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Chapter Text

July 25th, 1991 was a strange day for Hermione. She was woken up, not by the sun creeping across the London skyline as usual, but by someone banging around downstairs. Throwing on her hoodie and sneakers, Hermione rushed down the splintering stairs, arriving to a most peculiar sight. Standing in front of the electric wok and barely functioning microwave was an older woman, dressed in a wizard’s hat and some robes. She seemed to have tripped over the wok and was currently threatening to turn it into a “proper teakettle.”

“Hello?” Hermione called out, clutching the sides of her hoodie around her. The woman turned, her green eyes looking Hermione up and down.

“Hermione. . .” the woman began, stalling for a last name, before looking in confusion at a piece of paper in her hand. “Hermione,” she said again, more confidently.

“Yes?” Hermione asked, confused and more than a little annoyed. “Can I help you with something?” The older woman looked around the room. Abandoned floor, really.

“You live here?” she asked.

“Yes,” Hermione replied sharply.

“Are your parents nearby?”

“No idea.”

“Can you tell me your surname?”

“Don’t know it.”

“Okay then,” the mystery woman said with a sigh, looking around the room once more before turning towards Hermione. “Is there some place we can sit?” Hermione gestured to the floor.

“Standing it is then,” the woman declared. “Very well. I assume you have gotten your letter?”

“Which one?” Hermione asked cautiously. She had only gotten two letters--one from a client, the other some sort of prank--and didn’t want to screw up and conflate the two.

“The one about Hogwarts,” the woman stated dryly.

“Oh, right. Is this one of those practical joke shows? Are there hidden cameras somewhere?” Hermione craned her neck to look out across the room, but saw nothing beyond the usual dereliction.

“It is not a joke,” the woman said. She then drew a thin stick--a wand, Hermione guessed, and pointed it at an empty glass bottle. The bottle changed and enlarged, shifting into a comfy red armchair. The woman sat down in it, looking to Hermione with an eyebrow raised. Hermione was simply staring at the chair, hoping this woman didn’t bother to read the bottle’s label.

“Okay,” Hermione said tentatively. “What do you want me for?”

“A student,” the woman said indignantly. “You’re a witch.” Hermione laughed.

“I’ve been called that before,” Hermione said. “Don’t think she meant it quite as literal.” The woman’s brows furrowed as she pondered Hermione’s words. They darkened as she seemed to grasp the meaning.

“Alright then,” she said, her face clearing in an instance. “I am Professor Minerva McGonagall. I teach the Transfiguration class and I am the head of house for Gryffindor. Now go get dressed, we must go shopping for your school supplies.” Hermione blinked a few times before nodding and retreating upstairs.

Oh, what to wear? she thought. All her clothes were for clubs, fancy parties, or doing nothing. She was currently in her doing nothing clothes. Fuck it, she thought, pulling out a cobalt blue cocktail gown. It was short, as most of her dresses were, but not to an indecent length. She chose to wear her short black heels and a bare minimum of makeup.

McGonagall had let the dress go without comment. She was clearly overdressed for the Leaky Cauldron (that much had been obvious by the name alone) but on this magical boulevard known as Diagon Ally she seemed to fit right in. In fact, there was a woman with pale blonde hair whose dress was the exact same cut as hers. They smiled politely at each other as they passed, though the other woman had raised an eyebrow at McGonagall.

“We shall need to visit Gringotts first,” the professor had said as they exited the Leaky Cauldron. “Your supplies shall be purchased with funds from the Hogwarts Scholarship Fund. The bank is run by goblins, do be careful. They can be a bit prickly.” Hermione had simply nodded and carefully walked beside the professor and her tall, pointed hat.

Upon entering the bank, Professor McGonagall immediately acted counter to her own recommendation, practically demanding to speak to the “head goblin.” Hermione had a feeling that was not his actual title. Looking around, she had a feeling that most of the wizards had no idea how insulting the title was.

The goblin she presumed was the “Head Goblin” soon came out of a corridor, discussing something in low, whispered tones in a tongue she knew nothing of. Though it had a fair number of hard consonants, the endings and beginnings of words matched well, giving the language a sort of flowing quality.

“My lord,” Hermione said to the goblin with a curtsey. “May I ask what language you were speaking? It sounded quite beautiful.” The goblin, who had only just stopped talking, stared at her, his eyes wide. McGonagall was staring too.

“Gobbledegook,” he finally said. The name sounded rather ridiculous to Hermione. “That is what the wizards call it.”

“And what do you call it?” Hermione asked. The goblin arched an eyebrow towards her. He looked her up and down, taking far too long. Yet his eyes were not wandering or roaming like those of a horny man. They looked with observation and sadness, as if they could see through each of Hermione’s lies and layers of concealment and deceptions.

“You are here for the scholarship fund,” he said to McGonagall, his eyes not leaving Hermione’s.

“Yes,” McGonagall said. “And I do have other business--”

“We will take care of her,” the goblin said. “She will arrive at your train station on time.” McGonagall furrowed her brows and glared. As several goblins, these ones bearing some sort of antiquated polearm, emerged she nodded and left, leaving behind a confused Hermione and an apprehensive staff of goblins, a few of them armed.

“My lord,” one of them said. “Why are we--”

“Tell me child,” the ‘Head Goblin’ began. “How old are you?”

“Eleven, my lord,” Hermione replied.

“First year, then. You grow up with wizards?” Hermione shook her head. “Didn’t think so. See, you’re the first one to bow or curtsey to one of our lords since the 12th century.”

“What? Why?” The goblins all shrugged.

“Bigotry,” one of them answered simply. The others nodded.

“Glad to know that’s the same,” Hermione said with a sigh. “Hatred and rape, the two great constants.” If any of the goblins found her statement odd they did not comment.

Chapter Text

“This is quite a surprise,” the old man behind the counter said. Hermione looked at him, then at the goblin behind her. “Grinhoop! How long has it been?”

“Only a decade or two,” the goblin remarked with a smirk. “You could come to Gringotts, you know.”

“Pah!” the man said. “Your Count Rigoll still hasn’t forgiven me for beating him in that game of chess. Besides, I detest sterile atmospheres. Now then!” he declared, switching his gaze to Hermione, who forced herself not to shy away. “What have we here? Come for a wand?”

“Yes, sir,” Hermione said with a slight curtsey. “I’m Hermione, I’m a first year at Hogwarts.”

“Ah yes,” the old man recalled with a smile. “First year. What a joyous time. Garrick Ollivander,” he then said, sticking out his hand for her to shake. “Wandmaker extraordinaire.”

“A pleasure,” Hermione said, shaking his hand. The man beamed and began sorting through boxes.

“No, not that one. Not this, wrong grip, wrong--” he was cut off as one box flipped off the top of the case, falling onto Mr. Ollivander’s head.

“Ow!” the old man remarked, before bending to pick up the box. As soon as he had untied the ribbon the wand zoomed out, stopping inches from Hermione, waiting for her to grasp it. She did, and a stream of green and silver light flew across the room. The old man looked shocked.

“That--” He cleared his throat. “That has never happened before.” He gently took the wand from her, going over every inch of it, examining the miniscule runes inlaid in each part of it. “Redwood,” he said. “Helios, I believe. The runes, however, are of Red Oak. Twelve and three-quarters inches. Basilisk fang core. Firm but resilient,” he concluded handing the wand back to her.

“It feels perfect,” Hermione said, her voice filled with awe as she stared at the wand.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“We would like for you to stay with us, Miss Hermione,” Count Rigoll, Professor McGongall’s “Head Goblin,” was saying. “You would be safer here, and able to practice magic.” Hermione looked at the goblins, eying them cautiously.

“I--um, well--”

“We won’t hurt you,” he said gently. Hermione laughed bitterly at that and rolled her eyes. “You won’t have to work,” he said. “Not in that way.” That made Hermione pause. Freeze, actually, as she stood, eyes wide in shock, mouth agape for a moment before she remembered to close it.

“Stay here,” Count Rigoll said again. “Practice your wand magics.”

“What do you want?” she asked. The count grinned towards her.

“Wizarding law prevents us from buying or being gifted wands,” the noble-goblin said. “If you stay here and practice your wand magic, perhaps we can learn how to make them.” Hermione looked into the goblin’s eyes, then nodded with a smirk,

“That is all you want from me?” she asked. Count Rigoll nodded. “Then we have a deal. I shall need to pick some things up from my. . . place.”

“Very well,” the count said. “We shall await your return.”

When she returned the goblins stared at her textbooks. It was not until later that Steelgrip told her they had been amused by a human learning maths.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The first time Hermione cast a spell in Gringotts, a wizarding official showed up to complain. She had cast a Curse of the Bogies, which was apparently not allowed. The wizard (a ministry official, it seemed) left after being reminded rather forcefully Gringotts counted as sovereign territory of the Goblin Kingdom.

Although most of the goblins were uncomfortable around her (which Hermione couldn’t fault them for, most wizards treated them like shit and even Hermione wasn’t comfortable around herself) they quickly began watching her spell-casting practice sessions. Rigoll and some others had managed to find a bunch of adult human-sized mannequins for her to practice spells on. Griphook especially liked to come and watch the faux humans getting hit by a knockback jinx, a severing charm, or the fire-making charm. His favorite, however, was when Hermione used a levitation charm to drop the mannequin from some fifty feet above ground.

Her transfiguration and potion brewing attempts were less well attended, though equally successful. She took to transfiguration particularly well. It was the most scientific of the subjects she had, and Hermione had always been good with maths and science. She learned it even quicker than she did the offensive spells, though the latter were more potent. Ricbert had gotten her a present during her second week of staying at Gringotts. It was a small book, titled Power is Power, A Primer on the Dark Arts . Though the book contained no spells, it was a helpful guide on how to duel offensively, how to chain spells, follow up on attacks with another, and how to channel emotions into spells rather than being distracted by them. It was quite helpful. After two weeks Hermione’s severing charm could cut through a marble statue. One of a human in a pointed hat, much to the delight of Gringotts employees. Count Rigoll had been so delighted he’d bought her all the required books of the second-year students, as well as books on Occlumency.

Count Rigoll described Occlumency as the single truly universal piece of magic. No creature wanted someone inside their head, and they all used the same basic structures to keep people out. He personally trained her, breaking through her walls and helping rebuild them. He learned after the second lesson, when she broke down into sobs, not to dig too far into her mind. He also learned not to look into her room without permission after he was sent flying for twenty-five feet with a knockback jinx. She had apologized profusely, and he had accepted it with grace, but he had been more than a little afraid of causing a similar reaction. No one had entered her room without her express permission since, a fact that Hermione took delight in.

By the time school came rolling around, Hermione had made every potion, cast every spell, and read every word of the textbooks. She had also read a wide variety of history books, talked with many of the Gringotts goblins about their take on much of the historical accounting done by wizards (an exclamation of “Pah!” was the most common response) and read a good number of other spellbooks, potion books, and texts on magical creatures and plants.

Hermione had also read every book she could find on wizarding law, and on the rules of Hogwarts, to the surprise of many. She simply smiled and said that she liked to be prepared, rather than mentioning the seven charges loopholes had gotten her out of. She had read supplementary readings as well, such as a treatise on goblin view of possession (maker over purchaser) and the centaur view of land ownership (you can control access, you can’t own land) both of which she found rather interesting. It would be a useful thing to bring up if she happened to get lost in the Forbidden Forest and ran into some centaurs. Not that it was likely, but stranger things had happened.

Chapter Text

Hermione was quite nervous as she approached the Hogwarts Express. Her hand were shaking (well, the one that wasn’t carrying her trunk was) and she was looking around wide-eyed like a scared animal. She took in a deep breath and tried to relax, something that worked. . . not in the least. Instead she continued to freak out under a mask of increasing calm.

“Hey!” she heard someone call out behind her. Forcing herself to remain calm, Hermione turned and saw a young girl running towards her. “Do you know where we put our trunks?”

“Oh, um,” Hermione began, looking around. “I think we’re supposed to store them onboard.”

“Oh, okay,” the girl said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Bridget Dagdo.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hermione said, shaking her hand. “I’m Hermione.” There was a pause as Bridget waited for another name, but there was none forthcoming. Oh dear, Hermione thought. This is going to be a problem.

“Just Hermione?” the girl asked.

“Just Hermione,” Hermione verified.

“Oh. Okay then,” Bridget said. She reached out and grabbed Hermione’s hand, pulling them both towards the train. “That’s kinda cool, ya know. Only really cool people don’t have last names. Like Merlin, or Boudicca!” Hermione smiled at Bridget, her eyes running over the small afro and dark brown skin. Bridget’s eyes, a deep brown, seemed to sparkle with excitement.

“Can I sit with you?” Bridget asked as they entered the train. “I know a lot of people already have people they sit with, but--”

“I would love to,” Hermione said, cutting her off. “How about there?” Bridget nodded and the two young witches walked into the empty compartment.

“This your first year?” Bridget asked, and Hermione nodded. “Mine too. Gods I’m nervous, what house do you think you’ll be in?”

“I’m not sure,” Hermione said. “Won’t be Gryffindor or Hufflepuff though.”

“No?” Bridget asked. “Why not?”

“I’m not stupid enough for Gryffindor, not kind enough for Hufflepuff,” she said with a shrug. “I’d say Slytherin, but I’ve no idea who my parents are and was brought up in the muggle world, so. . .”

“Ah,” Bridget said. “That’d explain the no last name. I’m hoping for Slytherin, though dad was a ‘claw and mum was a ‘puff. Everyone gets taught the same, but Slytherin’s a great place to make connections as well as learn.”

“A very Slytherin thing to say,” a new voice commented dryly. The two first years turned towards the opened compartment door to find an older student smirking. “Keep on thinking like that,” she said. “You’ll be with us shortly.” Bridget beamed and Hermione smiled gently towards her newest acquaintance. She would say friend, but it had only been a few minutes. Besides, Hermione had learned not to let people in. She wouldn’t be making the same mistake a third time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Over ‘ere!” a gruff voice shouted. “First years over ‘ere!” Hermione and Bridget both move towards the giant of a man, until Hermione stopped them, pointing over towards the carriages with the other students.

“What are those things?” she asked in a concerned and awed voice.

“What, the carriages?” Bridget asked.

“No, the horse-things pulling them,” Hermione replied.

“I don’t see anything,” Bridget said cautiously. Hermione frowned but didn’t say anything, instead continuing to the docks in silence.

The view from the river was truly magnificent, if the idea of rowing a tad overdone, especially considering the drizzling rain. The ghosts, though she’d read about them, were. . . interesting. They certainly were eccentric, as Bagshot had claimed, though Hermione thought that was putting it lightly. Stranger still than the ghosts was the singing, dancing (apparently living) hat that was apparently in charge of their fate. Rather large bit of work for some ancient fabric.

The houses cheered whenever they got a new member. Loudly. Quite loudly. Too loudly, if Hermione was asked, but when was she?

“Dagda, Bridget!” Professor McGonagall called out. Oh great, there was her too. Realistically, Hermione knew she’d have to deal with the strange woman sooner or later, but had been hoping it was later. McGonagall had left her while disgruntled, and in Hermione’s experience that usually carried on to become something far worse.

“SLYTHERIN!” the hat declared after a moment’s pause and the table of snakes cheered as their new member walked proudly over.

“Finch-Fletchley, Justin!” The boy had barely put the hat on when it loudly declared, “HUFFLEPUFF” and he scampered off to the table. It seemed the friendliest and most welcoming by far. That alone meant Hermione wouldn’t be going there.

“Greenglass, Daphne!”

“SLYTHERIN!” the hat declared resoundingly.

“Hermione!” McGonagall shouted. Hermione heard the whispering voices about her lack of a last name. She ignored them, instead walking forwards with grace and pride, two things she’d been faking for years. She twirled and sat down on the stool, carefully plonking the large hat atop her head, though it soon began to sink down.

“Hmmm,” a voice mused in her ear. “What do we have here?” Hermione remained still, refusing to look anything other than calm. “Oh, this is just offensively easy,” the hat complained. “Ambition, some darkness, poise and grace, come on give me a challenge! Not that I’d really have a choice anyways, what with your blood and all.” Wait, what? Hermione thought as the hat sighed in her ear before loudly declaring, “SLYTHERIN!” Hermione took the hat from her head and gently placed it on the stool before walking over to the Slytherin table, all of whom were staring at her. She kept her face calm and neutral, though those were the last things she was feeling. She sat down, and the sorting resumed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Hey,” one of the other first-years asked. Malfoy, if she remembered correctly. “What’s with the name?”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, voice full of false courtesy. The boy glared at her.

“What’s your last name?” he demanded. Hermione shrugged, taking a sip from her goblet and wincing. That was definitely not what she had requested.

“I don’t have one,” she replied.

“Don’t you have parents?” a brunette, sitting next to the blond, asked. Her eyes were sharp and eager, ready to harm any who came too close.

“I believe so,” Hermione said, voice calm. “It is rather hard to be born without them.” There was a snort from further down the table and Hermione turned towards the noise, an eyebrow raised.

“Ignore me,” the older boy said, waving them off. He muttered a quick cleaning charm and Hermione realized he must have spewed his drink onto the table.

“Where are they?” the girl ( Parkinson, Pansy , Hermione remembered) asked. Hermione bit back her instincts, forcing the insults down.

“Why do you want to know?” Hermione asked instead. The girl glowered at her, and Hermione took another sip of her drink, this time staring into the goblet with disappointment.

“I--well, I, um--” Pansy stuttered. Hermione hid a smirk by continuing to look into her goblet. This was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts was better than any school Hermione had been to before, and she’d been to a lot of them. True, better wasn’t saying much, and she hadn’t stayed long at any, but still.

Hermione loved the classes. They were all magical, all interesting, and in none of them did someone stab her with a pencil. She learned, despite having read and attempted nearly every lesson in the curriculum during the summer. She avoided answering questions, however, and never volunteered, something that greatly surprised Bridget and Daphne Greengrass, the two people she somewhat trusted. Everyone else was kept at arm’s length. Bridget and Daphne, though they weren’t allowed inside the walls, were allowed into the outer courtyard of her mind. Hermione told them she didn’t like being the center of attention and had left it at that. Though both other girls were still confused, they knew better than to try and press information from her. Last time they tried Hermione had shut down and given one-word responses for a week.

Hermione liked Bridget and Daphne. She wouldn’t have described them as friends, though they were the closest she’d had since---since that happened. That was another thing Hermione didn’t share. Everyone knew Hermione had no parents and no last name. That was all anyone knew for the most part. Bridget and Daphne knew that she was liked by the Gringotts goblins, that she loved knowledge, and that she was far smarter than she gave away. She even helped them with homework from time to time, though they rarely needed it. They didn’t know anything else, though they suspected Hermione had more than a few bad experiences she wasn’t sharing.

The flying lesson had been rather fun at first. The broom (Hermione had a hard time believing it was the most efficient form of travel) had, after a bit of resistance, jumped into her hand. Hermione wasn’t a huge fan of heights, after having almost fallen from a tenth-story flat in Central London, but the idea of flying, of feeling the wind through her hair, intrigued her.

Longbottom had been a klutz, as usual. Malfoy, being the arrogant twat that he was (everyone in Slytherin agreed, save for Parkinson, who was just like him) had taken the remembrall and flown into the air. Potter, being only slightly less twatish and just as arrogant (if a bit more deservedly) chased after him and, after nearly killing himself, had been rewarded with a slot on the Gryffindor quidditch team.

That was another thing Hermione didn’t really get. She had never understood sports particularly well. To her muggle sports seemed to be a bunch of angry men fighting with arbitrary rules. Quidditch seemed the same, only with women and magic thrown in as well. She supposed the flying was rather impressive, if one enjoyed that sort of thing. Still, she went, if only for the distraction and to watch and laugh as the true enthusiasts grew increasingly red-faced. Her laughter not being appreciated, Hermione decided to maintain a solid mask and laugh internally.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Her hands were shaking. Again. Damn it , Hermione thought as she bit back an instinctive wince. It was the Hallowe’en feast, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Pumpkin juice was going down by the liter, pies both sweet and savory were being universally inhaled, and the snakes-and-darkness motif of Slytherin perfectly matched the holiday.

After whispering to Daphne and Bridget, Hermione stood and walked towards the bathroom. She felt their eyes on her, but kept her mask on. She hoped. She couldn’t--they couldn’t know about this.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“What do you think that was about?” Daphne asked in a low-toned whisper. Bridget turned towards her, lifting an eyebrow.

“She needed to use the lady’s room,” Bridget replied. “What else would it be?”

“Her hands were shaking again,” Daphne pointed out. Bridget sighed.

“I know,” she whispered back. “And I don’t know what it is. Probably some disease she doesn’t want us to know about.” Daphne furrowed her brows.

“There’s not much magic can’t cure,” the Greengrass heiress said.

“We know that,” Bridget replied. “But does she?”

“We’ll bring it up somehow. Subtly.”

“I’ll leave it to you then, that’s your speciality.” Daphne inclined her head in thanks, a small smile on her lips. The two Slytherins turned back to their meals, eating a little more of the grand feast provided. Until they were interrupted by crashing doors and a turban-headed professor.

“Troll!” Quirrel shouted. “Troll in the dungeons! Thought you should. . . know.” His announcement was completed by falling face-down on the carpet, seemingly unconscious.

“Prefects, escort your students to the common rooms!” Dumbledore bellowed, his voice carrying over the student’s chatter. “Slytherins, you will remain here!” A massive commotion followed the announcement as students leapt from tables, rushing to their prefects. Professor Snape was already at Dumbledore’s side, the two conferring quietly with Flitwick and McGonagall. Bridget’s eyes roamed the room before spotting the astronomy professor

“Professor Sinistra!” she called out, moving towards her with Daphne right behind her. The professor, who had been talking with Professor Vector, turned towards the girls and raised an eyebrow.

“Hermione said she was going to the lady’s room,” Daphne said. Bridget had frozen under the intense glare of Professor Vector. At least she hadn’t planned on taking Arithmancy.

Professor Sinistra’s eyes widened and she moved quickly to enter the four-person conference on the troll. Snape recoiled and then nodded, and Dumbledore seemed to be in agreement as well. The five professors, along with their colleagues, then left the room, splitting into different directions, likely in search of the troll. Professor Vector remained, carefully eying the Slytherins.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione growled as she heard someone stomping around in the lady’s room. With a sigh she vanished the needle and ribbon. She’d been mostly finished anyway.

Walking out of the stall, Hermione had not expected what she saw. She saw a troll, some twelve feet tall and uglier than the crime boss on Wilton Way. She froze for a moment when she saw it, but then moved, grabbing her wand. The troll swung his club at her. Hermione dodged it. She grabbed some of her anger, her rage, her sadness and frustration--there was always plenty lying around--and shouted, “ Diffindo! ” Her wand moved in a perfect heartbeat pattern, stretched out as it pointed across the troll’s neck. A flash of red flew from her wand, striking the troll in the neck. Its mouth opened as if to yell, but it had not the time. The spell’s force sent the head flying backwards, rolling out the bathroom door while the body simply collapsed with a loud thunk.

The professors arrived a few moments later, seemingly summoned by the sound. All of them seemed astonished to find Hermione breathing at all, let alone breathing heavily over the decapitated corpse of a troll. All of them seemed impressed, incredulous, or (in the case of Headmaster Dumbledore) concerned. Professor Snape reacted differently. Rather than looking at her frizzed hair, her wand arm, or the dead troll, her head of house looked into her eyes, seeming to search for something. She was more than a little worried about what he found.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione had a hard time getting to sleep that night. Her mind was filled of memories, not of the troll but of her times in the warehouse, before she had claimed it as her own. Her times outside it afterwards, and even a few after as well. After a brief trip to the bathroom and another vanished ribbon, however, Hermione was finally able to get to sleep, relaxing into the soft sheets and downy pillow.

Chapter Text

On the 1st of November, 1991, Daphne Greengrass woke up to a dark room. Sitting up in bed, she double-checked the time. It was eight. Normally there would be some sort of light, hidden in a corner, and a reading Hermione by now. Though she supposed killing a troll had to wear one out. About time she slept in, even if her sleeping in is everyone else’s waking up at a normal time (or too early).

Daphne yawned and left the room. She took a brief shower with the hot water only an early riser could get. Walking back to their room, she changed into her robes. Looking around, she saw Bridget was stirring, as were the twins, Emma and Emily Selwyn. Who looked identical and called each other, “Em.” Unsurprisingly, they had gotten over house divisions to bond with fellow twins Fred and George Weasley, who still introduced themselves as, “Gred and Forge.”

Surprisingly, Hermione had not yet stirred. Quite odd, seeing as how the few times Daphne had woken up first, her roommate had not been a quiet sleeper. Having fully dressed and with her wand in her pocket and books in her bag, Daphne walked over to Hermione’s bed.

“Hey, get up,” Daphne said. There was no response. She shook Hermione gently, then a bit harder. “For Merlin’s sake!” she exclaimed. “How are you--”

“Bridget,” Daphne said, her voice suddenly tense.

“Yeah?”

“Go get Snape.”

“What--”

“Go! Now!”

“Okay, okay!” Bridget replied, running out of the room. Daphne knew she’d be confused, but she couldn’t truly focus on that right now. The sounds of the other students filing through the door towards breakfast passed through one ear and out the other as she stood by Hermione’s bedside.

“Lumos,” she heard a voice say, and she turned to look at her head of house. He was looking down at Hermione, deeply concerned. For the first time, Daphne notice her lips had turned blue and that her hands were shaking. She watched as Snape forced up the sleeve of Hermione’s robes and scowled at what he saw.

“What is it?” she asked quietly.

“Is she going to--”

“Miss Greengrass, run ahead and tell Madame Pomfrey I’m coming with a student,” Snape said, his voice like steel. He whispered a levitation charm and Hermione floated as he carefully guided her from the bed.

“Today, Miss Greengrass.”

“Yes, professor,” Daphne said, rushing from the room. She heard the last snippets of conversation as she hurriedly climbed down the steps to the common room.

“Is there any--”

“Go to breakfast, Miss Dagdo. You will be informed when there is news.”

The conversation faded away as Daphne pushed through the common room and hurried up the stairs from the basement. She resisted the urge to sprint through the hallways, instead striding gracefully like the proper pureblood lady she would become.

“Madame Pomfrey!” Daphne shouted out upon arrival. The woman in question turned towards her with a frown.

“There are people recovering here!” Pomfrey declared in a sharp voice. “You cannot simply come running in shouting things.”

“Yes Madame Pomfrey,” Daphne said. “Professor Snape sent me here. He’s bringing a student.”

“There is nothing unusual about that,” the matron declared snootily. “I don’t know why he would send a forewarning.”

“She’s in a coma,” Daphne added. “Has blue lips, shaking hand, I think?”

“Oh my,” Madam Pomfrey said, her eyes wide. “Thank you dear, now run along. We shall tend to your friend.” Daphne didn’t want to leave, but she knew no one got anywhere by arguing with Madame Pomfrey. So she obeyed, heading back towards the Great Hall and pushing away her concern for later.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It took too long to transport the girl to the Hospital Wing. Too many rushing students, worried that the house elves might run out of bacon. And they wondered why he sneered at everyone.

“Madame Pomfrey?” he asked as he at last entered her domain, the floating body of Hermione following him through the doors.

“Here,” she said, pointing towards an empty bed. He gently let her down before releasing the spell. She landed with a soft plop onto the matress and her head jerked slightly as it bounced off the pillow. It still did not wake her up.

“What happened?” Pomfrey asked quietly. He winced and pulled up the girl’s sleeve rather than elaborate. There were needle marks throughout the inside of her elbow, and a few well-hidden ones along her veins.

“How long?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tolerance?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anything you do know, Severus?”

“How to brew the needed potions,” he replied heatedly. Of course I don’t know anything! he thought. I would have stopped her if I bloody well did!

“Good,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I only have a few, I’ll need a lot more. Especially if that picks up,” she said, gesturing to the spasming hands. They seemed to claw at the bedsheets as the girl lay unconscious. He nodded and turned to leave.

“Severus,” Madam Pomfrey called out. He turned towards her. “Do you know why?”

“No,” he said. “Though considering she doesn’t have a last name it’s not hard to come up with some ideas.” Madam Pomfrey nodded slowly.

“I’ll come by later,” she started.

“No,” he replied firmly. “I’ll get rid of it.”

Chapter Text

When Hermione woke up, the first thing she felt was cold sweat beading on her forehead, then a shiver running through her. The first thing she did was throw up, though thankfully she was able to get all of it into a waste container. She reached for her wand, unsteady hands groping around.

“It’s not here,” she heard a voice say. Hermione turned towards the voice, then blinked. Still seeing a bird hovering behind a matronly woman she rubbed her eyes and looked again.

“Is the bird real?” she asked, giving up on any sort of denial. If they’d taken away her wand they already knew. The woman looked behind her and glared at the owl.

“Yes, unfortunately.” Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, sinking back onto the bed.

“Am I expelled?” she asked quietly after a moments pause. The matron sighed and sat down in the chair beside her bed.

“No,” she said. “There aren’t any laws regarding muggle drugs in the wizarding world, and we can’t technically prove any of the alcohol belonged to you.” Hermione raised an eyebrow at that. The nurse-like woman shrugged.

“Professor Snape found some of your muggle court cases,” she said. Hermione sank into the pillow, willing it to absorb her, to simply take her in whole from this. She didn’t want to be known as a whore in two worlds. One was bad enough. “He seemed rather impressive.” At that Hermione’s head jerked up and the woman gave her a wry grin.

“We won’t tell anyone,” the older woman said softly. “And I think you know legal reasoning isn’t the real reason you’re staying here.” Hermione nodded and swallowed hard. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. She could feel the sweat running down her brow, her hands shaking as she tried to force them steady.

“The headmaster can expel whomever he wishes,” Hermione said in a quiet voice. “The Board of Governors may overrule him, though it has never been done.” She paused. “What does he want from me?”

“Want from you?” the woman asked, her brows furrowing. “What on earth do you mean?” Hermione turned towards her, grimacing as she fought back a wave of nausea.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said in a sharp voice. “I’ve seen more of humanity than most ever will. What. Do. They. Want?”

“They?” the older woman asked, brows furrowed. It had taken her a while to respond, stunned as she was by Hermione’s shift in tone and words. Hufflepuff’s really are that nice , Hermione thought incredulously. And oblivious .

“Dumbledore didn’t expel me,” she said, holding up a finger. “Snape brought me here. You healed me, probably with his help. Now what do all of you want?”

“I’m more interested in what you want, Miss Hermione,” a voice called out. Her hand spasmed again and Hermione grimaced as she turned towards her head of house, who sat down on the chair next to her, opposite the matronly woman.

“What do you want?” he asked again in a quiet voice. Hermione’s lip trembled and she took a deep breath, steadying herself before replying. Giving the same answer she’d always had for years.

“I want to be wealthy enough to not sell myself,” she said, voice shaking. “And powerful enough that no one can rape me. That if they try they’ll die or have to kill me instead.” Her professor nodded even as the woman who’d healed her looked ready to faint. Instead she simply walked away.

“I want to do something other than teach idiots how to brew a cure for boils,” her head of house said quietly. “I want to survive the next war. And I want you to learn what I did in my fifth year: how to strike fear in the hearts of those who would harm you.” Hermione turned towards him again, seeing the faint smirk hidden beneath his mask. She matched it with one of her own and held out a hand. He took it and shook before nodding towards her and leaving the room.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was two weeks after their conversation (sixteen days after she overdosed) when Hermione was finally released from the Hospital Wing, under strict orders not to drink or use. She was sent with a stash of potions, taken once per day, which would decrease the compulsions.

Daphne, Bridget, and Blaise Zabini threw a small party for her. Zabini’s mother had been widowed again (for the sixth time) and the papers were having a field day, which led to no one talking to him. Apparently he’d decided to join the other outcasts. Daphne wasn’t really an outcast, she’d just gotten fed up with Draco and Pansy. Bridget had started cultivating a reputation as a tough dueler. She predicted that within a year it would make her quite popular, but for now everyone was either nursing wounds and grudges or terrified of her.

“So,” Blaise said a few minutes after they’d cut the cake the house elves had brought. “What did Professor Snape discuss with you?” Hermione shrugged and swallowed her mouthful of cake.

“Private lessons,” Hermione said, taking a swig of milk. Putting it down, she continued. “Probably wants to keep an eye on me.”

“You did almost die,” Bridget pointed out. “I’m tempted to keep an eye on you myself.” Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but thought better of it. That was a fair shot.

“Wonder if he kept the whiskey,” Hermione said instead.

“I heard about that!” Blaise said, excitedly. “How’d you get it? My previous stepdad--not the one that just died--bought some once, it cost him a thousand galleons”

“What kind of booze costs that much?” Bridget asked incredulously.

“Goblin-made whiskey,” Daphne said, a faint smirk on her lips. “Aged in a steel cask in a charcoal-filled room for two centuries, minimum. How did you get some?” she asked, turning towards Hermione.

“It was a gift,” she said. “From Count Rigallo’s personal stores.” Blaise let out a low whistle.

“Please, tell me why a goblin count gave you his own whiskey,” he said. “Give me some gossip not even Pansy Parkinson will know.” Hermione laughed at that.

“Fine,” she said. “If only to annoy her. I spent part of the summer at Gringotts and they let me practice some spells. They enjoyed watching me destroy human-shaped mannequins.”

“What?” Daphne asked, deeply bewildered. “I knew they liked you, but they let you stay there? How did that happen, they hate wizards!”

“No,” Hermione corrected. “They hate arrogant wizards. They’re an independent kingdom, yet until me no witch nor wizard had bowed or curtseyed to them for half a millennium. How would Lord Malfoy take it if everyone started calling him Lucius?”

“Ah,” Daphne said.

“Oh,” Blaise threw in.

“That would do it,” Bridget added.

“Yes, it would,” Hermione said. “Now please, can we play some sort of game instead of talking about alcohol and politics?” Her fellow Slytherins agreed, and they gladly set up a game of Peril, a sort of Britain-centric wizard Risk where your troops threaten to desert and yell at you for not taking the East Anglian marshes.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s return to class had been relatively smooth, all things considered. There were a good deal of whispers on the first days she re-entered a classroom, and far too many pitying looks from professors. She very much preferred the astonished looks when she turned in all the required homework and proceeded to ace the quizzes she’d missed.

Professor Snape was teaching her two days a week, once she’d completed all the work, quizzes, and tests that she’d missed, which only took a week. He taught her for an hour at night on Mondays and Tuesdays. Every Tuesday he’d give her two or three books to read, learn, practice, and review. He’d also told her about the Room of Requirement, where Hermione spent much of her time practicing. She offered to share her lessons with Blaise, Daphne, and Bridget, to mixed results. Bridget was in, but unlike Hermione still wanted to socialize. Then again, socializing was still an option for Bridget. Hermione had walked away from the social scene after word got out. Anything said about her tended to be along the lines of “that poor girl,” or “why do we have a mudblood addict at Hogwarts?” She’d heard worse. Hell, worse had been true, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed hearing it.

Daphne joined her sometimes, but she played the social scene more than Bridget. People seemed to get over Zabini’s stepfather’s death rather quickly, and he was back to a place of prominence. He joined her a couple times, but made sure to keep his image and place of prominence. Hermione didn’t blame them, though it was rather lonely at times.

The whispering had worn itself out by the first week of December. It had been going strong since Hermione went into the Hospital wing, and a full month of gossip and rumors was more than enough for the school to get tired of the story. Bridget and Daphne had been spending more time with her, and Hermione had stopped treating the Room of Requirement like it was her dormitory.

Then the second round of gossip had started.

After some work, Hermione had traced the rumors back to Pansy Parkinson, who had likely gotten it from or shared it with Draco Malfoy. The new rumors claimed she was a whore, which had once been true. It then said she was trying to seduce Professor Snape and Professor Dumbledore.

Hermione first heard of the rumors on December 4th, when they were being repeated by a Gryffindor redhead during Astronomy. Hermione had barely bitten back her spells. A well-placed knockback jinx could send him right over the edge of this rickety old tower. A shame when the stone turned out to be unstable. Hermione had, however, managed to contain herself.

When she’d gone to breakfast the next morning, the entire hall stopped talking when they saw her. Sitting at her own table, many of the other Slytherins preformed an intricate game of musical chairs, trying to get away from her while appearing to follow their house motto of sticking together.

After that Hermione hadn’t eaten in the Great Hall again, instead trusting whatever the house elves brought to the Room of Requirement.

Hermione’s lessons with Professor Snape continued, but she was spending more and more time in the Room of Requirement. She learned the material from his books too quickly, and was too tense and frustrated to simply practice brewing an antidote to slow-acting venom for the fifth time. She already had four flasks she’d handed to Professor Snape, who would evaluate them and discuss their quality with her in their Monday lesson before proceeding to the spells learned. On Tuesday they’d finish the spells, review the theory, and he would give a brief overview of what she would learn next.

When Hermione walked into the Room of Requirement on the night of December twelfth, she was pleasantly surprised to find a bookshelf in the corner. Reading the title, she froze. Blood Magic of the Etruscans, it read. Hermione looked to make sure no one was near, then carefully pulled the book from the shelf. She sat down in the comfy armchair and began to read.

It quickly became clear to Hermione that none of the spells in the book were at her current skill level. The few spells of the type she was used to were incredibly ornate and demanded precision and knowledge of theories she’d never heard of. The rest of the book was full of complex and potentially deadly rituals in a language she neither read nor spoke involving magic that was both clearly and deeply dark.

Hermione loved it all the same. It was a new challenge, something she could work towards for months. She would need to learn ancient etruscan, then study a variety of maths courses before delving into arithmancy and universal runic symbols. She would need to practice clearing her mind, and continue to exercise her magical core, pushing it to its limits so that it could grow rapidly without accidentally endangering herself. It was complex, multi-faceted, and would have to be secret. What more could a girl trying to avoid the world ask for?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione had spent the last week and a half before break doing homework or holed up in the Room of Requirement. Wishing the Gringotts goblins good luck and cheer, she had written to them expressing sorrow that she could not join them over the Yuletide. As a general rule, Hermione avoided Christianity. Between burning witches like her, the religious orphanages she’d been in, and being both hired and raped by priests, she didn’t trust it very much. In her preparatory reading for Hogwarts she had learned of the celtic calendar and the Wheel of the Year. She quite preferred those holidays, and had continued to do so as she read more of them. She only wished she’d discovered Samhain sooner so she could have properly celebrated it, though killing a troll wasn’t half-bad for a day when the veil twixt life and death was thinnest.

She had told Count Rigallo that she needed to remain to continue her studies. Which wasn’t a lie so much as not the full picture. In truth, Hermione was feeling better. Much better, in fact, and she didn’t want to risk that by being near goblins, who would be drinking quite a lot quite often, and would likely challenge her to a few contests. They had been impressed when she matched Griphook shot for shot, and Biirak had lost a dagger his cousin made after losing a contest with her. Hermione still had the dagger. It fit well in the hidden pouch she’d sown onto her robes.

So, under fear of relapse, Hermione decided to remain at Hogwarts, along with only a handful of other students, Hagrid, and Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore. None of her friends stayed, and Hermione did not mind that. Truth be told, Hermione was still not used to the idea of friends or friendship. It befuddled her as much as it delighted her.

Chapter Text

“Severus,” Lucius called out loudly. “Finally!”

“I’m twenty minutes early,” the potions professor said in a dour voice as he exited the fireplace.

“Are you?” Lucius asked, arching an eyebrow. He received a glowering look in return.

“Did you lie about the time again?” Severus asked. “I swear by the gods, Luc, I will--”

“I didn’t,” Lucius said with a laugh. “But Merlin, Sev, your face!” Massaging his forehead, Severus sighed and walked past his old friend and into the manor.

“I see Narcissa has restrained herself this year,” he remarked dryly.

“As she does every year,” Lucius said, looking around at the pine boughs, golden streamers, and animal ornaments. “Truly, though,” he said, voice turning serious as a small smile came to his face. “It is a beautiful sight.”

“So long as one is not there when it is place.”

“Ah, Severus,” the blonde in question said, floating effortlessly towards the two men. “Is that the sound of sarcasm and stale wit I hear?”

“Indeed it is, darling,” Lucius said, an arm wrapping under his wife’s waist. “Have you--”

“Lucius, if you ask whether or not I’ve relaxed,” Narcissa began in a calm and loving voice. “You will find yourself warded out of the house tonight.” Severus smirked and Lucius shrugged.

“As you wish darling.” Narcissa nodded to Severus, kissed her husband on the cheek, and the swept from the room, presumably to finish whatever she needed to do for the dinner.

“She still answered my question,” Lucius said with a smirk. Severus rolled his eyes at his old friend, and moved to follow Narcissa.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As always, the Malfoy Family Yule Party was a crowded and busy affair. Members of each of the Sacred Twenty-Eight (barring the Weasleys, of course) were present and mingling. The feast was large and scrumptious, the music flawless and the dancing couples graceful. At least until the guests had too much wine. Fortunately, everyone was apparating or flooing out of the house by the time the evening reached that point.

Everyone except for him, that was. Severus, as per tradition, stuck around as the house elves vanished everything and Narcissa finally got off her feet with an, “oof.”

They were sitting near the Yule tree, with the fireplace roaring across the room. Snape sat in an uncushioned armchair, a glass of whiskey in his hands. Lucius was on the sofa with Narcissa leaning against him. Her head was on his shoulder, her heels on the ground, and her legs curled up on the sofa behind her. Draco sat in a large cushioned armchair nearby. Lucius was rubbing his hand up and down his wife’s arm as she sank deeper into the embrace.

“Remind me,” Narcissa said, sitting up to look at her husband. “Why do we have this party every year?”

“Because,” Lucius replied, pressing a kiss to her head. “You are determined to be the epitome of a well-mannered pureblood lady.”

