of the meal.

*|II8II|*

Peaceful afternoons in the sixth year boys' dormitories were uncommon, to say the least, but this one seemed all set to break the trend. Sirius sulked up at the curtains of his four-poster. James was ignoring him because Sirius had switched the clothes in his drawer for Lily's and put James's clothes in Lily's room. His sense of humor when it came to Lily had completely left him, Sirius lamented. It wasn't even that serious of a prank!

Seeking entertainment, Sirius flopped out of bed and into Remus's, pretending to read Remus's book but really trying to block the other boy's view of it. Remus was wise to his tricks, and turned so that Sirius's head couldn't get between him and his book.

"Moony," Sirius whined, drawing out the vowels as long as he could with a single breath. "I'm bored." Peace? Quiet? Unacceptable! Something would have to be done, and it was up to Sirius to save the day. Not that he really had any ideas, but he was positive Remus would provide at least a momentary diversion.

Remus closed his book and sat up, looking right at Sirius, who drew back in confusion. "I know something you'll be interested in," he said.

"Get on with it, then!" Sirius cried, bouncing on the bed just to hear the mattress creak. Something in Remus's face told him that maybe he didn't really want to hear what Remus knew. Still, Sirius had never been one to ignore impulses and this one said that he just had to know. It was probably something sarcastic, knowing Remus. Sirius relaxed at the thought and felt his enthusiasm return in full.

"You sure?" Remus asked before shaking his head. "Never mind. Of course you are. Do you want blunt or sugar-coated? Never mind." He took a deep breath and said, very slowly, "All those times we couldn't find Granger on the Map, she was in the Slytherin Common Room. She separated herself from us because they poisoned her against other Gryffindors."

Sirius was silent for once in his life. Out of all his hypotheses, all of his theories, this had never even crossed his mind. "Who?" he breathed. A peculiar feeling was developing in his gut, like he was rotting from the inside out.

Somehow Remus understood his vague question. "Snape. And your brother. Mulciber and Avery... probably more, but those are all I know of."

"Snape? Snape? She chose Snivellus over us?" Rage boiled inside him, mixing with the festering of rejection in a way that was entirely unpleasant. And Regulus? She chose his little brother over him? That stung. "She's a Muggleborn, though. Why- why would they ever accept her?"

Remus looked down at his lap, refusing to look Sirius in the eye. Sirius's heart seemed to be shrinking. "I think you know why, Sirius."

He wanted to cry. Or scream. Or go find her and hex her until she told him everything. Remembering his fixation on her, Sirius felt such shame and pain and disgust that he had no doubt he could cast the Cruciatus on her. Or Snivellus. "How do you know?" Sirius asked, struggling to keep his voice even. He wouldn't waste any more feelings on the... the harlot.

Looking entirely unaffected, Remus said, "I saw her with the Slytherins on the Map a couple of weeks ago. I didn't want to tell you until I knew for sure. I confronted her about it this morning, and she admitted to it."

"Oh," Sirius said. "Thanks, Moony." He dragged himself onto his own bed and shut the curtains. Feeling tears beginning to prick at his eyes and clog his throat, Sirius flicked his wand and put up a Silencing charm. Satisfied that his best mates wouldn't know how upset he was, he lowered himself onto his pillow and curled in on himself. His body was leaden and trembling.

In the safety of his four-poster, Sirius allowed his face to crumble and the tears to fall in earnest. How could she do that? How could she be so unfeeling, so callous? They'd all dropped everything to include her, hadn't they? Apparently that meant nothing to her. How could she have been Sorted into Gryffindor? She didn't even have the courage to tell them herself.

She chose Regulus. Not him, Regulus. Similar in looks, in upbringing, in blood, in intelligence, but he was a follower and a budding Dark wizard. That was telling, wasn't it? She'd chosen two of the Darkest wizards currently in Hogwarts to consort with, so how could she be anything but a Dark witch? Maybe she wanted to make up for her blood status, to choose those who would hate her for it. Why associate those who would accept her if there was a challenge to be had? It made sense; he'd always seen ambition and competitiveness in her. Very Slytherin qualities to have, now that he thought about it.