“Ah,” Narcissa said dryly, resting her head on his shoulder again. “Right.” Lucius laughed and Severus scoffed at her tone. Watching the couple interact was always bittersweet. He was glad his friends had found happiness, and that they had continued to include him in their lives. At the same time, it always reminded him of what he could have had. Of what may have been but never would be. He sighed and looked into his glass before taking a sip.

“Oh! Severus,” Narcissa said, sitting up. “Draco said you’ve been seeing some girl--Hermione, I think. I never thought you’d be ove--” before Narcissa could finish her sentence, Severus’ whiskey has been spewed across the room. He had dropped the glass, which shattered on the floor and was coughing heavily.

“Narcissa!” he said, managing to force back his coughing. “What are you saying? She’s your son’s age!”

“Not like that’s stopped her before,” Draco remarked with a smirk before turning towards his parents. “I heard--”

“Draconis Lucius Malfoy!” Snape said, his words sharp enough to cut through steel. “I recommend you learn to hold your tongue before returning to school lest you loose it.”

“Severus!” Lucius yelled. “Are you threatening your own godson?”

“No,” Snape replied with an ice-cold stare towards Draco. “Though I doubt the girl in question has the same objections.”

“Draco,” Narcissa said in a near-whisper. “Go to your room.”

“What? But mom--”

“Now.” Draco pouted but got up and left nonetheless.

“Severus, what is this?” Narcissa asked once her son had left the room. She’d never seen him act like this, not towards family, not towards anyone since the last war. Snape sighed before turning to look at them.

“I assume you are as well-connected to the events of Hogwarts as always?” he asked. Seeing both of them nod, he continued. “In that case you are most likely aware of the Slytherin girl who fell into a coma?”

“Yes,” Lucius said. “Though no one was told what exactly happened, Dumbledore refused the Board of Governors request for more information.” Severus nodded.

“At my behest,” Severus said. Ignoring the confused expressions, he continued in a low voice. “She overdosed on a muggle drug known as heroin and nearly died. And barely made it through the withdrawl symptoms when we confiscated her stash of drugs and alcohol.”

“This was a Slytherin ?” Lucius asked incredulously. “Who the hell is her family?” Snape shrugged.

“No one knows. McGonagall had to track her down to an abandoned warehouse in muggle London. Apparently all she owned were sweatpants and formal outfits, so I think we can put two and two together.” Snape looked at his friends, both of whom sported pale faces. Narcissa’s lip was trembling. Lucius looked sick.

“After she woke up,” Severus said softly. “I asked her what she wanted. You know what she said? She wanted not to be a whore again and not to be raped again. That was the sum total of her ambition. She said she wanted to be strong enough that a rapist would need to kill her instead.”

“Good gods,” Lucius said softly. “Where is she now?”

“Hogwarts,” Severus replied.

“And the summer?” Narcissa asked, voice quieter than he had heard it since the War.

“I don’t know,” Severus said, staring into his drink. “Gringotts, probably. Gods alone know how but she got the goblins to like her.”

Chapter Text

Hermione’s Yule had gone better than any of her Christmases. Even her Christmas at Hogwarts had gone far better than her previous Christmases, not that it was saying much.

Her holidays had, however, been truly joyous. Or as close as Hermione knew how to get. Other than sleeping, meals, and the Hogwarts Christmas Celebration Hermione had spent nearly all her time in the Room of Requirement, mostly reading. She had devoured Etruscan Language: An Introduction , Etruscan Runes and Ruminations , Ancient Runes Made Easy , Spellman’s Syllabary , Rituals and their Kind , and Advanced Rune Translation , largely with the help of the Rune Dictionary . While the Estrucan Runes were different from the runes of Younger Futhark, they had many similarities, including their lack of modern grammatical structures, which made translating word by word an infuriating task. One worth it, however, if it could give Hermione the power that she needed.

On the theory and mathematics side of things, Hermione found a number of rather helpful books. Most of their titles were either painfully long ( Etruscan Magical Geometry: The Sacred Shapes Regarding the some of the World’s Oldest Spells of Blood Magic ) or arrogantly short ( Magic , Magical Theory , and, Magical Studies ). Still, they greatly advanced Hermione’s understanding of the calculations and magical theories that had led to the creation of the rituals she’d read. Although she still struggled to fully comprehend most of the rituals in Blood Magic of the Etruscans , she understood most of the ones in simpler books such as Basic Celtic Bloodrites and Ceremonies of the Braves .

There was one ritual in particular, from Ceremonies of the Braves , that Hermione was eager to try out. It was an older version of a spell she’d found in an advanced Transfiguration textbook. The newer version of the Animagus spell limited one to animals found in the natural world. The older version did not, instead allowing those whose, “souls pass[ed] beyond the mundane and into the perpetually mystic,” to take the form of magical creatures. Though the book was poorly named, it was an honest (if  condescending) attempt to write down the ceremonies of American indigenous mages. If half of what she’d read about magical creatures was true, it was worth plodding through the author’s unconscious bias.

The first part of the ritual (keeping a mandrake leaf in one’s mouth for a month) was started before school resumed session. While the newer ritual kept the leaf under one’s mouth between full moons, the older used new moons, allowing Hermione to start on January 4th, the day before the Hogwarts Express returned. Each night, Hermione was to spill a drop of her blood from a fresh wound onto the leaf, without it leaving her mouth, something that was accomplished with a pin and flexibility.

The return to classes was a thing of both joy and disappointment to Hermione. While she loved her classes and what she learned in them, she longed to read more of the ancient knowledge she’d discovered in the Room of Requirement.

Fortunately, the break had seemed to quiet the constant whispering about her past career, making the transition back into the classroom much easier on Hermione. Without that distraction, Hermione’s work picked back up. It had fallen slightly in the days and weeks leading up to the winter break, but know she had surpassed even the levels she was at before her overdose. She still, however, refused to raise her hand, answering questions only when directly singled out by a professor. Even then she responded in as few words as possible, desperately trying to get out of the spotlight. McGonagall had tried to keep her under it once, but stopped as Hermione squirmed in her seat, her normally mask-like face briefly breaking into a grimace.

After that few professors called on her. Hermione was grateful for it. She knew she likely got the best marks in their year (having yet to have anything graded below and “Exceeds Expectations,” and even that only rarely) and was happy to let others take the points, credit, and blame for answering questions.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The night of the new moon came swiftly, the time moving faster than Hermione had expected. Sneaking out of the dorm was difficult. Sneaking outside the castle walls was far worse. There were several times Hermione thought she would be caught as she hid behind a too-long tapestry or in a not-so-hidden alcove.

Once she made it outside, Hermione gathered the twigs and sticks into a small pile. She used a silver knife to make a small cut on the pad of her thumb, drizzling the blood over the sticks. Using a modified tripod, she placed the crystal vial directly above the wood, then lit the fire with a muttered, “ Incindio .” As the flames flickered she placed the mandrake leaf into the vial, then circled the small fire.

“ Atsila - giga, eayi-giga, adanedi aya vlenidohv, adanedi aya ulanimuda* ,” she quietly chanted as she circled counter-clockwise twice, then clockwise once. She continued to chant as she added a strand of her hair, then a teaspoon of dew untouched by sun and human foot for four days. Dropping in the moth chrysalis it was over. Hermione kept the vial over the flames until everything had fully dissolved, then quieted the flames and dispersed the ashes. Sneaking her way back into her room, Hermione magically stoppered the vial and placed it within a secret compartment of her trunk. Pointing her wand at her heart, Hermione softly chanted, “adahi adahi adahiye adahiyedi udotlvsvi,” before changing her clothes and slipping into bed. All she had to do now was wait for a storm.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The first storm came two days later, on February 5th. Unfortunately, it did not result in any lightning. Or maybe that was fortunate. She planned to take the potion the night lightning struck, and it would be rather awkward to show up to the midnight Astronomy class as a pixie.

The first thunderstorm came the night of February 8th, a Saturday. Hermione was barely able to hide her joy enough to slip up to the seventh floor. The Room she entered was not the one she usually encountered at the Room of Requirement. Instead of a dueling ground, some armchairs, and a bookshelf Hermione found herself staring out at a wide, grassy meadow. She smiled, then for extra security lay a silencing charm and locked the door. Stepping out into the grass she drank the potion.

She saw an image flash through her head. Hermione knew it was the form she was about to take, yet she could not focus on it. Her body was already shifting, her bones, skin, and muscle twisting and contorting into a brand-new shape. She had known it would hurt the first few times, but the European scholar had really undersold how painful it was.

Soon, however, the pain was gone. Instead, there was. . . something. Hermione wasn’t quite sure what. Calm perhaps, she had never felt that before. Calm and--was that safety? Safety in the knowledge of her power, yes, it was. So strange, to feel two things she had faked so often yet never known. Hermione wondered if she had been obvious when appearing calm, she had known so little of it. She still knew so little of it, but experiencing it once was infinitely more knowledge than she’d previously held.

Hermione smiled, to the extent that her new form allowed, and moved forward. It was an odd sensation, sliding along the grass. It tickled and--

Sliding? Hermione blinked rapidly, the stuck out her tongue. Her newly forked tongue. She tasted the scent of the parchments in her bag, of the ink bottle and its slightly loosened rubber stopper. She pulled back her tongue and slithered forwards. Okay, she was a snake. Not that surprising, she supposed, given her house. She had no idea what kind of snake though. She had no idea if she was venomous or not, what her powers were, how large she truly was (for she felt large and powerful in this form, but currently her only reference point was the small blades of grass. She paused, then moved towards the mirror in the distance. She needed to see what she was--exactly what she was--and memorize as many details of how she was as she could if she was ever to transform into it again. Which, considering how good and powerful this form felt (and how much effort she had put into having it) she rather wanted to do. Besides, if she failed now, she would never get another shot, not unless she made a corporeal patronus. Which, all things considered, seemed rather unlikely for her.

When she reached the mirror she paused before looking up. Steeling her nerves she sat (stood?) upwards. If her form had been human she would have called it craning her neck. Or pushing herself off the ground. But her form was far from human as she sat back on her coiled lower half.

She stared into the mirror and paused as a large snake stared back at her. Its scales were black, save for the silver underbelly. My scales , she belatedly reminded herself. Her eyes were pitch black, though they had a single fleck of amethyst in them. There was a jewel just above her nose slits, an emerald that seemed to pulse with light and power. Two pointed horns hovered above her head. The sharp bone could be traced back down towards the base of her skull from which they grew at an angle, the tips near her eyes.

Hermione laughed as the name came to her, arriving late as if a belated birthday present from some ill-favored aunt. It made sense, she supposed. The ritual had come from a subculture of warriors amongst the Algonquin medicine men before it had passed on to the Cherokee, written down by one of the headmasters of Ilvermorny, included in a later headmaster’s compendium, which had been edited by a wizard in Germany and turned into the poorly-named Ceremonies of the Braves . Horned Serpents had lived in great numbers (for dangerous magical creatures, that is) in much of northern North America. There were, she remembered with saddened eyes, far fewer living there now.

Forcing the thoughts from her mind, Hermione turned from the mirror, slithering through the grass and adjusting to her new form. She focused on the feeling of the grass being crushed under her, the sensation of the air whistling between her horns, the taste of nearby scents on her tongue, the less colorful but sharper vision streaming through her eyes. She stopped as she neared her bag and closed her eyes. Rather than shifting her form, she focused on the various parts of her body, her attention making its way from the barbed tip of her tail, where she could feel a bit of grass stuck on, to the tips of her horns. It was the horns which shocked her, for it was not only the cold air of the Room of Requirement that she felt. She felt a blur behind her and turned rapidly, catching a glimpse of a mouse. On instinct she struck, her coiled body leaping out. Her fangs bit into the mouse’s back once, then twice before she pulled back. She watched the twitching creature with a passive curiosity, unsure whether the mindset came from the limited emotions of her animal form or her problematic upbringing.

The mouse tried to run away, but the damage was done. It got less than a foot before falling on its side, twitching uncontrollably. It continued to spasm for perhaps a few minutes before growing still. The presence that Hermione had sensed faded, replaced by the same nothingness that the rest of the room portrayed.

Shifting into human form was nearly as painful as the first experience had been. Her bones ached and her muscles screamed at her as she changed forms, maw and tail disappearing as she returned to humanity, albeit exhausted.

She fell asleep as soon as she hit the pillows that night.

*Fire-blood, night-blood, give me life, give me strength

Chapter Text

Hermione had a hard time containing her joy the next day. She had not only become an Animagus--a complicated and difficult endeavor for anyone--but she had done so using an ancient rite that had been recorded by someone unfamiliar with it. Apparently the ritual had a high rate of success, though there were occasionally part-beasts among those who had attempted the ritual too early. Nearly all of those went insane and had to be killed. Their remains were then burned, dedicated both to the spirit that had been and the divines that were.

Hermione felt queasy about killing all of the part-beasts, and especially about more or less sacrificing them to the divines. That felt wrong, magic so dark it felt like tar. The ritual she had used was supposedly dark magic as well, though it certainly didn’t feel it. She had used some nonliving ingredients, a common potions ingredient, and her own blood, given willingly. It hadn’t harmed anyone and had given her quite a bit of power.

Truth be told, the definitions of dark magic she had found made little sense to her. All dark magic was banned, except with special permission from the Minister of Magic. She could understand banning the newer spells, like the Unforgivable Curses. The Killing Curse was useless for all other things, it was meant only to kill and always did. While death by the Severing Charm may be messier and more painful, it existed for a variety of reasons. The Killing Curse existed only to kill, the Cruciatus Curse only to torture, and the Imperius Curse only to make others slaves. Those she understood banning. The others, not so much.

Most of Dark Magic required sacrifices, either human or magical creatures. Hermione didn’t want anyone to use them, but the unnecessary killing of humans and unlicensed killing of magical creatures was already prohibited. Hermione didn’t understand why they had needed a new law, nor why they had lumped in the rituals that used no blood, some of your own blood, or the sacrifice of an animal. Wizards and witches ate chickens, pigs, cows, rabbits, squirrels, and many other animals every damn day, fully legally. Doing so sustained them for perhaps a third of the day. Hermione didn’t really get why that was fine, but it was wrong to kill a chicken for a sacred ritual. There were, in fact, a number of rituals she had found that required the sacrifice of a boar, a bull, or a cow. She had read over the translations (and the commentary by several wizards, mostly in 8th century Arabia and 14th century Italy) and was fairly sure she could get away with using domesticated animals. They were, after all, still the same species, even if muggles had added domesticated pigs as a separate subspecies. Every ritual she had found thus far was banned, all of it under the label of “Dark Magic.”

She was, however, hesitant to try her hand at them. For starters, if she did it at Hogwarts she’d need to sneak a live animal into the castle. If she did it elsewhere, the Trace would display a spike of “Dark Magic.” Another problem would be capturing the animal in the first place, and making sure it didn’t ruin the lines of runes she would have to write around it. No, those rituals would have to wait for a much later date. Besides, Hermione hardly had the time to go about another ritual. The last one had taken nearly two months, all told, and had little in the way of preparatory work.

Besides, the homework was picking back up, and though Hermione had already memorize the names of Jupiter and Saturn’s moons, writing a sixteen-inch essay on their relative orbits--including handwritten and attached notes regarding the calculations used--still took time. Every class and been giving homework like that recently, and Hermione was not an experienced essayist. She had only gone to muggle schools before, and even then only in bits and pieces of time. Most of her writing had been with previous clients or balancing books, not discussing the Theory of Universal Energy and how it applied to the bloody Fire-Making Spell. Although Hermione knew what to write, thanks to her long past of reading, she was still rough on the how, taking nearly as long as her classmates though she had to do none of their research to find the answers.

Fortunately, the professors seemed to care more for the quality of the work than the speed with which it was written. And it probably helped her avoid attention that she was far from the first person to turn in a test or in-class essay. She remembered that no one liked the smart kid, especially not one who showed off. That lesson had been drilled into her head the first three schools she’d gone to. It had stopped being as much of a problem after that. Having rocks thrown at you really drove in the message.

Though it was far from the most peculiar class (that was likely potions, which was both a science and not) Defense Against the Dark Arts had by far the most peculiar teacher. Professor Quirrell was a stuttering mess wrapped in a turban who disliked vampires and hated the Dark Arts. That was the official story anyways. But sometimes, mostly in private conversations, his stutter would cease altogether. When he talked about the ‘evils’ of the Dark Arts, he often mentioned how they could be practiced and performed, supposedly as further evidence of their ills. When it came to the actual curriculum, he returned to his stuttering mess, giving very little information and became almost unable to cast spells as his stutter grew.

He wasn’t a Death Eater. Hermione had looked up him up. Quirinus Quirrell IV, son of Quirinus Quirrell III and Lily Tiffany. Despite being of age during the Wizarding War, he had steadfastly avoided taking part in it, even after his uncle was killed by a Death Eater and his sister died in a failed raid by the Order of the Phoenix. Professor Snape had been a Death Eater, interestingly enough, though he became a spy partway through the war. Or so he and Dumbledore claimed, at the least. Whatever the truth, the headmaster’s testimony had kept him from Azkaban.

Hermione had been somewhat surprised at the frequency of humanitarian violations and war crimes during the war, but the acts themselves happened in nearly every war. What was more surprising was the aftermath, something that Hermione was horrified by. The legal processes of a traditional wizarding court had been thrown out. None of the Death Eaters were allowed private counsel, and were instead forced to use Ministry lawyers who were not covered by client confidentiality. The trials were incredibly short, to the point that the accused’s testimony was cut off in some cases. The demoralization amongst those who had not cut a deal became staggering, to the point that some refused council. One witch, Alecto Carrow, had told the court it had, “All the moral authority of an imperiused shrew.” She, like those before her, had been given multiple life sentences at Azkaban.

Azkaban was, from what Hermione could tell, the only high-security wizarding prison. It was also a breach of international law, given the horrific conditions. Prisoners lived in small cages on a rocky island, surrounded by creatures that leech away happiness. There were no walls, enchantments, or blankets to protect them from the elements. There were fed poorly and never let out of their cages. The Ministry barred anyone from studying the prison, meaning that rates of prisoner suicide and auror abuse went unreported. When someone died, their body was not returned to the family, but instead chucked into a shallow grave on the island. The conditions were so horrific that several people serving limited sentences died while there. One man had died three months into a six month sentence.

Even without the prison’s conditions, Hermione would have expected many to try and cut a deal. With them, it was shocking that many had not. Those who had, such as Lucius Malfoy, had coincidentally made large contributions to a variety of charities Mr. Crouch, the head of Magical Law Enforcement at the time, ran, as well as to St. Mungo’s and the then-Minister’s reelection campaign. Some of those who had refused simply didn’t have the money needed to bribe the Ministry into accepting an obviously false Imperius Defense. Some had ready heirs, and would rather go to a horrific prison than see much of their family fortune in the Ministry’s hands. A few seemed to have done it simply to spite the Minister after being approached.

Hermione could admire the spunk it took to spit in the Ministry’s face. Still, she would have chosen to avoid Azkaban, if she had the means.

The cause of the war confused Hermione. The way it was written about in some books, such as The War to End All Wars: Failures and Triumphs of the Great Wizarding War , portrayed the war as an effort by the dying pureblood class to reassert their social status. Yet the evidence seemed at least partly counter to this; while the election of two muggle-born Ministers was a large step, the protests demanding rights for squibs or to eliminate the Gringotts and Estate exemptions from the inheritance tax remained far out of the mainstream. The Wizengamot was still largely unelected, instead based in the same set of rules as the early Roman Senate: one tribe, one vote. Of the fifty members, only ten were democratically elected. The Minister of Magic got an automatic seat, as did the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and a British Youth Representative. The remaining thirty-eight seats were based on the ancient houses. Each of those seats belonged to a specific house. The Head of House would choose the person to fill the seat, but the Wizengamot could reject that choice, which was fairly rare expect in cases of “blood-traitor families,” such as the Weasleys, and more recently to the Potters, Prewetts, and Abbotts. In those cases the unelected seats of the Wizengamot often rejected every potential member sent them in an effort to maintain their anti-muggle majority.

Of the thirty-eight inherited seats, thirty-five went to houses based in England, three in Wales, two in Ireland, and one in Scotland. Six more seats, either appointed or filled by position, were nearly always English. Of the elected seats, two were English, two Irish, and one each were Scottish and Welsh.

According to The Dark Lord?: A Look at the Proposed Agenda of the Death Eaters , many welsh and irish wizards had backed Lord Voldemort in the war after he promised them fair representation in the Wizengamot and a small degree of home rule. The scottish wizards had been split, as some feared loosing their spot as the most powerful Celtic region while others saw an opportunity to gain power, both through seats and through home rule of the land Hogwarts was in.

Hermione wasn’t sure what she thought. She found the whole enterprise intriguing, but had few hard and fast opinions on politics. The only devout belief she held in that arena was that ideals and principles are nice on paper and useless in the real world. She didn’t like the idea of murder, but was not shy or afraid of its practice. After all, she’d killed a client with a pair of scissors when he’d tried to kidnap her. Sometimes murder was necessary.

Torture, however, she was against in theory and practice. Every study showed it got worthless results, ones that oftentimes caused more harm to the cause than anything else. It was a waste of time and energy done solely to hurt someone else. Unless they’d done something deeply personal, Hermione didn’t get the appeal. Torture had been used by both sides in the war, though far more extensively by the Death Eaters. It was no wonder they lost if they were constantly torturing people in a basement instead of planning and fighting. Not to mention that the intensity of their torture and the degree to which they flaunted it had scared away many of their early supporters as the war drew on.

Hermione sighed and closed the book she was reading. Exiting the Room of Requirement she headed back to her dorm to finish some homework before dinner. She had another essay, this one for potions. It was due in a few days, but Hermione liked to get things out of the way. Especially since it took her longer than most.

Hermione sighed again as she sat down and began writing her essay, slowly sinking into the slow effort of forcing her thoughts onto parchment.

Chapter Text

Snape was beginning to worry about Hermione. Not too much, just the inklings of a suspicion that could possibly, maybe, grow. She was doing well--better even--on her classwork, which had already been phenomenal. Not that he was particularly surprised, ones work does tend to improve after dropping a drug habit and having constant rumors about you die off.

No, he was worried about something else entirely. She still went to their weekly private lessons and did well, extraordinarily so. A few weeks ago she had managed a perfectly-brewed wit-sharpening potion. What concerned him was that instead of seeming impressed or ecstatic, she seemed. . . neutral? Here she was, on a path to become the youngest ever potions master, and she seemed rather apathetic about it.

It was during times like those that he reminded himself what she’d wished for. Presented the universe, she had asked for nearly the bare minimum. And even he had to admit, brewing a wit-sharpening potion was not particularly useful when it came to desperate self-defense.

That was what bothered him too, however. Even when learning defensive magic, she rarely seemed excited, only determined. She mastered the work quickly (it took him nearly ten minutes to break through her occlumency shields these days) but never smiled. Or seemed excited in any way. Not that he did either, but he was a dour professor. It was practically in his job description not to smile.

What bothered him the most, however, was not what failed to get a reaction from her. It was what got the reaction: offensive magic. Whenever they dueled or she learned a new, complex, dangerous spell her eyes seemed to glow with both joy and fire. It scared him more than a little, and reminded him of people he would rather not think of.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione spent Spring Break at Hogwarts, largely staying within the Room of Requirement. She continued her lessons with Professor Snape, but those studies were no longer as interesting to her. They were still useful and she enjoyed learning them, but it was little compared to the rush of the Dark Arts, or at least what was classified as such.

Hermione had experimented with minor bits of blood magic in the Room of Requirement and short rituals. A drop of blood, properly drawn runes, symbols, and shapes, and a name showed her exactly where something was hidden. She had yet to try it with someone else’s blood. It was gross, but it would show her where the person was, where they were staying, and where they (or their family) lived. She both wanted to try it and to avoid it.

Increasingly, Hermione was reading books written in Latin, or Ancient Greek. Neither were easy languages to learn, and she was definitively less than half-proficient. It took long stretches of time to translate and transcribe before reading, but otherwise she wouldn’t truly understand what she was reading. It took days working for hours at a time to translate even a single book. Once she had though, she could understand it from the instant she read it.

The geometry involved in the rituals and spells described in those books was fascinating. The theory, specific word choice, and tonal indicators all meant it was tricky magic. She learned more about maths than she had ever known, all thanks to her dalliance with magic. There was trigonometry involved in the way wand movements worked, calculus was at the core of many ritualistic shapes, algebra was everywhere in the wizarding world, and geometry even more so.

Fortunately, Hermione was getting better at writing. Her letters were no longer scrawled when written faster than painstakingly slow and her instinctive spacing and size of letters had drastically improved. It greatly helped with her homework. It also gave her another hour or so each week for her. . . “side projects.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione trailed behind Professor Snape as they walked towards his office. It was mid-May and everyone was studying for exams. Hermione hadn’t done anything with her side projects--or Professor Snape’s lessons--since the month began. Those who weren’t studying were celebrating: Slytherin was far in the lead for the House Cup after a few Gryffindors managed to lose 150 points in a single night. Hermione didn’t really get the whole point of the points. It was nice, she guessed, to be rewarded for doing something well. And it was a solid punishment system, letting the public shame of losing points do all the work for you. Very manipulative. Very Slytherin, truly. But what did the House Cup get you? From what she could tell, nothing, other than acknowledgement spread amongst more than a hundred people.

Still, Hermione hadn’t lost any points. She preferred to stay out of people’s way and out of the spotlight while still remaining in their good(ish) graces. Mostly she wanted to appear as a bland, decently liked background figure. It was the safest position, and one that had been blown to hell between the troll, the coma, and the rumors.

Nonetheless Hermione had no idea why Professor Snape had wanted to speak with her, nor who this other person he had mentioned was. “Come with me,” he had said. “There’s someone I want you to meet, and the three of us should talk.” Hermione didn’t have any idea what he wanted to discuss either, nor why he wanted to discuss it with her. She was afraid, truth be told. She kept her right hand close, fingers drumming against her wand. Spells and worried plans mixed in her mind as Hermione prayed she would have to use neither.

Professor Snape opened his office door and stepped to the side, allowing Hermione to enter first. She did so reluctantly, her fingers tightening around her wand. Upon entering the room she saw a woman with platinum blonde hair in a demure blouse and skirt. It was a combination Hermione had seen before, at a few of the fancy parties she’d been to, though not one she had ever worn. Clients were too eager to leer at her, even if she was supposedly play-acting their daughter.

“Miss Hermione,” Professor Snape said, interrupting her internal musings. “Lady Narcissa Black Malfoy. Lady Malfoy, Miss Hermione.” The woman smiled gently, almost motherly at Hermione, which only added to the alarm bells going off in her head.

“Lady Malfoy,” Hermione said, her voice remaining calm thanks to years of experience in lies and hiding. “Delightful to make your acquaintance.”

“As it is yours,” Lady Malfoy responded. Hermione thought there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. Why would Hermione’s manners bring something like that to the fore?

“Miss Hermione,” Lady Malfoy said gently. “Your head of house is an old friend of my husband and me. It came up that you do not have a set place to stay this summer, is that correct?”

Hermione paused for a moment, brows furrowing as she tried to puzzle out just why this strange woman--a strange woman with a noble title no less--was asking about this.

“It is true that no definitive plans have been made,” Hermione cautiously replied. Until she knew the other witch’s intentions, it was best to keep information limited. Severely limited.

“My husband and I have only a single child, our son,” Lady Malfoy said. “And a rather large house. We were wondering if you might, perhaps, wish to spend the summer with us.” When she finished there was nothing. No movement, no noise beyond the ambient sounds of a Hogwarts hallway, no flickering of the eyes, no magic nor aura, simply silence, in every way possible.

Unlike the outside world at that moment, Hermione’s brain was far from silent. Instead it screamed with a million thoughts and a thousand paranoid conspiracies, each feeding on each other to grow stronger and take up residence in the fore of her mind. She ignored them all to ask a question, a single question, one she wanted answered badly. One she needed answered, needed to know. One whose answer would determine not only her answer, but whether or not she could trust her head of house.

“Why?” Hermione asked, her voice quiet. It was almost rasping with the emotion that poured into it. Hermione tried to keep emotion from her words, from her face and her phrases, but she knew it would be pointless to try and stop it in this scenario. Instead she let it flow, the tidal wave of feeling so powerful it nearly drowned out her voice.

“Because we can,” the Lady Malfoy responded.

Chapter Text

Hermione was looking forward to her fourth year. From what Lord Malfoy had said, the was going to be a large tournament this year, called the Triwizard Tournament. It was being held despite the deaths caused by earlier versions, and apparently was nearly as dangerous. Hermione was looking forward to watching the competition. She was especially interested in how the Durmstrang champion would preform, since the school actually taught the Dark Arts. Although Hermione had been doing rather well on her own (especially after gaining actual professors for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes) she had no doubt that with a teacher she would be further along than she was. Probably. Or, at the very least, it would have been less dangerous. She’d nearly died the year before thanks to an improper conversion between the Talmudic cubit and the bu of Qin-era China, accidentally using the Han-era measurement. Luckily, she had gotten away with a scar, but if the circle had been slightly more wrong she would have died. Hence why she had spent the summer studying up on numerology. Celtic numerology, Hermione had decided, would fit her designs much better than the standard Latin. It was quite a pain to relearn arithmancy with the new numbers though.

Her experiences in the Dark Arts (both the Dark Arts and the ‘Dark Arts’) were not something she had shared with the Malfoys. Even though she’d gotten--well, used to fit more than comfortable--with Lord Malfoy and viewed Madame Malfoy (who she often called Aunt Cissa, as per her request) as a semi-maternal presence, she still held many secrets. Shockingly, years of childhood trauma didn’t make particularly good dinner conversation. Neither did centuries-old blood rituals written in partially-forgotten languages.

Currently Draco was off trying on new clothes. Since she couldn’t really sneak off to Knockturn Ally (and since the Room of Requirement provided all the books she wanted) Hermione had meandered into the pet store.

The Magical Menagerie was a rather interesting store. Hermione had visited once each year before school. She had yet to buy anything (even though both the goblins and Malfoys had offered), but always found the different creatures fascinating. Even if she found Hagrid a rather bumbling, incompetant, and dangerously cavelier professor, she did love the subject matter. The hippogriffs had been majestic, even if Hagrid’s lesson was rather lacking in instructions and safety guides (as seemed to be his default).

Though it was more than slightly hypocritical, given her criticisms on his safety, Hermione hoped they would see a chimaera at some point. She wondered if she could communicate with them in human form, or if she had to shift first.

“ Is now a good time? ” a slippery voice asked, interrupting her thoughts. Hermione frowned, turning towards the sound.

“ No! Absolutely not! ” came the response from a hissing voice. Hermione looked around, her brows furrowed. “ There’s a human here and the mistress is present! ” Hermione turned again, looking at two snakes staring at each other. Well, one snake. The other was a serpent of some kind, but with plumage and wings.

“ Hello there, ” Hermione said by way of introduction.

“ What? ” one of them asked.

“ She can hear? ”

“ I’m standing right here, ” Hermione said with a glare. “ If you have a question, bloody well ask me. ” The snakes froze.

“ Speaker, ” the one with wings said. Its mouth opened slightly. Hermione would have sworn it was smiling.

“ What’s that? ” the one resting against the cage asked.

“ Speaker, ” the winged one repeated. “ She can talk to uss. Understand us, our language and-- ” The word the serpent said next Hermione could not quite put into words. Instead, she knew it somehow, though she was sure she’d never heard it before. It meant a sort of collective essence, a shared sense of being. Taken aback as she was by it, the snake seemed just as surprised.

“ What does this mean? ” Hermione asked after a moment’s pause. She had never found an answer to that question, and, after a few months of study, gave upon on learning one from a book. Maybe a magical serpent would know. To her great disappointment, the serpent’s wings shrugged.

“No one knows,” the serpent interrupted. “ Speakers are nice though. Most humans just step on us. Speakers can keep us warm when winter comes and the sun fades. ”

“ Is that what you want of me? ” Hermione asked. Somewhere in the back of her head she heard the faint jingle of the doorbell as someone entered the Magical Menagerie. “ A warm friend? ”

“ Yes! ” the serpent hissed excitedly. Its teal scales seemed to glow for a moment as its plumage fluffed and the wings expanded. “ Food and warmth! Friends! I can help you on--things. ”

“ What things? ” For a moment the serpent seemed taken aback, giving out a short stuttering hiss that turned into a smirk.

“ Take me with you and we’ll find out. ” Hermione gave a slight scoff-chuckle and a small smile. Picking up the serpent’s cage, she turned towards the register (back through the row of cages, a right near the doorway, then over the obstacle course of kitten playthings) only to see a pale-faced (even more so than usual) Narcissa staring at her.

“Aunt Cissa?” Hermione asked, pausing. “Are you okay?”

“ What’s wrong with her? ”

“ I don’t know, ” Hermione responded, walking closer. She seemed to have underestimated just how surprising this revelation was. “Aunt Cissa? Should I get your husband?” Narcissa Malfoy blinked twice, then looked back towards her young ward.

“No, I’m fine darling,” she said, proper as ever. “Tell me, do you know what you just did?”

“I talked to a snake?” Hermione replied.

“ Serpent! I am a noble Occamy, not some foul garden beast. No offense, Toryk.”

“None taken, Lasya .”

“ Your name is Lasya? ” Hermione asked.

“ Yes.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“That’s why it fits, ” Lasya said with more than a hint of haughtiness. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, instead looking back up.

“Sorry Aunt Cissa,” Hermione said. “Lasya didn’t like being called a snake.”

“Lasya?” the blonde asked, raising an arched eyebrow.

“Her,” Hermione said gesturing towards the cage. “She said she’s an Occamy.” Narcissa nodded slowly.

“Hermione,” she began again. “Do you understand the implications of what this means?” The only response she recieved was a furrowed brow, causing her to sigh. “Little one, very few people can do what you did. It’s called being a parselmouth.”

“Oh, right,” Hermione said, deciding to go with obfuscation. “Sorry, I forgot. Two years ago everyone decided Harry Potter was killing people because he talked to a snake.”

“Right,” Narcissa said. “Fortunately, you’re in Slytherin, so hopefully your classmates know better.”

“Or not,” Hermione said with a cheerful grin. “A little intimidation is always fun. So, can I get her?” Narcissa sighed, but nodded all the same, her hand creeping up to massage her aching forehead. It was one that Hermione alone could cause. Oh, Draco could cause his fair number of headaches, as could children and life in general, but there was a special one reserved for Hermione those past three years. There was another that arose when she said something that was too right, too meek and subservient and out of character, when Narcissa knew Hermione had been scared into hiding behind a mask yet again.

This, however, was a different headache, one that harkened to older sisters and family dinners after her parents had died. None had missed the abusive and drunken dark witch and wizard, save perhaps the Dark Lord, deprived of their investment skills. They had mourned for a month (for two in public) before dropping the facade and enjoying the newfound freedom and happiness.

“So,” Hermione said, walking back with a smile, the Occamy draped around her neck and cuddling into her warmth. “Where to next?” Narcissa gave her young ward a small smile as she forced thoughts of the past from her head. Rather than answering she took the young girl’s hand and led her out the door. Her daughter--for that is what she was to Narcissa, though she knew the girl was unlikely to ever accept a mother--had grown into her looks since the start of last year. She was starting to look like a woman A healthy young woman, Narcissa noted with pride and joy. She would need a new set of clothes for the coming year. With that in mind, Narcissa steered the three of them towards Twilfitt and Tattings.

Chapter Text

Good goddesses, Hermione thought as she squeezed her way through the crowd. There were more parents and relatives than ever at the Hogwarts Express. If it was just for security, she could understand, somewhat. The reappearance of the Dark Mark would scare many. Hell, it had scared the Malfoys. Lucius being scared was not particularly surprising--it was obvious from his smug affectation that he had numerous insecurities--but Aunt Cissa had been scared as well. That had been. . . well, unnerving seemed to be insufficient. Much more so than the event itself. That had simply been too many egotistical wizards getting drunk near each other. The Dark Mark had meant nothing to her--not because she did not know what it was, as Draco had assumed, but because she was not particularly scared of him. She smirked, pettily refusing him capitalization in her mind.

That incident, however, was not the only reason that so many parents had shown up at the Platform 9 ¾. Nor, it seemed, was it even the main reason. Instead that place went to the Triwizard Tournament, an event that would not be happening for nearly three months.

Hermione wandered the train, looking for her friends. Though the rest of the Slytherins tolerated her now (a marked improvement from first year) only Blaise, Daphne, and Bridget went out of their way to spend time with her. It meant a lot to her as someone who had oft been abandoned, all the more for knowing that Blaise and Daphne could have easily been members of the ruling Malfoy-Parkinson court, but decided to be with her instead. 

The three of them had been a huge help in keeping her sanity. It was easy to lose in a place so full of magic and knowledge as Hogwarts. Easier still for once practicing darker magic. Hermione hadn’t told them everything, but she’d been slowly including them in some of the lighter rituals she was experimenting with. Daphne had been a huge help when Hermione was experimenting with runic branding and tattoos. The two of them had gotten identical brands (though it had taken Hermione a year to convince her), both on their ribcage to the side of their breasts. The brands were three runes long. One summoned fiendfyre into their hands, the second controlled it, and the third kept them from getting burned.

Blaise and Bridget had planned to get those brands as well, but were scared off by how much it hurt. Hermione had screamed like a banshee and Daphne had passed out. They had, however, gone in on some of the lesser brandings. The pain correlated to the amount of power the rune gave. The runes to slow falling or summon a wand, or example, while still painful, were far less so than the rune granting partial immunity to stunning spells. Even Hermione had passed out from that one.

The tattooing had been harder. That was largely due to what Hermione wanted to use as the ink. At the end of second year, after hearing the Boy-Who-Got-Famous-For-Breathing mention hearing a voice through the walls, Hermione thought back and realized she had heard it as well. She waited until the next year to try opening the Chamber. Much to her surprise, it had not only worked, but the Basilisk's body was still there, fully preserved. She had wanted to use the basilisk’s blood to power the sacred tattoos. Her friends had been less keen on the idea. It had taken all of first term to come to an agreement--they would do hers in the potion she created using basilisk blood, the others would get an ink base. The first month of term had been spent talking them into the idea of tattooing themselves at all. It wasn’t until Hermione proved that Daphne’s ancestors (and the House of Black, before they left Scotland) had done it for hundreds of years with no ill affects that everyone agreed to try it. The sensation of sheer power when each tattoo was completed had been overwhelming as it flowed over them, though Hermione imagined her basilisk-blood potion was stronger than the others’. Most were simple patterns, like the Warrior’s mark the all had, a woven band around the upper arm that symbolized companionship. They hadn’t done anything with Celtic runes since it was both permanent and highly illegal (divines alone knew why).

Hermione had designed it herself. Their warrior’s mark was made of three strands in a circle (thereby neverending) around their upper arm. The patterns were tattooed not once but thrice, invoking the sacred celtic number again. The mark was a band of power on their skin, one they could draw upon at will (though doing so hurt if one drew too much). It also made their reactions far quicker. It was also illegal, thanks to a law passed in 1746.

There were more things Hermione was planning on telling them, on showing them. She thought she could convince them to sacrifice something this year. Maybe a plant, or a rat. But it would be years before she could show them the other powers of basilisk blood. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure they’d ever be ready for that.

“Hello,” a smirking voice called, bringing Hermione out of her thoughts.

“Miss Greengrass,” Hermione replied, amusement creeping into her voice. She turned towards her friend, who was in a green business dress, her blonde hair falling down her back. “A pleasure to see you as well.” Daphne looked into Hermione’s eyes for a moment, then chuckled and waved her into the carriage. She raised an eyebrow as Lasya slithered out from behind Hermione’s back.

“A new familiar?” Daphne asked

“ Tell her I am Lasya, Devourer of Worlds, ” Lasya whispered into Hermione’s ear. Hermione rolled her eyes as she replied.

“Her name is Lasya,” she said, entering the carriage and placing her trunk on the metal rack. “She was plotting an escape when we found each other.” Daphne rolled her eyes.

“So you’re letting people know this year?

“Might as well,” Hermione said. “My friends already know and anyone who’d hex me will be too scared.”

“Or already is,” Daphne replied with a wry grin. After a moment of silence she continued. “What do you think of the tournament?” she asked instead.

“It’s a good thing they’ve got an age requirement.”

“No dreams of glory?” Daphne asked with false innocence.

“Glorious death is still death,” Hermione replied dryly. “There’s a reason we’re not in Gryffindor.” As her friend laughed Hermione retreated into her mind, a small but real smile on her lips. She did not fancy the idea of getting involved in all the danger that was on its way this year. Doubtless there would be some problem with Hogwarts, and between Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and the Triwizard Cup there was more than enough danger to go around. Hopefully it would remain focused on the Gryffindors. There was little to do but hope for the best. Though simply letting something happen sat poorly with her, Hermione knew it was the best idea, and so took out one of her books on goblin forging methods.

Chapter Text

Good divines those things were ugly. And dangerous. And he didn’t know anything about them! You think the stingers draw blood? Could you be any less cautious, Professor Hagrid?! It was a miracle someone’s hand hadn’t gotten blown off, and one student had already come close. If the damned things survived they’d be a danger to, well, everyone in the class. Not everyone’s a half-giant, damnit! Hermione thought as she threw some lettuce at the beast. We can’t just shrug off explosions like you .

Still, the lesson was less strange than Professor Moody’s behavior had been. He’d been bouncing Draco around as a ferret (which, she had to admit, was funny) but nearly dropped his wand when she’d walked over. He’d continued to stare at her as she reversed the spell, glared at him, and walked off to class.

He had stared at her again, although briefly this time, when the Slytherins had their first day of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Although Hermione rarely agreed with anything they learned in the class and already knew the spells they were being taught, it was a useful and entertaining class for her. She learned how the ‘light’ approached the Dark Arts and practiced both spells and acting, as she would sometimes pretend to struggle with a new spell in class.

This time, this class, this teacher, however, seemed different. Not just because of his scarred nature, his hip flask, his false eye, his trenchcoat, and his yelling. When he spoke of dark magic, it was like a muggle easter-egg. There were hints and clues as to how to use dark magic, techniques and emotions that helped or hindered thrown out in little bits amongst the rambling.

The Unforgivable Curses excited Hermione. They were one of the few spells she had not yet dared to cast, lest someone get a hold of her wand. She watched in fascination as the spider twitched, danced, and died. The full life cycle of a puppet, she thought. She shook the thought from her head as she looked around the room. Daphne was green, Blaise seemed terrified as Moody went over the next part of the lesson. Even Bridget, so interested in powerful magic, seemed unnerved.

Things only got worse when he started with the Imperius Curse resistance training. Theodore Nott was forced to jump on the table, then throw himself off it. That was fine by Hermione, she didn’t care for the boy, since he had been one of those spreading rumors about her. The same was true for Pansy Parkinson, who ran around the room until it seemed her heart would stop. Hermione may not have liked them, but it was a bad sign. A professor, a former auror of all people, was torturing students. She felt her lip begin to curl upwards with disgust.

Draco was the case the broke the camel’s back. Moody had him banging his head on the wall with increasing speed. Hermione bit back a snarl. If she wanted to stop him, she had to do it without being noticed. A Slytherin casting a spell at a Gryffindor former-auror Professor would not go over well.

Her wand slid down her arm, then through her fingers until she grabbed it at the base. Glaring at their professor, Hermione flicked her wand ever so slightly, then pulled it back up her sleeve.

For a moment nothing happened. Then smoke began to rise, and Moody dropped his spell, turning in shock to find his coat on fire. There were gasps and shocked expressions (which Hermione tried to imitate) as the students watched their professor use a quick aguamenti . He then turned towards the class with a glare.

“Who did that?” he asked, his eyes glaring across the crowd. The room remained silent. Moody snarled but said nothing, instead turning towards Hermione. “Right then, Miss Slytherin,” he said. Most of the teachers called her that these days. It was more appropriate than “Miss Hermione” and gave her a last name, allowing her to be placed in alphabetical order. “Your turn.”

Hermione stood and walked towards him, trying to suppress a grin. She’d been wanting to check on her mental defenses for years, ever since she delved deep into Occlumency. Her nerves helped keep the smile from forming. If she failed to throw off the spell, it would be less than pleasant. Especially if he somehow discovered she was an animagus. The Imperius Curse didn’t allow one to see into another’s brain, but if he ordered her to shift shapes out of dumb luck. . .

Well, it was best not to think of that. Instead Hermione forced her mind to go blank, her walls building as she stared her professor in the eyes.

“ Imperio, ” the scar-covered man said. Instantly Hermione felt thrown back, trapped somewhere within her own mind, as if floating on a cloud. She fought it, diving back into her brain, straining to see through her own eyes again.

Jump, she heard a voice saying inside her head. Jump onto the table. Obedience is rewarded. Jump. It would be so easy to follow the voice, Hermione realized. So easy, it was so intoxicating--

Realizing the trap she was falling into Hermione threw off the shroud covering her. Her knees were bent already. An attempt to stand would only help the parts of her brain listening to the intrusive voice. Instead she moved to sit, something the voice did not like at all. There was a struggle, until Hermione sat comfortable on the floor and looked up, into her professor’s eyes.

“ Legilimens, ” she whispered. She barely had time to notice his widening eyes before she dove into his brain, paddling through his thought.

Could it be? She heard his voice ask. Oh, my lord will be most pleased at this, even if it gets Malfoy off the hook. His daughter-- Suddenly the voice cut off, replaced by one much deeper and in command.

All will be revealed in time, child , it said, trying to force her from the thoughts she’d been listening to. She let it push her, but rather the leaving his brain she dove in deeper, searching for the area where his Imperius Curse linked his brain to hers. She found it, hidden behind layers of mental shields. To her surprise there was more than one string. Hers read The Daughter . The other simply said, Father. Ripping hers out from his brain, Hermione failed to notice the walls closing in on her, throwing her out completely.

Fully conscious in the living world, Hermione slowly stood. Her head ached, a dull burning pain that would no doubt remain for quite some time. Her professor--who was most definitely not the famous auror Alastor Moody--was gritting his teeth. It gave her great satisfaction to have pained such a wizard strong enough to successfully impersonate such a famed and powerful wizard.

“Very good, Miss Slytherin. Forty points to Slytherin for fully resisting the Imperius.” The entire class was staring at them, open-mouthed. Fake Moody looked at the clock, then nodded. “Class dismissed.”

As they exited class Draco, Blaise, Daphne, and Bridget all hounded after her.

“How?” Draco asked, his eyes wide. “It was so strong, how did--”

“Did you use the same thing you saved Malfoy with?” Blaise asked, his eyes glittering.

“No, she couldn’t have,” Bridget added. “There were no spells, so--”

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Hermione said, smirking at her close friend. “I did use legimens.”

“What?” Draco exclaimed. “Has mum been teaching you before me? She promised--”

“Hush Draco,” Daphne interjected. “I’m sure that if anyone could learn Legilimency on their own by fourth year, it would be dear Hermione.” Hermione ducked her head and blushed heavily as they continued walking down the hall, leading Blaise to laugh and elbow her in the ribs.

“Honestly,” the snarky, swarthy boy said. “The way you react when someone compliments you, you’d think the minister appeared with an Order of Merlin for you.”

“Daphne’s praise means more to me,” Hermione said with a pompous air. “Minister isn’t competent enough to know who should get those things. It wouldn’t surprise me if he awards Crabbe and Goyle with awards for scholastic genius.”

“He may not be competent,” Draco said with a devious grin. “But he is rather easy to bribe.” Rolling her eyes, Hermione joined her fellows in their laughter.

Chapter Text

Hermione entered Professor ‘Moody’s’ office the week after her birthday, just as dinner was starting. It was an odd time to choose a meeting, especially since no reason had been given for it. It would have made her wary if she had not seen inside the man’s mind. Instead she was rather convinced he would either try to kill her, persuade her, or obliviate her. Personally, she was hoping for the second option. If he chose the third or the first, well, she could kill him. Probably. Maybe. She hoped.

The foreign schools would be arriving in a few days. They wanted everyone to get somewhat settled in before the Drawing of the Names. It made sense to Hermione. Without time to adjust, some would likely have been more nervous than normal, and declined to participate. Not that she believed those people were likely to get chosen, but who knew how the goblet worked? Its maker had been dead for several centuries.

Her mind refocused, the tip of her wand held up in her sleeve by her index finger, ready to fall out, battle-ready, at the first sign of trouble. She took a deep breath as the paused outside his doorway, then knocked. There was silence for a brief while, during which Hermione wondered if he might simply curse her through the door. He could probably see her through it--he did have a magical prosthetic after all (thank the divines pedophilic Lockhart hadn’t had one of those)--and an explosive curse would likely send enough splinters that she’d be badly wounded and easy to kill.

Instead, however, the man impersonating Alastor Moody opened the door, looked around, and spoke a single word in a sandpaper voice: “In.” Hermione slipped through the narrow opening in the doorway and moved into the open classroom. Secure as she might have felt with something against her back, maneuverability mattered more should he decide to duel her. Her arm twitched when he drew his wand, her own sliding down her arm. But instead of cursing her he turned to the door and invoked a complex combination of wards. Only those particularly strong of mind would manage to break through the avoidance spell, and even then they would have to disable to wards to open the door or hear what was said. There were more than a dozen layers in it, but unlike conventional warding the layers mixed in with each other rather than being placed atop the others. It made the casting them far more difficult, and designing them even more so (Hermione’s winced when she pondered the Arthimanic and Numerologic equations that would have been required) but it meant anyone seeking to disable them would have to untangle a web of spells more intertwined than a hundred-foot long string of Christmas tree lights left in the garage for fifty years.

When ‘Moody’ turned towards her he paused for a brief second at seeing the wand in her hand.

“I’m not going t’ kill you,” he said in a near growl. Hermione raised an eyebrow and did not put away her wand. The impersonator sighed. “How much did you see?”

“Little,” Hermione replied. The man let out a huff of something caught between annoyance and amusement.

“Anything more you’d care to add?”

“You have your father under the Imperius,” Hermione said with a shrug. “And you’re certainly not Alastor Moody, though the way you kept dropping hints on casting dark magic gave that away beforehand.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

“Fine,” the man said, sitting down. “Might as well, you won’t rat me out.” Hermione raised an eyebrow. The man let out a bark of laughter. “Come now girl, no one light would use Legilimency on a damned professor!”

“Potter might,” she responded. “He hates Snape more than the Dark Lord.”

“No one light calls Him that either,” he pointed out. “And I’ve been around enough dark magic to recognize what the unnatural color in your eyes means.” Hermione bit back a snarl, instead readying her wand subtly, simply angling the tip upwards to point at the man’s chest.

“Put it away,” the man said wit ha smirk. “We’re on the same side, or close enough. I was sent here by the Dark Lord.” Hermione felt her eyes widen and she blinked twice before lowering her wand slightly. There was a moment of silence as she tried to figure out the puzzle. There were too many missing pieces. If the Dark Lord was alive, why not inform someone? No one in the media or the Light, obviously, but some followers perhaps? But nothing different had happened to or with the Malfoys. The Dark Mark had appeared at the World Cup, but it had scared the drunken wizards rather than inspiring them. Why--

If there was one think a Dark Lord could not do, it was show weakness. After Grindewald’s defeat no one had tried to rescue him, nor to unbind his magic. Instead they had left him for dead in permanent solitary confinement, regardless of the fact that he had come close to conquering the Continent before being defeated by Dumbledore. The previous Dark Lord had lost a battle--not too badly, mind you--and had been personally injured. Though his wound could have been treated his followers had been so terrified by the sight of their lord’s mortality that they had fled, leaving only him and eight die-hard followers to fend off an international coalition of magical law inforcement.

And that was a Dark Lord who never claimed immortality.

So, He was weak. That’s why He hadn’t shown Himself to anyone. But what could make Him so weak? He had been powerful--insane, mind you, but insane and powerful--when he suddenly vanished. There hadn’t been anything left of him. Harry Potter had still be there, as were his parents’ corpses. The roof had been blown off, but there wasn’t a trace of the Dark Lord--no ash, no body, no fragments, not even his wand. It was as if his body was completely destroyed. And yet he was not. The chaos around Hogwarts, including the attempted theft by Professor Quirrel, had proven that.

Alive without a body. So he needed a host. One that had not soul, memory, nor thought. A golem which he could inhabit. Or a homunculus, perhaps, until the ingredients for a full body could be gathered.

But that still begged the question of why he would send someone to Hogwarts. The ingredients for the creation of bodies were rare and expensive in both gold and blood, but they could be found elsewhere. Places that were more discrete, more secure than Hogwarts, where the Dark Lord’s longest enemy lived and ruled. It was utterly inane for Him to try and gather anything other than information from Hogwarts--and there were many other ways He could have done that.

Unless. . .

No, but that would be ridiculous. The bodies made by that ritual were always deformed. The descriptions of some of them were horrifying, even to someone who’d stabbed a man in the eye with scissors before they turned eleven.

“He--” she started, looking up but not quite meeting fake-Moody’s eyes. “He’s not doing the Triarch’s Ritual, is he?” The man in front of her nodded once. “Is he INSANE?” Hermione said, her voice growing to a yell. “That ritual has not produced a normal body once and that’s the one he chose to use?! I would expect this level of incompetence from the ministry, not from a godesses-be-damned Dark Lord! That ritual fucks up your magic, it gives you a body that is, at best, extraordinarily ugly, and he wants to use it because--wait,” she said, her voice calming down as she looked up, her brows furrowed in confusion. “Why does he want to use it?”

“He can’t touch Potter,” the false professor explained. “If he has Potter’s blood, he can.” Hermione desperately fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“There are other rituals that can incorporate an enemy’s blood,” she said. “Simon’s Secondary includes it as a recommended but optional ingredient, as does Zepheria’s Rebuilding Ritual.” The man before her looked down at her in confusion, then shook his head.

“You really are their child,” he said. “Rage, followed by half a library’s worth of information.”

“What did you say?” Hermione asked, her tone suddenly cold as ice. Her wand, which had been held loosely in her hand, was now in a proper grip, ready to throw a spell at the drop of a hat. The man in front of her blinked.

“I--”

“I don’t know who you are,” Hermione said, her frigid tone cutting him off. “I don’t know who my parents were, and I don’t care. They abandoned me--”

“They didn’t,” the man said softly. The tone sounded weird coming from the body of the grizzled auror.

“Wh-what?” Hermione asked, rocking back a little on her feet. “Then--but--how?”

“I last saw your mother nearly thirteen years ago,” the man said. He grimaced as a hand began to change, reverting from a large, scarred paw into something finer. He took a swing from his hip flask and the change reversed itself. “Sorry,” he said. Hermione simply shook her head. She--her parents--there was too much confusion for her to voice any of the thoughts bouncing around in her head.

“It was the day we were supposed to be on trial,” the man said, emotion creeping into his voice. “Ministry decided we didn’t need one. I--your mother, she was. . . dedicated would be putting it mildly. Stoic would not fully describe how she faced pain. I never saw her cry until then, when she was told you were being taken away from her. I saw her cry only once more, when someone visited her and told her you were dead.” Hermione blinked. She felt water welling in her eyes. Her shoulder were starting to shake.

“Why?” Hermione asked, her voice small.

“They were afraid of you,” the man said. “Your existence was supposed to be a secret. Only the inner circle and your mother family knew. They found out, skipped over her trial, and took you away.” Hermione was shaking, her hands clenched, one in a fist, the other around her wand.

“ Who? ” she asked, not realizing for a moment that in her confusion and anger she had spoken in parseltongue. “Who?” she repeated.

“Your parents,” the man said. “Are Bellatrix Black and the Dark Lord. As for who took you from her, I think you can answer that yourself.”

Chapter Text

A week ago Hermione had been looking forward to the visiting schools’ arrivals. A week ago, she had been hoping to engage one of the Durmstrang students in a conversation that would lead, eventually, to exactly how much they learned about the Dark Arts.

Then again, she thought, a week ago she hadn’t known her parents were two of the wizarding world’s most famous murderers. It was causing her quite a bit of mental tumult. And really, she thought, why should it? She’d killed people too ( in self-defense , her brain would always remind her) and the erasure of wizarding culture was important (though the line on blood-purity was utterly ridiculous, considering how serious the long-term impacts of incest were--also, what the hell was up with Lucius Malfoy and his anti-creature stance? Didn’t they like more magical blood?).

But the real problem was not with their politics. That she could reason her way around, discuss, and she was already close to their stances on some issues. Nor was it their tactics--though she did have several suggestions and plans of her own. No, the main problem was that the story she had told herself--the one that allowed her to kill dreams of what might have been and focus on surviving--was a lie. One that she had lived with for ten years, one that had, in all likelihood, saved her life. The idea that her mother (as her father’s stance was rather unknown) had wanted her was. . . strange. The word didn’t seem enough, and yet Hermione couldn’t think of another that fit better in its place. The revelations had shaken her to the point she felt the earth was rumbling beneath her feet. She had even given in and sent a vial of blood to Count Rigoll along with a request for the standard Gringotts testing. Something Aunt Cissa had offered to do when she began caring for her--basically adopting her--and many times since.

Her hands were shaking, even as she stood with the rest of the school, next to Daphne, Blaise, and Bridget. Even her occlumency training and the presence of her friends failed to calm her. Both helped in that the shaking was limited to her hands instead of spread across her entire body, but she was more nervous than she’d been since she woke up in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing first year.

The Beauxbatons carriage was magnificent, she realized dully in some small corner of her brain. Cobalt blue with gold trim, pulled by pale grey--almost silver, truth be told--horses with golden wings. The students were no less beautiful, but Hermione could not find it within her to appreciate them. She had only recently begun seeing aesthetic beauty in people, and was a long way from being able to see anyone as sexually attractive without freaking out. The last time it had happened with a boy, after passing by some upperclassmen at the World Cup, she had thrown up for half an hour. It was better with women, but she was still prone to feeling disgust at herself. The magical therapy she’d been getting (thanks to Aunt Cissa’s recommendation) had been massively helpful, but she still had a ways to go.

Hermione was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the latest student exiting the carriage, even as more than half the school turned to swoon at her. It wasn’t until she came close that Hermione noticed anything. It was as if a sudden calm had swept over her. The tension in her neck and shoulder, which never truly went away, suddenly eased, the muscles relaxing instantly. Her chest, which had moments before felt tight, constraining, and constricted, loosened, her breath becoming easier. The knots in her back unfurled, drawing Hermione up another inch as her spine straightened, no longer bent around the balls of tensed muscle.

As soon as it came the feeling departed. The fuck was that? Hermione thought, looking around for the source of that calm. She watched as a tall, attractive blonde looked out at the crowd before turning and walking into Hogwarts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fleur had not known exactly what to expect upon arrival at Hogwarts. The drab grey sky was disappointing but not surprising, as was the cold weather. Still, she would endure that and more to enter (and hopefully win) the Triwizard Tournament.

Something she had not expected in the least was to find a mate. Not as the english often think of the word, not a friend, but a mate, a true partner where the two did not complete each other but assisted one another, becoming far greater together than they would be apart. At least, that’s how grand-mère had explained it. The presence--her presence, Fleur was sure--had felt like confidence itself. She felt as though power had surged into her, felt her magic and that of her mate’s hum within her. Fleur had a healthy amount of self-esteem, but like any girl (especially one with a rather unfortunate aura) she had plenty of insecurities. All of them had vanished, replaced by a sense of power, confidence, and self-knowledge while she was in her mate’s aura.

The fall off had been stark. It had appeared in a moment and left just as quickly. She had looked back at the crowd, scanning it briefly, hoping to find someone. She had seen someone doing the same, a girl with dark eyes and bushy black hair. Fleur would have to look for her later at the welcoming feast.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat down at the Slytherin table in her usual spot: next to Daphne, who sat close to Blaise and Bridget. She wasn’t much for conversation that evening, preoccupied with thought of who that girl was and what the sudden and unusual calmness meant.

As she ate her meal, brow furrowed, Hermione felt the presence again. Her shoulder lowered, her back straightened from its hunched position, and Hermione found herself looking up at a pair of dark blue eyes. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared up at the beautiful creature before her. Something like fire danced through her veins, her magic calling her towards this woman.

“Can I sit ‘ere?” the girl in question asked in a heavy french accent, gesturing towards the seat across from Hermione. Hermione swallowed, then nodded.

“What is this?” Hermione asked once the girl had sat. Her voice was small, a whisper of a whisper, yet she knew the girl would hear her all the same.

“You,” the girl responded with more than a little cheek. Hermione glared. “Do you know something about veela mates?”

“I thought that was only with other magical creatures,” Hermione said in a low whisper, her brows furrowed. The girl gave a short, subtle nod.

“Fleur Delacour,” she said, extending a hand. Hermione took it in hers, suppressing a moan as a wave of electricity rode through them both.

“Hermione,” she said simply.

“No ‘ouse name? ‘Ow do your professors call you?”

“They just use Slytherin,” Hermione responded with a shrug. She muttered afterwards, “might be anyways.” Fleur blinked and looked at Hermione questioningly. The look reminded Hermione of an owl, and she forced down an immature giggle, instead looking back up at the french girl.

“Not here,” Hermione said, and stood up before walking out of the Great Hall.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fleur followed the younger girl out of the hall, her curly black hair swaying side-to-side like some sort of guiding pendulum. Fuck , Fleur thought. If she was coming up with similes like that she was already too far gone. Oh well, such was the life of a Veela.

The girl she thought to be her mate-- Hermione , she reminded herself, the name washing over her like a cool breeze in Marseilles during summer--led her through the stone hallways, up several flights of stairs and down others, through winding corridors and straight ones, before reaching a room where she paced thrice, then opened a door. Fleur was really hoping this went well. There was no way she could find her way out of the castle without help. A lot of help. Divines, she hoped there weren’t any mazes in the tournament.

Hermione closed the door behind them with a loud click.

“Why do I feel this?” she asked, her voice far softer than anything Fleur could have expected. The quarter-veela blinked twice and Hermione continued before she could respond. “I feel. . . calm, I guess, with you here. Or out there. Or at dinner. It’s not--I. . .  What is this? It’s not something I’ve felt.”

“What does it feel like, mon coeur?” Fleur asked, moving a half-step closer, her brows furrowed with concern.

“Like. . . It feels like floating,” Hermione said, the answer coming out in a rush of air. “It feels like how a house should be, like there’s no need or cause to worry, like there’s no one around the corner waiting to hurt me, like I don’t need to think about--” Hermione stopped suddenly, her eyes wide.

“About what?” Fleur asked with another half-step. Hermione stepped back, shaking her head. Her hands, her lips, her whole body was trembling as the girl retreated into the wall and slowly sunk down it, her hands wrapping around her legs. Fleur moved, almost instinctively, gently seating herself next to her mate.

“You don’ ‘ave to tell me,” she said after a minute had gone by. From the corner of her vision Fleur saw Hermione take in a shaky breath and let one out.

“You should find another mate,” Hermione said, her voice so small it could have come from a mouse. The words quivered in the air. “I--I can’t---”

“Shh, mon coeur,” Fleur said, turning towards Hermione with a soft smile that reached up to her eyes. “I ‘ave no demands of you.” Hermione looked at Fleur with a blank expression. The younger girl blinked repeatedly. She opened her mouth, only to close it, realizing she had no idea what she would say, simply that she thought she should say something .

“I would like children,” Fleur said with a wry smile. “But zat would not be for many a year. We ‘ave time, and zere is always adoption.” Hermione gave a soft chuckle and leaned over, her head resting upon Fleur’s shoulder.

“You--you don’t mind that I can’t have sex?” Hermione asked quietly.

“No,” Fleur replied. Truly, she didn’t. It seemed her grand-mère was right, veelas are romantic beings more than sexual ones. “I mind ze men who ‘urt you, not ze scars they left be’ind.” Tears falling slowly from her eyes, Hermione wrapped her arms around Fleur, burying her head into the taller girl’s upper chest. Smiling softly, Fleur gently kissed the crown of Hermione’s head, wrapping one arm around her mate whilst the other ran through her hair.

Chapter Text

The past few weeks had gone exceedingly well for Hermione. She had been spending more and more time with Fleur (and her little sister, who was quite frankly adorable) as they got to know each other, and she had been reading up on the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. They had started in the Scottish Highlands, based in the castle of Clogaid Cruaidh, or Hard Helm. The family had remained there until after the Jacobite Rising of 1745. Clan Black, as it had been known then, had joined forces with the other Highlanders (including Clan McGonagall, she noted with interest) to restore the Stuart line. The Wizengamot, heavily weighted towards England, had banned several Gaelic rituals. In return for their support, Bonnie Prince Charlie’s wizarding advisors had promised to lift those bans if they won the war.

Unfortunately for them and for the Clans, the Jacobites had been crushed. As punishment, only Noble Houses (as opposed to Lairds and Clans) could sit in the Wizengamot and tartan was banned. Noble Houses were required to own a townhouse in London and an estate in England. The Blacks had abandoned the Highlands, moving entirely to England. The few others who once sat upon the Wizengamot lacked the funds or the willingness to move.

That had irritated Hermione to no end. Even worse was what else the Wizengamot had done. Using the Jacobites as an excuse, they continued to ban ritual magic. They began with truly horrific magic to create a track record of legitimacy, then expanded into the broader category of the “Dark Arts,” before edging towards the grey rituals, such as those around Yule and Samhain. Calling them “dark,” and “evil,” while enforcing increased Christianity within the wizarding community, by Grindewald’s War nearly all ritual magic was banned. Tartan, though legal in muggle society by the 19th century, was still banned in the Wizarding World, as were any spells using celtic wording or numerology. When Hermione finished reading the bans on magic it had taken a concerted effort to force down her anger and the Fiendfyre back into the runes down her ribs.

Fleur had been rather impressed by her runes. Hermione had been slowly getting more and more comfortable with the girl. Her mate. It still felt incredibly odd to think that way. She had a mate. A destined, chosen, soul-bond type deal mate. Maybe that was why she hadn’t felt gross when Fleur kissed down the lines of runes on her ribs, or the chain of celtic knots tattooed along her neck, normally under a glamour. Hermione shivered at the memory. She had shivered at the memories before, after her clients left her, but this. . . this was a different shiver. She didn’t feel used or broken when Fleur kissed her, or when they lay next to each other, burrowing into the other’s skin. She didn’t feel disgusted at herself and the world in the aftermath, or whenever she recalled what happened. It was strange to her in a way she quite enjoyed.

Of course, having several good weeks should have warned her that something bad would happen. Or at least something that would grab people’s attention, which was almost always bad in Hermione’s books. She preferred to be quiet and unnoticed until she decided otherwise. Unfortunately, the world did not take her preferences into account.

It started when a rather regal looking mottled owl descended upon the Slytherin table directly in front of Hermione, bearing a large envelope bearing the Gringotts seal. Hermione bit her lip when she looked at Fleur. She had mentioned only a few days before that she had requested a bloodline test be done. Fleur had been rather excited for it. Hermione hadn’t mentioned the Death Eater in the school, or his suspicions as to her parentage.

Hermione sighed, drawing some comfort from the arm rubbing her back. She slowly opened the letter.

Miss Hermione,

Enclosed are the results of the blood test you requested. Should you seek to act upon any of your inheritances or claim any vaults and/or ranks bestowed upon you, our offices are available to give assistance.

Yours truly,

Count Rigoll, Head of Gringotts London Branch

With a deep breath Hermione turned the page, her mind no longer present enough to keep her hands from shaking. She hoped Fleur would be okay with this if the Death Eater had been right. Or even if he hadn’t.

Birth Name: Gwendolen Morgana Athena Slytherin Black

Aliases: Hermione; Hermione Slytherin

Mother: Bellatrix Alexa Violetta Black, formerly Bellatrix Alexa Violetta Lestrange; imprisoned for multiple counts of torture, murder, mayhem, and using forbidden magic

Father: Thomas Marvolo Riddle; known as Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You-Know-Who, amongst others; wanted for multiple counts of torture, murder, mayhem, fraud, tax evasion, and using forbidden magic

Other Living Relatives:

Narcissa Cassiopeia Dorea Malfoy, born Narcissa Cassiopeia Dorea Black; maternal aunt

Draconis Abraxis Armand Malfoy; cousin

Andromeda Phoebe Hesper Tonks, born Andromeda Phoebe Hesper Black, maternal aunt

Nymphadora Iola Credella Tonks, alias Tonks. . .

Hermione’s eyes were blurred. Her hands shook as her mind spiraled. Why now? she asked. Why wait until there’s something it could take away? Hermione hadn’t loved anyone for a long time. She learned not to, after the girl she thought of as a sister OD’ed. She would protect Draco (mostly from himself) and Narcissa, but she didn’t love them. Maybe she should have. Maybe she could have. But she didn’t, she wouldn’t let herself love anyone. Until her mate with her divines-forsaken calming presence appeared, lowering Hermione’s walls enough that she began to love someone.

Then there was the idea that she had been loved. Other than Narcissa and the sister of her heart, no one had loved Hermione, not that she could remember. Now, she--she had parents? Hermione couldn’t wrap her mind around it. The idea that someone had wanted her. That she had been stolen from a loving mother. A mother who loved her enough to name her after their ancestors and a goddess. Gwendolen Morgana Athena, she thought to herself. It was a mouthful, but she found herself loving it more and more.

“Zat is a lot of lordships,” she heard Fleur say. She blinked, drawn from her reverie and confusion, turning towards her mate.

“What?” she asked, her voice sounding faint and blurred in her own ears.

“Look,” Fleur said, pointing further down the parchment.

Lordships, Hermione read, and her mind spun faster with each name. House of Black, House of Gaunt, House of Peverell, House of Rosier, House of Ravenclaw, House of Slytherin. Hermione looked up, then looked down. Her brows furrowed deeper when she re-read the section, noting “ Ravenclaw (Named as Heir). ” She looked up to Fleur and opened her mouth, then closed it again, realizing she had no idea what she should say. She tried to blink away the confusion and utterly failed at it, instead silently watching her mate gently fold the papers and put them in a pocket. She let Fleur take her hand and lead her gently out of the Great Hall.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione, or is it Gwendolen? the quarter-veela wondered, followed Fleur in a daze. Not that Fleur could blame her. Spirits alone knew how she would react to news of that sort. Voldemort wasn’t particularly famous outside of England (after all, Europe had suffered far more from Grindelwald) but most everyone knew he was a dangerous and probably insane wizard. Fleur took a moment to thank the Fates that her parents were alive, caring, sane, and present in her life.

She led her mate (as Fleur decided to call her until she decided on a name) up several flights of stairs. It took far longer than the times when her mate had led the way, but Fleur was familiar enough with the journey to not make too many mistakes. She let go of her mate’s hand only to pace thrice outside the tapestry, immediately grabbing her hand afterwards. Fleur led the two of them into a comfy reading room. A fireplace blazed gently, large padded leather armchairs sat in a ring around a small coffee table with a couch connecting the two ends of the horseshoe. Fleur led her mate to the couch and plopped down on the end. Her mate sunk slowly into the couch, head in Fleur’s lap, legs curled up on the couch.

Fleur gently moved her hands through her mate’s silky black hair. It was so different from Fleur’s. Fleur’s was flat. She could say straight, but in English parlance that could never accurately describe a veela. Her mate seemed to be taking this news hard. Her mate being quiet was not unusual. Her mate being silent and staring out at nothing instead of reading was unusual. The drops of saltwater dripping out onto Fleur’s skirt was even more strange. She had never seen her mate cry, and from what she had heard from the other Slytherins, neither had anyone else. Fleur sighed gently. She wanted to tell her mate that it didn’t matter who her parents were, Fleur would always love her. Fleur loved the rituals and Old Magic her mate had showed her. The Old Ways were not common in France, though they were not banned as in Britain. Fleur had learned the Old Ways of the Veela, rituals and traditions that excited and fascinated her. She had never thought to learn the Old Ways of wizards until she met her mate. Another thing she owed her.

Fleur had always been self-aware. She knew she was smart, talented in magic, powerful, adept at flying on a horse or in her Veela form, and skilled with fire. But there was always something undercutting it. All the men at Beauxbatons, save for the few not even remotely curious in women, had lusted after her. It was impossible to form a friendship with them, nor with the many girls with suppressed sapphic tendencies who channeled lust into hate. Nor with those who were openly sapphic and lustful, or for those who were angry and jealous for all the attention she got. It was easy to get what she wanted from those who lusted for her, but it always left a doubt in the back of Fleur’s mind, even when she didn’t use her thrall--even when she subdued it! Had she really earned first place in the Abraxan dressage show, or had the judges simply wanted her in their beds? Was her wandwork any more elegant than her classmate’s or were her teachers so distracted they failed to notice her errors?

Being with her mate erased those doubts. They made Fleur feel confident, made her feel safe in the realization that she really was that good, that skilled, that elegant. Being with her mate took away the worry that had been nagging her since she turned twelve. Fleur could only hope she did the same. Her mate had told her of the feeling of safety Fleur’s presence gave her. The question was whether it made her mate feel safe enough.

Whatever the answer, Fleur would be there. She would wait with her mate, patiently sit by her side-- or under ‘er, Fleur thought with a smile. She would remain until her mate was ready to talk, and for as long as her mate wished after. That’s what mates were for, after all. The one person you could trust, no matter what, no matter the circumstances.

Taking out Hermione’s papers, Fleur looked over them again. It really was a lot of lordships and titles. Then again, if anyone deserved them, it was Hermione. Her mate. The thought made Fleur smile. Looking back down, she glanced over the last line of the page and felt a chill run over her. Species: Erinyes.

Chapter Text

To no one’s surprise, the displeasure of some, and Hermione’s delight, Fleur had been named champion of Beauxbatons. Viktor Krum was the champion for Durmstrang, which was also unsurprising. Cedric Diggory was neither surprising nor entirely expected. Hermione--who had decided to keep the name she had grown up under (for now, at least)--would support him, though she would have preferred a Slytherin as their champion. The Triwizard Tournament was infamous for being cutthroat.

Then Harry Potter had been chosen as the champion for a fourth, unnamed school. Because of course he had. Had she not known of the Death Eater pretending to be Alastor Moody, Hermione could have believed Potter had entered of his own will. He really was that arrogant. As it stood, however, it seemed unlikely. Although arrogant and vaguely competent, he was hardly strong enough to force the Goblet of Fire into accepting a fourth school and far too lazy to think of it. No, it was almost certainly the Death Eater. Her father’s servant. She only hoped her father had decided to change rituals. If the tales regarding his sanity had any truth to them, the Triarch’s Ritual would destroy what little he had left. If that happened---

Hermione mentally shook her head and gave a small scoff. If that happened she would use her father to free her mother, help her aunt, and then kill him. She wasn’t going to allow her mother to be abused, even if the tales around her sanity were accurate as well.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“‘Ermione?” The girl in question turned, her dark brown eyes meeting the deep blue of her mate’s.

“Fleur,” Hermione replied with a smile. Bridget, standing nearby, rolled her eyes and bid the couple farewell, having seen more than enough of their affection, thank you very much. The idea that the girl who had two years prior sent two fifth-years to Madame Pomfrey following a disagreement was now openly snuggled into the side of a tall, blonde French veela gave many in Slytherin house whiplash. The rest of the school wondered why the veela had chosen the snooty former junkie and parselmouth when she could have had them .

“Meet me tonight? I. . .” Fleur paused, looked around, her eyes narrowed and suspicious. “I may ‘ave found something.” Hermione looked at her mate and held the gaze for a long moment before nodding.

“Usual space.” Fleur gave Hermione a smile, or at least attempted to. In truth she was too nervous for it, and so it came across as more of a grimace, prompting Hermione to hold her tall french girl closer and kiss her cheek affectionately before continuing on to class, leaving a slightly flushed veela in her wake.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Daingaed!” Hermione growled as she silently cast an erasure charm. Her parchment once again clear, Hermione dipped her quill back into the ink. She took a deep breath before touching the quill to the parchment, drawing a long line into a circle, then another circle within the first. Working carefully, she began scratching marks onto the outer circle along the five aicmes. She worked at a painstaking pace, not willing to risk another casual accident after finally figuring out the outer circle.

Hermione failed to notice the door that suddenly appeared. She did not notice said door opening, nor when it closed, leaving a blonde woman leaning against the frame, staring at her with a smile.

She did notice the latter eventually.

“Fleur!” Hermione exclaimed when she finally looked up. She stood, the drying parchment falling off her lap. She caught it quickly, hurriedly looking over to make sure nothing had smudged. Relieved, she gently placed the parchment on the table to dry before returning to her mate.

“How long have you been standing there?” the shorter woman asked, once more facing the blonde.

“Not too long,” Fleur replied. “You were a pretty sight, I did not mind ze wait.” Hermione blushed at Fleur’s words as the blonde walked across the room, joining Hermione on the sofa, leaning against her, head just above Hermione’s. “What is zat?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said in a quick tone. “Just something--”

“”Ermione,” Fleur said, her tone dropping as she moved from her mate, eyes staring into her mate’s. “Do not lie to me.” Hermione glanced in another direction, teeth chewing on her lip. She pulled in a shaky breath and wasn’t sure how to let it out.

“”Ermione?” Fleur asked, her brow furrowed with concern. Her mate was shaking, eyes boring a hole into the far wall, staring guiltily into nothing. The veela’s voice couldn’t penetrate into the deep fog of thoughts that blurred through Hermione’s mind, even as she tried to sort through them, instead getting lost amongst the clutter. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She closed it and opened again, trying to say something. Instead of an explanation of what was happening, of why, of what she had written the only sound that left her lips was a soft whimper. It was high in pitch, even as it broke into short bursts from the hyperventilation. The sound tugged on Fleur’s heart, ripping it apart. Her arms swept around Hermione, pulling her in close, Hermione’s head resting on Fleur’s chest as the french veela did all she could to comfort her mate.

“‘Ermione,” Fleur said softly. “I--I am sorry for zat. Ze veela is a. . . jealous being. But you are my mate. I will always ‘ave your back, no matter what ze consequences will be.” She titled Hermione’s face up by the chin until their eyes met, deep blue staring into dark brown. “I will never betray your trust. Zat is why it ‘urts to be lied to. It is impossible for a veela to betray or intentionally ‘urt zeir mate. Just as it is impossible for you to do ze same.”

“Ah,” Hermione said, her voice so soft and quiet it was nearly lost to the crackling fire. “That’s why it hurt.”

“Why what ‘urt?”

“When I lied. It--it felt like someone was constricting my chest. Like--”

“Like zere was something unnatural ‘appening,” Fleur finished. “I know, zat is how it felt to me as well.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. She recoiled, her hands leaping up to her mouth. “Oh gods, Fleur, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just--”

Hermione’s rant of apology was cut off by Fleur’s lips claiming her own, Fleur’s hands wrapped around her own to move them away. Hermione was quite content to have all thoughts driven from her head as Fleur deepened the kiss, hands wrapping around Hermione’s back. Hermione, leaning back, wrapped her arms around Fleur’s neck, happily pressing her mouth up and into that of her mate. It was quite some time before either remembered what they were supposed to be discussing.

“It’s--” Hermione began, reaching for the parchment. “It’s a transportation ritual. Something that will cut through wards, get you in and out.” Fleur’s eyes widened. “It’s not finished,” Hermione added hastily.

“Ow is zat possible?” Fleur asked incredulously. “Cutting through powerful wards is--”

“Anything is possible,” Hermione said quietly. “With a ritual, anything is possible, so long as you get the math and runes perfect and sacrifice enough. As for why it’s easy to cut through powerful wards--this is a celtic ritual. Most wards are based off of Roman numerology, meaning its almost impossible for latinate rituals to break through, but easier for celtic, or say, Chinese.” Fleur was silent for a moment, looking down at the parchment that rested in her hands.

“Is this to where I think it is?” she asked quietly. Hermione could only nod, her body tense and voice constricted. She relaxed only when she felt Fleur’s strong, comforting arms wrap around her, pulling her into a more peaceful state.

“Be careful, mon coeur,” Fleur said. “Be careful.”

“And you as well,” Hermione said. “You’re the one in the tournament with a death rate. Gods alone know what the first task will be, besides insane.”

“Dragons,” Fleur said quietly. Her attempt to mix alarming news with a calm tone utterly failed.

“Dragons?!” Hermione exclaimed, leaping from Fleur’s arms. “Dragons?! How the--why would--do they fucking want people to die?!”

“We only need to steal something,” Fleur interjected. “Though zey are nesting mothers. I was wondering if you ‘ad any ideas. I was planning on ‘aving it fall asleep.”

“Fuck,” Hermione said. She began pacing the room, muttering to herself, then entered the stacks, emerging with a large pile of books.

“The sleep charm should work,” Hermione said. “Except that it won’t last long enough, not unless you alter it.”

“We,” Fleur replied. “We will alter it.” Instantly Hermione face broke apart, split open by a wide and sappy grin.

“We will,” she whispered in agreement.

Chapter Text

Narcissa Malfoy’s hands were shaking when she handed the scroll of parchment to her husband. His eyes drifted over the letter before widening. He stopped and looked up, his eyes finding those of his wife. His mouth opened, then closed.

“We will support her,” Narcissa said, her voice quiet but tone hard as steel. “She is my blood. I have raised her for three years now. We will support her.” Lucius could only nod and pray that his wife’s niece was wrong. Surely He could not be returning. He tuned out his wife as she started talking about the help her niece would need and plans to go to Gringotts in person over break. Wait. Break. Yes, that would be it. Severus could come over while those two were out, no doubt he would have heard if He was up and about again.

Across the country, in the small town of Little Hangleton, He was awake, alive, and plotting his return. Or rather, he would be in a few moments. Currently he was meeting his daughter.

“Really?” she said upon seeing the diminutive homunculus that housed her father’s remaining soul. “The Triarch’s Ritual?”

“It looked like the best option,” the shrunken soul replied.

“If you’re trying to go insane,” Hermione stated bitingly. “What could have--”

“Horcrux,” Voldemort said, cutting off his daughter, who promptly stared at him in horror.

“How many?” she asked shakily.

“Six.”

“Seven soul pieces,” Hermione said softly. “No wonder. Zepheria’s doesn’t use latin numerology and Simon’s only works with a entire soul.”

“Have you claimed your inheritance?”

“To a point,” Hermione answered absently, summoning parchment, ink, and a quill. She began writing, the Terror of England somewhat ignored to her side. “I can’t release the full details.”

“Why not?” At that Hermione stopped, her quill left atop the small wooden table. She turned, her dark brown eyes and amethyst flecks meeting the solidly red eyes of her father.

“I’m an Erinyes.” Her father’s homunculus started at her for a moment. His death eater, still pretending to be Alastor Moody, did the same, his jaw open.

“Oh,” her father, the Dark Lord, said at last. “That does complicate things. Have you--”

“Yes.”

“Well then.”

“It’s a blessing in disguise.”

“A very good disguise in that case,” the Dark Lord commented bitterly.

“I can lay the groundwork. Focus on celtic and gaelic heritage, stir up Scotland and Ireland, maybe Wales if we’re lucky. Recruit the forbidden students.”

“Forbidden students?”

“Native gaelic speakers. The muggleborns aren’t informed by Hogwarts. Some of the old Scottish clans run homeschools with their kids and the muggleborns. And before you start,” Hermione added as her father began to open his mouth. “The gaelics ken more of our traditions than the most wizards these days. Tha’s why Hogwarts dinnae recruit them, they dun been practicing Samhain, Imbolc, Beltane and Lughnasadh since they were born.”