What did it say about him, that he'd been so obsessed with her? Was he subconsciously attracted to women like that? Slytherins? It was positively Freudian, but faced with the evidence Sirius had to admit it, at least to himself. Hermione was a Slytherin dressed as a Gryffindor, and he'd been fooled by her masks. He wasn't sure who he hated more, her or himself.

His tears were long gone, but he lay there trembling until he finally fell asleep, missing dinner. He couldn't have cared less.

*|II8II|*

Remus contacted her a few days after Regulus did. She pieced together what exactly their story was, and despite herself was impressed. It was perfect, really, if she wanted Sirius to not only ignore her but also hate her. It would hurt him, she knew, but at the moment she had more important things to worry about.

For one thing, she had nowhere to sleep. The timing was all wrong. She was on bad terms with everyone who held even the smallest amount of affection for her. She couldn't sleep in her dormitory or the Common Room, obviously, and now she couldn't stay in the Hog's Head. She'd briefly entertained the idea of staying with the Slytherins, given the story Remus had fed Sirius, but without the protection of her magic she couldn't be sure she wouldn't be killed in her sleep. A Gryffindor in the Snake pit? Unthinkable.

She couldn't tell Albus, either, because she already knew that he disapproved of her absences from the castle. He approved of most of her decisions, if she were honest, and would be no help.

The Room of Requirement was an option, but she didn't trust herself to have free range of the Room in her sleep. When her rational mind was unable to intervene, she needed all sorts of things that ultimately would destroy herself or someone else. It wasn't so much that she was afraid of the Room as that she was afraid of herself.

In the end, she and Echo slept curled up on the cushioned window seats interspersed throughout the castle. She changed seats every night, not using the same alcove in the same week. Echo was an excellent source of heat, as always, though she couldn't protect Hermione from the chill originating inside her body. The phoenix responded to her companion's increasing despondency by growing more attached, apparently sensing Hermione's need for company.

Meals were touch and go. She wouldn't show her face in the Great Hall, both because she didn't want to see the way Sirius would look at her and because she wasn't sure she could give the impression necessary to give credence to her lie. Aberforth had ignored her entirely when she tried to go to the Hog's Head to apologize until she'd had enough and left. Sometimes, very late at night, Hermione would go to the Kitchens. If Sirius, James, or Peter saw her there it would invite far too many uncomfortable questions. Gradually the gnawing of hunger receded and Hermione was able to function without constantly thinking about it. She had already been used to eating infrequently, fortunately, which made the transition easier.

Technically, Hermione did attend her classes. She showed up early to turn in her homework and to ask about the work for that day. She met resistance at first, naturally, but she reasoned that she was unable to practice any spells regardless and she was already fulfilling the theoretical requirements.

The majority of her time was spent with Keane, researching until the effort of merely moving her eyes seemed too much. Keane always shooed her out after a few hours, explaining in that condescending way of his that the more time she spent there all at once the more tenuous her link to linear time became. Hermione agreed that that would be Bad. It wasn't that she would mind the passage of time stopping for her, although she did very much mind. It was more that she didn't want to become like Keane, bitter and distant.

Remembering her curiosity when Echo had first hatched, Hermione began teaching her to read again. She didn't know how to discern whether Echo actually understood, other than the intelligent gleam in her eyes and her timing in asking Hermione to turn the page. Often Hermione wished Echo could speak, but lately she was beginning to think that it wasn't necessary. They understood one another perfectly without the need for verbalization.

As stressful as her routine was, Hermione began to get used to it. She didn't think about Sirius all that much anymore. Sometimes she fancied herself more a ghost than a real person, and, oddly enough, it appealed to her.

It couldn't stay that way, she discovered.

Final exams had been over for two days. She didn't have to be around other people to know that they were all exhausted. No matter what Houses they were in, they alternated regularly between celebrating and sleeping. A mix of relief and fearful anticipation hovered in the air. The Hogwarts Express would be taking the students home early the next morning.

Hermione wasn't sure what time it was, but she was sure it was very late, given the pink and orange that began to spread across the sky. Now that the grounds were no longer pitch black, Hermione spotted movement on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. At first she dismissed it as a herd of centaurs coming unusually close to the castle. It was hard to see just what the figures looked like, but they seemed far too small to be centaurs. Some of them held balls of light in front of them, but they disappeared one by one. Without the glare of the light, Hermione could barely make them out if she squinted. Comprehension came slow, followed immediately by terror.

There was a massive army, all clad in black robes with white masks. The Death Eaters had invaded Hogwarts.

#tybt #harry potter fanfiction #multi-chapter

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alcoholicseraphim · 7 years

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The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Thirteen- Year II- Altruism Interred

Albus turned on his heel, whisking them away from their grim surroundings. When Hermione opened her eyes she found herself in Albus's office.

"Ariana?" Albus whispered, his voice hoarse and yet somehow hopeful. "Mother?"

The Ring was on his index finger, the other hand still resting on it. This was wrong.

He was visibly dying, hand first. Hermione stared in horror at the spreading curse for only a moment before lunging forward. "Take it off!" she shrieked, grabbing for his hand and attempting to wrestle it away from him. Gods, how had she forgotten?

Albus batted her hand away, surprisingly strong for such an old man. Hermione tripped over a side table and went down, dragging Albus with her by his sleeve. It was somewhat easier to handle his twisting now that he wasn't so much taller than she was, but he was still agile enough to keep her away.

The blackness disappeared under his robe.

In her momentary distraction Albus successfully elbowed her in the face. Hermione reeled back, clutching her bloody lip. In the absence of Hermione's offense, Albus was free to stare adoringly at something only he could see. His hands were closed tightly around the Ring.

She had no choice, not when time was such a factor. Slowly, carefully, Hermione fumbled for her wand and raised it. "Diffindo," she whispered, pulling on her meagre magic reserves and slashing as precisely as she could. It rose sluggishly, feeling somewhat like clogged sinuses, but her desperation gave it the tug it needed.

He screamed and screamed, his concentration broken and the specters gone. Hermione wasn't sure in all the bloody confusion how many fingers she'd cut off, but she saw the huge, ugly ring roll across the floor.

"I'm sorry," she told him, "but I had to. You'll agree that I had to. Just let me heal what I can, please. Please." He would not relinquish his fist, though his piercing sobs and screeches lessened in volume until they were mere whimpers.

The blackness crept out from beneath his other sleeve. She hadn't stopped its spread at all. In fact, it seemed to be getting faster. What could she do to help? What had Snape used? She didn't know! She'd researched, sure, but the method to stopping a deadly curse just wasn't something that anyone recorded in books. It was passed by word of mouth.

There was nothing. She wracked her brain, and there was nothing.

Albus's tiny sounds of pain choked off entirely. It had reached his lungs, Hermione guessed. Very soon it would reach his heart and his whole body would shrivel up and blacken.

Tears blurred her vision, which was a mercy. When the tears fell and she could see again she saw a mummy, a twisted corpse. It was shrinking before her eyes. He was already dead. There was nothing she could do.

She jumped and spun at the earbursting sound of the office door being blasted open. The last thing she saw was the red light of a Stupefy headed straight for her.

*|II8II|*

"Renervate."

Hermione awoke all at once. Around her were an assembly of wizards in Auror robes and with wands pointed at her face. They were in an unfamiliar room that Hermione could only assume was within the Ministry.

"State your name," a man drawled. Hermione turned and noticed him sitting on a wooden chair beside her cot, glaring impatiently and with a Quick Quotes quill poised at the ready. He looked young, but somehow gaunt and self-important. Very Percy-like.