Voldemort paused for a moment, stunned. He had never thought about it like that. In fact, he had never considered that there might be muggle groups that had more in common with them than some wizarding factions. He was also shocked that his daughter somehow had a Scottish accent! Like any good blood-supremacist, he knew the house histories well, and knew that the Blacks had once been Scottish. Emphasis on the had once . They’d done such a good job emulating the english their seat had been moved to the Brythonic section of the Wizengamot. And now their lady, his daughter, was speaking with a scottish accent about how gaelic muggles knew more of wizarding culture than some wizards. Quite a turnabout for a family whose reputation had been made on English blood-supremacy.

“Any other plans I should know about?” the Dark Lord asked. His daughter seemed to pause for a moment before a wry smile broke out across her lips.

“I found a way to get mum out of jail.”

“What? How?” With a smirk his daughter pulled out a scroll of parchment, unfurling it so he could read it. He looked over it, then blinked, shook his head, and repeated himself to make sure he got it right. There were five concentric circle, all written in--

“Is that Ogham?” His daughter nodded and he kept reading over it, guided by her voice.

“Azkaban’s wards are based on Roman numerology, germanic runes, and mostly latinate words. This is based off of Ogham, before it was influenced by either latin or runic alphabets, and Celtic numerology. Powered by something strong enough, it will slice through the wards.”

“And what are you planning as the source?”

“Basilisk flesh and a mouse’s life.” He suddenly looked up, glaring at his daughter. “What? Potter killed the damn thing, best not to let it go to waste.”

“Fine,” the Dark Lord said after a moment of glaring, turning back to the parchment. “Are you planning on being spotted?”

“I’ll avoid it as long as I can,” Hermione commented with a shrug. “Which won’t be very long. I’ll start talking to those who might be sympathetic, focusing on McGonagall.” The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow at his daughter, confused and unamused. “Her family had a Wizengamot seat until the 1750s.”

“Ah,” he mused. “And you believe bribery will win you the prickly professor?”

“Not if phrased as bribery,” his daughter responded with a smirk. “But if phrased as doing what is right rather than what is easy and framed as undoing centuries of injustice, yes.”

“Now that’s my daughter,” the Dark Lord said with a smile. “Such a Slytherin she can sound like a Gryffindor.” His daughter smiled back, happy (or at least seeming so) in the presence of her father. With a bow, both she and his (current) number one servant left.

“Oh, Barty,” she said as they exited the house, not turning to look at the undercover Death Eater. “If you hurt my mate with this tournament plot, I will tear you limb from limb.” The false professor’s eyes widened momentarily before he swallowed and nodded. It was, after all, more than a little intimidating to hear a fifteen-year-old girl threaten such horror in such a sweet voice. Especially knowing she was capable of it.

“Understood.”

Chapter Text

Hermione had a bounce in her step as she went to talk to her transfiguration professor. Her face ached from how much she had smiled after Fleur’s performance. Their adjustments to the sleeping spell had made it take far longer, but she had danced away from the dragon’s flames while keeping her wandwork perfect. Fleur had then simply walked up, grabbed the golden egg, and walked back, completely unharmed. Had it not been for Karkarov her scores would have been perfect. Still, she held the lead with forty-seven points. Upon walking off the field, Fleur had hugged Gabby and then kissed Hermione, who was still smiling from the memory.

The office door was made of a dark hawthorn, beautifully lacquered and subtly Scottish. Not unlike the woman behind it.

“Ah, Miss Slytherin,” said professor began. “I am surprised you are not partaking in the festivities.” Hermione looked up at the professor, surprised she would be so underhanded.

“I am surprised you would suggest such a thing,” Hermione responded. “Laird McGonagall.” The professor’s eyes widened as she looked up and down the hall, scanning for observers.

“Socair,” the younger witch said with a smile and a faint burr. “I am not so foolish as to use that title without a ward.” McGonagall looked around, then looked down at the young lass.

“And why would ya go usin’ tha word at all?”

“It is your proper title,” Hermione said before continuing, her voice much quieter. “And one of mine as well. Shall we continue in your office?”

“Better than in tha open,” the older witch grumbled, her accent thicker than any student had heard it. She opened the door wide enough for Hermione to squeeze through, then closed it and began casting wards. Hermione watched as she did before adding her own.

“ Ballanas sàmhchair ,” she uttered, her wand moving through three perfect curves to form a wave as she spoke. There was a sense of power as the spell reached the door, extending around it and through the holes, divots, and hiding places within the walls.

“Laird McGonagall,” Hermione said, calling her professor back from the door. “Are you a fan of tartan?”

“Why might ye be askin’ that?” McGonagall asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I quite happen to enjoy the pattern,” Hermione continued. “Especially in long, versatile quilts that can be made into kilts.” She turned, her eyes boring into those of Laird Minerva McGonagall. “I also enjoy Scots gaelic, Irish gaelic, Ogham, Celtic numerology, the festivals of Samhain, Imbolc, Beltane and Lughnasadh, and ritual magic.” She paused, watching as the wide-eyed scottish professor absorbed this new set of information.

“Of course,” Hermione said with a small smile. “I will deny all this should you mention it to any good, Christian authority figure. I have the feeling you wouldn’t do that thought. After all, you have been funding Laird Aedaera’s attempts to educate the gaelic-speaking muggleborns. You practice the Celtic rituals and are fluent in both Scots and Irish Gaelic. I trust I can trust you?”

“Miss Slytherin,” McGonagall said, her voice clipped. “Is there a point to this besides a display of dangerous knowledge?” Hermione smirked for a moment before it slid away. She took a breath, closing her eyes before she opened them, looking up into those of her professor.

“Professor,” she began softly. “Laird. I hold the inheritance of six Wizengamot seats, and I am a mated Erinyes. Within a year I will need to flee, die, or fight.”

“And ye plan on fighting.” It wasn’t a question, but Hermione responded anyway.

“Aye. But I won’t be fighting just to survive. England’s had a supermajority on the Wizengamot since the 18th century and even the lightest of our sacred rituals have been banned since the time of the Tudors. Our culture is banned, our languages banned, our rituals, religion, writing, even our numerology is banned.”

“Aye, ‘tis,” McGonagall said, a fire lit within her eyes. “Blacks an’ McMillans the only damn Scots on the council, but the Black’s been lyin’ in the heathers an’ the McMillans ain’t worth a pound a spoiled haggis.”

“How’s about we bring us back?” Hermione asked, her smiled wide and devious, the amethyst flecks in her eyes sparkling. “Show the bloody poms it takes more than a trampling to keep the Scots down.” McGonagall smiled, pouring herself some whiskey.

“To the Celts,” she said, raising her glass before downing it whole. She sighed, looking into it before raising her gaze to once again meet Hermione’s. “Now then,” she said. “How on the gods green earth did ya manage to inherit six seats at the age of fifteen?”

“Well,” Hermione said, taking a seat. “Turns out my mum’s Bellatrix Black.” She was glad for her shield charm a moment later when McGonagall spewed whiskey from across the room.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“‘Ermione.” Fleur’s voice was silklike as it wafted over the palatial room within the Beauxbatons carriage.

“Fleur,” Hermione responded with a smile. She turned from the bookshelf, making her way across the carpeted room to the four-poster bed. “How are you?”

“Tired,” Fleur responded as Hermione sat by her side. Hermione’s hands wove through her hair, easing the knots that had built up during her long rest.

“I know,” Hermione replied with a gentle smile, one that started at her lips and extended to her eyes, so soft and focused. Fleur stared into them, drowning in the brown depths and amethyst shallows. “I’m sorry love, I saw it afterwards. I missed a simplification, the wand movement would have--”

“Shhh,” Fleur said, pulling Hermione down towards her, letting the younger witch’s head rest upon her chest. “You did nothing wrong, mon coeur. I am still here, and in ze lead.” Her hands wove through the sobbing witch’s hair even as her tears soaked into the bedsheets.

“But--” Hermione began, taking in a large breath, trying to steady herself. “I--you could have died , Fleur. Spellcrafting and rituals--if you get it wrong. . . I--” Her body broke into a sob, clutching at Fleur, trying to grab her, to secure her hold onto her. “I can’t lose you,” she said in a voice so small it was nearly nonexistent. Her watery eyes raised to meet Fleur’s. “I have an imprisoned mother and a mad father. I--unconditional love isn’t something I understand. I never--I--”

“Hush,” Fleur said. Her voice was soft and flowing. It struck Hermione at her core. She sank into Fleur’s inviting arms, her sobs absorbed into the older girl’s chest as Fleur held her close and Hermione pulled Fleur closer. “I’ll never leave you.” Hermione clutched Fleur closer to her, her arms wrapping under Fleur’s body, pulling them closer together. No words came when she opened her mouth, only a soft and purring hiss.

Chapter Text

Divination did not come naturally to Hermione. She was too rigid, too logical, too set, not in her ways but in her idea of what a way was. It took mental flexibility, often to the point of insanity, to be a true seer.

Nonetheless Hermione found herself with a handful of rune-bones and an extensive circle of old Scots Gaelic, written in Ogham. “ Air sgàth na màthar ,” Hermione chanted, placing a drop of blood on each bone. “ Leig fuil na h-ìnghe a nàdar fhoillseachadh .” She felt magic pooling from her soul, flowing out into the bones as they hopped around the runes. Hermione grimaced as the magic poured out of her. It was draining, even worse than when she had given herself the first basilisk-blood tattoo. She imagined it would be easier for someone less rigid, like Daphne, or someone of debatable sanity, like Luna Lovegood. She was, however, like her mother in that respect--unyielding.

Looking down, Hermione read the runes from where they had landed, sighing with relief. Blackthorn, that wouldn’t be hard to get. The core would be easy to get, though it would take some time. She’d have to wait until she matured. Then again, the entire project would have to wait until she’d matured. Hermione was a smart and powerful witch, but nowhere near where she would be once her creature inheritance came into full effect. There was a reason Fleur was chosen as the Beauxbatons champion, and it wasn’t just her looks.

Hermione rolled her eyes, this time at herself. When had she started sounding like a male quidditch player? Fucking mates.

Or not. Hermione shivered. She wasn’t ready for that, much as she wanted to be. Too many bad experiences. Even with the past three years of therapy she wasn’t ready. She felt tears welling up as she shook and tried to force the memories away.

Suddenly strong arms wrapped around her, holding her close. Her head rested against a warm chest. Her fears dissolved even as her thoughts remained. Her eyes, nestled into her mate’s chest, continued to leak tears.

“Shh,” her mate said lovingly, one hand holding her close, the other gently petting her hair. “It’s alright mon coeur.”

A few moments later the young witch in question pulled back slightly, looking up into the stark blue eyes of her mate.

“I--” Hermione coughed, clearing her throat, and shook her head. “I owe you more than I could ever repay,” she said softly. “I think I would have gone insane when I found out about my parents.”

“‘Ermione,” Fleur said gently, cupping the younger witch’s face, raising her chin to meet her eyes once more. “We owe each other everything and nothing. We are mates, mon coeur. I will be zere for you, always and forever, just as you will be for me.”

“Always and forever,” Hermione echoed with a faint smile, soon outshined by Fleur massive one. Her own smile growing, Hermione pressed forward, sealing her lips to those of her mate. Fleur hummed in happiness, her veela freeing itself within her. She pressed back, deepening the kiss, her hands moving to hold Hermione closer, teasing down the hidden line of runes on her ribs. Hermione mewled softly into Fleur’s mouth, arching her back. Fleur left her mate’s mouth, Hermione opening her own in protest, only to be silenced by her own moan as her eyes fluttered shut and Fleur kissed down her neck. Her back arched again, her breasts pushing into Fleur’s chest.

“Fl-Fleur,” Hermione said, her voice shaking. Fleur’s head rose, her eyes meeting those of her mate. “I--I l-” Hermione took in a deep breath before continuing, her voice small, soft, and afraid. “I love you.” Fleur’s eyes widened before her arms reclaimed their previous positions, pulling Hermione close, embracing her tightly. Neither she nor her veela would let this precious little witch go.

“Mon coeur,” Fleur whispered into Hermione’s ear as she pulled the younger witch tighter. “I love you too.” Hermione’s eyes flickered down to Fleur’s, wide as saucers. Her smile was wide and bright as the sun, her magic flowing out around her. Her body seemed to glow with a pink-purple light. She leaned in quickly, reattaching her lips to Fleur’s, her tongue extending into her mate’s waiting mouth, soon entangling with Fleur’s tongue. Both young witches clawed at each other, fighting to bring themselves close, closer, possibly more so than ever. Their creatures took over, kissing and marking across necks and chests, instinctively aware of how far would be too far. Hermione’s finger scraped down Fleur’s side, leaving long red lines of raw flesh. Fleur gripped into her shoulders, pulling at the flesh between her shoulder blade, nails digging in deep as the two sought to be closer than was yet possible.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione was sitting in an empty classroom, sketching out her concentric circles. She had the numerology and arithmancy figured out. The phrasing was more difficult. The outer circle had fifty-one letters. The next one had forty-five, then thirty-nine, twenty-seven, and thirteen. Using thirteen letters was irregular and risky, but if she could make it work she could slice through Azkaban’s wards like a knife through butter.

The classroom door opened then quickly slammed shut. The slam was quickly followed by a series of rapid-fire locking and silencing wards, then a heavy sigh.

“Mes dieux,” Fleur said, collapsing into a chair next to Hermione. “The task was nothing compared to this.”

“And what is this?” Hermione asked without looking up. Fleur sighed again and leaned, resting her head on Hermione’s shoulder.

“Every damn boy ‘as asked me to ze ball,” she said in an exhausted tone. “It iz getting ridiculous. Bons dieux, ‘ave they not noticed ‘o I spend my time with?”

“Apparently not,” Hermione said, casting a quick drying charm. Blowing to make sure everything was stable, she rolled up the parchment, placing it inside her robes as she turned to Fleur. A smirk played along her lips, her amethyst flecks sparkling with mischief. “Perhaps we should show them just how off-limits you are?” Fleur’s face lit up with a smirk, her eyes shining bright. She grabbed Hermione’s hand and led the two of them out, dissolving her wards and opening the door.

“Après vous,” Hermione said, gesturing for Fleur to exit.

“I think we are not quite zat formal, mon coeur,” Fleur replied, drawing a smirk across Hermione’s face. Unfortunately, by turning to reply to her mate, Fleur stumbled into the waiting trap of Gryffindors.

“ Be my Yulagy! ” the giant sign read. A tall, broad-shouldered man with curly brown hair stood in front of it, smiling broadly. Fleur blinked, frowning at the sign. Hermione was right behind her with a far angrier expression.

“McLaggen,” the younger witch said with a growl, glaring at him. The older boy flinched before recovering, turning towards Fleur.

“Cormac McLaggen, as I’m sure you know,” he said with a cock-shure grin, then bowed. “Might I have the honor of accompanying you to the Yule Ball?”

“No.” McLaggen blinked, then rose.

“No?” he asked.

“No,” Hermione said, answering for Fleur, her voice tight and eyes burning as they glared across the hallway. “She will not be going to the Yule Ball with you. If you still do not understand, I recommend you consult a dictionary. One of your friends should be capable of reading it to you.”

“Listen here,” McLaggen said, reaching for his wand. Hermione had hers out in an instant, the pale wood pointing directly at him. McLaggen swallowed and raised his hand, backing up slowly.

“Good boy,” Hermione said with a smile, sheathing her wand. She turned to Fleur, a different sort of smile on her face.

“Mo chridhe,” Hermione said, looking up at Fleur’s dark blue eyes. “Would you honor me with being your escort to this. . . Yule Ball?”

“Gladly,” Fleur said with a soft smile observed by an eerily silent hallway.

“WHAT?!” McLaggen said, his voice exploding across the silence. “You’re going with that fucking mudblood dyke ?!” There mutterings of agreement from many of the men up and down the hall and silence from those who thought he had gone too far.

“Mr. McLaggen,” Hermione said, a broad and innocent-looking smile plastered across her face while fire danced within her eyes. “Are you challenging me to a duel?”

“Dykes don’t have honor duels,” McLaggen said, thrown off by her eyes. “They d-don’t have honor.”

“How about Ladies of the House of Slytherin?” Silence echoed across the hall as the student body stared at the two, wands drawn.

“They don’t have much either,” McLaggen said, his cockshure air back. Hermione’s smile widened. He clearly hadn’t noticed her wording.

“If you would clear the hallway, please,” she said, turning towards the student body. “I would hate for someone to get caught in the spellfire.” There was a general shuffling, followed by a few pounding footsteps as someone likely ran to grab a professor.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, turning back to McLaggen. “Is now an acceptable time for you?” McLaggen shifted foot to foot. He was strong, confident, the best in the world. But there was something about this witch that threw him off. But she had challenged him, in the halls, in public. He couldn’t back down, not now. Not with Gryffindor pride on the line! Drawing himself up and readying his wand, Cormac McLaggen nodded, then bowed minutely, matched by his opponent. He readied himself, forming a defensive position. She did nothing. Cormac smiled and stepped, his wand moving the moment his foot left the ground.

There was a bang and he landed hard on his back, sliding another few feet. His wand was gone, his robes were in Slytherin colors, and people were laughing, pointing at something on his forehead.

“I felt a label might be helpful,” the damned witch said. He turned and caught a glace at himself on the reflective marble walls. Across his forehead, printed in big block letters was the word, “ Idiot .” The Slytherin dropped his wand, letting it roll towards him, and pulled the french girl--the one he should be going with--into a smoulder kiss, each of them leaning into the embrace, if only for a few seconds. Then, with a wink, they left. It took everyone a moment to get over what they just saw. A moment that was interrupted when Professor McGonagall came bursting into the room.

“Why is everyone just standing about?!” she asked. Everyone began to move, including Cormac, who scrambled after his wand. McLaggen had gotten trounced for a few insults. No one wanted to learn what revenge would be for a month’s worth of detentions.

Chapter Text

Gods alone knew why they had planned the Yule Ball for Christmas Day. It wasn’t a holiday that Hermione actually celebrated, but even she could understand that the assumption that no one would want to go home and see their families was more than a little absurd. Hence, after many protests and complaints lodged with the Ministry, the Board, and the school itself, classes were being let out on the 16th, with a train headed back to Hogwarts on the 23rd for those who wished to take part in the ball and see their families.

Heading back felt odd to Hermione. Not as odd or confusing as when she had realized the Malfoys took her in because they actually wanted to, not to gain public goodwill or to exploit her, but still quite odd. The ‘family’ she had been with for the last two and a half years was now actually her family. Even if she didn’t have business at Gringotts she would have happily gone back for the break.

“It’s strange, seeing you without a French girl on your side.” Hermione turned towards the carriage’s entrance, where Daphne stood, caustic remark signalling her entrance.

“Aw, Daph,” Hermione said with a sickly sweet tone. “Are you jealous?”

“As if,” Daphne said with a huff. “I am not one to be a kept woman.”

“I suppose I’ll need to talk to Fleur about a thre--” Hermione quieted immediately as Daphne shot her a glare, then started laughing uncontrollably.

“Oh, come off it Daphne,” Hermione said with a smile. “You know I’m too possessive to let something like that happen.”

“So is she, by the looks of it,” Daphne replied, sitting down. “You haven’t asked about anything gossip-related in weeks. I’m beginning to think my efforts aren’t being valued,” she finished with a pout.

“I really do appreciate your expertise with the rumor mill, but hasn’t it all been about the tournament?”

“Not all of it,” Daphne said with a smirk. “There’s a fair amount about you, especially after you threw McLaggen around. Slytherins are unsurprised, given how you threw Nott through a door second year, Hufflepuffs are mostly glad you took care of the prick, Ravenclaws want to know what spell you used, and Gryffindor is split between defending a housemate and being glad someone dealt with that prat.”

“What are the odds they figure out the spell?”

“Next to none, considering it was probably one of your ‘I wave and I want,” Daphne said, rolling her eyes. Hermione grinned back at her, then shrugged.

“It was. Still can’t do much like that though.”

“Can’t--Hermione, using spells to do that I would--”

“That’s because the spells are meant for much large things,” Hermione said, cutting her friend off. “The knockback jinx is meant to shove a two-hundred pound man back eighty feet. Color transfiguration is meant to change entire rooms. The writing--well, the writing spell is different. But it takes energy to constrain the knockback jinx into only throwing someone a few yards and to constrain color transfiguration spells into a single robe. Don’t use the spell and you don’t have to spend the energy to constrain it.”

“You’re saying it’s easier to throw someone back eighty feet than six?” Daphne asked incredulously.

“Yes and no,” Hermione replied. “It takes magical energy to push someone back. If you don’t have much or you get the spell wrong, you’ll only push someone back a little ways. If you have enough power but don’t want to use it all, it takes mental focus and energy. It’s just as easy to collapse from mental strain after a duel as it is to collapse from magical exhaustion.”

“Well then,” Daphne said. “So, have any big plans?”

“Just some business with the goblins,” Hermione replied with a slight smirk.

“You might be the only person who finds that enjoyable.”

“I’m just the only one they like,” Hermione replied. “I even have their grin down. See?” she asked, contorting her face into a devilishly sharp grin, her eyes glittering with . . . something. A shiver went down Daphne’s spine.

“Oh, that’s their grin alright,” the blonde witch said. “Gods alone know why you’d want to use it.” Hermione grinned at her and pet Lasya’s scales as she slept. Her familiar was made for the jungles of South Asia, not the winters of Britain.

“Oh, just for fun,” Hermione said, Daphne shivering once more at the grin. “Never know when it’ll come in handy.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Hermione!” a smiling voice called. The witch in question turned, returning the blonde witch’s smile. She walked up to her aunt and gave her a big hug.

“Aunt Cissa,” Hermione said, smile still shining in her eyes. “It feels even better to call you that now.”

“ Brrr, ” commented Lasya, awoken by the sudden movements. She moved closer, snaking up around Cissa’s neck, pulling the two witches closer. “ Should have known you were family ,” she said, her head nuzzling into Cissa’s neck. “ You smell alike. ”

“What did she say?” Cissa asked as Lasya’ cool scales rubbed against her neck.

“She’s embarrassed she didn’t figure it out,” Hermione said with a smile. “Apparently we smell alike.”

“Is that so?” Cissa asked, an eyebrow raised. “It’s just as well. Bella often smelled of alcohol and cigarettes.”

“Ah,” Hermione replied. “That explains a lot.”

The two witches linked arms and walked out of Platform 9 ¾, apparating to Diagon Ally.

Unnoticed by the witches, two blond wizards shivered in their wake.

“I don’t like this,” the younger said, looking up at his father. “She hasn’t told me anything, neither has mother.” Lucius sighed, looking down at his son.

“Keep your innocence a little longer, my son,” he said, looking up to where his wife and her niece had stood. “You know not how much you will miss it when it’s gone."

Chapter Text

“So,” Narcissa Malfoy said in a hushed tone. The two witches had apparated to Diagon Ally, then calmly walked into Gringotts and asked for a meeting with Count Rigoll. They were currently waiting in his office. “What is it you couldn’t say in the letter?” Hermione sighed. Best rip the bandaid off, she supposed.

“Creature inheritance.” Narcissa bit her lip.

“Which--”

“Erinyes.”

“Fuck,” Cissa swore softly, letting out a heavy sigh. “They’re--”

“Banned outright, I know. I’ve met my mate.”

“Who?”

“Fleur Delacour, the Beauxbatons champion.”

“Fate made a good choice,” Cissa said with a smirk. “If I was a few years younger . . .”

“There’s always her aunt,” Hermione commented. “Widowed half-Veela.”

“Lucius--”

“Fine, wait until he’s dead. My father might kill him soon for that stunt with the diary.”

“Oh gods,” Cissa said. “The one that--”

“Caused Hogwarts to almost shut down, yes that one. It was one of my father’s horcruxes, I think, and your husband threw it into settling a petty feud with a family that his money should have quashed a decade ago.”

“You’re sounding more and more like your mother,” Cissa said. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.” Hermione shrugged.

“The other thing was about our history,” Hermione said.

“I know the Blacks came from Scotland,” Cissa said. “I know you’ve been talking to people, wooing McGonagall and courting that irish Gryffindor with a penchant for explosions, what’s his name--”

“Seamus Finnigan.”

“That one. Is this truly how you want to do things? Many of your father’s supporters are hardened anglicans, they will not take kindly to a revival of gaelic culture.”

“They took to it well enough when he started the Knight of Walpurgis.”

“Saying you want to have a bonfire on Beltane and a party for Samhain and Yule is different from bringing back Gaelic rituals and tartans.”

“Roman and Germanic rituals are banned as well.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Narcissa said with a sigh. “Though if you don’t, at least someone will kill Yaxley.”

“Not a fan?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. Cissa let out a bitter laugh.

“He spends more time brown nosing than Lucius.” Hermione let out a laugh. It was hard to imagine, Lucius treated sucking up like a full-time job.

“Lady Malfoy,” a voice remarked as the door opened. Count Rigoll walked towards his desk. “Duchess Black. Good to see you both.”

“Count Rigoll,” Hermione replied. “How long would it take to get all of my residential holdings up and running?”

“Depends how much you’re willing to pay,” he replied with a toothy grin.

“Money is of little object, save for the principle of getting a good price. Add on a full-scale warding system, by the way.” Rigoll whistled.

“Five months, three million galleons.”

“Three?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. “Too much. One.”

“Two and a half.”

“Two, and you supply all the equipment and pay the contactors yourselves.”

“Done.”

“Good,” Hermione said with a smile. “Take it out of Vault Zero. Now, regarding my investments. I want anything that can be seized by the British Ministry transferred to something that can’t.”

“We can do that,” Count Rigoll said. “Setting up a few shell companies would be the simplest way.” Hermione nodded.

“Do it.” Hermione stood, letting her back stretch upwards. “Is there anything else before we visit my vaults?”

“Just one more, Lady Slytherin. Will you be claiming your titles?” Hermione paused, thinking.

“If I do, will the Ministry be notified?”

“Not by us.”

“Will the Wizengamot?”

“Not by us.”

“Will anyone?”

“Gringotts is not in the letter-writing business,” Count Rigoll said. Hermione stared him down. There was a pause, then she rolled a thin piece of elm towards the count, who snatched it up. “We will inform our King, and no one else.” Hermione tilted her head, seeming to weigh her options. Lasya peeked out of her sleeve.

“ It would give you more room to maneuver, ” the eight-foot long Occamy said, ignoring the wide-eyed stare of Count Rigoll.

“ True, ” Hermione said, running her hand down Lasya’s scales. “ But Dumbledore might find out. ”

“ That is always a possibility, ” Lasya countered. “ Do it now, he cannot steal your chairs while you are away. Your mother’s clutchmate can place herself there. ” Hermione grinned at Lasya before turning towards Rigoll.

“I will claim them now,” she said. Rigoll nodded, then left the room. Hermione remained standing for a moment, then sat back down, twidling her fingers while she waited.

When Rigoll returned he held six wooden boxes stacked upon each other. They wobbled as he walked hurriedly before placing them gingerly on the table. Carefully opening the first he presented it to her. Hermione looked down at the silver ring, black gem in the center, the words “Toujours Purs” carved into the stone. Putting it on Hermione felt a shiver go down her spine and heard the faint voices of her ancestors, egging her on towards darkness and greatness.

The next box contained a ring of silver with an emerald in the middle, a writhing serpent carved in. Hermione bit back a shudder as she put on the Gaunt family ring, hundreds of years of inbreeding and poor decisions washing over her, the elder ancestors demanding that she right the wrongs of their descendants. A band of gold and a clear diamond with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows marked the Peverell ring. It slid on like a cool breeze, sweeping into her soul. Her eyes opened. Everything felt clearer.

The Ravenclaw ring was made of bronze and sapphires, the Rosier from silver and rubies, the Slytherin ring of platinum and emeralds. Each slid on, one after the other, magic washing over her and supplementing her own. As she placed each one upon her ring finger it disappeared, accepting her as the Lady of the House, vanishing until such time as she would call it forth.

“Well then,” Hermione said with a smile. “Shall we visit the vaults?”

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy paced back and forth over the rug in his study. Strong privacy and silencing wards were over the door, along with a series of protections to ensure his wife and her niece wouldn’t enter.

“Lucius, would you stop that?” Lucius turned, looking his old friend in the eyes. Where Lucius’ were a steel grey, Severus bore the inky irises of his mother house. “Now sit down, pour yourself a drink, and tell me why you’re so worried.”

“Why am I worried?” Lucius asked incredulously. “Good lord Severus, the Dark Lord is returning . He is already back in one form or another and I spent the past thirteen years claiming an imperius defense while devoutly ignoring both him and the apparent mother of his child!”

“So you’ve mentioned,” Severus replied dryly. “Many others have done the same. But you took his daughter in and raised her these past three years.”

“Only at your and Narcissa’s prodding,” Lucius mumbled, then shivered. “He’s coming back, and he’ll want something from me. Possibly everything.”

“True,” Severus conceded. “Is that why you’re worried?”

“No. I---Severus, you can’t tell anyone about this, understood?” His friend blinked, but nodded, and Lucius continued in a hushed tone. “I didn’t get off on just the imperius defense. I heard that Bellatrix would be attacking the Longbottoms, gave that information away to get Dumbledore’s blessing behind my innocence.”

For a moment all Severus could do was stare. Was Lucius really that much of a dunderhead? He easily could have bribed his way to a deadlock, if not a clean exoneration. Instead he had given away the Dark Lord’s right hand, his own sister-in-law. Who had most likely been followed and had her child---

“Lucius,” Severus began. “Give me the firewhisky.” If he had to deal with this, alcohol was the least Lucius could give him in return.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione and Narcissa exited Gringotts, one smiling and holding a small bag close, the other’s face forcibly blank.

“Did you really have to visit every vault?” Narcissa grumbled. “You knew the Gaunts were poor and too paranoid to keep the family grimoire at Gringotts.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Hermione replied cheerfully. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to meet with Mr. Ollivander.”

“I don’t think the Gringotts carts count as safe,” Narcissa grumbled, but waved Hermione off just the same.

The door to Ollivander’s jingled the same way it had three years ago. It swung on the same hinges, made the same sounds, revealed the same shelves stacked with mostly the same wands, all waiting to be chosen--or was it waiting to choose? The same silver eyes and white hair greeted her behind the counter.

“Ah, yes. Hermione, no last name, now Slytherin,” Mr. Ollivander said. “Redwood with red oak runes, basilisk fang. Twelve and three-quarters, firm but resilient. Still working well?”

“Like a charm,” Hermione responded. Ollivander smiled.

“What brings you to my shop, Miss Slytherin?”

“I have need of some custom wands,” she replied. Mr. Ollivander raised his eyebrows.

“Custom wands?” he asked. “Is yours--”

“The users have already been read,” she said, cutting him off. She handed a roll of parchment, which he unfurled carefully.

“Hmm,” he said, stroking his chin. “Curious, most curious. Second wands, all of them. Blackthorn, elm, and yew. No core for the blackthorn--most curious indeed--phoenix feather, and rougarou hair. Curious, most curious. Ah,” he said, breaking out of his trance, looking up at Hermione. “I can have these done by. . . March, shall we say? The blackthorn I can give you know. Thirty galleons for them please.” Hermione smiled and pulled out her Gringotts bag, letting it fill with the needed money.

“Thirty galleons, Mr. Ollivander,” she said, handing over the large gold coins. “A pleasure as always.”

“Indeed, Miss Slytherin.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione sat in her room, hunched over the empty blackthorn wand. An athame lay beside her wand on the desk while she held a scalpel in her right hand. She gently turned the empty wand, carving another miniscule rune into its hard wood. Sitting up she shook her hand. The wand’s runes were incomplete when she purchased it, as some depended upon what the core would be. Something she had not been willing to tell Ollivander.

Hermione let out a sigh before hunching over again, picking up where she left off. Despite her specialization in Ogham and ancient gaelic, the runes she carved were of the more traditional futhark and futhorc. The wand had already been started that way, and most spells were based on norse, germanic, or latin numerology and etymology. Changing halfway through would at best weaken the spells her mother would cast and at worst cause the wand to explode.

A knock at the door cause Hermione to jump slightly. She looked down at the wand, grateful that she hadn’t messed up the runes with her sudden movement. She quickly cleared off the table before standing and opening the door.

“Aunt Cissa!” Hermione said, a smile on her face. “To what--” Hermione was cut off as Narcissa Malfoy swept into the room, closing the door behind her. She set a layer of silencing charms, privacy charms, and locking charms before adding a series of hexes and curses that would make anyone think twice before opening the door.

“Aunt Cissa?” Hermione asked.

“My husband,” Narcissa Malfoy said, still glaring at the door. “Is not heeding your words. He has been locked in a room with Severus since he and Draco arrived.” Hermione huffed.

“He is making a mistake,” she said. “His money is still useful, but it is no longer needed to fund my father’s efforts.”

“I know,” Narcissa said. “I worry, not only for him but for my son. Hermione,” she said, turning towards the girl she had raised for the past three years, towards the daughter of her beloved sister. “I know you are not fond of Lucius, gods know your mother wasn’t either but--”

“Your son will not pay for his father’s mistakes,” Hermione said softly. “Nor will you, that much I can ensure. I can do nothing for your husband if he keeps digging.” Narcissa felt her eyes watering. Her lips trembled, but she nodded all the same, letting her niece wrap her into a tight hug.

“There is still hope,” Hermione said. “But if he doesn’t show when my father calls--”

“I understand,” Narcissa said in a whisper. She pulled back, wiping tears from underneath her eyes. She swallowed and blinked away the last of them. “Now then, dear niece,” Narcissa said with a smile. “What plans have you made for breaking your mother out of Azkaban?” Hermione grinned as she began moving parchment from her bags, hovering over her desk, aunt by her side.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape brushed ashes and embers off himself as he stepped through the fireplace, his mind far away from the dark basement in which he resided. The Mark was returning, that much was clear. Their Lord was returning, if the word of his daughter was to be believed.

His daughter. That raised problems all of its own. The girl with no last name, malnutrition, and a half-dozen addictions who he had helped three years ago was no more. In her place stood a calm, powerful, and undeniably Dark witch. One who had claimed the Black and Gaunt vaults, giving her more power and wealth than all but a few. If what Lucius believed was true, she had access to the Slytherin and Rosier vaults as well. And there were rumors that the Gaunts descended from a more senior branch of the Peverells than the Potters did. If Albus had lost possession of those vaults, with the galleons and ancient magics, the war was as good as done.

Of course, he could prevent it from happening at all. Severus was fairly sure that Alastor Moody was not, in fact, Alastor Moody, instead being the Dark Lord’s man. Severus could kill him, go to the Dark Lord’s lair, and destroy whatever body He was hiding in. That would set the Dark Lord back by ten years or so.

Less, now that His daughter was around and knew her heritage. She and Lucius were not close, which was unsurprising to Severus. She did, after all, have bad memories of older men with silver hair. What was surprising was that Lucius, who had been their Lord’s left hand as Bellatrix was His right, the subtle tool, the financier and politician of the Dark Lord, was of mixed feelings. Admittedly, the diary plot of was a bad move, and one that He was no doubt aware of, if He and Hermione were in communication, as Lucius believed. Still, it was nothing compared to raising His daughter and heir from the filth and giving her a home these past three years--if he took credit for it and begged forgiveness for his trespasses.

Severus sighed and pushed the thoughts of his old friend away. No doubt Lucius would winge until the Mark burned. Once it did, Lucius’ self-preservation and political instincts would take over. He would be fine.

What Severus had to do was decide where he would land in this war. He had time, more than anyone else as no doubt both players would ask him to continue spying. Truth be told, he hadn’t fully decided which side he was on during the last war. He shook his head. That was a problem for later. The immediate conundrum was whether or not to tell Albus about the Dark Lord’s daughter. The one who was making moves even he couldn’t parse. In the month before the break she had talked to McGonagall, the irish half-blood Finnigan, and the wealthy muggleborn Finch-Fletchley, but also the Carrow sisters, the Selwyn sisters, and Nott. All in addition to her usual eclectic group of the Greengrass heiress, Dagdo, and Zabini, the heir of a half-dozen fortunes thanks to his mother growing collection of dead husbands. She had also destroyed McLaggen in a duel, insulted MacMillan, and was in a relationship of some romantic nature with Delacour.

The question was whether or not to tell Albus. If he did and was discovered, his position in the Death Eaters was gone. The Dark Lord was clearly protective of His daughter, that much was clear. Not even Lucius or Narcissa--the girl’s own aunt!--had been informed of her existence.

On the other hand, he could ill-afford to keep it a secret. The girl was likely setting things up for her father’s return. If Dumbledore knew that he had kept her a secret, he could lose his place in the Order, once it re-formed. Besides, keeping her identity a secret could be enough to guarantee the war for the Dark Lord, the man who killed the love of his life.

Severus sighed. He didn’t like where this was headed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fleur Delacour, daughter of Apolline Delacour, nee Durfort, and Pierre Delacour, heiress of the Duchy of Rauzan and the Viscountcy of Trois-Rivières, descendent of Veela and military commanders, of explorers and nobles, was nervous. Her mate, whose list of titles far exceeded her own, would be descending the stairs an minute. She had arrived two days ago with the rest of the Hogwarts students, but the two had barely seen each other since. Other than a brief conversation confirming their date they hadn’t spoken, leaving both Fleur and her inner veela nervous.

The ball itself was nothing to Fleur. She had grown up in the Palais Durfort in Bordeaux and attending this kind of trivial festivity many times before. The ball was not making Fleur nervous. It was the uncertainty in her date. Fleur did not like uncertainty.

She had spent the last twenty minutes hovering by the grand staircase, looking over shoulders, hoping to see Hermione descending the stairs, only to be disappointed. Harry Potter (“ Dumbledore’s sacrificial lamb with a hero complex ,” as Hermione had described him) was standing rather awkwardly with an Indian beauty next to him. He clearly had no idea what to do or how to do her. Fleur took a moment to give the girl a pitying look before returning to look longingly at the grand stair--

As she turned, Fleur’s brain shut off. Descending the staircase in a tight green dress with silver serpentine stripes, wearing a platinum bracelet of black diamonds, her hair manicured into neat ringlets that fell from her head, was Hermione. Her mate.

Hermione smiled at Fleur. She had been rather nervous about her outfit, an anxiety that had only grown when men and boys along the way had stopped to look at her. Fleur’s gaze took the gross feeling away. Her stare wasn’t just one of hunger or desire, it was one of adoration and love. Emotions she hadn’t truly understood until that year.

Stepping next to her mate Hermione used the height granted by her heels to kiss Fleur on the cheek, which seemed to snap the French Veela out of her daze.

“Mon dieu, ‘ermione,” Fleur said, looking her in the eyes. “You look stunning.”

“As do you, mon cheri,” Hermione replied, sliding her arm under Fleur’s. She looked around, then turned towards Fleur with a smirk.

“My love,” she began. “I do believe we are the best dressed here.” Fleur turned, looking at the crowd of black and white formal robes and pastel dresses. Her own was a light blue, but sharper and with a leg slit, a tight fit, and a daring neckline.

“I am inclined to agree,” she replied. “Not that we ‘ave much competition.”

“Well,” Hermione said in a breathy voice, drawing closer to Fleur. She leaned up, her warm breath tickling Fleur’s neck. “No one can compete with a veela.” Fleur turned as Hermione leaned down again, her smile predatory. Her eyes blinked yellow for a moment before returning to their baseline blue.

The two witches turned to face the front as the doors to the Great Hall swung open. The champions led the way, with Fleur at the front of them. She seemed to float through the room while Hermione swept through it despite being on Fleur’s arm. The other champion trailed behind them, Viktor stiff, Harry slouched, only Cedric carrying a semblance of dignity, striding confidently as Cho Chang floated on his arm.

The champions had a private circular table of eight seats. Fleur and Hermione walked to the end, Fleur pulling out a chair for Hermione. They sat, backs facing the wall. Not even all of Narcissa’s training on social graces could keep Hermione from twisting in her seat to look at Fleur with a contented smile.

The meal was enough of a distraction for Hermione to regain her poise, pointedly ignoring the smirks Blaise sent her way. The conversation around the table was decidedly dull. The boys and Cho were talking Quidditch, which was fine, she supposed. Better than it breaking into a fistfight, though that would have been more exciting. Parvati was ten minutes into a monologue about divination. Deciding enough was enough, Hermione turned towards Viktor’s date.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” she said, sticking out a hand. “Hermione Slytherin.”

“Freya Sverre,” the tall blonde replied. Her hair was thicker than Fleur’s, her body heavier-set, muscles more prominent. Closer to Hermione’s build than Fleur’s, though their coloring was nearly identical.

“Of the Sverre dynasty?” The woman raised an eyebrow.

“Not many remember us. Fewer still here.” Hermione smiled, but did not reply, instead waiting for Sverre to make the first move.

“In fact,” Sverre began. “I could have sworn the only books on it were written in proto-norse using elder futhark.”

“I think they are,” Hermione replied with a smile, matched by Sverre.

“Favorite alphabet?” Sverre asked, leaning forward.

“What for?”

“I’d say rituals, but those are illegal here--”

“Stupid rule,” Fleur commented, rolling her eyes. “And you British say ze French state is oppressive.” Sverre chuckled and Hermione sighed and slowly scrawled something out on a napkin before handing it to Sverre. She looked down, then looked up, eyebrows raised.

“You know Dalecarlian runes?”

“Nothing but the most obscure for my girl,” Fleur said. Hermione glared and got a smile and a kiss in response. She sighed, smiling once more. Fleur always managed to drag one from her, even when she was annoyed. Especially then.

A flicker of flame caught her attention. Sverre batted at the burning napkin for a moment before drawing her wand and dousing the flame. There was a pause as she cleared her throat and the boys returned to their quidditch conversation. Leaning over, she whispered in Hermione’s ear,

“Call me Freya.”