He wanted her name. Of course he wanted her name. She'd been arrested, hadn't she? Albus had died right in front of her with no other witnesses, so naturally she was the prime suspect. The image of blackened flesh flashed through her mind, and dimly she registered the horror but it was like a vision through murky water. "Hermione Granger," she said, shoving the image, and the emotion, away.

"Date of Birth?"

"September 19, 1959." Her head ached, and those wands were still trained on her.

"Names of your parents or guardians?"

"None," Hermione gulped. How many Aurors were there, anyway? It was hard to focus. Ten, she thought. Maybe eleven. Nine?

The man leaned forward in his chair, to all observation trying to look into her soul. "How did you come to be in the office of Albus Dumbledore yesterday morning?" The quill scribbled in the air next to him, recording everything the man's senses were picking up.

Dread sank in her gut, anchoring her in place and turning her whole body into lead. She couldn't tell them. She couldn't tell her side of things without mentioning Horcruxes and Deathly Hallows and if there was one thing she knew, it was that only a select few could know of those. But she couldn't very well lie, either, since she had no doubt she had a lie detector spell set on her. So she took a deep breath and shut her mouth.

"Do you admit to killing Albus Dumbledore?"

In a way, she supposed she had, even if she hadn't meant to. She'd been unable to save him, and that might as well have been the same thing. "Yes," she whispered.

"Why?"

She said nothing.

"We're done here," he announced, obviously disgusted with her. "Take her away."

Invisible chains wrapped around her arms and wrists, and two Aurors on either side of her shoved their arms under her armpits and lifted her bodily onto her feet. The pressure hurt, but Hermione was positive they didn't care. She didn't resist when they led her out the door. She was too busy panicking. They were taking her to Azkaban.

Her limbs thrashed but no amount of strength could break through her bonds. She kicked her legs, aiming for the legs of the Aurors beside her. With a heavy sigh, one of them bound her feet as well. With no outlet for her growing hysteria she could only weep. Heaving breaths escaped her but would not return, and soon she felt faint. Her courage waned and she sagged, allowing tears to drip down her cheeks until her body could no longer spare the water. All the while she was ignored, her entourage dragging her along in complete silence.

An iron collar was fitted around her throat, and as soon as it settled heavily upon her collarbones Hermione found that sound was no longer possible. She couldn't cry out when she felt the tug of the Portkey or when she landed in a hard chair. She couldn't so much as gasp when one took her blood and pulled out a few strands of her hair.

She hadn't realized that she was unconscious until she woke up in a cell. There was a cot, a chamber pot, and a basin of water. She wore a striped uniform prison gown, made of what she could only assume was burlap. A very thin horizontal window covered the entire crease between the back wall and the ceiling, letting in dim daylight. As far as Hermione could tell, there was no other source of light. It was frigid and dark and smelled of mould and stagnant water. There was nothing she could do about it.

Hermione lay down on the cot and closed her eyes, determined not to let it drive her insane this early.

*|II8II|*

Undoubtedly the most unpleasant reintroduction to consciousness would have to be the involuntary reliving of the scene in Malfoy's Manor when she was eighteen. Not the experience itself, not completely, but she was forced to feel those emotions as vividly as she had then. The pain, the desperation, the visceral terror, but without the consolation of courage or purpose. Just pure horror. Pointless, meaningless, and yet real as it had ever been. The skin on her left forearm itched where her scars would have been.

The Dementor hovered by the bars of her cell, a skeletal hand reaching for her. It was so cold, so absolutely gelid, that Hermione thought her cells might freeze solid.

It was always cold here, she found. The Dementors would waft past Hermione's cell, leaving ice to form beneath her skin and bitterness to take hold inside her heart and mind.

Of course, she knew that the year would reset, same as before, but the doubts that pummeled her brain in her hours of solitude whispered that she would remain here forever, in the place where all was glacial and lonely. Perhaps, hissed the voices, it was a fluke, a one time thing, and now she had truly screwed herself over.

How could anyone stay here? How had Sirius managed to not go insane? Hagrid had only spent two months in this bloody prison and he'd looked near mad. And that was Hagrid, the gentle, simple giant. What about her? She'd done so much to deserve this, seen so much.

Was she insane? No, not yet. Close, though, too close. The symptoms were all there, objectively speaking, but she refused to believe that she'd been unhinged so easily, so soon.

How long had she been here so far? Weeks? Months? It was hard to tell. Hermione never saw sunlight anymore. Day and night were the same to her. The food slipped to her by the faceless wraiths were the only indication of time.

Sometimes she would hallucinate, on her really bad episodes. Harry appeared sometimes, glasses broken and taped, and would sit with her in her cell until she blinked one time too many and he was gone. Ron didn't appear as often, but he talked to her. Sometimes he would stroke her hair and say that the queen is the most powerful player on the board, and sometimes he would laugh in her face and call her a nightmare.

"Where are your friends, Hermione? You thought you had some, didn't you? You delusional little know-it-all." He would grab her chin and force her to look at him. His nails dug in when she tried to close her eyes.

"I'm sorry!" she would shriek, unable to find the words to defend herself or even make sense of what she was being blamed for. "I'm sorry!"

"Sorry doesn't fix it, Granger. How many people are dead because of you? Why couldn't you just leave it alone?" Ron's face was right there in front of hers, not giving her any chance to look away from him. Merlin, he looked so young... eleven years old was a long time ago, wasn't it?

"Because of me?" Eleven years. What about her? How old was she? Too old to make mistakes. Too old to be blameless. Too young to be faultless. Too young to be wise.

That cruel expression was nothing like the Ron she knew. Or was it? Hermione couldn't remember anymore.

"Yes, Granger, keep up." He sounded like a parody of Draco when they were younger, and the thought of that blonde little boy brought some clarity back to her.

Draco and Harry had somehow gotten ridiculously close in such a short period of time. More than likely that helped Draco along on the path of good. It was hard to resist Harry once he'd gotten under your skin, after all. They'd both been so happy. Harry seemed almost whole again after losing Ron. Draco was in love with him, Hermione knew, but Harry was devoted entirely to Ginny. Draco minded, though he claimed to her that he didn't.

Because love makes people selfless and stupid, Draco stuck his neck out for them. Mostly for Harry, though. He took them in and protected them and he was slaughtered for it by his uncle. Harry and Hermione were already gone, to challenge Voldemort. She'd listened to Harry and Draco have a row. Harry was in a blind rage over Ginny's death, and Draco covered his jealousy with concern. Well, he was right. It had been bloody moronic to go after the Half-Man. Draco was asleep when they left.

To the best of Hermione's knowledge, he hadn't survived the night. Poor little boy. Love creates fools, and Draco just happened to be a dead fool. Like Harry, and Ron, and Remus, and Tonks, and Fred and-

And then she would blink and the cell would be back to normal, just her and her dissipating sanity.

Harry and Ron were the main characters, but some others would appear, too. Fred and George were frequent visitors as well, white beards tucked into their belts to mimic Dumbledore's.

"Well, Hermione-"

"-you fucked this one up."

"How did you-"

"-get in here?"

Hermione would look up at them with blank eyes and whisper, "I don't know. How do I get out?"

They never answered. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they just left.

Dementors eventually started stopping at her cell for minutes at a time, just staring at her under their hoods and leaving her shaking uncontrollably. She had less to give, so little happiness left, why would they show more interest in her? They were gone, just gone, and no amount of searching would bring them back.

She remembered how Hagrid looked when he came back from Azkaban. Haunted, empty eyes... was that how she looked? Would a guard pass through and look at her wild hair and twisted expression and think her just another one of the prisoners?

Was that what she was?

Was that what she always was?

Maybe she was insane. Maybe it was always there, just under the surface, buried in joy both real and imagined. She didn't know what to hope for.

Harry sat beside her and leaned on her shoulder. Hermione put her arm around him, taking comfort in his presence.