Chapter Text

With dinner finished and business left behind for the day, the champions stood from their table and walked towards the dance floor. Smiling, Hermione place her hand on Fleur’s back, pulling them slightly closer. Fleur’s eyebrows rose, but she said nothing. The waltz began and Hermione stepped forward, then to the side, before back and to the side again. As the rhythm repeated she began to twist slightly and vary step lengths, leading them into a graceful sloping journey across the dance floor. She raised her arm, hand pointed down from the wrist. Fleur spun out, Hermione taking short steps to follow until they rejoined and began their journey once again.

More couples joined as the song continued. Hermione directed them with a practiced ease, twisting and twirling as a pair through the narrow gaps in the crowd. Raising her arm again, Fleur began to twirl. Hermione matched her, twirling in a full circle. They met face-to-face, Fleur’s hand coming to rest on Hermione’s shoulder as Hermione’s resumed its place on Fleur’s back.

Soon after the waltz came to an end and the band picked up on another song, the Weird Sisters joined by a large ensemble accompaniment. Hermione smiled and grabbed Fleur’s arms, leading her into the dance. She detached an arm, spinning out to the side, pausing with her arm extending outwards before twirling back, catching herself on Fleur’s arm.

“Gods,” Hermione said with a laugh as Fleur looked at her, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “It’s been a long time since I danced swing.” Suddenly she turned, crossing Fleur’s arms over her as her back pressed against Fleur’s front. She dropped to the floor, sliding out, then back up onto her feet, spinning out and back in before resuming her position, dancing face-to-face with Fleur.

“Where did you learn to dance like zat?” Fleur asked incredulously.

“Muggles,” Hermione replied with a laugh. “Good trick to wear someone out. Old men always think their endurance is higher than it is.” Fleur blinked, trying to decide whether she should be mortified or laugh. In the end she went with neither, instead pulling Hermione into a tight hug, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

“You will never have to do that again,” Fleur said. Hermione tightened her hug before stepping back, wiping the forming tears from her eyes, shaking her head slightly.

“Do you think I’ll ever go a day without saying something fucked?”

“Eventually,” Fleur said. “If that’s something you want. You will never be normal though,” she added, spinning Hermione out and in, holding Hermione’s back close to her front, whispering in her ear.

“You’re better than normal.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The gardens were beautiful, Hermione dully noted in the back of her mind as she led Fleur out of the Great Hall. They had truly done something marvelous to the outside of Hogwarts, normally little more than dead grass and grey stones during the winter. Rows of neatly manicured hedges were assembled. Winter roses, winter jasmine, and camellias grew tall alongside them with a neat groundcover of snowdrops and primroses.

Hermione turned, pressing Fleur up against a wall. She looked up, her eyes open. Her walls dropped and she pulled close, leaning up, pressing her lips against Fleur’s. Her tongue pressed against Fleur’s bottom lip, begging entrance, which was shortly granted. Hermione’s tongue pressed against Fleur’s, tangling and drawing it out. Her hands gripped Fleur’s rear, pulling her closer as a hungry sound snuck through Hermione’s lips, drawing a low moan from her partner. She backed off from the kiss, her teeth drawing Fleur’s bottom lip along before releasing it.

Hermione’s hands moved, grasping Fleur’s hand and pulling her along as she led them back inside. Fleur raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Hermione pulled her towards the stairs instead of the Great Hall.

The journey went by in a flash. There was no one to interrupt them or make an odd comment, as nearly the entire school was at the dance. Hermione led the swiftly up the stairs and to the seventh floor, where she paced thrice. As the door popped into existence Fleur followed Hermione, letting her lead them into the room.

The entered and immediately Fleur was spun around and pushed back into the closed door, Hermione’s mouth on hers, their tongues entangled. Her hands rose  and wove into Hermione’s hair as Hermione’s lowered, grasping at her arse, pulling them closer. After Hermione broke the kiss Fleur breathed in, intending to catch her breath, only to have it be taken away by a pleasured gasp as Hermione kissed down her neck, nipping and biting as the skin as she went. She continued down, tracing her lips around Fleur’s cleavage before looking up with questioning eyes.

Rather than respond, Fleur slid off the straps of her dress, letting gravity take it to the floor. She shivered under Hermione’s hungry gaze as the deep brown eyes observed every inch of her body.

Her witch returned in an instant, her mouth resuming its course, one hand deftly unclipping Fleur’s bra while the other took it away before gently squeezing one of her breasts, coaxing out a moan. Hermione leaned back up at that, locking their lips once more, her tongue surging forward into Fleur’s mouth. Her hands traced around Fleur’s breasts before sneaking in, pinching and twisting her nipples. Fleur moaned again, higher as Hermione moved her mouth down, beginning to kiss one of them. Her hand trailed down as well, sliding beneath Fleur’s sodden knickers. She teased her clit as she kissed her way back up Fleur’s chest. The squeak her mate let out as she flicked her clit made Hermione chuckle into Fleur’s skin, sending another tremor down the veela’s arched back.

Slowly Hermione’s fingers picked up speed. She left Fleur’s breasts, well-covered in hickies and bites, and started once more on Fleur’s neck, kissing around it. The blonde veela leaned her head to grant Hermione better access as her breaths became shorter. Hermione smiled as her mate grew closer and closer to her climax. A moment before it would hit Hermione bit down on Fleur’s neck, hard enough to break the skin. Fleur let out a pinched shout as her orgasm was started early, Hermione’s fingers speeding up before slowing down to let her ride it out.

Smiling, Hermione removed her fingers and gave Fleur a peck on the lips before helping her to the floor. They lay there for a while before Fleur rolled into Hermione’s side and began licking her fingers clean. There was a possessive glint in her eyes, one that was matched by the predatory shine to Hermione’s. The younger witch pushed her back onto the ground before vanishing her knickers and stradling the champion’s face.

Chapter Text

Fleur awoke the next morning, her head resting comfortably on Hermione’s shoulder, an arm wrapped around her and holding her close. She smiled at her mate and debated waking her up. Her eyes roamed the room before settling on a set of blood-red feathers close to her, ones that traced under Hermione’s arms and--

“‘Ermione!” Fleur yelled, scrambling backwards.

“What?” the younger witch asked grumpily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes before taking a look around the room.

“AH!” Hermione screamed upon noticing the feathers, pushing backwards. “Ah! Right! It said that would happen.”

“What said what would ‘appen?” Fleur asked, wrapping herself in one of the bedsheets the room had kindly provided.

“The books. Erinyes first transform after claiming their mate.”

“Ah,” Fleur said, a smile growing across her face. “You certainly did that.” She laughed as Hermione’s face blushed to match the color of her wings.

“Hush,” Hermione said, not meaning it. “Right, the book said I can shift back if I just. . . focus. . . ah, there we go.” Hermione smiled and stood, having shifted back into her regular human form. “Thank the gods for strapless dresses,” she said before drawing her wand and transfiguring into a set of more normal robes. She turned and did the same thing to Fleur’s bedsheet.

“Right,” Hermione said. “This will only last a while, we should probably head back and get changed before someone notices.”

“Right,” Fleur said, biting her lip. Hermione stepped forward, her arms catching Fleur’s before they folded.

“It’s not that I’m scared to be open with you,” she said with a smile. “It’s that Slytherins take teasing to another level.”

“And you are proud to be in that house?” Fleur asked incredulously. Hermione recoiled, a scandalized expression on her face.

“Fleur!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As Hermione had predicted, her ‘friends’--both her actual friends, who numbered three, and the rest of her housemates--reacted to her sleeping in the Room of Requirement. How word had spread she did not know, though she was certainly glad that it did not spread beyond the house boundaries. If Slytherins teased in private and sent knowing smirks throughout the day, the Gryffindors would have been calling her a slag and talking about ‘reverting to her old ways.’ Or trying to hire her. That thought sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine.

“Hey,” a soft voice called from beside her. Hermione turned towards the blonde who, for the moment, had stopped squeezing the bubotuber and was simply holding it. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, grasping the plant and pushing the pus out of it. “Just thankful for the in-house rule.”

“What brought that up?”

“Thinking about how much worse today would have been if someone told the Gryffindors.” Daphne made a face that caused Bridget, who was standing across from them, to laugh so hard she dropped her tuber. Upon hitting the table the tuber went wild and began spraying pus onto Pansy Parkinson, who squealed and ran as the whole class burst into laughter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Barty Crouch had been having a normal day. Normal as a day could be for him, that was. Considering that he’d spent more than a decade under an invisibility cloak and the control of his father in his father’s basement, before exchanging that for keeping a famous auror in his own trunk to properly impersonate him in service of the greatest wizard the world had ever known, ‘normal’ was not a concept with which Barty was familiar.

His life had gotten even less normal after finding the long-lost child of his Lord. He had been one of four people to know of the child’s existence--the others being Rookwood and the parents. Both he and Rookwood had been quite surprised to learn that Bellatrix, who was renowned for seducing the wives of less competent Death Eaters, and their Lord (who had never expressed an interest in anything sexual) had created a child together. They were both relieved to learn that the pair had not actually had sex, but had instead used a complicated ritual. But after their Lord had disappeared, Karkaroff ratted out Rookwood, and he and Bella were sent to Azkaban, Barty had assumed the child had been killed by Dumbledore, one of the many tragic casualties in pursuit of the “Greater Good.”

Finding the child had instead been unofficially adopted by the Malfoys (and had a gods-be-damned Occamy as a familiar) was mind-boggling. Even more so was that at the age of fifteen she knew enough dark magic to not only know of horcruxes and the Triarch’s Ritual, but to suggest improvements.

Improvements which he now held in his hand. Improvements which looked like they might work. Improvements which came with the note, “ If I’m going to have a father, he’d bloody well not be insane. ”

Well. She’d certainly inherited her mother’s boldness.

Chapter Text

Hermione read the Daily Prophet as she ate breakfast, trying not to be distracted by Fleur’s arm around her waist. The main article today--which she was sure Fleur hadn’t seen, since her . . . girlfriend? was rather relaxed--was yet another reminder that creatures were not welcome in wizarding society. Hermione didn’t think there was anything wrong with a half-giant being around children. Gods knew Madame Maxine was better at running a school than Dumbledore, and while she wouldn’t pick Hagrid to run a class, he wasn’t a danger to students. The creatures he brought in, yes, but not him.

“What iz zat?” Fleur spat. Oh great, Hermione thought. She spotted it. Fleur’s accent while still distinct, had become far lighter over the last few months. When she became angry, however, it was a different story.

“Secret parent. . . dangerous to student. . . liability. . . zat utter bitch! I ought to kill ‘er for zis!”

“Fleur,” Hermione said warningly.

“What iz zo wrong with a little extra talent?!”

“Fleur--”

“Iz not like she iz a manticore or actually dangerous--”

“Fleur!”

“Hmm?”

“Fleur,” Hermione said, gently this time. “You can’t say things like this in the Great Hall. You never know who might be listening.” Fleur sighed and slumped down, leaning on Hermione.

“How did she even find out?” Fleur asked. “Zere is no way zat conversation was had anywhere close to public.”

“Hmm,” Hermione said, her left hand gliding through Fleur’s hair. “That’s a good question. How would you spy on someone?”

“Fly above them?”

“Maybe, but that’s easily spotted, and there have been no trespassing complaints regarding Rita Skeeter.”

“Invisibility cloak?”

“Possibly, but that’s rather expensive for a Daily Prophet reporter, isn’t it?” Fleur shrugged.

“Disillusionment charm could do it,” Hermione mused.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“They prefer girls,” Professor Grubby-Plank was saying. “The younger ones, whose coats are still gold, can tolerate boys.” Hermione followed along, only partially paying attention. Unicorns had once graced the crest of the House of Black, before her ancestors decided to anglicize themselves. As the professor talked, Hermione simply stared. The unicorns were gorgeous, their soft silver fur shining, their horns sharp and deadly. Beauty and death, going hand in hand. Hermione gave a chuckle at that, drawing one of the unicorns’ attention. It looked at her with purple eyes, meeting her own. It whinnied slightly, as if calling for her. Hermione stepped closer, unaware that her professor had authorized doing so a few moments prior. The unicorn gently butted her with the side of its head. Hermione smiled and ran a hand down its back, then along its side.

We will be there for you, Princess of the Highlands, a voice called. Hermione looked at the unicorn, mouth agape. It whinied. Yes, we can communicate. Most humans are simply unworthy of it.

“Why me?” Hermione asked in a whisper.

You are creature, the unicorn nickered. You are royal. You are kind when possible, deadly where needed. You are heiress of druids.

Hermione blinked, fighting back gathering moisture in her eyes. These beautiful beings had chosen her as theirs, not out of obligation, but because they found her worthy. Her first followers and allies. Hermione smiled and resumed petting the unicorn. Her first, but not her last.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione jiggled her leg, watching anxiously as the champions stretched. The knots in her shoulders that the presence of unicorns had helped shrink grew back with a vengeance. It felt like every muscle of hers was either tensed or moving.

Unlike the rest of the spectators, Hermione knew what was going to happen. The organizers had originally wanted to use her as Fleur’s hostage. Hermione’s trust issues quickly put a stop to that. Fred and George, the Weasleys who had been sent to collect her, had been disarmed and bound before they finished their explanation. In her defense, they had started the conversation with, “Hi, we’re here to kidnap you.” Even after the explanation Hermione had refused. She refused to be trapped, made unconscious, and forced to entrust Dumbledore with her well-being.

Fortunately, while the champions had little choice in participation, there was no contractual obligation for Hermione to involve herself, something she had forcefully reminded the organizers. Unfortunately, their second choice was Gabrielle. Hermione had apologized to her, but Gabby was ecstatic to be participating in such a famous tournament. She had been forbidden from sharing any of the knowledge she had gained with Fleur. She had promptly ignored that, informing Fleur of what was happening as soon as she returned to the Room of Requirement, and telling her that the organizers promised nothing bad would happen to her sister. Despite those assurances, both of them had been incredibly nervous. At least Fleur could do something about that.

Hermione watched Fleur with her brows furrowed. She heard Ludo Bagman’s loud, “THREE! TWO! ONE! START!” Fleur placed a bubblehead charm on herself, followed by a warming charm, and leapt into the water.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The water was cold even with the warming charm. Swimming in the ocean may have given Fleur the skills to deal with this task, but it hardly prepared her for just how cold Scottish waters could be.

Fleur continued swimming, bushing herself deeper and deeper, away from the other champions.

“ Ventus maxima, ” she whispered. A surge of pressure flew through the water, changing the currents. Keeping her wand at the ready, Fleur began swimming again, pushed along by the helpful current. A grindylow came swimming towards her. Fleur halted its advance with a silent stunner. The current slowed. Fleur pointed her wand behind her.

“ Ventus Maxima .” The helpful flow of water returned. Hermione had warned her that it would slightly help her opponents, though not as much as her. It also made dodging the local wildlife easier. Fleur sailed by one grindylow, then dodged another as she kept swimming.

The merfolk’s village was quite the sight. Underwater structures, built entirely out of bedrock and coral, formed perhaps two dozen houses. A wall encompassed the village with four towers watching the higher waters. Fleur swam through the gates, avoiding the houses in favor of the clear tournament path. Four merfolk stood around the ‘hostages.’ Fleur hoped she didn’t have to fight them. She nodded respectfully as she approached her sister. They nodded back.

Two severing charms later, Fleur swam out of the village, sister in her arms. She could see Cedric nearing the village, coming from above. She passed over the walls, then pointed her wand downwards.

“ Ventus maxima. ” The blast of force shoved Fleur and her sister closer to the surface. “ Ventus maxima ,” she cast again, flying closer to the finishing beach. One more spell and they were at the surface, Fleur swimming as she dragged her sister to shore.

“Gabby,” Fleur began once they reached the surface, Ludo Bagman’s voice in the background. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes,” her diminutive sister said, waving her off. She looked around. “Oh! You came up first! Fleur, that’s so great! I didn’t think you would, not after you lost the swimming--”

“Shut up,” Fleur said with a smile, pulling her sister into her tight embrace. “I just saved you, be grateful.”

“Fleur!” a voice called. The sisters turned, Fleur embracing Hermione as she came closer. “That was incredible! The spells worked even better than I thought, and you’re a much better swimmer than you said! I thought you said you swam like an arthritic ninty-year-old!”

“Ah,” Fleur said with a sheepish grin. “I may ‘ave been exaggerated.”

“Fleur!” Hermione said, punching her in the arm. “Don’t do that! I was worried!” Fleur raised an eyebrow.

“And you wouldn't have been if I said I was a good swimmer?”

“Well, no,” Hermione said, blushing. “I worry about you--everyone else--”

“‘Ermione,” Gabby said, interjecting. “There’s a bug on your ‘ead!” Hermione slapped her hand to her head, quickly grabbing the bug, holding it in her hands. It tried to fly out, but failed. It then tried to pry her fingers apart, tickling them. Hermione frowned. It was far too smart for a normal bug. Her eyes widened as she took in the shading around its eyes.

“ Stupify, ” she whispered. The beetle fell limp. “Fleur,” she said, turning towards her mate. “Our usual place, as soon as you can.” Fleur nodded, more than a little confused, and turned to watch the judges’ scores.

Chapter Text

Fleur entered the Room of Requirement, still trying to figure out what her mate wanted to talk about. She hoped it wasn’t anything too serious.

The room was different than where they normally stayed. There were no bookshelves, instead cartons full of old newspapers. Books on animagus registration sat at the desk.

“Ah! Fleur!” Hermione said, walking around a bookshelf. They embraced for a moment before Fleur asked,

“Hermione, what is this?”

“Right! Follow me,” she said, leading Fleur around one of the shelves. They walked towards the back of the room, took a corner, and Fleur gasped. Sitting in a glass container was a bedraggled, unhappy, and pissed-off Rita Skeeter.

“Hermione?” Fleur asked. “Did you kidnap her?”

“It depends how you look at it,” Hermione replied, before turning back to the writer. “Remember the bug Gabby pointed out?”

“Yes?”

“Remember how you said there was no way Hagrid and Madame Maxine’s conversation was in public?”

“Yes.” Hermione turned back towards her, a feral grin on her face.

“Turns out she had a secret trick. A secret, not-so-legal trick.” She turned back to the box. “Rita darling, would you shift for us?” The reporter sighed, and a moment later was replaced by a tiny beetle.

“She’s an animagus?!” Fleur asked, incredulous.

“She is,” Hermione said, smiling. “And what a very fitting form. But more importantly, she is an illegal animagus. Rita here isn’t registered with the ministry. She can’t be if she wants to keep getting those inside scoops no one else can.”

“What are you going to do?” Fleur questioned. Hermione shrugged.

“ We  are going to make a deal. If,” Hermione said, biting her lip. “You’re okay with this.” Fleur rolled her eyes.

“‘Ermione, I grew up as literal wizarding nobility. This might be the shadiest way I’ve ever dealt with a journalist, but I’m sure that’s not true for much of my family.”

“Good,” Hermione said with a smile. “Now then, Rita,” she said, turning back to the journalist. “Here’s the deal. You don’t write anything negative about me, Fleur, or our families. Ever. If there’s bad news about us, you spin it positive as much as possible. Understood?” The woman growled, but nodded all the same. “Good. I’m also giving you your next story, since this one turned out to be a bust.”

“Oh?” Rita asked, standing up and walking towards them, still trapped within the box. “What do you have that’s so newsworthy?”

“I’ll tell you,” Hermione said. “After you sign the contract.” With a quick movement of her wand, Hermione switched the location of a wooden box and the chair within Rita’s larger, clear-walled box. The journalist opened it cautiously, taking out an inkwell, a quill, and a contract. Reading it over, she nodded twice, checked for glamours, compulsions, and other magic, sighed, and signed. Hermione smiled and switched the chair for the contract. Using her own quill and ink, she also signed. Fleur signed after her, a ring of magic enveloping each of them afterwards.

“Right then,” Hermione said. “We don’t need your cage anymore.” Not a moment after Hermione finished, the box was gone, much to Rita and Fleur’s astonishment. Hermione smiled at them. “It’s a very special room. Now Rita, about your next story.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Language Banned at Hogwarts! Dumbledore’s Secret Bigotry!

Those who attended Hogwarts in the last few years may remember half-blood Sterling McCubbin, a young Ravenclaw who was on track to be prefect. “He was a good lad,” Professor Minerva McGonagall said. “Diligent worker, clever about it too. Managed to get real detail into his transfigurations.”

“Brilliant student,” Professor Fillius Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw House said of McCubbin. “Bit distracted, always had six or seven projects going on. Never slacked off though. Always managed to put a little something extra in his spells.”

“He was a good friend,” one of his Housemates said. “Helped me with Charms. Probably got me from an A to an EE.” Other descriptions of McCubbin were “friendly,” “pleasant,” “helpful,” and “wicked smart.” All who knew him were shocked that he did not return for his fifth year. None of the students I spoke to knew why, much to my surprise. Even Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had not been informed of McCubbin’s fate.

Three days before the Hogwarts Express left for London, Sterling McCubbin was talking to Craig Dunn, a Hufflepuff and son of businessman Malcom Dunn. Both live near Craig Phadrig, a wizard enclave near the muggle town of Inverness. Nearby were Padma and Pravati Patil, twin daughters of Arun and Sadvini Patil.

“We were chatting, talking about our summer plans,” Padma said. “Sterling and his friend were nearby, I think doing the same thing.”

“It was crazy,” Pravati added. “One moment we’re just talking, the next the headmaster and Professor Snape were grabbing both of them and hauling them towards his office.”

According to Hogwarts school records, both Sterling McCubbin and Craig Dunn were expelled after a formal hearing for the crime of, “speaking a forbidden language.”

“It’s mad,” McCubbin said. “Just cause I say something in Scottish--at a school in Scotland, I might add--I’m expelled? Rowena Ravenclaw spoke Scottish!”

“I have no comment on whether or not my son spoke in Scots Gaelic on any occasion,” Malcolm Dunn said when asked for comment. “I will, however, say that banning languages--especially languages spoken by some of our finest ancestors--is something Hogwarts and the Ministry have no business doing.”

That’s right dear readers. Scots Gaelic isn’t only banned at Hogwarts, but by the Ministry of Magic as well. Other languages banned by the ministry include Irish, Welsh, Kentish, Cornish, and Breton. Speaking these languages, all Celtic in origin, carries a heavy penalty. Each word carries a sentence of 5000 galleons and/or six months in Azkaban. Over the last forty years, fourteen students have been expelled for speaking these languages and seven people have been sentenced to Azkaban. Azkaban, for saying a single word--one unrelated to a spell at that--seems rather ludicrous. Surely the ministry has some reason for such a heavy punishment? No, dear readers, it seems not. Rather than anything to do with protection, these languages remain banned as punishment for events long since past.

Irish was banned in 1691 to punish the Irish for opposing the Ministry’s total control over the Irish wizarding population. Scots Gaelic was banned in 1720 as punishment for Scottish wizards’ support of the former monarchy. Welsh was banned in 1724 after an official in Cardiff called for greater regional autonomy. Kentish, Cornish, Breton, and other “heathen” languages were banned as well to cover up the political motivation.

After languages the Ministry, attempting to create a single, Anglo-Christian culture, began banning ceremonies. They started small, with Lughnasadh, a celtic harvest festival. Over the course of several decades, spells and rituals associated with celtic culture were banned under the guise of protecting the populace from “dark-magic weilding heathens,” to quote the Internal Security Act of 1745.

The ministry has come a long way from the blatant language it used in 1745. In 1883, Ogham (also known as the Celtic Tree language) was banned after claims by the Ministry that it was being used by Dark Wizards to harm the production of potion ingredients. There was and is no evidence to suggest this.

Now you might be asking, dear readers, how this happened. After all, the Wizengamot’s role is to protect from such overreaches of power. And you would be correct--the Wizengamot can undo these laws. However, since 1688 the number of Celtic families on the Wizengamot has fallen from an average of thirty to the low single digits. With their demise, there was and is nothing to stop the Ministry from doing as it pleases.

The cultural annihilation that the Old Alliance fears didn’t start when the Ministry banned Yule, Ostara, Litha, and Mabon in 1946. The Ministry’s attempt to destroy cultures has been going on for centuries and shows no sign of stopping. Best of luck out there dear readers.

Me, Myself, and I, is syndicated column written by Rita Skeeter that appears in numerous newspapers and magazines internationally.

“Well then,” Hermione said, looking up from the paper and glancing around the Great Hall. Dumbledore was glaring at someone. Snape seemed to have a sneer plastered onto his face as he devoutly ignored the furious whispers of Flitwick and McGonagall nearby. Most of the students seemed to be eating, though a substantial number were communicating in harsh whispers. Hermione smiled. Another job well done.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore was furious. He couldn’t show it, of course, not here and not now. Banning those heathen rituals had been the work of several lifetimes, a duty handed down from father to son amongst the Allied Houses. There weren’t many of them left, not now. There was Moody, but the old auror wasn’t what he used to be. Fleamont Potter had been one of their best, managing to take runes off the mandatory curriculum and heighten the standards for the teachers to obscene levels. Now Hogwarts was the only school in the kingdom with an Ancient Runes class, and they spent most of their time on translations, one of Euphemia’s brilliant ideas. Unfortunately, James hadn’t inherited his father’s political abilities. Even worse, he and Lily seemed to share some of his uncle Charlus’ sensibilities. There was a reason the bastard had married into the Blacks, perhaps the last openly heathen house.

The Prewetts would still side with them, but they were far weaker now than they were. The twins had died, Molly had seven children to look after. Good Lord! Albus appreciated the commandment to be fruitful and multiply, but Molly and Arthur were doing enough work for three. Which was just as well, considering Albus had no children of his own.

The worst thing was that it had come from nowhere. Albus had been gearing up for Tom’s return, something he’d always known was coming. Why else would he have bothered to involve himself so much in politics the last decade? Surely not for the pleasure of Cornelius Fudge’s company. He’d drawn the battle lines well, even perfectly, to fight against the Dark. Now the field was thrown into chaos. Tom was still coming back, and there would be a war, no doubt. Only there were now two fronts, not just the one. Albus had been so focused on fighting the Dark that he had forgotten about the heathens.

He needed to meet with Severus. The boy clearly knew something, something important. Something he was hiding from Albus. He’d been over to see Lucius during the Christmas break. If it had just been Lucius panicking about Tom (something Albus was certain the old peacock was doing, if he wasn’t steeped in denial) Severus would have told him already. Which meant there was something else. Given how potent this new group’s opening shot had been (and that Albus had no idea who was behind it) he couldn’t afford to let even the smallest bit of information slip through his fingers. 

Albus would not lose the coming war. Either of them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione was exhausted. She had completed an immense amount of paperwork over the past week, filing for full emancipation in both the magical and muggle worlds. On top of that she had filled out the paperwork to claim her ladyships--all six of them--the forms to pay the dues to be seated accordingly on the Wizengamot, the forms to take control of the familial, ancestral, and personal vaults of the various houses while still allowing the goblins to manage them; the forms granting her access to her various properties, the forms to legally possess the ancestral portkeys to her various abodes, the paperwork that accompanied her rather extravagant warding, repairs, and furnishing purchase from Gringotts; and, of course, there was her correspondence with the wizarding members of the Provisional IRA, the ILA, and the ‘Official’ IRA; as well as the more legitimate members and associates of Sinn Fein, Plaid Cymru, and the SNP; and, of course, independence sympathisers in majority Scottish, Welsh, and Irish units of the British Armed Forces and influential wixen in Scotland, Ireland, and Wales.

It was a heavy load, but one she needed to take on, especially with likely military conflict growing closer.

Which is what brought her to a largely abandoned mansion on the outskirts of a minor muggle settlement. A rather ironic place for the orphan-turned Dark Lord to be hiding, but even he could place necessity over style upon occasion. Rarely, if what Hermione recalled from her history books was correct.

Barty was, once again, providing her cover story. Officially, she had detention with him, helping the paranoid old man he masqueraded as gather materials in the Forbidden Forest. It was a good cover, she admitted begrudgingly.

“My Lord,” Barty said, dropping to his knee. Hermione bit back a sigh.

“Father,” she remarked, remaining standing. “You mentioned a need to coordinate plans?”

“Yess, my daughter,” the Dark Lord hissed. “Barty informed me of your opening strike.”

“It weakens him in the eyes of his allies,” Hermione said.

“And strengthens him with some of mine,” he snapped. “Yaxley, Burke--”

“Not yet,” Hermione interjected. “The article made no move towards reviving the Old Faith, only legalizing languages and rituals. Dumbledore and his merry men are coming for their rituals too these days.”

“Perhaps,” the Dark Lord mused. “Nonetheless, you should have consulted with me beforehand. You may be my heir, but I am still the Dark Lord.”

“Of course, father,” Hermione replied. She may not like submitting, but even as a decrepit homunculus, her father held more power--both politically and magically--than she did.

“How go your preparations?”

“They go well. I will officially become Lady Black, Gaunt, Peverell, Ravenclaw, Rosier, and Slytherin by the third task. The militias seem increasingly willing to return to violence. The politicians will take longer, but progress is being made.”

“Will they form an alliance?” Hermione suppressed a grimace, instead taking in a breath and forcing her face to remain calm.

“Not directly,” she replied after a moment’s pause. “Many of them fought against you in the last war. Most, I think, would ally with an ally of yours, however.”

“You,” the Dark Lord said, narrowing his eyes.

“If that is your wish,” Hermione replied, struggling to keep the smirk off her face. There was a pause as the Dark Lord stared at his daughter while she stared back. What they were looking for, Barty had no idea. From their identical smirks they both seemed to have found it.

“Well played,” the Dark Lord said softly. 

“Father,” Hermione said, dipping into a slight bow. She exited the room, leaving the Dark Lord alone with his most trusted servant.

“Ironic, isn’t it,” the Dark Lord said. Barty froze, not knowing if this was something he should respond to, or one of his master’s soliloquies. His dramatic side was not solely reserved for the war. “I make her to have an heir, yet her claims come from Bella’s family. It seems I chose her mother well.”

“My lord?” Barty asked, deeply confused.

“The Mormaers of Mar, Bartemius,” the Dark Lord explained. “Through them the Blacks can claim descent from Robert the Bruce and Llewelyn the Great both. Through another route they are descendents of the House of Alpin. A most enticing leader for the diminished Celtic faction, wouldn’t you say? Made all the more for being Rowena’s prophesied heir.” He paused, a forked tongue emerging to scent the air.

“She may be using her mother’s blood, but she is still my heir,” the Dark Lord declared. “What could be more Slytherin than using the Light to aid a Dark Lord?”

Chapter Text

“It’s getting darker,” Karkaroff hissed, and it took all of Hermione’s willpower not to laugh.

Of course it’s getting darker, she thought, unable to prevent a smirk from forming. He’s coming back . Did they truly think he wouldn’t?

“Karkaroff,” Snape sneered. “I am teaching a class.”

“ Do you know what this means? ” Karkaroff asked through his teeth. Snape glared at him, and for a good reason. The man was practically waving his bared arm around, and unlike at Durmstrang, those bearing the Dark Mark were hardly welcome at Hogwarts.

“Get. Out.” Karkaroff scrambled to get away from his far more deadly former colleague. Snape, for his part, turned to glare out at the class. Fortunately for Hermione, she had not been the only one eavesdropping on his conversation, though she had been far more subtle than some of the others. Potter and Weasley, for example, had practically thrown themselves over each other trying to listen. Their antics gave her ample time to return to her potion, making it seem that she had never been interested. Fools truly were their own worst enemies.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione’s face relaxed as she shifted. It had taken quite a bit of practice to get to this point, but it was well-worth the effort. It was still somewhat painful, but more like popping a joint than anything else.

Hermione grew several inches as she shifted, bones snapping into place. From around her shoulderblades, two large wings burst into existence, blood-red feathers covering the bone and flesh as they materialized. Rolling her head, Hermione flexed her wings, smiling as they unfurled to their full length. Carefully, she bent forwards, picking up a small scalpel. She gingerly moved her arm under her wing, watching carefully in the mirror. She bit back a wince as the scalpel broke through her skin, cutting out a single feather, blood coating the nib.

After applying the antiseptic, Hermione shifted back, the cut-out feather placed next to the coreless blackthorn wand on a small desk. She relaxed briefly as she shrunk, her wings once more disappearing. Picking up the scalpel, still coated in blood, she began carving further runes into the unfinished wand, carefully referencing them against the books. Despite reading up on them for this project, futhark and futhorc were not her specialties. She could probably manage without them, but runes were not something one ought do on the basis of probabilities.

Gently caressing the feather, Hermione wrapped it around the wand, sending a current of magical energy towards them. In a flash the feather disappeared, trapped within the wand as its core. The final runes of the wand wrote themselves against the wood, carving into it with definitive strokes. An unbroken circle near the base of the wand completed the markings, another flare of magic bursting from the wand before it settled. Hesitantly, Hermione picked up the wand, carefully placing it in her protected box, next to the elm and yew wands. All three wands completed, she locked the box, sealing it with a parselmagic ward she had learned from Slytherin’s manuscripts.

Standing up, Hermione stretched out her back, rolling her shoulders to relieve some of the tension she’d been carrying around. Checking the time, she still had a half-hour before Fleur would show up. With a smirk on her lips and a hungry glint to her eyes, Hermione began reconfiguring the room.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fleur walked into the Room of Requirement, fully expecting to see either a makeshift bedroom or her mate hunched over a desk, obsessively reading or working. Possibly both.

Instead she found, along with a comfortable-looking bed, a pile of rope on said bed, a handful of crops and whips nearby, a Saint Andrew’s cross against the wall, and her mate pacing nervously. Hearing Fleur clearing her throat, Hermione spun towards her, blushing heavily as Fleur arched an eyebrow, pointedly looking around the room.

“I, uh, I maybe wanted to try something?” Hermione said, rushing out at the end. “I, well, I mean we don’t have to--if you’re not--it’s, well--”

“‘Ermione,” Fleur said, cutting her off with a smirk. “I ‘ave no complaints about adding BDSM elements, but this is ze kind of thing you ‘ave to talk about first.”

“I know,” Hermione said. “I just thought it’d be easier to jump-start the conversation this way.”

“Which role were you thinking of?” Fleur asked. “I am, I believe the english term is, switch? Zo I prefer being a sub,” she added, mumbling. Hermione met her eyes for the first time since the conversation started. The amethyst flecks seemed to take over her eyes as they gleamed with lust and hunger, a wave of heat pushing onto Fleur’s core.

“Excellent,” Hermione purred, the intensity of her eyes making Fleur blush and look aside. “Do you have a word?” Fleur hummed for a moment before responding.

“Haricot for pause, Aurors for stop?” she suggested, and Hermione nodded.

“We can talk more later. For now, I want to tie you down and tease and fuck you til the sound of my name on your lips is all you can remember. Sound good?’ Fleur nodded eagerly, quickly stripping out of her uniform as Hermione stalked towards her, forcing her up against the bed and pushing her down on it.

“I’ve been doing some research,” Hermione said, smirk audible in her tone. “When Seiu Ito began popularizing kinbaku, one of his biggest buyers was a witch. Of course, she wasn’t satisfied with just looking at kinbaku,” Hermione added. “She found a way of incorporating her magic into the ropes, binding her subs with more than simple twine.” Fleur shivered at her tone, listening closely as Hermione whispered a few words, her right hand stroking the ropes. They glowed as her magic began passing through the strands, strengthening the ties. Fleur gasped as warm tendrils crept around her wrists. The magic seemed to trickle down her skin, its heat teasing. Hermione moved to straddle her, her mate’s mouth kissing along the side of Fleur’s neck, hands teasing around her breasts, never on them. She seemed determined to drive Fleur into a whimpering, begging state, and she was already getting close.

Hermione bit back a groan as her naked, gorgeous mate arched her back into Hermione’s touch, straining against the magic-woven ropes. For her part, Hermione lifted her hand as Fleur moved, relishing in the soft whimper her mate made at the sudden lack of stimulation. Smirking, Hermione tsked as she looked down at her mate.

“No moving love,” Hermione said. Fleur whimpered at the impossible command. Feeling bold Hermione drew a single finger across her wet folds, drawing them back immediately as Fleur bolted upwards, straining at the ropes. Her mate lowered back onto the bed and Hermione started again, focusing on her partner’s tits to the detriment of her pussy, much to Fleur’s frustration. But, then again, that was much of the point.

After twenty minutes of biting, twisting, pulling, caressing, teasing, licking, and sucking on Fleur’s breasts, Hermione finally, finally , turned her focus back to Fleur’s cunt. By this point desperate for release, Fleur strained against her bonds in attempt to keep herself in place. She tensed her muscles to lock them in place, an effort that grew more and more difficult as Hermione continued teasing her. She maintained her stillness when a single finger entered her dripping folds, drawing a long moan from her. The second finger entered suddenly, Hermione’s other hand coming to wrap around and pull at her hair in the same moment, and Fleur arched her back, her moans loud enough they drowned out even the sound of Hermione’s fingers furiously fucking her.

Fleur came soon, and hard, Hermione dragging out her orgasm as she continued to play with her. She didn’t stop when Fleur flopped against the bed, instead picking up the pace. Fleur’s sensitive walls sent waves of pleasure through her, causing her to arch her back skyward again and buck her hips. By the third orgasm the pleasure was so intense it was overwhelming, and after the fourth Fleur was forced into using her safeword.

Breathing heavily, Fleur barely noticed the powerful display of magic as Hermione wandlessly and wordlessly banished the ropes. Instead she burrowed into her less-exhausted mate, gratefully accepting the Rehydration Potion and taking a long drink. Her mate, having long since stripped out of her clothes (her self-induced orgasm coincided with Fleur’s third, though the veela was too far gone to pay much attention) eagerly accepted Fleur’s affection, wrapping her arm around the older witch as the cuddled amidst the sweat-drenched bedsheets.

It had been, undeniably, a very good day.

Chapter Text

Most students didn’t leave Hogwarts for Easter Break (as the light, christian faction-leader Albus Dumbledore insisted upon calling it). The five-day break (two of them being the weekend) simply wasn’t worth it, especially to those students who weren’t Christian. Among the minority who did leave the castle, very few of them spent any part of their break visiting remote, desolate islands in the North Sea.

Then again, Hermione Slytherin was not most people. This was highlighted by the fact that she had, just the day before, officially taken her seats as Lady Slytherin-Black-Peverell-Rosier-Gaunt-Ravenclaw. It had taken a vote by the full Wizengamot, but with Dumbledore fortunately busy at Hogwarts he had been unable to interfere. Really, Hermione needed to write McGonagall a thank-you note for that.

That, however, was an issue for another time. Preferably after leaving this gods-forsaken rock.

Hermione arrived at Azkaban in a non-traditional manner, momentarily hovering a foot above before falling onto the prison roof. Making sure neither the engraved wooden portkeys nor the wands were damaged, she slipped into her animagus form and began searching for holes. Between the prisoners, the guards, and the remote location, Azkaban had seen little maintenance over the centuries, and none for the past few decades. As such it was rather simple to slip through the rooftop’s holes and slither into the maximum-security section. Really, Azkaban needed new management.

Making her way down the wall without falling was a much more difficult task. Fortunately the walls were nearly as weathered as the rooftop, giving just enough purchase to make the journey possible, if extremely uncomfortable and nerve-wracking. A fall from fifteen feet could easily damage or kill her if she stayed in her animagus form, and the dementors could do far worse if she shifted back too soon.

Hermione’s instinct was to take her mother first. But as much as she wanted ( longed, craved , her thoughts corrected) meeting her mother, it was for those same reasons she needed to be the last. Thus, she slithered across the floor, taking care to avoid the underside of the dementor’s cloaks as they floated by. Even as a horned serpent the beings still gave her chills.

She reached Rookwood first. Her father trusted him, enough to tell him of her existence, and he was a powerful and intelligent man. Hopefully enough to keep the second person at the rendezvous-point until she could return.

Slipping through the bars and into his cell, Hermione returned to her human form only briefly, thrusting the engraved portkey into his hands and activating it before returning to her serpent form. A note would await the man, and would hopefully satisfy (or interest) him enough to keep him there.

Back in her serpent form, Hermione repeated the process with Antonin Dolohov, then slithered her way back. By this point the dementors were getting antsy, having sensed the appearance of one soul twice and the disappearance of two souls separately. Hermione moved quickly as they gathered in outrage, slipping through the bars of her mother’s cage and shifting back.

Bellatrix Black had noticed the serpent moving down the wall when it first arrived. She had seen it slither off, and at first had taken it to be no more than a peculiar snake, until the dementors began to gather. Obvious something had happened, and the snake was most likely an animagus. After all, that was how dearest cousin Siri had escaped. Perhaps someone was attempting a rescue by the same means.

Bellatrix was no fool. She had watched eagerly as the mark darkened. It had happened slowly at first, but the last two years had greatly accelerated it, and now it was bordering on a dark brown. Not the black it would be when He returned in full, but close enough to know it would happen soon. She wondered if this animagus was helping Him, or simply collecting imprisoned relatives before His jailbreak forced prisoners to choose sides.

Not for a moment had she considered the animagus to be the person before her. She looked almost like Bellatrix had at Hogwarts, her hair the same pitch-black curls, her skin the same pale porcelain color, her lips just as full and red. Her eyes were different, a dark brown with amethyst flecks, and she was taller (if only slightly), but other than that it was like looking in a mirror, set more than two decades back.

“Mum.” The voice drew Bellatrix out of her keen observations, drawing her attention to the moment. Dementors were swarming around them, and the girl in front of her was holding a slab of wood engraved with--was that Ogham? And she had just called her mum .

“Gwen?” Bellatrix asked, unable to keep the question from her lips. She might be the Dark Lord’s most loyal, fervent follower, His most potent enforcer, but all that meant little compared to how devoted she had been to her child, to their child. All of it taken away when she was told her perfect babe had died.

The girl’s eyes filled with tears and her lip trembled slightly. A howl of rage from a nearby dementor reminded them of the circumstances. The girl (for Bellatrix needed confirmation before calling her Gwen or daughter, she could not go through all that again) grasped Bellatrix’s arm, pulling her close.