Time ran in centuries. Hermione was almost certain of this.

Count doubles. 2. 4. 16. 256. 65,536. Four... four billion two hundred ninety-four... something. Start over. 4,294,967,296. She clawed it out on the back of her hand to check her work.

She scratched primitive art into her skin to pass the time. There was actually quite a bit of room if she worked small. As soon as she was good enough, she would start on the walls. Her fingernails were bloody and raw, and at some point she noticed how much better her art looked using her natural crimson paint as a medium.

Her skin stung all over, sometimes keeping her awake, but Hermione quickly became accustomed to it. The beauty of her designs were well worth the pain.

What was a little more pain, anyway? She would never get out of here. Her whole world was pain now; she might as well enjoy it.

My name is Hermione Granger.

My name is Hermione-

No.

Why didn't she think of this before? Her last name was the only thing stopping her from being a pureblood, at least to the world. Who could she be? Miss Granger was someone else, anyway. Maybe she hadn't been Miss Granger for a while now.

She was just Hermione now. A lot of research would be necessary to find out which family she should belong to, and that meant she needed to find a library.

And just like that, Hermione had a purpose again. It may not have been much, but it was enough to throw herself into plan after plan to get out of that torturous place.

Dementors didn't stop at her cell anymore. She didn't even feel much of a shiver when they passed by anymore. Was it possible to develop a tolerance for Dementors?

Never mind that. How was she going to be free?

*|II8II|*

She was slowly, grudgingly accepting that there was no way. The only kinds of magic not prevented by the wards were those involving the soul, or the mind. Like Animagus transformation, or Metamorphmagus transfiguration- pretty much any magic that was intrinsic to the person, or would work without a wand. Hermione had never had the time to devote to becoming an Animagus, since it involved nearly full focus for years. She wasn't a Metamorphmagus, or a touch healer, or anything else. Even if she could use her magic, she would hardly be able to produce an Alohomora, much less anything more complex.

And with no ability to research, she was completely buggered.

She'd felt helpless before, but not like this. When she was trying to cope with Minerva's death, she had books to comfort her. There was knowledge there, knowledge that would prevent her from ever feeling so helpless again. But here she was, a man's death on her conscience and this time with no way to research. Nothing but her own memories.

Her body hardly even felt real anymore.

Some nights- it was always night- memories would consume her.

Her mother, blinking at her daughter making the grass grow tall around her in a matter of seconds. "Hermione, this talent of yours is lovely, but other people won't think so. Imagine if Mrs Coleridge were to find out." Mrs Coleridge was her next door neighbor and she was a right harpy, always nagging on Hermione's hair and her penchant for reading and her overall lack of social skills. If she were to learn about Hermione's magic, there would be no end of it. She might even call the police, after informing the whole neighborhood.

"All right," she'd say, pushing herself to her feet and stepping onto the sidewalk.

Her father, smiling way too happily as he hugged her goodbye. Watching him turn away before the train had even left. Watching her mother stare just a moment longer before she turned away, too.

Listening to her mother sobbing about her in the next room, crying about how she just wanted a normal child. Her father agreeing.

The permeating angry parasite of stony shame, bleeding out onto her pillow and being soaked back up by morning. Glaring at the ceiling in the dark, thinking harsh words, screaming them. It's not my fault. It's not my fault you wanted to have me. It's not my fault I was born this way. It's not my fault you're disappointed. It's not my fault.

But then she'd wake up in the morning just so utterly tired.

She felt every emotion from back then. The bitterness, mostly, and the muted yet persistent love. They were so happy in Australia. So much happier never to have had a daughter at all, and especially not her. They were so in love, it hurt to look.

And now those things that made them proud of her were disintegrating in little dust clouds. In prison for murder. It was best that they would never know.

Had she ever been fully accepted? Fully wanted? She was no longer sure. She could no longer remember.

Most of the memories were from before she'd ever known about Hogwarts, but there were plenty from after Harry's death. Many were vague, such as reading in the newspaper of the recapture of Hogwarts, of children shivering in a guest bed with werewolf bites days before the full moon, of the sound of a man's last breath. Of the silence under Minerva's rib cage, and the grimace petrified on her face. Of being two wizards, one a little girl and one an old man, against an army. Of being helpless and useless. Of struggling from one meal to the next, of never quite being warm.

Then there were those from the past year. Of Sirius's laugh and Lily's smile. Of Sirius clasping her hands in his wrists and begging for her to tell him what was wrong. Of turning away from the purest thing she had. Of Sirius's silhouette on the cracked floor in the corridor.

That scene turned in her head over and over. Waking up and seeing him dead. Of being helpless and useless.

It was clear now that she'd loved him, and that was possibly the worst part.

He'd been tortured by his family by now. He'd run away to James's house, just like he was supposed to. She hoped his suffering would be over for a while. This time she would not be the cause of his death. This time she was locked away. A danger to the world, she was.

If what Keane had told her was true, then she could give Aberforth the credit for all this. Hermione supposed she was paying the price for it. And for her own decision to play the mastermind. Then again, she knew she would never be able to just sit and let things happen. It may be merely the will of a fallible human man but it was still an opportunity, and an opportunity she couldn't bring herself to waste.

Self-mutilation would do her no good. In the moments between the visits of the Dementors, Hermione retreated into her mind. Even a Squib could practice Occlumency, and for all intents and purposes that's what she was. Perhaps this way she could save herself, even just a little bit.

The turning point was when a man was tossed into the cell opposite hers. He was close enough that they could talk, but she quickly discovered that he was a miserable, cowardly cockroach of a wizard.

There were, however, other uses for such people.

Her Occlumency was improving rapidly, but it's complement was sadly lacking in her. Legilimency, a skill with infinite uses, mastered by only just over a dozen people worldwide. At least, that's what the registers said. There were fewer Legilimens than there were Animagi! She knew the basics of it, yes, but she could never bring herself to practice regularly on anyone.

This man could hardly be called a "person", she decided. It didn't count.

"Come talk to me," she'd croon as best as she could with her ruined throat. "Come look at me, Titus. I'm lonely."

And he would scramble forward, stretching out a hand through the bars although he would never be able to reach her. "I'm here, Hermione, I'm here."

Of course he was there. Where else would he be? And so she would dive into his mind, picking through his thoughts and memories. Sometimes she whispered, sometimes she bludgeoned. Sometimes she healed the damage and sometimes she would rend him. That was one thing, a very interesting, entertaining, useful thing, but her true discovery came some months later.

She called it hybrid-Legilimency. The art of Legilimency could only view or manipulate, technically, the structure, the past and present, of the mind. It wasn't enough. Learning, as lovely as it was, was as a finite as the resource. If one could manipulate the future of the mind, the possibilities would be endless.

That's the object of the Imperius- sort of. The Imperius hardly even touches the mind, except to pacify it. It's a form of forced hypnotism, where nothing about it is voluntary and personal morals have nothing at all to do with it. If, however, one could work directly on the mind, change the morals themselves...

She could mould a person into anything she wanted. Anything at all.

Hermione discovered it on accident. It was a bad day among bad days, and her sanity seemed to be locked in a cell farther away where she couldn't reach it. Beat your head against the walls, she projected. You want to. You've wanted to for ages. It's better to be dead than to be in here. She hadn't even really realized that she'd done it until the cockroach sent her a yellowed grin and slammed his head back into the wall behind him. And then again. And again.

And she watched. She watched until his brain stopped functioning altogether. She watched until he died.

Later she regretted destroying her project, but it couldn't be helped.

There was little option for then except to wait. Perhaps the gods would smile upon her, and bring her back to the start again.

(A/N) There's a one shot I wrote called At a Loss that connects to this. It wasn't the original plan, but I think it works out well.

#tybt #harry potter fanfiction #multi-chapter

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