“Hold tight,” she said, as if Bellatrix would do anything else with the girl who could be her daughter. “ Glauis .” In a whirl of colors much unlike the portkeys she was used to, they disappeared.

They reappeared in a field, landing smoothly (compared to other portkeys, at least). Bellatrix stumbled slightly, but pushed herself away from the girl, barely taking in the presence of Rookwood and Dolohov.

“Y-you, are you--” she began, and the girl nodded slightly. That was all it took for Bellatrix to wrap her in a bone-crushing embrace, ignoring all the rules of polite pureblood conduct.

“I--I thought,” Bellatrix began to say, and the girl--Gwen, her daughter--cut her off.

“I know,” she said softly. “It hasn’t been easy, but I’m alive. I’m here, you’re here, that’s what matters, right?” It was clear to Bellatrix there was much her daughter wasn’t saying, but now was hardly the time to press. Instead she sucked in the joy of being reunited with her daughter, their magic blending in a way that alleviate any doubts she might have held.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Dolohov’s accented voice cut in. He drew both witch’s attentions, turning them towards him and a stunned, shocked Rookwood whose eyes were filling with tears. “But what exactly is going on?”

“Ah,” her daughter said. “Yes, I suppose introductions are in order. I am Gwendolin Morgana Athena Slytherin Black, though I also go by Hermione Slytherin and Lady Slytherin-Black-Peverell-Rosier-Gaunt-Ravenclaw, daughter of Bellatrix Black and the Dark Lord.” She smirked as Dolohov’s jaw dropped. Rookwood’s did too, and she was certain even her mother was surprised, both by the sheer number of titles and the alias. “I also have wands for you three.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Rookwood said after taking a moment to recover his senses. He gingerly accepted the wand being offered, surprised at how well it fit him, shown by the ray of ivory sparks that flew from it as he grasped the hilt. Dolohov’s fit well too, it would seem, if the blood-red sparks dripping from his wand were any indication. It was Bellatrix’s though, that surpassed them all. Not that this was any surprise to Rookwood, given her general power and aptitude. Upon grasping her wand a golden light filled the room, its edges tinges with a bloody crimson. Her wand seemed to shake for a moment before accepting her, the golden and blood-red light streaming back into the wand.

“How--” he began, but the lady cut them off.

“I read you before the rescue,” she answered, as if that ended the matter. Which he supposed it did, barring that it was extremely difficult to do so using normal means. Then again, the portkeys were based in Ogham (he had carefully examined them while waiting for the mysterious rescuer’s return) so he doubted she would listen to a ministry ban on norse rune-bones.

“I haven’t felt a wand this powerful,” Bellatrix murmured. “Not even my last one, and that held the heart of an ancient dragon.”

“Blackthorn,” her daughter answered. “With a blooded Erinyes feather.”

“Those only follow family,” Rookwood cautiously stated, and the daughter smirked.

“Well,” she said. “She is my mother.”

Chapter Text

Hermione’s declaration on her identity as an Erinyes had not gone overly well. Her power was admired, of course, but Rookwood’s explanation of how it could have gone dormant so long in the Black family line (the most likely suspects, since Slytherin already held another trait) incited a rage in Bellatrix that left most of the field scorched or pulverised. To be an Erinyes, Rookwood had reported, one had to suffer traumatic abuse and had commit a righteous murder, both before the age of eleven. In addition to having the requisite bloodline, of course.

It had taken the better part of an hour for Bellatrix to work through her anger, and even then she was still fuming, though it was down to an acceptable level. Hermione would take it.

“Where are we?” Dolohov asked after Bellatrix had finally calmed down.

“We are currently outside one of my properties,” Hermione replied. “Clogaid Cruaidh, ancestral home of the House of Black.”

“You restored it?” Bellatrix asked incredulously. “We haven’t lived here since--”

“1748,” Hermione finished. “I know. It’s time we stopped pretending to be English.” Not waiting for a response, Hermione flourished her wand. In a shimmering light the illusory shield fell, revealing the castle. Hewn of great black rocks, imbued by centuries of wards, the castle sat on the southern shore of Black Isle. It had been their family’s home since the third century. The wards were ancient, tall, and powerful, charged by the ley-line that ran through the Great Glen. They were matched by the tall black walls that housed the towering keep. Hard Helm was an impregnable fortress, or at the least had been before it was abandoned. The walls were thick and hardened by magic, the wards surrounding the castle in a giant dome that reached far above the central keep’s eighty yards. Towers jutted out of the walls, connected to the keep’s upper levels by level causeways supported by arches underneath. The whole building hummed with magical power.

The quartet stepped towards the castle and were nearly overwhelmed when they felt the wards washing over them. Hermione and Bellatrix felt the warm welcome of home, a tight embrace from a long-lost ancestor. Dolohov and Rookwood froze at the touch, a sense of warning and caution overwhelming them. The wards would be watching, they were warned. Black blood would not be spilled on these grounds.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione left the trio of freed Death Eaters after showing them their rooms. Clothes were there as well, fitted to each of the three. There were house elves to serve them. While Hermione wished she could spend more time with her mother, or pick Rookwood’s brain about banned magics, she needed to establish her alibi. Thus, with a long walk and a faint pop, she disappeared. In another house she would have used one of her house-elves to avoid the walk, but Clogaid Cruaidh was warded against such magics.

Hermione arrived outside the Malfoy’s gate and let herself in. It had been an hour and a half since the Azkaban breakout, and with any luck the aurors would be arriving within the next thirty minutes. Until then, she could enjoy the satisfaction of a job well-done and pretend to work on her schoolwork. Or actually work on it.

“Aunt Cissa?” Hermione called out as she entered the manor. A short pop alerted her to the newly arrived house-elf.

“Mistress Cissa asks you not be shouting in the house,” the house-elf--Tinny if she remembered correctly--said. “She also says she be in the living room.”

“Thank you, Tinny,” Hermione replied, making the house-elf blush at the praise. Lucius really was an arsehole to them, an idiotic move given how much power a house-elf could possess. Hermione had gone out of her way to ensure the loyalty of her own upon discovering that she had them.

“You is being welcome, Miss Mione,” Tinny replied, disappearing with another faint pop.

Cissa was indeed in the living room, a book on magical creatures open and unread on her lap.

“Aunt Cissa,” Hermione said with a smile.

“Hermione,” her aunt replied with another smile, standing to embrace her niece. “Is all well?”

“Mostly,” Hermione replied. “There are certain requirements to being what I am. She was unhappy to learn I had met them.”

“That is not surprising,” Cissa replied. “I remember crying when Severus told us about you, and I didn’t even know you were blood at the time.” Hermione looked away, trying to contain her emotions. She had never been good at handling pity or sympathy. Not even three years with a mind healer had changed that.

“I suppose,” Hermione finally said. “It’s still so strange to me. I spent so long cursing whatever parents I had for abandoning me and now--” She choked, unable to voice her thoughts. That she had somehow made things worse for her parents. That she had condemned them while knowing nothing. That she was terrified that now she wanted them they wouldn’t want her. Aunt Cissa pulled her into her embrace, the two seated on the small couch.

“There’s no way you could have known,” Cissa said, gently combing her hands through Hermione’s hair as she cried onto her ornate robes. “They won’t blame you for it. Bella won’t, at the least. Have you had the chance to talk to her yet?”

“Not yet,” Hermione said. “Things were too rushed, and she got so angry about what happened that she couldn’t talk--”

“She always did,” Cissa said with a sigh. “She turns everything bad into anger. She always has. Not very healthy, but it’s the only negative emotion she really knows how to deal with.”

“It’s going to take the house-elves the better part of the day to repair what she did to the field,” Hermione said, pulling back from Cissa’s embrace with a smirk. “I’ve never seen a bombarda that powerful.”

“It is one of her specialties,” Narcissa said. “That, Confringo , and the Cruciatus. She likes her wand, I take it?” Hermione looked at her aunt, scandalized.

“Of course--” she started to say, but was cut off by a powerful knock on the wards.

“AURORS!” a magically amplified voice called out. “OPEN THE WARDS!”

“Everything hidden?” Cissa asked softly. Hermione nodded. “Good.” Closing her eyes to focus on the manor’s warding system, Cissa pulled opened a door at the gate, letting the ministry men into the grounds. Within minutes a team of five streamed into the living room.

“Stand up, wands on the table,” man in charge demanded. He was a tall man with dark skin, a shaved head, and a brilliant fez placed atop it. Both Cissa and Hermione complied without complaint.

“Dawlish, Gabbard,” the man said. “Search the room.” The two men began rooting around through drawers and under the cushions, going so far as to look under the couch. Cissa bit back a sneer as they took apart the armchair, leaving it with the arms detached and cushion opened.

“What’s this about?” Hermione asked, making sure to be polite as possible. The tall man didn’t answer, instead turning towards the young woman who entered the room.

“Lord Malfoy was in his study,” the woman said. “Roswell found the son out flying. No sign of anyone else.” The tall man sighed, turning back to the Black women.

“Thirty minutes ago three people broke out of Azkaban,” he said. Both Cissa and Hermione donned masks of unsettled surprise.

“And you think we’d harbor prisoners?” Cissa asked incredulously. The man shook his head, turning back to the other aurors.

“We’re done here,” he said, and the aurors began filing out. “My apologies for the interruption.” Hermione nodded, bending down to pick up her wand, passing Cissa’s to her as well.
“Reparo,” the man muttered, flicking his wand at the taken-apart armchair. The pieces moved as if of their own accord, arms reattaching themselves as the wood sealed itself, the stuffing flowing back into the cushion before it restitched itself. With a slight bow of his head, he departed.

Feeling the disappearing presence of the aurors, Narcissa breathed a sigh of relief.

“I didn’t think they’d send Shacklebolt,” she said. “I was hoping for someone incompetant.”

“It’s good they sent him,” Hermione replied. Cissa quirked her eyebrow, leading Hermione to elaborate. “If he couldn’t find anything, no one will doubt our innocence.”

“Fair enough. Now then, when can I see my sister again?” Hermione smiled.

“Now should work.” Seeing her aunt’s eager nod, Hermione gripped her arm, and with a short crack, they were gone.

Chapter Text

They appeared with a quiet crack. The earth around them was still left in craters, freshly-churned soil and clumps of grass littering what little land was left undisturbed. Narcissa raised an eyebrow at the scene before following her niece into the well-warded grounds.

It was a decent walk from the wardline to the front gate, a decision the ancient Blacks had made before the newer reticence for physical activity made its way into the wizarding elite. Not that the Blacks had ever stopped their physical training, of course. Narcissa had been here just once before, a short visit with her sisters sister and granduncle Acturus to be educated on the family roots and origin. The castle had drastically changed from the damaged ruin she had first seen. The crumbling towers were back at their full height, the blood-identifying wards raised to their previous levels and beyond, the walls rebuilt and refurbished, the ancient wardstones cleaned and renewed.

The gate rose and the front doors opened as they approached, revealing a buxom older woman, curling black hair turned slightly stringy from more than a decade in Azkaban, her skin still sallow and showing signs of malnutrition, but the steel-grey eyes sharp and smirking as ever.

“Cissy!” Bella cried, throwing herself at her youngest younger sister. Their arms wrapped around each other in a tight embrace. They paused there for a moment, before Narcissa pulled back, her eyes roving across Bella, checking for any sign of physical unwellness. Finding far too many, she dragged her older sister into the castle, intent on giving her a full medical examination and cramming a few nutritional potions down her throat. Bella may have been the protective older sister, but Narcissa had always been a mother hen.

Following behind them, Hermione managed to constrain her laughter. She knew first-hand how futile protesting Cissa’s mothering instincts could be.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“So,” Bellatrix said, pushing her food around with her fork. Cissy had managed to talk her into a family dinner, which was turning increasingly awkward. Much like her relationship with her daughter, something that mad Bellatrix want to tear her hair out. She had not spent fourteen years in Azkaban to be defeated by awkwardness. “Was that Ogham on the things you used?” That should be a good start. Common interests were good, right? Gods, why was she so nervous?

“Yeah,” her daughter replied, voice meek. She was just as anxious and awkward, it seemed. “Azkaban was used as a prison after the ban, so I thought . . .” her voice trailed off. “Did you ever study Ogham?”

“No,” Bellatrix said, shaking her head. “Never got around to it. Figured Futhark would be more practical for cutting through wards.”

“Probably,” her daughter conceded. “Ogham’s good for getting around them, but when it comes to some of the older, lethal systems. . .”

“It’s not a chance you want to take,” Bellatrix finished. “So, how did you get a Horned Serpent as your animagus?”

“Well,” her daughter said, a deadly smirk on her face. One Bellatrix had seen in the mirror more than once. “That is a bit of a story. Do you know about the Room of Requirement?”

Chapter Text

It was, relatively speaking, a let-down to return to Hogwarts. After fourteen years without her mother, it was painful to leave her again, the separation resulting in tears from both of them. It was worth it though. The past three days, spent largely in the company of her mother and aunt, had been some of the best in her life. She and her mother shared a passion for the Dark Arts and rituals in general. Much of their time had been spent sharing what they knew, Hermione’s specialties lying in Celtic and other esoteric rituals, her mother having specialized in Norse and Roman rituals and spells. Which was not to say they knew little outside their specialties.

They had also dueled, or sparred, rather. An actual duel could well have left Hermione dead or maimed for life. It was easy to see why her mother had been so universally feared during the first war. Even with her sacred tattoos and runic brands she hadn’t been able to take back the momentum, let alone win. Her mother’s offense was awe-inspiring, but her defense was nearly as potent, and Hermione needed to defeat both to win. She had defeated neither. She might have been able to by shifting forms, but that wasn’t something she wanted to rely on.

Hermione had learned a great deal from those three days and was still revelling in her mother’s instruction as she boarded the Hogwarts Express, one of the few students taking it. Most importantly, she had convinced her mother and aunt to, ostensibly at least, follow her in the war, rather than directly following her father.

“Would it not be the same, in the end?” Narcissa asked. “You will be following the Dark Lord, after all, will you not.”

“Yes, but with some autonomy,” Hermione responded. “It’s the only way some of our allies will stomach an alliance with my father. It also means that if Lucius decides to do something stupid, I can insulate you and Draco from it. If you side with me.”

“He wouldn’t--”

“Cissy,” Bellatrix groaned. “Would you stop defending your husband and be honest please?” Narcissa glared at her eldest sister, but sighed and acquiesced all the same.

“Fine. He might do something that would anger the Dark Lord. But would following you truly change that?”

“If you follow the Dark Lord directly, you enter this war as Lucius Malfoy’s wife, and Draco as his son. If you follow him through me, you enter the war as His daughter’s aunt, and Draco as His daughter’s cousin.”

“And he’ll really let you protect us?” Narcissa asked. “Even if Lucius--”

“He will,” Hermione said, her voice full of confidence that was not entirely felt. Truthfully, he had to, but she might not like what it took to keep them safe.

“And what do I get?” her mother asked, a playful smirk on her lips.

“More time with your daughter dearest,” Hermione responded with the same expression. “And much less waiting around doing nothing. Our part of the war is starting first.” Her mother’s eyes lit up at that, a grin spreading across her face.

“Deal.”

“Oh, Aunt Cissa?” Hermione said. “If you join us, you’ll also be my proxy once I’m known.” Family, security, and six proxy seats on the Wizengamot. How could Narcissa say no?

Narcissa hadn’t said no. Nor had Rookwood, nor Dolohov, though both were still her father’s followers first. Only her mother mark had changed, from her father’s skull and snake to her own unicorn rampant (albeit with a horned serpent coiled on its back). The sigil of Scotland since the 12th century, and her own sigil, having been blessed by the unicorns. The words spoken to her by the unicorn by the Forbidden Forest had been echoed by those near her own lands in the Great Glen. Princess of the Highlands , they had called her. Heiress of the Druids.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Finnigan.” The wizard in question turned towards the witch who’d called his name. Nodding to his nervous friends, he was soon left alone with (most likely) the most dangerous student at Hogwarts.

“Slytherin,” he replied, dropping his false English accent. “Congratulations on the elevation.”

“My thanks,” she responded with a slight smile.

“I heard you haven’t taken your seat in the House of Lords,” he continued.

“Sinn Fein doesn’t take their seats either,” she responded. “For much the same reason, I assure you.” Seamus smiled. He was increasingly glad he’d ignored the whispers of his housemates when it came to Hermione Slytherin.

“There’s a meeting tonight,” she said quietly. “A few like-minded individuals.”

“Where?”

“Seventh floor,” Hermione said. “Behind the tapestry of the dancing trolls. Meeting towards the end of dinner.” Seamus smirked. He might be a Gryffindor, but he was also a Finnean. Stealth was no stranger to him, nor to the Lady Slytherin, it seemed. None would find a few people leaving early from dinner suspicious, nor would they notice the same people filtering back into the retreating masses when they let out. It would have to be a short meeting though.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The meeting, though small, was better-attended than Seamus had expected. Slytherin was there, of course, along with some of her house-mates; the Carrows, Selwyns, the elder Greengrass, Zabini, Donnel Urquhart, and Bridget Dagdo. There were two people in Hufflepuff robes (Kenneth Dunn--younger brother of Craig Dunn, expelled for speaking Scots Gaelic--and Harvey O’Brien, he would later learn), and two in Ravenclaw robes (Banga O’Deluga, a half-Shona, half-Irish wizard; and Isobel MacDougal). To his surprise, he had fellow Gryffindors present, Fay Dunbar, Morag MacDougal, and Anita MacDuff. Seventeen, all told. A fraction of Hogwarts’ student body, but a respectable number nonetheless.

“Thank you all for coming,” Slytherin began the meeting. “We are here, of course, to plan and plot of a better future. One in which the restrictive, oppressive, iron fist of the Ministry is lifted from the people of Great Britain. As I am sure many of you know, this break I assumed the seats of my family. The exposé on the imprisonment of gaelic speakers has given us some visibility and momentum in the public eye. Yet despite this, repealing these oppressive laws through the Wizengamot is impossible. Dumbledore’s so-called Coalition of Light is more than happy to continue banning our tongues, our gods, our rituals, and our spells. Many of the Traditional Alliance are little better, focused on preventing their own rituals and festivals from being banned. If we want change, we cannot accomplish it from within the system alone.”

“What are you saying?” Morag asked, interrupting the speech. “Clearly you have another idea, spit it out.” Seamus could already see the other houses rolling their eyes, most likely thinking; Gryffindors . He couldn’t really fault them this time.

“If we cannot achieve our freedom through politics, we must find another method.”

“War,” Isobel said. Slytherin nodded.

“War. I have, through the House of Black, a claim to both the Scottish and Welsh thrones. I plan to claim them and declare independence.”

“And why are you telling us?” Anita asked. Slytherin looked at her, her amethyst-flecked brown eyes boring into Anita’s.

“No war is won by a single person,” she said. “Dumbledore will, without a doubt, be an integral part of whatever plan the ministry uses to prevent the creation of a free Wales, Scotland, and Ireland.”

“You want spies,” Kenneth Dunn said. “Inside people. Observers whom none would expect.”

“I do,” she said. “And, when the time is right, I want allies who can take over the school. We are, after all, on Scottish soil.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two weeks after the first meeting, the group met again. The first meeting was, of course, not truly the first meeting. Hermione had been working on forming relationships with each of the recruited individuals for months beforehand, ensuring they would (probably) join her. Nor was this the next meeting, as she had talked frequently with all of them since the first (official) meeting. Her investment had paid off. Not only did all of the first meeting’s attendees return, but others came with them.

“Do you pledge yourself to a free society, to the liberation of all Celtic peoples, to follow orders when given, to abide by the secrets of this alliance, to maintain the integrity of said secrets even upon pain of death, to persevere against all foes, to protect the children and future of our society?”

“I do,” Seamus Finnigan responded. “For Ireland.” Hermione nodded, pressing her wand to his forearm. Slowly a black shape emerged, not dissimilar to her father’s marks, though the process was far less painful for the recipient and less magically exhausting for her. Granted, she could do far less with it, but Hermione was uninterested in long-distance torture. The lesser magic presence also meant it could be concealed.

When she lifted her wand, a celtic harp, the insignia of the muggle Republic of Ireland, was emblazoned on Finnigan’s skin.

“Do you pledge yourself to a free society, to the liberation of all Celtic peoples, to follow orders when given, to abide by the secrets of this alliance, to maintain the integrity of said secrets even upon pain of death, to persevere against all foes, to protect the children and future of our society?”

“I do,” Emily Selwyn said. “For Wales.” It was a very different oath than her father’s. No demands of personal loyalty, of sacrifice and death. Then again, it was a very different organization than her father’s. It was, she supposed, much more like Grindelwald’s. They were fighting for a cause more than any man.

Hermione removed her wand, revealing the Welsh dragon now present on Emily’s forearm, though in black rather than traditional red.

One by one, each of the sixteen students pledged themselves to the cause, receiving a tattoo. Those without a specific country, who had joined for Hermione as much as the cause (Daphne, Bridget, and Blaise, her close friends) received Hermione’s personal mark, the unicorn rampant, a horned serpent coiled on its back.

Even with the powered-down version of the marks, sixteen of them left Hermione’s magical reserves depleted. No wonder her father only ever marked a handful at a time.

Chapter Text

To say Hermione was busy would be a massive understatement. Even more than the before break she was exchanging letters with various revolutionary and potentially revolutionary wizarding groups. Most importantly, at least for the moment, she was also planning two heists.

An integral part of the first heist was Maol MacDuff, the great-uncle of her follower Anita MacDuff and leader of the wizarding MacDuff clan. She had been talking to him beforehand, in his capacity as a member of the wizarding Scottish National Party, but things really broke open after his grand-niece swore herself to Hermione’s cause.

Maol was an interesting man. He traced his ancestry back to a bastard son of Isabella MacDuff, Countess of Buchan, who sided against her husband to crown Hermione’s ancestor, Robert the Bruce. He was also a guardsman at the Castle of Edinburgh, where the Honors of Scotland were held and the site of Hermione’s first heist. He had already proved instrumental in identifying which guards could be allies and reporting on schedules. Unfortunately, while Maol ran the security of Historic Scotland, who guarded the Honors and the Crown Room, there was another security force present.

Major-General Jonathan Hall was the General Officer Commanding Scotland, in charge of all British Army instillations and personnel in Scotland. His seat was ostensibly Edinburgh Castle, though he mostly operated from Craigiehall. He was also English and impossible to bribe.

While the headquarters were at Craigiehall and the army was housed in the Redford Barracks, Edinburgh Castle still held a serious military presence, mostly office workers, but a significant amount of sentries. Furthermore, Craigiehall and the Redford Barracks were barely a half-hour from the castle. The heist would need to be quiet, quick, and have a fool-proof escape path. A rather difficult thing, even for wixen as Edinburgh Castle had been first warded in the 11th century.

Fortunately, that was the more difficult heist. By comparison the second was exceedingly easy, as proved by four students four decades prior. Granted, security had improved since the Removal of the Stone, but it seemed the English still didn’t appreciate just how important the Stone of Scone was. While they didn’t have an inside informant in Westminster Abbey, Hermione didn’t think they really needed one.

Yet, for all the planning the heists were taking, they were still easier than dealing with the politics. While her wizarding allies informed her the rank-and-file of the IRA was more than willing to resume the conflict, the politicians would require something more. Even the relatively militant Martin McGuiness, a former P-IRA leader, needed proof that a new offensive could result in something other than loss of life and stalemate.

Hence, her presence on Durmstrang’s boat, inside a well-warded cabin.

“Sverre,” Hermione said, nodding at the tall, muscular blonde.

“Slytherin,” she replied. “I believe I told you to call me Freya.”

“After you.”

“Very well, Hermione,” Freya said with a smirk.

“Thank you, Freya.” Freya nodded, gesturing for Hermione to take a seat while she poured out a clear liquid Hermione suspected was Akvavit.

“To liberation,” she said once seated, holding up her shot glass.

“To liberation,” Hermione echoed. The glasses clinked briefly before both downed their shots in a gulp. It had been years since Hermione drank, and the alcohol burned her throat, though she made sure not to show it. She held back a grimace at the taste. Liquor had once been her favorite for how quickly it could get one drunk, but years off had cooled her taste for it. Hopefully there wouldn’t be celebratory toasting.

“I have heard rather interesting things about you,” Freya said, leaning slightly forwards in her chair.

“Indeed?” Hermione asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Indeed,” Freya replied with a smirk. “Though only once I started asking around.”

“And what are these interesting things you have heard?”

“Saoirse O’Neill said you’re working with the IRA,.”

“Is that so?” Hermione asked, her voice chilling slightly.

“Don’t blame Saoirse,” Freya chuckled. “My father’s worked with her for decades, and I’ve been helping for a few years. She knows who we’ll support.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Hermione asked.

“Transport and sales,” Freya replied with a smirk.

“I suppose that answers my next question.”

“On capability? Yes, it does,” Freya said, continuing proudly. “The Sverre family has connections throughout Norway’s army and its contractors. We even have access to some of Denmark, Sweden, and Finland’s army supplies. And, of course, contacts with the former Soviet Republics.”

“Did Saoirse say why?” Hermione asked.

“No,” Freya smirked. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out though. You’re working with the IRA, which means you need to convince the politicians you can offer more than the British. Which means improving capabilities, which means--”

“Buying weaponry and using it,” Hermione finished.

“So,” Freya said, sitting back. “What do you want? Machine guns? Explosives?”

“I want something they don’t have,” Hermione said. “Something they haven’t been able to get.”

“Armored vehicles?” Freya suggested, but Hermione shook her head.

“No. Even if the equipment’s even, they don’t have the numbers or training to beat the British in pitched battles, not yet anyways. I want portable, guided anti-tank missiles that can beat ERA.” Freya let out a low whistle.

“You know those will be expensive, right?” Hermione flashed a toothy grin, learned years ago from the goblins.

“I think you’ll find I can afford it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Saoirse O’Neill, freedom fighter, witch, descendant of the Uí Niall, and wizarding attache to Sinn Fein, was not welcome in Hogsmeade. Officially speaking, there were multiple warrants for her arrest, though she was not a high-priority target. Especially not now that they were searching for three escaped Death Eaters, something she suspected the woman she was meeting had been involved in. One of them, after all, was the woman’s mother.

The Hog’s Head could accurately be described with Alec Guiness’ lines from A New Hope . It was also, however, an excellent place to meet and do less than legal business. Rather ironic, considering the owner was the brother of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot (and Supreme Mugwump of the IWC, and a half-dozen other titles besides) but the two hated each other with a passion. Or it was an act. Either way, Aberforth would be learning nothing of her deals, not when both of them were glamoured to high heaven and hidden behind thick layers of wards. Saoirse actually shivered when she passed under them.

“Saoirse O’Neill,” the woman said, looking her up and down. “You don’t look like your photographs.”

“Nor do you, Lady Slytherin,” Saoirse replied. The woman smirked.

“I suppose not,” she said. “Now, correct me if I am wrong, but you did not attend Hogwarts, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” Saoirse answered. “My mother taught me, along with Lady MacDavie and some of her friends. Why are you asking?”

“My apologies,” Lady Slytherin said. “I was curious. There is no official Hogwarts policy regarding gaelic-speaking purebloods and half-bloods.” Saoirse shrugged, not really knowing what it had to do with anything.

“Shall we get to the point?” she asked.

“As you wish,” Lady Slytherin replied. A thin folder floated from the table to Saoirse’s hands. “The list of equipment your organization will be supplied with should they enter an alliance with me, along with shipping dates and locations, numbers, and specifications.” Saoirse opened the folder, surprised as it magically expanded from a thin slip to a somewhat hefty document.

L16 81mm Mortar (4), June 30th, Kilkeel.

81mm HE Rounds (120), June 30th, Kilkeel.

Ak-5 (200), July 5th 1995, Cobh.

5.56x45mm NATO ammunition (2 tonnes), July 13th, Newcastle.

F1 Grenades (200), July 17th 1995, Strangford.

V40 Grenades (120), July 17th 1995, Strangford.

Colt Canada C-8 (120), July 22nd 1995, Warrenport.

Carl Gustaf M3 (10), July 31st 1995, Portavogie.

FFV502 HEDP Missiles (200), July 31st 1995, Portavogie.

“Y--Is this real?” Saoirse asked incredulously. The document went on and on, detailing regular shipments of weaponry.

“Does that mean you’ll end the ceasefire?” Saoirse looked up from the documents, staring at the young, obviously wealthy woman, who simply stared back. There were amethyst flecks in the young woman’s eyes, an unnatural color that, if Saoirse remembered her lessons correctly, indicated involvement in the Dark Arts. Not that she really cared. Saoirse could tolerate such magic if it meant a free, Republican Ireland.

“I need to take it to the leadership,” Saoirse said. “But I doubt they’ll say no.” Lady Slytherin smiled.

“Excellent. I do hope they’ll be open to coordinating attacks.”

“I’ll make sure to ask,” Saoirse said, giving a quick bow (as necessitated by pureblood etiquette) and turning to leave.

“Ms. O’Neill,” Lady Slytherin called out. “My alliance does come with an addendum.” Saoirse turned, looking curiously at the woman, more than a little nervous about what the addendum might be.

“Yes?”

“No more civilian targets,” Lady Slytherin said. “It’s incredibly ineffective.”

“What targets would you suggest?” Saoirse asked, trying to keep a level voice. She didn’t like the civilian targets either, but blowing up government property, even when it was civilian government property, sent a strong message.

“There’s a reason I’m giving you heavy weaponry,” Lady Slytherin smirked. “We’re attacking their bases.”

Chapter Text

Sean Murray had been cautious about the proposed return to violence. Gerry Adams’ tactics, for all that they would never result in a free, united, republican Ireland, had been working. They were closer to peace and some form of Home Rule in Northern Ireland than they had been in decades, if not centuries. He had also only been released from prison recently and had little desire to return. Martin Ferris, who had been released a few months after him, had expressed similar thoughts.

Granted, most of the membership wanted to fight. Stirred up by the likes of Brian Keenan and Brian Gillen (the Brians, as Sean thought of them) many viewed compromise with the British State as a form of treachery, or thought only bloodshed could convince the British to leave the Irish alone. Granted, history tended to prove the last group right. Still, progress had been being made by Gerry Adams and Martin McGuiness, and Sean Murray had been unwilling to throw that away.

Looking at the proposed list of weapons shipments, however, it was difficult to say no. Especially if the rumors were right and unrest could soon break out in Scotland. The IRA might be unable to kick out the British when they were fighting alone, but if Scotland began a rebellion . . .

Well, that might just be enough.

“Aye,” he said, casting his vote. There were two more still to vote, but the result was unlikely to change.

“It is decided then,” the parliamentarian said. “By a vote of eight to four, the Irish Republican Army officially dissolves the cease-fire.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It should perhaps have come as no surprise that despite the heavy involvement of magic-users in the cease-fire dissolution, there was no mention of it in the Daily Prophet . Instead the headline article focused on the Minister’s Task Force for Azkaban Recapture, a new eight-auror unit dedicated to pursuing Sirius Black and the other escapees and returning them to Azkaban. Not that they would ever find them. Her mother, Rookwood, and Dolohov were well-hidden behind massive wards, and considering her bastard cousin had avoided the aurors for more than a year, she doubted they would catch him either.

Despite the massive sign of progress (for her) things remained largely the same at Hogwarts. There were classes, friends, studying, letters, essays, and, most importantly, Fleur. Despite Hermione’s use of the last Hogsmeade weekend for her political pursuits, their relationship continued to go well. At least Hermione thought so. They were, after all, currently sitting on the shores of the Black Lake, enjoying a late evening picnic. The sun set late in the Scottish summers, even in early May, and the orange and red hues from across the Black Lake made the perfect backdrop for a romantic date. At least, that’s what Hermione thought. Fleur seemed to agree.

“I must admit,” Fleur said, picking up another Yorkshire pudding. “There is some good British food.” Hermione laughed, putting down her sandwich.

“You know I’m going to hold that over you forever, right?” she asked teasingly. Fleur rolled her eyes.

“Ze things I do for love,” she said, placing a kiss on Hermione’s cheek. Hermione leaned in as she pulled back, exchanging a kiss on the cheek for one of the lips. A kiss Fleur eagerly joined in on, their food temporarily forgotten beside them. They stopped only for air, Hermione sitting back with a contented sigh, taking in the view. She grew far less content when she took in the deranged from of Bartemius Crouch Sr. exiting the Forbidden Forest and the running (as much as he could) polyjuiced form of his son from Hogwarts.

“We should go inside,” Hermione sighed. Fleur raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, instead helping Hermione pack their food back in the hamper.

“Nearby family affair,” Hermione said softly, gesturing towards where the elder Crouch had accosted Potter and Krum. “We don’t want to get involved.” Fleur nodded, swallowing hard. As much as veela were ostensibly (according to wizards, anyways) Dark creatures, Beauxbatons was very much a Light school, and France hadn’t seen a Dark Lord since Grindelwald. She hadn’t truly processed what being Hermione’s mate would mean. Or rather, in this case, being the mate of the Dark Lord’s daughter. It felt wrong to simply stand aside, knowing a murder might (would) happen. Could she truly deal with her mate’s family connections? Her mate’s mother had done truly horrible things during the war, or at least had been accused of them. Things Fleur doubted she could stomach.

The image of Hermione when she talked about spending time with her mother popped into Fleur’s head. She’d do almost anything to see that brilliant smile across her mate’s visage.

Almost anything. Fleur would need to decide how far she was willing to go for her mate, and what was too much. Limits were important for things beyond sex.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After three weeks of consideration, interrupted only by training, classes, homework, and her mate, Fleur had what she considered to be a decent list of what she wouldn’t do. One her mate was reading over at this moment.

For her part, Hermione was shocked at how much wasn’t on the list. Then again, perhaps she shouldn’t have been. Veela culture, from what little she understood, taught that family was important above all else. As mates--especially as claimed mates--they were family, regardless of what the Ministry had to say.

Looking over the list again, Hermione nodded. Fleur wouldn’t torture, kill outside of battle, fight her family, or secude anyone. The mere suggestion of the last item had nearly sent Hermione into a transformation she was so enraged. Fleur was her mate. Besides, Hermione would never make someone seduce or sleep with someone else. She’d been forced to do that enough herself, and planned on never doing so again.

“Looks good to me,” Hermione said, handing back the list.

“Zere may be ozer things you ask of me zat I cannot do but didn’t think of,” Fleur said nervously, looking toward the ground.

“I know,” Hermione said, walking towards her mate. “Fleur. Fleur,” she repeated, her mate finally moving to look at her eyes. “These are your limits. You get to define them, okay? You’re my mate, my love and my confidant, not just someone I had out orders to. Not that my friends are either, but you get my point.”

“Which is?” Fleur asked cheekily. Hermione growled, but continued anyways.

“That even if you refuse to raise your wand I’d want you with me.” Smiling at the declaration of love, Fleur lowered her head to kiss Hermione. Hermione met her halfway, rising on her toes to meet Fleur’s lips. Their lips opened as one, tongues twining together, Hermione’s arms rising to wrap around Fleur’s neck, securing her position. Fleur pushed her tongue back, Hermione allowing it, but only for a moment before pressing forward, leaning upwards into Fleur, her tongue dueling Fleur’s into submission. The Room responded to their silent desires, the empty space suddenly filling with a plush bed they fell onto.

Their lips separated, breathing heavily, Hermione straddling Fleur’s prone body. Hermione threw off her outer robe, quickly stripping out of her top as well. Fleur sat up, divesting her baby-blue silk uniform just as fast. Hermione looked down at Fleur’s chest, eyes glowing amethyst with lust. Fleur felt heat rising in her core as she stared back, taking in Hermione’s naked breasts.

Hermione fell on Fleur like a starving animal, kissing her with enough force they fell back onto the bed. Their hands moved along each other’s bodies, forgoing the teasing touches Hermione had been using recently, instead diving headfirst into a passionate embrace. They shoved off skirts and pants, naked limbs twining into each other.

Hermione pulled back from their kiss, sitting upright as she let their legs slot together. Rolling her hips she pressed her wet pussy against Fleur’s, drawing a moan from the pair of them. Fleur’s hips bucked in response, and Hermione soon replied with the same, moans filling the air as they scissored for the first time, eyes fixed on their mate’s bouncing breasts when they could open.

As they began to close on their orgasm Fleur moved her hand to their joined lips, her hand moving to play with her mate’s clit. Hermione moaned loudly, losing herself in the pleasure, retaining her presence of mind just enough to return the favor with her right hand, her left busy support her upright torso as her core muscles clenched and released as she neared her release.

They came together with a twinned scream, the instinctive bucking of their hips drawing out further pleasure in each other.

Hermione lifted her leg, moving it from over Fleur’s. Flopping down onto the bed next to her mate, she sighed contentedly, happy to relax into her cuddling form for the next hour or so. Dinner wasn’t until much later, and neither had any classes for the rest of the day. Of course, they’d need to shower before they headed to the Great Hall. Preferably together.

Chapter Text

Hermione was nervous. She didn’t like being nervous, but it was something she had been used to. It wasn’t anymore, not since Fleur arrived with the calming presence of her mate bond. Even that wasn’t enough now. Hermione dreaded to think of what state she’d be in if Fleur wasn’t standing next to her.

“Maman! Papa!” Fleur cried, moving towards her parents at the end of the hall. Hermione had been allowed into the hallway where the champions were greeting their families only at Fleur’s insistance (and intimidation of the organizer). “Je ne pensais pas que tu viendrais plus tard!” I didn’t think you were coming until later.

“Je sais,” her father replied with a smirk. “Nous voulions vous surprendre.” I know. We wanted to surprise you.

“Tu ne vas pas nous présenter?” [ Aren’t you going to introduce us ] her mother remarked, arching an eyebrow in Hermione’s direction. For her part Hermione held onto her mask and thanked Morgan she didn’t sweat when nervous.

“Bien sûr,” Fleur said. “C'est ‘Ermione, le coeur de mon âme.” Of course. This is Hermione, the heart of my soul. Hermione blushed at the traditional Veela phrasing, but curtsied towards her parents nonetheless.

“Bonne après-midi, Duc Delacour, Dame Delacour.” Good afternoon, Duke Delacour, Lady Delacour.

“Bonne après-midi, Dame Slytherin,” Fleur’s father replied. “Vous parlez français?” Good afternoon, Lady Slytherin. You [formal] speak French?

“Juste un peu,” [ Only a little ] Hermione remarked sadly. “I wanted to at least greet my Fleur’s family in their language.”

“An appreciated effort,” Fleur’s mother replied. “It is understandable zat you would not learn much more. Fleur says you ‘ave been very busy.”

“What else has she said?” Hermione asked, playfully arching a brow at Fleur.

“Much,” Fleur’s father said. “But would it not be more fun for us to tell you of ‘er? We ‘ave been saving ‘er embarrassing stories for years!” Hermione smiled widely and Fleur felt a shiver run down her spine.

“I like your way of thinking, Duc Delacour,” Hermione said.

“Please, call me Gerard.”

“Call me Hermione.”

“Can you settle for ‘Ermione?” he asked, exaggerating his accent.

“I’ll take it,” she smiled back.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Remember,” Hermione said quietly as the champions paced the tent, Bagman’s voice echoing overhead. “Get there second. You’ll still win on points, I can’t risk--”

“I’ll be careful, mon coeur,” Fleur replied. “Get there second.”

“I love you,” Hermione whispered. Fleur wrapped her arms around her mate, squeezing her into what would be a bone-crushing hug, were her mate not an Erinyes.

“I love you too,” Fleur replied. Hermione smiled, unable to keep her eyes from watering, and pressed a chaste kiss onto Fleur’s lips, a kiss she happily returned. Her pride might demand she come first in the task, not just the competition, but if it meant keeping her beautiful mate, Fleur and her veela could keep their pride in check. Besides, winning the competition was worth far more than winning the task.

Watching her mate leave the tent, Fleur let out a long, pent-up breath, forcing herself to relax. Her tensed shoulders lowered, her back unclenched, her hands uncurled from fists and her legs loosened.

“THE CHAMPIONS!” Bagman declared. “IN FOURTH PLACE, VIKTOR KRUM OF DURMSTRANG, WITH SEVENTY-EIGHT POINTS!” The crowd cheered with thunderous applause for the international quidditch star, regardless of his relatively poor performance in the tournament. “IN THIRD PLACE, CEDRIC DIGGORY OF HOGWARTS, WITH EIGHTY-FOUR POINTS!” Unsurprisingly, the crowd cheered for their home champion, the underestimated Hufflepuffs emerging especially loud. “IN SECOND PLACE, HARRY POTTER OF HOGWARTS, WITH EIGHTY-FIVE POINTS!” Even Potter, who had been eviscerated by the student body throughout the year, was applauded, though with noticeably less energy than the previous two. “AND IN FIRST PLACE, FLEUR DELACOUR OF BEAUXBATONS, WITH NINETY-SIX POINTS!” The crowds cheered for her, Hermione’s supporters and the Beauxbatons crowd especially (if politely) loud. From the stands she could see her mate blowing her a kiss.

“OUR FOUR CHAMPIONS WILL ENTER FROM DIFFERENT POINTS IN THE MAZE,” Bagman’s voice declared as Fleur, Diggory, Potter, and Krum were moved to the four sides. “THE FIRST TO REACH THE CENTER AND GRASP THE CUP WILL WIN FIFTY POINTS! THE SECOND TO ARRIVE WILL TAKE FORTY POINTS, THE THIRD THIRTY AND THE FOURTH TWENTY. THOSE UNABLE TO REACH THE CENTER IN THE TIME ALLOWED WILL SCORE ZERO POINTS. THE CHAMPIONS WILL BE ENTERING IN THREE, TWO, ONE--” A horn blew, sound enhanced by a half-dozen spells and enchantments. It echoed across the field, reverberating against the stands. With a deep breath, in and out, Fleur entered the maze.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Twenty minutes into the task and Fleur was cursing the living hedges. The skrewt she had easily dispatched, a well-placed blasting hex flipping it over, exposing its less protected belly where she stunned it. The boggart she tore through before Hermione’s form could open its mouth. She had already known what it would be, but it was still disturbing to see her mate ready to reject her. It was every veela’s greatest fear, once they’d found their mate. Such rejection had been known to destroy individuals, leaving them little more than muttering, tear-shedding, violent madwomen.

The maze itself was Fleur’s biggest issue. The reductor curse didn’t take much energy, but having to repeatedly use it every few minutes to keep the maze from growing around her was slowly exhausting her.

Entering a square clearing, Fleur sighed with relief. At least now she wouldn’t have to--

“Is zat a fucking Acromantula?” Fleur asked incredulously. Who the hell though a flesh-eating, intelligent, XXXXX-class creature belonged in a school competition? Growling at the idiocy of ministry employees (whom she doubted could defeat such a creature on their own) Fleur let loose a series of well-aimed piercing hexes. The first two missed, bouncing off the tough carapace. The third hit, piercing through one of the creature’s eyes, but not going deep enough. Fleur continued firing. A blasting hex opened up the small hole, a second blasted the Acromantula’s skull apart, killing the foul beast.

“ Stupify .” A human might not have been able to hear the muttered spell over Fleur’s heavy breathing, but a veela could. Fleur dodged away from the stunner, turning to face her new opponent. Taking in the bedraggled visage of Cedric Diggory, Fleur smirked. Slashing her wand diagonally through the air, she let loose a powerful shield-breaking spell. Falling for the red light, Cedric moved his wand downwards, summoning a shield which immediately fell apart.

“ Bombarda!” Cedric cried. Fleur slashed her wand downwards, summoning a strong Protego . The powerful exploding charm knocked her backwards, but her shield held. Moving forwards, she began the chain she’d been working on. Starting with a Severing Charm, she used her wand’s momentum to move downwards in a Blasting Curse before moving upwards and to the side in an Exploding Curse. Of these, only the last needed to be said, a powerful “ Expulso!” tearing itself from her throat.

The Severing Charm was deflected by the edge of his resummoned shield. The Blasting Curse, the most lethal of the three, fell under his shield, the ground in front of him exploding upwards, sending Diggory stumbling backwards. The Exploding Curse slammed into his flagging shield, knocking him into the living maze. Summoning his wand, Fleur sent up red sparks before tossing it back to the semi-conscious individual. Seeing his hand reaching to grab it, Fleur sent a silent stunner. The spell hit his chest. Diggory skidded back slightly before slumping onto the ground.

Letting out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, Fleur turned back towards the maze. Moving cautiously forwards, she ducked around a corner when she saw another skrewt popping up. Another exploding charm and stunning spell later, the skrewt was out and Fleur could make her way further down the path.

“AT FORTY-SIX MINUTES AND TWENTY-THREE SECONDS, HARRY POTTER HAS REACHED THE CUP FIRST!” Bagman shouted, his voice echoing through the maze. Grimacing in case anyone was watching, Fleur picked up the pace. “HARRY SHOULD BE APPEARING AT THE FRONT--WHERE’S HE GONE?!” Fleur swore, not bothering to hide her feelings. Father of her beloved mate he might be, the Dark Lord’s fixation on a schoolchild was too much.

Dodging into a side-path when she saw a pack of four skrewts further down the path, Fleur slipped into another path. Taking a second side-path leading deeper into the max, Fleur could see the trophies through the tiny gaps in the maze wall. Taking a deep breath, Fleur released it in an overpowered, shouted, “Bombarda Maxima!”

Slipping through the hole before the maze could cover it up again, Fleur moved into the central square. A sphinx guarded what she assumed to be the main entrance, but had turned to face her, a questioning expression. Fleur moved cautiously towards the trophies, but the sphinx didn’t move. Relieved, Fleur grabbed one, hoping they hadn’t all been sabotaged.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Fleur reappeared Hermione let out a sigh of relief with breath she hadn’t known she was holding. A fraction of a second later she was on her feet cheering alongside the Delacour family as Bagman announced Fleur had one the Tri(Quad)wizard Tournament, with 136 points. The first woman to win, and the first veela as well, not that Bagman announced that.

“Fleur!” Hermione shouted, pouncing on her mate as she neared. Lowering the trophy, Fleur happily wrapped her arms around her witch, pulling her in close. “I’m so proud of you!”

“Bravo Fleur!” Duc Delacour--Gerard, she reminded herself--shouted.

“Nous sommes si fiers!” Lady Delacour added. Gabrielle ran towards Fleur, babbling in rapid-fire french that was beyond Hermione’s ability. Or Fleur’s, judging by her amused expression. Embracing each of her family members, Fleur turned as someone cleared their throat behind her.

“Fleur Delacour, Champion of Beauxbatons,” the Minister said. “As confirmed by our judges, you have won the 1995 Triwizard Tournament. I hereby bestow the title of Triwizard Winner onto you, along with one thousand galleons.” Fleur smiled, courteously thanking the Minister, even though it was clear he very much would have preferred a Hogwarts champion to have won.

“Congratulations,” someone said. Turning towards them, Fleur was surprised to see Diggory. Her surprise must have registered on her face as Diggory laughed. “No hard feelings,” he said with a smile. “Where the hell’d you learn to duel like that?”

“My uncle is a two-time winner of ze Ligue de Duel de France,” Fleur replied with a light chuckle. “I’ve spent two weeks each summer with ‘im since second year.” Diggory whistled low.

“It certainly paid off,” he replied.

“I’ll say,” Hermione’s voice cut in, her mate wrapping an arm around Fleur’s body and leaning slightly against her. “Can we add that to your list of titles love? Triwizard victor, Master Duelist, Valedictorian, Cutest Being Alive?” Fleur blushed slightly at that. She loved being called cute. It felt nicer, gentler, more like a partner and a lover. Everyone called her beautiful, sexy, hot, and while the terms hadn’t been completely ruined for her, their constant use in harassing her definitely lowered their appeal.

“You accomplish miracles, Slytherin,” Diggory said with a laugh. “Never thought I’d see a Veela blush.” It seemed he was about to say something else, but a bright white flash distracted him, and most of the crowd. The flash dimmed, leaving behind a rumpled, dirtied, cut and bleeding Harry Potter holding the first trophy.

“VOLDEMORT!” Potter shouted. The arena visibly recoiled, some (Hermione among them) going so far as to hiss. “VOLDEMORT’S BACK! I--I SAW HIM RETURN! VOLDEMORT’S BACK, HE’S BACK AND HE--” Potter dissolved into tears, leaving the entire arena pale and murmuring. They quickly turned towards each other, the murmurs growing louder as people discussed the possibility.

“Do you think--” Diggory started.

“Diggory,” Hermione cut off. “Doesn’t it look like Moody’s dragging Potter?” Fleur turned with Diggory to watch as the retired former auror yanked Potter along. No one else seemed to be paying attention, Potter’s friends too busy trying to get out of their seats and Dumbledore talking hurriedly with his staff. Which is what Fleur would have thought Hermione would want.

“It does,” Diggory agreed. “Should we--”

“No,” Hermione said, glancing up at Dumbledore and the teachers. “They’re busy dealing with fallout. Regardless of whether the Dark Lord is back--and I doubt he is--” Fleur barely contained her snort of amusement at the words. “--something went wrong here. We can deal with whatever part of it this is.” Diggory nodded, as did Fleur. Diggory then moved off to follow ‘Moody.’ Fleur moved to follow, but Hermione shook her head.

“What is this?” Fleur asked quietly. Hermione sighed inaudibly.

“I need to keep an idiot from dying,” she replied just as quiet. “And I need Diggory as a witness to prove I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“How’s that going to work?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“What do you think is going on?” Diggory asked as they hurried down the hallway.

“No idea,” Hermione replied. “Probably something to do with Sirius Black.”

“Really?” Diggory asked. “Isn’t he your cousin?” Hermione shrugged.

“He betrayed the family,” she said as they paused outside the Defense Professor’s door. “He then betrayed his adoptive family. We don’t like traitors in the House of Black.” Since Diggory was trying to figure something out behind her, Hermione waved her wand, casting a series of probing spells. Nothing more than automatic wards. Barty must really be nervous.

“Just a few minor wards,” Hermione said, dragging her wand through the air. One by one they popped, the final one unlocking the door as it faded. “Ready?” she asked, turning towards Diggory, who nodded. “On three. One, two, three,” Hermione said, pushing the door open as she spoke ‘three.’

Rushing into the room Hermione barely had a moment to take things in. The polyjuice was already fading, the pegleg pushed away as Barty’s limb regrew itself.

“That’s not Mad-Eye Moody,” Cedric said, watching in horror as Moody’s grizzled skin and scars reformed into the weathered but unblemished skin of Barty Crouch Jr. Barty turned towards them at the sound of Cedric’s voice, his eyes widening in surprise. Before he could get a word out, Hermione reacted.

“ Expulso! ” she shouted, wand pointed towards Barty. The spell hit him, but hit the window behind him as well, shattering the glass. His body flew through the now-empty hole, falling down the two stories. Hermione and Cedric rushed to the window, getting there in time to see Barty cast feather-fall and cushioning charms.

“He’s getting away!” Cedric shouted as Barty began to run, aiming for the edge of the maze, where Hogwarts’ portkey wards had been lowered. “ Stupify!”

“Stupify!” Hermione cast as well. Spell after spell rushed at Barty, nearly all stunners though Cedric on occasion added Impediment Jinxes. Barty managed to dodge or shield them all, however. As he neared the edge of their range, Cedric began to grow desperate.

“ Bombarda! ” Cedric yelled. The ground just behind Barty exploded, sending him stumbling forwards. He turned, snapping a swift salute.

“ Stupify! ” they yelled at the same time. Barty, clutching some object (a watch, Hermione thought, though it was too far away to tell) murmured a few words, disappearing as he seemed to fold inward, a flash of light emitting from the object. The stunners crashed into the earth behind him.

“Damn it!” Cedric yelled, running his hands through his hair. Hermione turned towards him.

“Cedric, we still accomplished the main thing,” Hermione said.

“We did?” he asked, hand still tangled in his thick locks.

“We got him away from Potter,” she said, gesturing her head towards the confused boy. “Auror corps prioritizes rescuing hostages above capturing perpetrators.”

“Right,” Cedric said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “You’re right.”

“I wasn’t a hostage!” Potter loudly protested, entering the conversation. Looking Diggory in the eyes, Hermione rolled her eyes at Potter, causing the older boy to chuckle and Potter to glare at both of them.

The unlocked, unwarded door suddenly exploded, drawing the students’ attention. Dumbledore, Laird McGonagall, and Professor Snape stormed into the room, looking extremely confused about the situation. Great, Hermione thought. Time for a two-hour debriefing .

Chapter Text

Four Active Service Units had gathered together for this mission. Numbering twenty-four, they made up the majority of the small Provisional IRA presence in County Antrim. Despite their small number, they were quite capable, a trait that had only increased thanks to their new munitions.

The IRA had been using self-made mortars for decades, often with great success. Now, however, they had been provided with military-grade, professionally built mortars and High Explosive ammunition. Word was their mysterious backer would be sending top of the line assault rifles and ammunition soon, but that was hardly on the minds of the County Antrim IRA tonight.

The group had hijacked a military transport a few miles south, killing the driver and guards with a few well-aimed bullets. They even managed to do it before one of them could radio the base to warn them. Using the stolen vehicle and the dead men’s identification cards (having switched out the photos) they entered the base. Three of the twenty-four were posing as British military while the rest, along with their weapons and ammunition, were hiding in the containers supposedly full of food.

Unloading the truck, half the group kept watch while the others set up their newly-acquired mortars, aiming them towards the central barracks.

At 1:22 am on July 3rd, 1995, four 81mm High-Explosive rounds hit the central building of Thiepval Barracks, Headquarters Northern Ireland for the British Army and home to the 39th Infantry Brigade. To add insult to injury, the rounds were fired from L16 mortars, first used by and created for the British Army.

Within seconds the mortars were firing again, raining fire and death on the compound. While inexperienced with this particular model, the men manning them had practiced loading the weapons and had fired mortars before. The rate of fire was hardly what it could be, it was certainly better than it could be.

“Alarm’s been sounded,” one of the unit leaders said, shouting to be heard over the noise. “We’ve got to go.” The crews nodded, firing one last volley, this time aiming for the tank depot, which exploded into flames.

Dismantling the mortars took time, during which a handful of soldiers managed to find them. Fortunately, they were armed with only service pistols, rushing to put out the fires, and easily held off as the IRA members shoved their weapons back into the stolen lorry before hopping in themselves.

Slamming the door shut, they managed to dodge through the fire and get out through the broken walls before anyone noticed. Three of them were injured, but Headquarters Northern Ireland was now in flames.

They ditched the stolen lorry twenty miles south, in an empty field. From there they split into their Active Service Units, hiking through the fields to their side-road rendezvous.

During the four minutes spent bombarding Thiepval Barracks, only one unit was left untouched: The Black Watch. Also known as the 3rd Battalion, Royal Regiment of Scotland.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Unbeknownst to the IRA members at Thiepval Barracks, at 1:30 am on July 3rd, their mysterious backer was fast asleep, curled into and around the loving form of her mate. The Hogwarts Express would be leaving in the morning, as would the Beauxbatons Carriage, and neither Hermione nor Fleur wanted to waste their last moments in the same place by spending them apart. Though, given Fleur’s graduation and Hermione’s plans, it was entirely possible their separation would be short-lived.

Much of their time since the 3rd task had been spent like this. Even if their separation was to be a short one, it was unlikely they would have this kind of opportunity again for years. Soon they would be dragged into a war and rulership, but for now they had nothing but time for each other.

They spent their days in lakeside dates and wrapped around each other in the Room of Requirement. They wandered into the Forbidden Forest one time, though that ended up being as much a political visit as a date.

**Flashback**

“Fleur!” Hermione called, laughing lightly as Aedin, the Unicorn she’d freed from the Care of Magical Creatures class, nuzzled into her stomach. “Come over here, Aedin wants to meet you.”

“You are sure?” Fleur asked, her nerves returning. “I thought ze would not like veela, as we are sexual beings.” Hermione bit back a sigh and a rant.

“Fleur,” Hermione said gently. “How do you think baby unicorns are made? They may have been used as a symbol of virginal purity, but they originally stood for a different type of femininity. There’s a reason they’re the Scottish symbol,” she added, petting Aedin. “Beautiful,” she said, poking the end of his horn, the sharp edge splitting her skin, causing a droplet of blood to well up. “But deadly.”

“If you are sure,” Fleur said hesitantly. Hermione said nothing. It would take more than a single conversation to throw off centuries of cultural conditioning. Fleur slowly approached Aedin, freezing when he turned towards her. She reached out slowly to pet him, but her hand never made it.

Fleur was knocked back a half-pace. Looking down, a young foal had butted her. She was now nuzzling into Fleur, excitedly chattering.

Father, is this the Princess’s mate? She asked excitedly. Hermione nodded. I approve. She’s soft. Good for nuzzling. Hermione laughed and Fleur looked at her, confused.

“She says you’re a good cuddler,” Hermione explained.

“Ah,” Fleur said, looking down at the foal. “I am glad you think so, little one.” The foal whinnied softly, nuzzling further into Fleur.

Faera! a voice called out. Where are--Faera! My apologies, Princess, the older unicorn said. My daughter has not yet learned her manners. The foal, Faera apparently, whinnied softly but said nothing. Hermione was certain that if unicorns could blush, she would.

“Think nothing of it,” Hermione replied. “She is as adorable as she is informal.” Faera continued hiding her face in Fleur’s abdomen, taking the route of children the world over. “Might I have your name?”

I am Saema, matron of this herd, the unicorn answered.

Princess! Aedin called. There are centaurs coming! They have noticed your presence.

“Well Fleur?” Hermione asked. “Feeling up to some negotiations?” There was no response. “Fleur?” she asked, turning to her mate. Fleur was staring at the unicorns, her eyes welling with tears. “Are you okay Fleur?”

“Je--Je ne sais--” Fleur began before clearing her throat. “Zey--I--Zey ‘ave ‘onored me too much,” she said, her heavy accent returning in her emotional state. “I--zey--zeir voice are zo . . . de toute beauté . . . I do not dezerve to ‘ear it.”

You are worthy, mate of the Princess, Saema said firmly. If you were not, you would not hear us.

“I--Thank you,” Fleur said in a whisper. The brush nearby crunched as it was shoved aside.

“Who dares trespass in our forest?” a low voice demanded.

“Bane,” a new voice said. “There is no need--”

“No need?” a third voice demanded. “They are human, dangerous! Do you not recall your history?”

“Ronan, the purges were more than a century ago.”

“And their ministry has only grown worse!”

“Ronan--”

“He is right,” Hermione said, intervening. “The ministry has only grown worse. Worse and more efficient. Subtler.”

“Is this your idea of a threat?” the one named Bane snarled. Hermione’s eyes glowed with an amethyst light as she turned towards him.

“If I threatened you, you would know it,” Hermione said with a smirk. “No, this is my idea of opening negotiations.”

“We should throw them out,” Ronan said. “The wizard’s ministry is not welcome here.”

Watch how you speak! Aedin shouted. She is the Princess of the Highlands, the Forseen Black! The centaurs turned towards Aedin with wide eyes. Saema gave a sighing nicker.

Turning inward, the centaurs conferred with lowered voices, though they were soon raised.

“We ought deal with the ruling wizards,” the as-yet unnamed centaur said. “They hold the power, we have to deal with them, not some pretender.”

“You would work against the stars?” Bane asked incredulously. “The Princess has been Forseen for centuries!”

“It is but a legend and rumor,” the centaur replied. “We have no proof--”

“Has Dumbledore poisoned your mind Firenze?” Ronan asked. “Can you not read the stars? Mars ascendant, with Saturn in its wake! Chains will be broken, changes made, the Princess Foretold is at the center!”

“Dumbledore is a good man!” Firenze argued. “We can work with him, trust him more than the spawn of the Dark Lord.” Fleur snarled at Firenze, who flinched backwards. “I can see I am no longer welcome in this meeting,” Firenze said. “I shall take my leave.” He immediately turned around, trotting away.

“My apologies for our brother, your highness,” Bane said, turning towards Hermione. “He remains a fool despite his years.” Hermione hummed, saying nothing for a moment.

“Bane, Ronan,” she said, looking up at them. “Can you call your herd? I wish to make a proposal.” Both centaurs seemed taken aback.

“It may take some time,” Ronan cautioned.

“We have a couple days yet.” Ronan and Bane nodded, their human halves bowing slightly before they turned to leave.

“What was zat?” Fleur asked as the centaurs left.

“Centaurs would make strong allies,” Hermione said. “As for the Princess Foretold, I have no idea.”

‘Tis a legend, Saema answered. Of one from the Black line who could free our magic.

“Is it a prophecy?” Hermione asked. Saema seemed to shrug.

If it is, the words were been recorded , she said. It is an old tale, that much I know.

**Flashback Over**

Hermione and Fleur woke around eight. They showered together and ate breakfast together in the Room of Requirement, neither willing to let go of their mate just yet. A fact that made cutting their pancakes difficult at times.

Hermione walked Fleur to the Beauxbatons carriage as it prepared to leave. Blue-uniformed witches and wizards were hauling luggage into it while Hagrid attached the Abraxans under Madame Maxine’s watchful eye. It was a rare sunny day, the early summer grass green under their feet.

“I’m going to miss you,” Hermione said softly. Fleur gave a sad smile. Both their eyes were watering with unshed tears.

“I’ll miss you too, mon coeur,” Fleur said. Hermione leaned upwards, pressing a chaste kiss to Fleur’s lips.

“I love you,” she said softly as she came down.

“I love you too,” Fleur replied, kissing her forehead. “Goodbye, mon coeur.”

“Farewell, mon cheri.”

Hermione watched as Fleur climbed into the carriage, followed by Madame Maxine. A few minutes later the sound of a whip cracked and the Abraxans began moving. They moved from a trot to a canter, then a full-on gallop as their wings beat ever-faster. Finally they took off from the ground, curving around the edge of the Forbidden Forest as they moved to head south.

An arrow arched over the carriage as it passed overhead, landing on the other side of the Forest. Hermione’s watery smile took a toothy turn. The centaurs had accepted her deal after all.

Chapter Text

The Atholl Highlanders were the largest private army in Europe. To be fair, they were also the only private army in Europe, officially at least. They numbered 150, with 125 riflemen and 25 drummers and bagpipers. They used historic uniforms from the 19th century and similarly outdated weaponry.

At least, that’s how it was supposed to be. It was how it seemed during their recent annual parade. Recently, however, things had changed, and quite drastically.

Iain Murray, Colonel-in-Chief of the Atholl Highlanders and 10th Duke of Atholl, had received a rather strange letter in November. Despite the theoretically treasonous nature of the letter he had struck up a correspondence with this ‘Hermione Slytherin, Duchess of the Highlands.’ Looking back, it was surprising how quickly she’d converted him to her cause. Duke Murray, while a proud Scotsman, had not been a Scottish nationalist. He certainly was now.

Starting in January, Duke Murray had begun transforming the Atholl Highlanders from a ceremonial company into a legitimate regiment. As a sanctioned private army and nominally part of the United Kingdom’s military, he had access to the same weaponry as the British Military. He had paid for much of the costs himself, though the majority were covered by his new Queen and her financial supporters.

Currently, the Atholl Highlanders numbered more than 850. He had even managed to form a company of Air Support, the only one in his Queen’s burgeoning military. His position also provided cover to the other regiments that were forming, allowing them to legally practice. Granted, they still did so in secret, but if they were found out there would be some insulation. True, if they were discovered Parliament was almost certain to revoke his right to a private army, but it took them a long time to do anything, and by then his Queen would have her crown.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione stayed only three days at Malfoy Manor. Her father had gathered his followers on the first day, introducing them to his daughter and heir, not that he planned on ever dying. To say some of the Death Eaters had been angry at a major celtic revivalist becoming untouchable would be understating it. Yaxley had to be cruciated into obedience.

On the fourth day of her summer break, Hermione returned to Clogaid Cruaidh. The mind healer she’d hired seemed to have helped the Azkaban escapees. Bellatrix, who according to Rookwood’s letters had been terrified about Hermione for the first several weeks after she left, was calmer now. Not calm, but according to Aunt Cissa her mother had never been calm.

“Daughter darling,” Bellatrix greeted when Hermione arrived, sweeping her into an embrace. “How long are we going to be stuck here?” Hermione chuckled in amusement.

“Not much longer, I promise,” she replied. “Just need to work a few things out before we can start in earnest.” Her mother pouted, but the expression disappeared entirely when Hermione hugged her tighter, resting her head on her mother shoulders.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Hermione said quietly. Her mother’s lips quivered but she said nothing, instead tightening her arms around her daughter.

The duelling practice had begun shortly after that. Bellatrix was not enthused about Hermione’s plans to raid Westminster and Edinburgh Castle.

“I just got you back,” she said softly. “I don’t want to lose you again. But,” she added. “Given you’re my daughter, you’re not going to stop. So I need to make sure you can survive the battles to come.”

Bellatrix was not a gentle teacher. She was kind, careful, and brilliant, but she wasn’t afraid to sent a bombarda maxima at her daughter’s chest. She’d be facing much worse when the war started. Hermione had a steep learning curve. She wasn’t used to dodging when she was spellcasting. She was powerful, her raw power even greater than her mother’s, and that was enough to beat any schoolchild and most training dummies. It wasn’t enough for a war. In a war defeating one opponent doesn’t make you safe. Wasting energy blocking spells was useless. Conserving it by dodging was of critical importance, especially when up against experienced opponents. Bellatrix had drilled those lessons permanently into her daughter’s head.

Hermione did better with the dagger and sword training. She had been learning those from Count Rigoll’s bodyguards for the past four years, and like her mother they did not accept mediocrity. Her skill just made her mother press her harder, honing Hermione like a steel blade.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was July 15th when Hermione finally left Clogaid Cruaidh. She had been communicating with Aebard MacDougall and Cinaid Ancrum, two of her wizarding supporters. Their plan was finally ready.

The group--Hermione, MacDougall, Ancrum, Ciara O’Mahoney (elected Wizengamot Representative from Ireland), and Kenneth MacDonald (elected Wizengamot Representative from Scotland)--met in the nearby Victoria Tower Gardens.

“We’re ready then?” Hermione asked. The others nodded. “Let’s go.”

They entered during the day, specifically 1pm. Between the general tourists, the ongoing tours, and a few misdirection spells they passed through the Abbey unnoticed. They entered their target room separately. MacDougall and O’Mahoney watched the entranceways. MacDonald was against the wall, supposedly looking at the architecture, ready to help with the spellwork. Ancrum was across from Hermione, the Stone of Scone between them.

The Stone was kept in a glass case, a small placard nearby. With a nod to MacDonald, he subtly moved his wand. A few sparks shot from the security cameras, but nothing else happened. A tripping jinx from Hermione sent someone sprawling into the security guard. Ancrum then applied a heavy-duty misdirection spell and levitated the glass case. Hermione grabbed the Stone. It was heavier than it looked, but less than she felt it should. Less than an object of its status perhaps deserved. Pushing aside those thoughts she slid the stone into a well-protected bottomless bag. She sealed and shrank the bag while Ancrum replaced the glass. One by one the five of them left Westminster, moving to nearby alleyways before apperating away.

Five soft cracks could be heard from the southern shore of Black Isle.

“We got it?” MacDougall asked as the five convened. Hermione smirked, pulling out her bag. Returning it to normal size, she picked up the Stone of Scone.

“We got it!” MacDonald yelled.

“Yes, we did,” Hermione said. “Thank you all, that was some impressive charmwork Ancrum.”

“Please,” Ancrum said. “We just stole--”

“Liberated,” Hermione interjected.

“Liberated a priceless relic,” he finished. “Call me Cinaid.”

“Same goes for me,” MacDoug--Aebard--said.

“And me,” added Kenneth.

“Same here,” Ciara said.

“Call me Hermione,” Hermione said. “Now, are we going to stand here talking or are we going to celebrate?”

“We’re Gaels,” Aebard scoffed. “We’re going to celebrate into the dawn!” Ciara whooped and Hermione laughed as she led them through the wards, into Clogaid Cruaidh.

“I should warn you,” she said as they approached the castle. “My mother and two of her friends are here.”

“I think we all guessed as much,” Ciara said with a smirk. “Come, I want to meet the infamous Bellatrix Black! My cousin went to school with her, said she beat a professor in a duel while she had a hangover!”

“I did,” Bellatrix said, appearing near the entranceway. “Is your cousin Aoife O’Mahoney, by any chance?”

“She is,” Ciara said. Bellatrix smirked, folding her arms.

“Did she mention she’s the one who gave me the hangover?” Bellatrix asked, eye glittering playfully. “Or about how I tied her up and ravished her afterwards?”

“She might have,” Ciara replied, sauntering towards Bellatrix. “She might have told me she’s never screamed louder in her life. I wonder,” Ciara purred. “Do you still keep silk ropes in your bag?”

“Why don’t I show you?” Bellatrix then turned on her heel, Ciara eagerly following her, pausing to wink at Hermione.

Hermione stared at the space where her mother had been, her face red as wine.

“That,” she said, voice flat. “Is something I never need to hear again.” Kenneth laughed, clapping her on the back.

“At least they didn’t start fucking right here,” he said. “Come on, let’s get drunk!” Hermione rolled her eyes, but led them into the living room, calling for Sheila, one of her house-elves, to bring them some whiskey. If it could remove that scene from her mind, she was down to party.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two days later Hermione set out again, apparating to Edinburgh, where she was meeting with Maol MacDuff.

“My Queen,” he said softly.

“Hermione, please,” she replied. “It is good to finally meet face-to-face.”

“With you as well,” Maol said. Slowly they began walking towards the castle. “Things are going to be even harder than we thought,” Maol said after a few moments’ silence. “They’ve upped the guard after the Stone of Scone went missing.”

“How many?”

“Thirty soldiers are posted as guards,” Maol said. “So are fifty of my men. Thirty-four of them are with us, as are six of the soldiers. I’ve scheduled an escape route if we leave between 3:30 and 4:15 tomorrow.” Hermione nodded.

“I’ll be staying in the city,” she said. “I have a few people to meet with anyway.”

“Of course. Your grace,” Maol said, giving a subtle bow. Hermione nodded to him, watching as the man walked away before turning on her heel. She had a bishop to meet.

Chapter Text

On July 18th, Hermione Slytherin approached Edinburgh Castle. She entered the line at 3:10 pm and purchased her ticket at 3:15. She entered the castle, wandering around slightly before entering the Crown Room at 3:38 pm. Entering the room she sent out a wave of power that temporarily disabled the security cameras.

“Chan eil duine a ’toirt ionnsaigh orm le impidheachd,” she announced. No one attacks me with impunity . The Motto of Scotland and their chivalric order, the Order of the Thistle, said in Scots Gaelic instead of the usual Latin. It was the code phrase they’d settled on.

The guards moved immediately, ushering the three other visitors out of the room, claiming there was a private event starting soon and they needed to set up. Hermione ignored them, instead approaching the Honours. In the presence of muggles, even muggle allies, she couldn’t use magic. Instead she pulled out a bobby pin and a hairclip and began to pick the lock.

“Excuse me?” someone said. Hermione didn’t pay them any attention. “Your majesty?” Hermione paused, looking up at the tall guardsmen.

“We’re performing a heist together. Call me Hermione, please,” she said. “What is it?” The man flushed lightly at being told to use his sovereign's first name.

“Maol told me to give you these,” he said, holding out a keyring. Hermione paused, then sighed. She really could be an idiot sometimes.

“Thank you,” she said, putting away her makeshift lockpicks. “What’s your name?” she asked, turning back to the locks.

“Colin, your majesty.”

“What did I say about calling me that, Colin?”

“That I should call you Hermione.” He paused before adding, “Your majesty.” Hermione bit back a sigh of annoyance, instead lifting the lid of the glass case. She placed her hand in the case, but before she could pluck the necklace, the Saint Andrew Jewel of the Order of the Thistle, containing a portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s wife, the alarms sounded. Hermione bit her lip.

“I guess we didn’t hit security as hard as we thought,” she said. “Come on, we have to hurry now.” Pocketing the priceless jewel she moved on, flipping through the keys before finding the one to the case of the Crown of Scotland. She had opened it and taken the crown when Maol and a half-dozen men rushed into the room.

“Alarms went off,” Maol said.

“We know,” Hermione replied dryly, handing him the Crown. He looked down at it before looking up at her, confused. “You’re a MacDuff,” she said. “MacDuffs crown the monarch. I’m entrusting you with the crown.” Maol looked at her, flabbergasted.

“Sir,” Colin said. “We really don’t have time for shock.”

“Right,” Maol said, not looking away from Hermione and the crown. Slowly he took it. The moment it was safely in his hands Hermione turned away, opening the next case. The Scepter of Scotland, a gift from Pope Alexander IV, she hung onto. The Sword, a gift from Pope Julius II, she slung onto her belt.

“Guards are coming from down the hall,” someone said as she finished buckling the sword-belt. “A dozen or so.”

“Let’s go then,” Hermione said, scepter held in one hand, sword on her hip. The guards nodded, and as one they began running down the corridor, away from the oncoming guards. As they ran down Maol’s planned escape route more guards joined them.

“FREEZE!” someone yelled from behind them. They didn’t listen, nor did they pay attention to the person’s vehement swearing. Instead they turned, running down another corridor and then out the side-gate. The half-dozen soldiers posted there, all of them converts to the new queen’s cause, joined them as they ran from the pursuing force.

A gunshot roared through the air as they ran, the bullet narrowly missing and hitting the gatehouse wall.

“Keep going!” Hermione yelled. A second gunshot sounded, then a third and a fourth. Someone yelled as a bullet tore into their arm.

“Keep moving!” Maol yelled. “Come on Kenan, you’re stronger than a bloody pom’s bullet!” The man, Kenan, laughed and pushed forwards.

They ran across the street, splitting as they hit an intersection, the guards moving to follow them.

“Follow the girl!” someone yelled. “She’s got the scepter!” Hermione poured on the speed, sprinting down Johnston Terrace. Their allies split off from them as they hit side-streets, the guards largely ignoring them in favor of Hermione and Maol. The two of them took a hard corner at Grindlay Street, then turned again down Cornwall Street. Springint between buildings she ran around Usher Hall and onto Lothian Road. She dodged a PC car, running into the Sheraton Grand Hotel’s garage. Gaining a small lead on their pursuers, she and Maol sprinted up the steps before turning and heading down on the elevator. In the elevator she placed the scepter and sword into her magically-enhanced bag, Maol doing the same with the crown.

Calmly walking out of the elevator they walked through the lobby. As they did they saw a handful of PCs entering. Ducking into an open elevator, they found themselves pressed against a group of conference attendees.

“Coming for the conference?” someone--Robert Dowel, MD and Ph.D, according to his nametag--asked.

“Yeah, we’re running a bit late,” Maol said. “My daughter,” he said, gesturing to Hermione. “Wants to enter the field. Thought I’d show her a few panels.” The man smiled.

“There’s a great one on East Asian Infectious Diseases in Sub-Saharan Africa at eleven tomorrow. A friend of mine’s on it, Sarah Hunter. I can ask if she can talk to you afterwards,” he said, addressing the latter part to Hermione.

“That would be great!” Hermione said with false enthusiasm. “I haven’t really decided if I want to go into research or academics yet, I’m hoping this can help me decide.”

“I’ll ask her,” Robert Dowel said. “She’ll probably say yes, she loves talking people into the field. Actually,” he said, looking at his watch. “My dinner’s not until 6:30. If you want I could talk to you a bit.”

“That would be lovely,” Hermione said, flashing her prettiest smile. Inside she was groaning. It would be a perfect way to avoid detection, but dear gods she wasn’t looking forward to an hour of talking about academic medicine. From the look he briefly shot her, Maol felt the same.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Major-General Jonathan Hall was not having a good day. It had started well enough, with perfectly cooked eggs and a perfect cup of tea. It had continued well too, operations and units running smoothly. Granted, the news out of Kosovo was bad, but that wasn’t his mess to deal with. It might become his mess at some point, should the Prime Minister decide to make it so, but for now he didn’t need to worry about it.

His good day had come to a crashing halt when alarms went off at Edinburgh Castle. Given his honorary title as the Governor of Edinburgh Castle he was informed immediately. Jonathan had, after talking to the commander present, thought that they would be able to handle the issue themselves.

He had been wrong. By the time he was contacted again, the Honours of Scotland were all missing, along with some of the Scottish Jewels, and the Captain of the Guard for Historic Scotland was implicated, along with thirty-four of his men and six of Jonathan’s soldiers. To make matters worse, they had recently upped their security in the wake of the Stone of Scone’s theft from Westminster Abbey. If they didn’t get it back, they were certain to look like idiots, and Jonathan Hall hated to look like an idiot.

Jonathan watched the tapes again. The young woman, name yet unknown, entered the ticket queue at 3:10 pm. She purchased her ticket at 3:15 pm and was inside the castle by 3:17. At 3:38 she entered the Crown Room. At 3:38:46 the cameras shorted out. Their visuals didn’t return until 3:42, when the alarms caused hallway and nearby room cameras to pivot towards the alarm.

At 3:42:46 she stole the Saint Andrew Jewel, placing it in her pocket. At 3:43:22 she stole the Crown of Scotland, handing it to the Historic Scotland captain. At 3:44:18 she stole the Scepter of Scotland. At 3:44:51 she took the Sword of Scotland and began buckling it around herself. At 3:47:40 she and her companions began running through hallways. At 3:50:11 they exited the building and began splitting up.

The Sword and Scepter were the key. The Crown was as well, but that could be put in a bag. The Sword and Scepter were too large. That’s how they would find them, putting out a BOLO of anyone holding a sword and scepter. Shouldn’t be too hard to find them.

Picking up the phone, Jonathan Hall began to call the Edinburgh Chief Superintendent.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was six o’clock by the time Hermione and Maol finally extracted themselves from the kind, boring grip of Robert Dowel. The constables had left nearly an hour earlier, giving up after not finding anything after an hour. Hermione had fourteen voicemail messages on her recently-purchased mobile phone from various payphones, one from each of the groups, confirming their successful escape. She was listening to them as she and Maol cautiously walked towards a hidden alleyway where they could apparate.

“Thank the gods,” Maol said. “I thought that would never end.”

“Hush,” Hermione cajoled. “We could still be running if it wasn’t for him. He seemed like a very kind man.”

“He did,” Maol admitted. “Just a boring one.” Hermione rolled her eyes but said nothing. It was, quite frankly, not worth it.

“That’s the last of them,” Hermione said, putting away her mobile. “Everyone got away safe.”

“Good. We’re not being followed either,” Maol said.

“We probably won’t meet for a while,” Hermione said. “Say hello to Anita for me.”

“Will do,” Maol said. “I’m like not to see her for a while, once the Ministry puts out my warrant.” Hermione scoffed.

“There’s ways around that,” she said. More seriously she added, “Take care Maol.”

“You too, your majesty,” he said.

“Maol!” Hermione exclaimed, but with a crack he’d apparated away. Sighing, Hermione checked for people looking. Seeing none she too turned on her heel, and with a crack she disappeared.

Chapter Text

Minerva McGonagall arrived at Dunblane Cathedral around nine in the morning on August 4th. Her former student was certainly going for symbolism, holder her coronation a short drive from Bannockburn and on the day of the Battle of Stanhope Park. Minerva was under a heavy glamour. She had a duty, not only to her Queen, but to Hogwarts and her students. Fortunately the Queen agreed, insisting that Minerva remain at Hogwarts when the war began and do nothing to risk her position.

Minerva never thought she’d see this day, let alone be a part of it. Scotland hadn’t been independent since the early 17th century, and over the past centuries had been all but subsumed into England. Things were even worse in the wizarding world. Their languages, clothes, traditional gods, spells, and rituals were still banned. Not for much longer though. Not if they had anything to say about it.

Minerva hated war. She had gone to Hogwarts during Grindelwald’s War, during the muggle World War II. She remembered the flinching every muggleborn student made at the loud noises, traumatized by the Blitz. She remembered how many of them were forced to return each summer. She remembered how some of them never came back.

Minerva was a teacher by the time the next war broke out. While Grindelwald’s War had barely touched wizarding Britain, this one raged across it. Many of her students, of her childhood friends, even her family had died. The McKinnons had been slaughtered by Travers. The Potters, the Longbottoms, her own nephew, all of them were killed or worse. The last thing she wanted to see was another war. But seven people were in Azkaban for speaking Gaelic. Children were expelled or prohibited from attending Hogwarts for speaking the language of one of its founders. She may hate it, but under the circumstances even Minerva could see war was necessary.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Maol MacDuff was pacing nervously in one of the back rooms of Dunblane Cathedral. He was responsible for crowning the next Queen of Scotland, just as his ancestress had done for Robert the Bruce centuries ago. It was a big deal, bigger still for all the people who would be in attendance, and for the BBC reporters she had somehow talked into showing up with no idea about what would be happening.

His niece Anita had stayed up late into the night helping Maol practice the vows. She wasn’t able to attend the coronation, seeing as how she was still in school, but wanted to do her part to help. She had also wanted to show off the tattoo the Queen had marked her with. Maol had to admit, it was a beautiful thing. According to Anita, it was more than just a symbol, the unicorns of the Forbidden Forest had actually blessed their Queen.

Maol took a deep breath, in and out. He could do this. He would do this. He would fulfill his duty as a MacDuff and a Scotsman. He would crown his Queen, and then it was off to the secret base near Inverness. His Queen wanted him to train and organize a company of her Highland Regiment. That would take a lot of work. For one, Maol had only basic training when it came to the types of vehicles his queen had purchased for the regiment. The small-arms training he could do, but when it came to the Armored Personnel Carriers and Infantry Fighting Vehicles? That was likely to be a group-learning process. Hopefully there would be an engineer who knew what he was doing.

Yes. That was good. He just had to focus on the future. Leading men in training, that was something he was used to, something he knew. Much easier to remain calm while thinking on that than contemplating the coronation. Maol was used to small groups of men he commanded, not massive crowds.

Right. The training. He’d need to organize a schedule, color-coded of course.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Alexander Salmond entered Dunblane Cathedral around 9:20am and took his seat in the front row. Alex Salmond, as he preferred to be known, had been accorded this honor thanks to his status, both as Leader of the Scottish National Party and as a Member of Parliament, though he would be resigning the latter soon. Next to him was his Deputy Leader, then the other MPs who were in attendance, along with their spouses. Also in the front row were three Dukes, four Marquesses, and a handful of Lords-Lieutenant. Behind them were the Bishops, of both the Catholic and Scottish Episcopal Churches, though both the Primus of the Scottish Episcopal Church and the Archbishop of Glasgow were missing. Others were missing, of course, but Alex had heard those two were coming. Perhaps they were part of the ceremony. Behind the Bishops were lower-ranking Clan Leaders, interspersed with politicians and a handful of other elites. Behind those were the others. Word had been spread quietly, subtly, but still thousands from across Scotland drove or took the trains to Dunblane for the event, so many they poured out the doors and filled the entrances.

This was not how Alex had wanted to achieve independence. He would have preferred an independence referendum. However, with the Tory government recently rejecting a devolution referendum that seemed unlikely. Much as he would have liked a Republican Scotland, he would take an independent Monarchical Scotland. Especially with this woman as monarch.

Despite being only fifteen, the soon-to-be-crowned Queen had greatly impressed him, and he wasn’t the only one. In half a year she had assembled members of every Clan, a majority of Chiefs, a number of Lords-Lieutenant, Scottish nobles, billionaires, members of Parliament, and even active members of the military on her side. If the whispers he had heard was true she had even assembled a small Army and Airforce. He knew for a fact she had assembled militant cells within every district of Scotland. More than a handful of his party’s campaigners had joined those groups, most of them notifying him.

Besides, it wasn’t like this would be an absolutist monarchy. Alex, his party leadership, and more than a handful of others including Laborites and Tories, had worked on the proposed Constitution with her. Granted, it made the Queen far more powerful than the one in England and gave some executive power to the various Clan Chiefs. It also included a written Bill of Rights and an independent, elected Parliament. Alex would take it. That he found the phrase “Socialist Monarchy” amusing also helped.

Music began to be played and the chattering amongst the attendees quieted. A small procession moved from the left doorway. At the heart the Church of Scotland Minister of Dunblane Cathedral, the Bishop of Edinburgh and Primus of the Scottish Episcopal Church, and the Catholic Archbishop of Glasgow carried the Stone of Scone. Together they lowered it onto the floor as those behind and ahead of them melted into the audience, save one, who held the Crown of Scotland in his hands.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The crowd was silent as Hermione walked out of the right-hand doorway. Turning to face the audience she knelt on the Stone of Scone, first of her line to do so in centuries.

“Ann an ainm an Athar, a ’Mhic, agus an Spioraid Naoimh, a bheil thu a’ mionnachadh a bhith a ’riaghladh le ceartas agus co-ionannachd, gus àm ùr de shaorsa a thoirt don h-uile duine agad?” the Minister asked, the words rolling off his tongue like he was born to them. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, do you swear to rule with justice and equality, to bring a new era of freedom to all your people?

“Tha mi a ’mionnachadh mar sin air mo bheatha,” Hermione said. “Gun cuir Dia mo stad ma dh ’fhailicheas mi.” I swear thus on my life. May God strike me down if I fail.

“Non iurare per Patris, Filii, et Spiritus Sanctus, iustus est iter sequi, persequi aequalitatem, ut praeesset et bene vivere, ut melius potestis?” the Archbishop asked. Do you swear, by the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, to follow a righteous path, to pursue equality, to live and rule well, to the best of your ability?

“Et hoc per animam iurare,” Hermione replied. “Dispeream si non miliens.” I swear this by my soul. May I die a thousand deaths if I fail.

“Do you swear, by the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, to protect your people, all your people, to rule for them and with them, to lead courageously, to defend the weak and protect the vulnerable, to resist and persist in the face of bigotry?” the Primus asked

“I swear by my life, my blood, and soul,” Hermione said. “May the Devil take me if I fail.”

“So vowed and so blessed,” the three men said. “May God keep you and guide you.” Maol then stepped forward, holding the Crown of Scotland over her head.

“With these vows and blessings, I, Maol MacDuff of MacDuff, crown you Gwendolen Morgana Athena Slytherin Black, Queen of Scotland,” Maol announced, his voice carrying through the large church. “Long Live the Queen!”

“Long Live the Queen!” the crowd echoed. Hermione stood carefully, holding up both the Scepter of Scotland and a sword. It was a different sword than the one she’d liberated from Edinburgh Castle. This was the Sword of Kings, more even than the Sword of Scotland. This had been the sword of Brythonic Kings and Queens for centuries, most famous of them Arthur Pendragon, and had been locked in Gringotts’ Vault Zero for more than a thousand years before being retrieved by her two days ago.

Hermione walked down the aisle, exiting the church, scepter and sword held aloft. Her new subjects touched her as she left, letting their hands brush against her elegant sapphire-blue dress.

Partway down the isle the sound of police sirens filled the air, causing some of the attendees to panic. The treasonous nature of the event hadn’t struck home until they were directly faced with its consequences.

“Be calm!” Hermione declared. “Leave through the back. You will be called upon soon, but today is not our confrontation. I will delay them. No matter what happens, do not fear . Bidh sinn a ’sabaid airson Alba an-asgaidh [ we fight for a free Scotland ]. It will take more than a pair of handcuffs to stop our movement.” Her speech calmed the crowd, though it confused a good many of them. Minerva McGonagall was not confused.

“My Queen,” she hissed. “You cannot--”

“They will not hold me,” Hermione said with a vicious smirk. “You all need a distraction, and we need some good press.” Turning away from her former professor Hermione continued out the door, to where the crowd of supporters were blocking the PCs attempts to enter the cathedral. Surprised, they split for her.

“Come to arrest me?” she asked the constables, who simply looked at her, surprised.

“Yes,” one of them finally said.

“I’ll humor you,” Hermione said. She slowly sheathed her sword, taking her time as her followers exited out the back, making their way from the police presence. Taking off her crown she didn’t hand it over. She shook her head and gently rolled her shoulders and head, her neck cracking as she did.

“You know the phrase ‘Heavy is the Crown?’” she asked no one in particular. “I’m not sure it’s entirely figurative.” Despite himself one of the PCs snickered, the other one sighing before moving to handcuff Hermione, who let him before walking towards the car.

Chapter Text

“The surprise crowning of an Independent Queen of Scotland set off chaos in the region,” Andrew Harvey announced on August 7th. “While the so-called Queen has been arrested, large-scale protests have erupted throughout Scotland and show no sign of abating. This morning the protests turned deadly in Glasgow when British soldiers opened fire on what seems to have been a peaceful protest. The current counts have twenty dead and thirty-eight injured. The officer in command reports that he was concerned protesters could try to rush the building, where the Queen-Claimant is being held. The estimated eight to ten thousand protesters dispersed after shots were fired, but have since gathered again.

“Parliament has been quick to act in this chaos, adding nearly a dozen people to the Banned Voices Act today, including the Queen-Claimant and Alexander Salmond, Leader of the Scottish National Party. They have also expelled members of parliament who were in attendance at the coronation.

“In other news, the Provisional IRA has announced a new campaign of attacks against British Military instillations in Northern Ireland. This comes just over a month after the IRA’s devastating attack on Thiepval Barracks which left thirty-four dead and more than two hundred injured along with causing more than twenty million pounds in damage.

“This is the BBC News at Six O’Clock. I’m Andrew Harvey, thank you for tuning in.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On August 8th Hermione decided she was done with prison. Or being held, rather. Rather than being placed in a prison or a jail, Hermione was being held at the Glasgow Police Headquarters, where they hoped the dozens of constables and soldiers outside would be able to hold her.

The fools.

Hermione pulled the disillusioned bobby pins from under her hair as she walked towards the cell door. It was an awkward position, leaning against the bars to try and get a look at the lock, but she could make do.

After ten minutes of quiet struggling and swearing, Hermione finally unlocked the door. Folding in the bobby pins, she put them back in her hair. She pushed the door open slowly before walking through it.

Her first stop would be Evidence. The tracking charms she placed on the Honors told her they were being held there. Given the magic that went into Excalibur’s creation she hadn’t been able to track it, but hopefully it would be there as well.

Hermione had to duck into a prison cell briefly to avoid detection, and hid in the women’s bathroom more than few times before she finally made her way to the evidence room. Which was, unfortunately, guarded.

Stepping from around the corner Hermione slammed her hand into one guard’s temple. She wasn’t trained or strong enough to knock him out with just that, but it allowed her to channel a stunning spell through her hands. She ducked under the other guard’s attack before punching him in the chest, again channeling her magic.

The officer in charge stood up as she entered, his hand going for his gun. He never made it. Hermione leaped over the desk, elbow hitting his solar plexus, winding him. Her hand rose and fell. The officer made a small thunk as he collapsed onto the floor.

Feeling winded, Hermione kept moving, letting her adrenaline fuel her. She walked through the evidence room before finding a locked vault. Biting her tongue to keep from swearing, Hermione moved towards it, searching around for clues about the passcode. Seeing none she closed her eyes, hoped for the best, and typed in year the University of Glasgow was founded.

To her great surprise and delight it worked. Working quickly, Hermione reclaimed the Honours of Scotland, Excalibur, and her wand, which had fortunately not been damaged. She had taken a great risk with that one, but it would have been riskier still to not have it on her during the coronation.

Pulling out her mobile phone, Hermione dialed the number of James McLewis, the leader of the Edinburgh Company of Secret Cells.

“Who is it?” James asked.

“James,” Hermione said softly as she climbed down the stairs, exiting the rear of the building. “It’s Gwen.” She could hear his sharp intake and could nearly see his eyes widening.

“Your majesty,” he said breathlessly. “What--how--”

“Just now,” she said. “They still don’t know. Probably won’t for an hour or so. In the meantime, I need some help taking over the BBC.”

“We can do that,” James said. “Let me call some people. Meet at outside Botanic Gardens in an hour?”

“It has to be sooner,” Hermione said. “We want them finding out about me after we’ve taken over and left.”

“Thirty minutes then.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you there.” Hermione smiled as she hung up. She was really glad she’d spent so much time looking at city maps before her arrest, even if her mother thought it boring.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

BBC Scotland’s headquarters were in the North Park House. Plans were being made to move, so as to house more stations, but they had yet to come to fruition. Hermione looked at the studio from across the street. On the other side, James and his ragged band of twelve stood, pistols carefully concealed. Hopefully they wouldn’t need them.

As one they moved, Hermione crossing the street with three of the cell members, James approaching with twelve. Moving inside, they met with surprisingly little resistance as they moved towards the BBC Scotland 1 camera studios. At least, until they reached the studio.

“What the hell?” someone yelled, standing up. “Who do--”

“Stand back,” Gerald, one of James’ cell members, said.

“The hell I--” the man shut up as Gerald pulled out a pistol.

“I do apologize for the intrusion,” Hermione said. “But we need to borrow your equipment. Just for a moment.”

“I--well--okayy then,” the man said. Hermione smiled at him and walked towards the news anchor’s desk.

“I--oh, you want me to move,” the man said. “Got it.” Standing up he quickly scurried away. Hermione sat in the chair, straightening her hair slightly. The Crown of Scotland was placed on the desk in front of her, a military sash lay across her chest, Excalibur sitting on her hip. The Saint Andrew Jewel hung from her neck. The dress she’d worn to the Coronation was transfigured into a pair of black slacks and a dark green button-down shirt. Temporarily, lest Aunt Cissy throw a fit.

“Are we ready?” Hermione asked. James turned towards Elise, another cell member.

“Ready. Camera on in five, four, three,” she said, mouthing ‘two, one.’ Facing the camera, Hermione stared straight ahead.

“My fellow countrymen,” she said. “To those who have lose friends and family in the senseless murders yesterday morning, I bleed with you. You are my people as I am yours, and my heart weeps for those passionate lives cut short by senseless English violence. I ask now for a moment of silence to honour their loss. Let their names and deed be remembered and honoured, may they live on in the stories we tell.” She paused, her eyes downcast and her head bowed. She remained thus for a few moments before raising them again.

“We cannot let their sacrifice be in vain,” she declared, her previous warmth fading. “They may be dead but their cause, our cause lives on. Scotland shall never be free so long as the English boot remains at our throat. The murders yesterday prove what we already knew but dared to hope had changed--there is no reasoning with the English. There will be no peaceful resolution, no compromise that allows our freedoms. The English will persist until either our culture or our people lie dead. It is in light of this that I, Gwendolen Black, Queen of Scots and Scotland, declare the Second Great Cause.

“To the English I say thus: we have kicked you out before, and we will kick you out again. You can leave peacefully now, or forcibly later. While I hope you chose to save the lives of your countrymen and mine, I do not hold much hope. The English have repeatedly proved they care more for land and money than human life and liberty. You have until August 10th.

“To my fellow Scots, this war will test our resolve. It will test our metal. It will test our very souls, but we will emerge victorious.” With a nod to Elise the cameras cut. Hermione stretched back in her chair before standing.

“Thank you all for your cooperation,” she said to the news crew and anchors. “We’ll be out of your hair in just a moment. Bernard?”

“It’s on the air,” Aaron shouted from the control room, where Elise had handed him the tape. “We’re good to go!”

“Good,” Hermione said. “We should probably leave before the police arrive. So long, nice to meet you all.” Turning on her heel, Hermione then led the fifteen militant Scottish Nationalists out of the building, leaving the crew and anchors of BBC Scotland 1 gaping in their wake.

Chapter Text

John Major, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Leader of the Conservatives, was not having a good year. First, all the progress that had been made in Northern Ireland, over the objections of the hard-line Tories and Orangemen, had disappeared practically overnight, replaced with renewed rebel militarism and superior weaponry. Second, he had won his leadership battle by a far thinner margin than expected. Granted, it was one he had provoked himself, tired of the constant back-biting, but he had initiated it before the Northern Ireland Peace Talks went to hell. Third, there was this new crisis in Scotland. Everything about it seemed off and wrong.

A fifteen year-old girl from nowhere claiming to be queen should have been sent to hospital. Instead she had somehow rallied an unknown amount of support amongst the elite and thousands amongst the commons. They didn’t know what her support from the elite was like because the Constables had been content to talk during this would-be queen’s slow, peaceful surrender. A surrender that allowed all of her supporters to escape and nearly all of them to do so without identification.

That she had surrendered so easily, without violence, while still bearing the stolen Honours of Scotland, set off further alarm bells for John. There was something they were missing. Granted, she might just be insane, but insane people usually don’t muster that kind of support--not when they’re fully delusional. Part of the missing element was revealed when massive protests broke out across Scotland. It was a show of support for the imprisoned queen, even if they were solely protesting the admittedly hasty and political imprisonment of a Scottish national (they thought she was a Scottish national, they couldn’t be entirely sure, there was an unsettling lack of paperwork about her). Another part was revealed after soldiers fired on the crowds in Glasgow, drawing condemnation from around the globe and even amongst his government’s ardent supporters. But there was something else. Something they’d missed.

“Sir!” John turned, catching the sight of his frazzled secretary. “Sir, you’ll want--well, you have to see this.” John inwardly groaned even as he followed his secretary. Something he had to see but wouldn’t want to could only be bad news, and his scale for bad news had changed drastically since taking this job.

Entering the lobby of Number 10 Downing Street, John saw everyone looking up at the small television screen. Normally muted with captions, the volume was turned fully up. Even more shocking was the visage on the screen--that of the fifteen year-old would-be queen.

“I,” she said. “Gwendolen Black, Queen of Scots and Scotland, declare the Second Great Cause.”

“Martha,” John said to his secretary, not taking his eyes from the screen. “Get me Secretary Portillo. In fact, get me a meeting with the whole Defense Council.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Less than two hours later, the entirety of the Defense Council was assembled in the Secure Room in Whitehall. If this were anything less than the threat of a full-on war, John would have assembled the Defense Board, which handled most of the organizational paperwork. Given the situation, however, he needed the full formal body. Michael Portillo, his Secretary of State for Defense, was normally the Chair, though today that was abdicated in favor of John, given his rank as Prime Minister. There was Nicholas Soames, the Secretary of State for the Armed Forces; Peter Inge, Chief of the Defense Staff, the professional head of the Military; John Willas, the Vice-Chief; Jock Slater, the First Sea Lord and Chief of Naval Staff, professional head of the Navy; Charles Guthrie, Chief of the General Staff, professional head of the Army; Michael Graydon, Chief of Air Staff, professional head of the Air Force; Richard Mottram, Permanent Secretary of the Ministry of Defense; and the Director General Finance. Also in attendance were his Deputy Prime Minister and First Secretary of State Michael Heseltine, and his Secretary of State for Scotland Ian Lang.

“Afternoon,” John said. It wouldn’t do to rush things, even if he badly wanted to.

“Afternoon,” the room replied.

“Right then,” he said. “How well are we prepared for an insurgency in Scotland?”

“We’re half-decent,” Peter replied. “Our security’s tight already since the IRA tried to attack us. We’ll need to tighten it up, but nothing that can’t be done. Our Scottish bases tend to be more fortified than the Irish ones.”

“They also haven’t been fighting as long,” John Willas said. “They won’t be as good as the IRA, and the IRA can’t match us in a real battle. Their weapons will be worse--”

“Their weapons will likely be better,” Ian Lang interrupted. “From the little we know Gwendolen Black has the support of several wealthy Scots, and a handful of wealthy Norwegians.”

“Even so, that won’t be enough,” Charles said. “They might be able to build up soon, but at least for now they’ll be poorly equipped. That will likely remain true long enough for us to build up security.”

“Unless people desert,” Ian countered. “That happened in Ireland, after Bloody Sunday.”

“And we just made another Bloody day,” Michael grumbled. “That speech will only make things worse. How the hell’d they hijack our networks?”

“The Chief Superintendent said they took over BBC Scotland,” Ian answered. “Must’ve done something from there, probably some set-up for when regional reporting hits national.”

“We’ll need to do something about that,” John Major said. “In the meantime, start building up our fortifications. Get some aircraft to take reconaissance trips, maybe they’re clumsy enough for us to spot them. We’ll also need to start moving troops from England and Wales towards Scotland. We’ll need them if this turns out as bad as we think.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It did not turn out as bad as they thought. It turned out much, much worse.

After escaping Glasgow with the now-outed Cell, Hermione began organizing the next series of attacks and recruitment. Dozens of volunteers, if not hundreds, were joining them each day. Granted, the British Army still badly outnumbered  them, but they didn’t need to win in a battle-lines fight on an open plain. War didn’t work that way anymore.

The main target was also the most dangerous one, both to attempt and if they failed.

HMNB Clyde, full name Her Majesty’s Naval Base, Clyde, was one of the largest military instillations in Scotland and one of only three full-blown naval bases in the British Military, some to some three thousand service members. More importantly, it was the home of the Trident Missiles, the British Military’s nuclear weapons.

The plan was for a large-scale distraction near the docks that would allow Hermione and a team of wizards disguised as scientists to enter RNAD Coulport, the storage and loading facility at HMNB Clyde. They would then disable and destroy nearly all the nuclear weapons, stealing one or two as a deterrent, as some missiles were likely to be at sea or secreted elsewhere. They might need the deterrent, but nuclear missiles were too difficult and expensive to maintain to justify more than one or two. They were also largely useless once one held deterrence capabilities.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The British Military spent much of the next few days forting up. On August 10th, their due date, soldiers throughout Scotland were tense, but nothing happened. Nothing happened on the 11th, nor the 12th, nor the 13th, and people began to relax, if only slightly.

It wasn’t until the night of August 14th, 1995, that things truly began. James McLewis and the Argyll and Bute cell leader were heading the distraction attack. They numbered 254 and were armed to the teeth. Hopefully it would be enough.

Hermione, Maol MacDuff, Maol’s wife Sinead, Aebard MacDougall, Ciara O’Mahoney, Cinaid Ancrum, Kenneth MacDonald, and a handful of others waited anxiously outside the barbed-wire fences. They remained in position until they heard loud explosions and saw bursts of flame rising in the night air. They remained still as the alarms went off, waiting as people rushed around. Finally, the alarms still sounding as the sound of gunfire filled the air, Hermione gave the signal.

The twelve wixen, all disillusioned, snuck onto the grounds. A simple Severing Charm sliced open the fence, letting them climb through. They paused briefly on the other side, Hermione turning towards the group.

“Remember,” she said in a low voice. “Piercing curses, knives, and firearms only.” The others nodded in understanding and Hermione turned back.

There were twelve soldiers guarding the outside of the building, eight at the front door and four at the back. Of course, leaving the front door guarded could prove problematic if someone decided to move. Gunshots would be far too loud, drawing the attention of the whole group before they could thin them out. As one the group of wixen raised their wands. Some whispered the words of the spell, some mouthed them, others said nothing. The end result was the same. The first volley of spells killed the four guards at the back, the second killed all but one at the front. The one was quickly finished off by Hermione with a second spell.

Still undetected the group made their way down the hill and through the small trees. Gently tapping her wand on the doorknob Hermione magically picked the lock.

Inside the compound there were more soldiers. Quickly drawing Excalibur, Hermione swung it, slitting the throat of the soldier in front of her. She moved quickly, dodging one blow and stabbing another soldier. The enemy regained their balance and aimed their weapons, and Hermione ducked behind a wall. Her allies then entered, a volley of piercing spells followed by gunshots. Hermione ducked back around the wall, throwing a knife into a soldier’s eye. She pushed up off the ground, moving into a lunge, stabbing another soldier in the chest. Excalibur’s blade, forged by High Elves before they disappeared along with their knowledge, easily cut through the protective armor and broke the man’s ribs to pierce his heart.

With the soldiers dead and out of the way, the wixen started on the missiles. They had studied taking the missiles apart for weeks, the Trident Missiles long one of Hermione’s top priorities. Wands out, they moved them carefully as they unscrewed bolts, took off plates, snipped wires, and piled up nuclear material. Normally dismantling a nuclear weapon could be an hour or hours-long process. With the help of magic it took only ten minutes.

Unfortunately, as much of an improvement that was, it wasn’t likely to be good enough. There were as many as two hundred missiles in the storage facility, and they were unlikely to have three hours.

As time progressed the wixen moved faster, used to the movements. They slowed again after a careless mistake nearly set off one of the weapons, but were close to finding a happy medium when Hermione’s mobile began ringing. Continuing the process, Hermione answered with her other hand.

“Hello?”

“It’s James. We had to leave. Base on fire, destroyed a few ships. Even stole a patrol vessel.”

“Good work. Head back, we can handle extraction.”

“Copy. Good luck.”

“Same to you.” Hermione then hung up, her mobile slipping back into her pocket. The missile in front of her dismantled, she turned towards the others.

“The muggles had to leave,” Hermione said. “The base has been heavily damaged, along with some of their ships. We’re handling our own extraction.”

“We are?” Maol asked. “How are we going to transport the missile then?”

“We aren’t,” Hermione replied. “Unfortunately, that’s no longer in the cards. We’ll just have to make do with knowing it isn’t for them. That and costing them billions.”

“I’ll take it,” Kenneth said. “Come on, let’s get back at it. Each missile dismantled is another coronary for the poms!”

Chapter Text

While the largest attack, the raid on HMNB Clyde was not the only one that took place on August 14th and 15th. The Cameron Barracks near Inverness were hit with mortar shells between 3:38 and 3:52 in the morning, the attackers managing to get away before the garrison could catch them. The Redford Barracks in Edinburgh were victim to a lorry-bomb that exploded around 7:25 am. Walcheren Barracks in Glasgow were bombed, as were the Rosyth Shipyards in Fife. Two pipe bombs went off in the Scapa Flow Naval Base. The worst were the attacks on the Air Force. The attack on the busy airfield at RAF Lossiemouth in Moray saw dozens of rocket-propelled grenades and anti-tank rounds fired at the largely empty aircraft while some forty men provided small-arms coverfire. The bombings of RAF Aird Uig in the Hebredies and RRH Buchan, both radar stations, were placed at the most essential and costly parts but saw no deaths, suggesting inside assistance. Four other barracks were attacked as well, a quick long-distance mortar shelling leaving no answers for the British, only questions and frustration.

John Major, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, had been alerted when the attack on HMNB Clyde began, at 11:46 pm on the 14th of August. He assembled his augmented Defense Council at Whitehall. They stood and sat in grim-faced surprise as information came in after the attackers left, around 1:14 am.

“Sir,” Commodore Brian Perowne said over the phone. It was now 2:06. “We have finished examining the base. The full report will not be ready for some time. I can give a preliminary one now, however.”

“We would appreciate that,” John replied. There was a brief pause, as if the man was sighing away from the phone.

“The main attack involved an estimated two-hundred fifty people,” Commodore Perowne said. “They attacked with mortar shells from a range before closing with small-arms fire. They targeted expensive equipment and buildings at first, some of them targeting ships as they came closer to the shore. The alarms went off almost immediately, triggering our response-force. While we outnumbered the insurgents, we were not expecting their numbers, nor for them to be as well-armed as they were. I personally led the counter-assault. Some of the guns we found were the newest Swedish models. We captured one mortar. It’s the same as our army’s standard-issue.

“Combat continued for more than an hour, largely a running fight as the insurgents tried to delay us and cause the maximum amount of damage. The death counts are rough, but we believe we killed six of theirs in that confrontation, while we lost twenty, counting the shelling. There are dozens more injured.”

“Hold up,” John Major said, lifting up a hand in instinctual response. “You said that confrontation.”

“Yes sir,” Commodore Perowne replied. “We didn’t discover it until the grounds check.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Peter Inge said. Taking in a deep breath, he let it out slowly. “What did they do to the Tridents?” The room turned towards the Chief of Defense Staff with widened eyes, shock overriding their natural English reticence to show emotion.

“They dismantled them,” Commodore Perowne said, unable to see the shock and horror. “There were two hundred seven Trident missiles in the storage facility, guarded by twenty-two men, none of whom were able to radio for assistance.”

“Did they take any?” John asked, unable to hide his fear.

“No,” Commodore Perowne said, and the room breathed a sigh of relief. “But all the missiles are disabled. The uranium was tampered with and is believed to be unsalvageable. It’s possible we could repair some of the missile bodies, as there was little damage to them other than cut wires, but it would likely take time.”

“How did they get in?” Jock Slater demanded, having recovered enough to speak. “A team of scientists large enough to dismantle that many--”

“A fifteen-meter section of the fence was found cut out,” Commodore Perowne answered.

“How were they able to get in without someone radioing in for help?” Charles asked.

“We don’t know. Whatever footage there was was destroyed by the insurgents.”

The questions continued, but John Major listened to them with only half an ear. There were several things about this attack that should have been impossible. Cutting out fifteen meters of fencing in under an hour? Impossible. Killing twenty-two men before they could radio for assistance? Impossible. Sneaking into the most vital military facility in Britain completely unnoticed? Impossible. Dismantling two hundred Trident nuclear missiles in two hours? Impossible. Mysteriously turning uranium unusable at the same time? Impossible. Sneaking out of the most vital military facility in Britain completely unnoticed? Impossible.

Yet it had all happened. John’s mind went back to the night he was sworn in, when he had been introduced, albeit briefly, to a world full of things that were impossible. A world of talking portraits, transporting fires, and special sticks. A world of magic.

Much as he might not wish to, John would be forced to contact the Other Minister, and soon.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Cornelius Fudge was not a man who appreciated surprises, unexpected events, or anything out of the wizarding ordinary, thank you very much. He enjoyed the finer things in life, and if some of his pleased constituents wanted to share their wealth with him, who was he to object? His tenure as Minister of Magic had, for the first several years, seen none of that of the former and much of the latter. It had been, by Cornelius’ standards, a perfect existance.

It had changed, Cornelius now knew, when Harry Potter came into his world. Like much, if not all, the wizarding world, Cornelius had been excited at the Potter heir’s return, hoping to welcome him with open arms. But instead of a warm embrace, Potter’s return had heralded the dawn of a new, troubling era. One with Potter at the center of increasingly disturbing events. Potter had been involved in whatever hell caused that Hogwarts Professor--Squirrel?--to die. Potter had been deeply involved in the Chamber of Secrets fiasco. Potter had been at the center of not one but two dementor swarms, at the escape of Sirius Black, and at the escape of a man-eating hippogriff.

Disturbing as those events had been, however, it was the last year’s that were the worst. Potter had been found at the Quidditch World Cup, his wand the one to cast the Dark Mark. Potter had, despite his age, somehow entered the Triwizard Tournament, turning it into a Quadwizard Tournament. He had exhibited atrocious behaviour at the Yule Ball. He had been at the center of Barty Crouch (Senior)’s deranged re-appearance and re-disappearance. In the final event he had disappeared, then reappeared, screaming about You-Know-Who’s return. He had been escorted away by someone pretending to be Alastor Moody--who had gotten the drop on the notoriously paranoid auror was unknown, though Dumbledore claimed it had to be a Death Eater, but there were plenty of others with grudges to bear. Said person then had to be blasted out of a window by Cedric Diggory, the defeated Hogwarts Triwizard Champion, and some girl from Slytherin.

In retrospect, it all made sense. It had taken something truly audacious--namely the claims of You-Know-Who’s return--for Cornelius to see it, but now he could. Potter lived for the limelight. Which, considering his circumstances (living with muggles of all people) was understandable. No doubt Dumbledore was manipulating Potter into gaining attention by damaging Cornelius’ regime. Dumbledore had been trying to manipulate him, Cornelius Fudge, elected Minister of Magic, since his first day. Now that Cornelius had shown he couldn’t be manipulated, Dumbledore was no doubt trying to oust him, using Potter.

Fortunately, he had ways of getting back at Dumbledore. The bearded menace had severely overestimated his hand. The Ministry and its employees--bar some malcontents in the DMLE--were loyal to him. The Wizengamot, displeased by Dumbledore’s blatant manipulations, followed his lead as well. The Daily Prophet , as it always had been, was loyal to the Ministry and its pursuit of truth and justice. They ran stories they’d held off on for years, exposing Dumbledore as a power-grabbing menace and Potter as a fame-obsessed troubled youth. The Wizengamot had deposed Dumbledore as Chief Warlock, a post he’d held since 1948. Even the International Confederation of Warlocks had smelled blood in the water. A few days after the Wizengamot acted, the ICW had deposed Dumbledore from his post as Supreme Mugwump, another position he’d held for decades. The world was finally coming to its senses, and with the new educational decrees soon to pass, Hogwarts would accompany them into this brave new world.

Cornelius looked at his calendar and sighed. He had an appointment he very much did not want to go to. If there was anything he hated more than Dumbledore, it was interacting with muggles. They knew nothing about anything, and insisted in talking about fictional inventions. He had met with the previous Muggle Minister once, after his election. She had suggested planning for something called “Nurecal Armageddon,” or maybe “Numbchoir Armageddon.” As if muggles could ever threaten the Wizarding World.

Still, Cornelius had a duty to meet with the Muggle Minister when requested, and much to his displeasure he had been requested. With a sigh Cornelius grabbed his coat and hat and walked towards the fireplace. Dropping a pinch of floo powder he called out;

“Ten Downing Street!”

Cornelius stepped out of the fireplace brushing off soot. Looking around, the office was much the same as it had been last year, when he was forced to brief the Muggle Minister about Sirius Black’s escape. Having already explained Black’s situation, Fudge had sent a letter when Bellatrix Black, Rookwood, and Dolohov escaped. No need to do things face-to-face.

“Don’t you wizards know how to knock?” the Muggle Minister asked. Cornelius scowled at the impudent man, but didn’t respond.

“What’s this about?” Cornelius asked. He wanted out of here soon as possible. The frozen portraits and distinct lack of magical fields were unwelcome, unnatural.

“Is the woman in Scotland one of yours?” the Muggle Minister asked.

“What woman?”

John Major bit back a sigh. Thatcher had told him how shockingly ignorant and isolated wizards were, but he had hoped she’d been exaggerating.

“The one claiming to be a queen.”

“Sounds like a muggle problem,” the Other Minister shrugged.

“Then explain to me how two hundred Trident Nuclear Missiles were disarmed in two hours!”

Ah, Cornelius thought. Nuclear. That was the word the last Muggle Minister had used. Though what tridents had to do with fiction technology was beyond him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cornelius said. “The only tridents we have are used by the merfolk.”

“Merfolk?” the Muggle Minister asked, then shook his head. “Nevermind. Doesn’t matter. You’re sure your kind have nothing to do with this?” Cornelius bristled at the phrasing, straightening himself up.

“There are no wizards or witches involved in your petty conflicts,” Cornelius spat. “If you’ll excuse me.” Cornelius then turned on his heel, leaving with the loudest CRACK he could manage.

John Major winced as the Other Minister disappeared. The sound was still ringing in his ears when he sat back behind his desk. Still, unpleasant as that meeting had been (as meeting with wizards always was) at least it had confirmed there weren’t any wizards involved in Scotland. Truth be told, John wasn’t sure if that was good or bad news. On one hand, it meant they wouldn’t have to deal with any impossibilities or magic, just normal technology and weaponry. On the other hand, it meant this wasn’t something he could blame on wizards, and what a comfort that would have been. It also meant he wouldn’t be getting any magical help, not that John would have counted on it even if wizards had already been involved.

Overall it was probably a positive. One less possible complication. And John certainly didn’t need more complications with that situation. Sighing deeply, John Major turned back to his paperwork for his Secretary of State for Scotland. Ian wanted John’s signature on the warrants as well as the magister’s, given how high-profile some of these arrests were.

Chapter Text

Of the few thousand attendees of Gwendolen Black’s coronation, only eight hundred had fit inside the cathedral. Of those eight hundred, an estimated four hundred  were prominent members of society, either politicians, government figures, clan chiefs, peers, church leaders, and miscellaneous people of import. Of those estimated four hundred, ninety-six had been identified, and seventy-four found.

It started with a pre-dawn no-knock raid on August 22nd. Throughout the day the raids continued, prominent members of society hauled from their abodes and offices by overeager or reluctant constables. Many had broken bones, a handful escaped, but most were arrested with relative calm.

Norman Irons was not one of those. Lord Provost of the relatively Unionist Edinburgh and a member of the Scottish National Party, Irons had been on the list of suspects even before the Scottish Office could confirm his attendance. Once they had, he jumped to third-in-line. A man with his connection could easily and two and two if they gave him time.

The raid was led by Chief Inspector Jonathan Potts. Chief Inspector Potts’ brother had been killed during the August 15th attack on the Redford Barracks. The funeral had taken place two days before, with Potts mostly standing still as his brother’s wife cried on him.

The no-knock raid began by breaking through the door, the Chief Inspector first through the breech. Moving through the Lord Provost’s house, he rushed through the corridor, looking for the bedroom. According to his men, a loud bang then sounded. The Chief Inspector flinched and pivoted, shooting as he turned. After the Chief Inspector fired the first bullet, the others in his squad began shooting.

The bang, it was later discovered, was caused by a crashing vase. Chief Inspector Potts’ bullet hit the wall, which stopped its path. The subsequent shots had a different fate.

When the shooting finally stopped, the door was partially opened. It took two men to force it all the way open. Looking down, the Chief Inspector found out why.

Norman Irons, Lord Provost of Edinburgh, CBE, had been shot eleven times--four in the chest, six in the limbs, one through his neck. His wife, Anne Irons, was shot four times: two in her chest, one in her legs, one in her back. Chief Inspector Potts on seeing the Ironses, is reported to have said; “Shit.”

The police quickly called an ambulance, but it was too late for the Lord Provost, who died en route to the hospital. Lady Provost Anne Irons was in intensive surgery for eighteen hours. She wasn’t released for another four days, one of those spent being interrogated by the Chief Superintendent of Edinburgh. She told him nothing, saying that if he wanted her cooperation he shouldn’t have killed her husband.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The funeral for Norman Irons, CBE, Lord Provost of Edinburgh, was held on August 30th. There had been no militant activity for a week, as the Queen had proclaimed a week-long period of mourning. Hermione had privately expressed her condolences to Anne, Elizabeth, and Kenneth, Norman’s surviving family.

The funeral procession began at the Irons House, where Norman had been killed. Led by his still-recovering widow, the procession traced a route through the city to Old Calton Burial Ground. People flooded into the street as they walked past, tens of thousands joining the massive crowd. People had arrived from throughout Scotland, numbered nearly two hundred thousand in total by the time they arrived at the cemetery.

“Let us remember the man who has passed,” the minister said. “Let us remember his life, his joys and his sorrows.” The first person they heard from was Anne. She told of how they met, of the parties they had attended, of the love they’d shared, of their happy moments raising their children. Kenneth was next, speaking on how his father had raised him, taught him what it meant not just to be a man, but to be a good man. How he had taught him the importance of education and of kindness.

Then it was Elizabeth’s turn. She had flown back from Hong Kong to help her mother and to attend the funeral. She walked to the front of the crowd with determination, her steps longer than they normally were. Forcing open her clenched hand, Elizabeth took the microphone.

“My father was a good man,” Elizabeth said. “He was a good father. He taught me many lessons. I learned how to read, how to add and multiply, how to write and how to speak. The most important lesson he taught me was to stand up for what you believe in. To stand up, regardless of the price, because it was the right thing to do.”

“My father,” Elizabeth said, her voice cracking slightly. “Was murdered. My father was murdered by the Police Force of Edinburgh. He was murdered by Ian Lang. He was murdered by John Major.”

“My father believed in an independent Scotland,” Elizabeth said, her voice growing stronger, carrying over the silent crowd. “My father believed in self-determination. My father believed that freedom mattered. He believed that the restrictions put on his people, on our people were unjust. He believed,” Elizabeth said. “In a free and independent Scotland. He was murdered for those beliefs.”

“My father will be buried here next to his fellow political martyrs,” Elizabeth said. “Like those men, he campaigned for equality, for freedom, and for liberty. He fought for a better future, not just for a few, but for all. It is a fight we cannot allow to die. His fight cannot end with him.

“By killing my father, the English State has shown its brutality. They have shown their true nature. Scotland shall never be free so long as we continue bowing to a foreign power. Together, we can beat them. Together, we can throw off our chains. My father has started this work, and I will continue it. They can’t kill us all.”

“They can’t kill us all!” someone in the crowd shouted. The cheer was picked up by others in the crowd. “They can’t kill us all! They can’t kill us all!”

Norman Irons, CBE, Lord Provost of Edinburgh, husband of Anne Irons, father of Elizabeth and Kenneth Irons, was buried next to the Political Martyrs’ Monument. After his burial, the crowd that had assembled did not disperse, at least not in its entirety. The majority moved from the burial grounds to the Police Headquarters, still in mourning clothes. They carried signs protesting police brutality and calling for the resignations of Chief Inspector Potts, the Chief Superintendent, Ian Lang, Secretary of State for Scotland; and John Major.

A line of police were present in front of the building, expecting some protesters. They had not expected a crowd this large, and knew for a fact they didn’t have a permit.

“Disperse immediately!” the Sergeant said through a megaphone. “You are in violation of the law! Disperse immediately!” The crowd ignored him, and the sergeant lowered the megaphone. “Fire the tear gas,” he said. The men nodded and raised their guns. A series of pops went off, sending the cannisters through the air before they landed amongst the crowd. Shouts went up from the crowd, and some began to disperse. The sergeant nodded, and another volley was fired.

In the crowd, a man named Aiden Hale picked up one of the canisters. Ignoring the burning in his eyes, he shouted;

“They can’t kill us all!” Aiden threw the cannister back at the wall of police.

“They can’t kill us all!” someone else yelled, and another cannister was thrown. More people began repeating the phrase as dozens of cannisters were hurled at the police.

“They can’t kill us all!” Aiden yelled again, moving forwards.

“They can’t kill us all!” more yelled, following him. The crowd surged forwards, shouting at the top of their lungs. As one their march turned into a sprint as they rushed the police line. The police fired rubber bullets from behind riot shields. Protestors yelled and attacked with metal poles, tear gas cannisters, their fists, anything they could grab. Soon the sheer weight of the crowd began pressing against the police’s line. Unlike in Glasgow, the bullets didn’t force them away. Instead they seemed only to anger the crowd.

The crowd surged again. They leapt onto police, tackling them to the ground and wrestling guns away from them. Fists rained down on the riot police as they were stripped of protective helmets and shields. Finally the line broke. The crowd rushed the police station door. Some, having somehow gotten alcohol or gasoline, hurled molotov cocktails through the building’s windows. Others simply threw the tear gas, or shot them open with the stolen shotguns.

Hundreds poured into the building itself, stolen guns and clubs wielded with the anger of a mob. Some constables tried to stop them, grabbing weapons from the riot locker and evidence room, but they were too late. The mob destroyed equipment, they beat officers and constables. File cabinets were thrown through windows. Clubs smashed computers and hands hurled monitors, shattering them on the ground. The evidence room and the weapons locker were raided. Handcuffs were thrown from the building’s roof, raining on the crowd below.

The gas in the building was thrown on the fire as they left. The flames, gathering strength, tore through the empty building, destroying much of what little had escaped the mob’s wrath. Outside the building, someone had torn down the Union Jack and replaced it with the Scottish flag.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Daughter,” the Dark Lord hissed. Despite regaining his handsome visage, the sibilant, snake-like tone of his voice hadn’t faded. His skin was too tight. He blamed these flaws on Wormtail, the pissant unlikely to be the truly Willing Servant the ritual called for. If his daughter hadn’t adjusted things, he’d likely have come out looking like some half-naga monstrosity.

“Father,” Hermione replied calmly, taking a seat across from him. Unlike the Dark Lord, who was dressed in traditional robes of pitch-black, Hermione was wearing a more modern set. A more militant one too. While her father’s robes were made of acromantula silk, an expensive and traditional material, Hermione’s were made of dragonhide, though it was masked by a thin layer of silk on top. Her inner robe ended above her knees, though she was wearing a set of trousers as well. She had on combat boots as well. A red sash cut across her chest, Excalibur hanging from it. The sleeves on her inner robe were loose, her wand hidden beneath her left sleeve.

“You have gained quite a following,” the Dark Lord said, placing a copy of The Guardian on the coffee table. “Most impressive. Yet you seem to have attracted no Ministry attention,” he added, placing a copy of the Daily Prophet next to The Guardian . The contrast couldn’t have been clearer. “ Irons Killing Fuels Outrage ,” The Guardian exclaimed. “ Koldovstoretz Student Wins Wizard’s Chess Tournament, ” the Prophet remarked. Below the fold, another article criticized Dumbledore’s fearmongering. Hermione fingered through the papers.

“This wasn’t the plan,” the Dark Lord hissed.

“No, it wasn’t,” Hermione said, putting down the papers. She looked up at her father. “I thought our stunt with the Trident Missiles would start them thinking of us.”

“They did.” The Dark Lord sighed, though he would deny doing so. “Their Prime Minister called Fudge. According to Lucius the fool’s been complaining about it ever since. After meeting with Fudge, who still doesn’t think nuclear missiles exist--”

“You’re kidding me,” Hermione said.

“Have I ever joked?” the Dark Lord asked.

“Probably,” Hermione said. “You’ve lived a long time.” The Dark Lord’s eyes flashed red as he glared. Hermione moved on.

“I’m guessing Major decided wizards are too ignorant to have messed with nuclear weapons?”

“Correct,” the Dark Lord drawled. His glare, it seemed, hadn’t faded in the least, even if some of his support had. “Dumbledore and his Order remain fixated on me. The plan hasn’t worked.” Hermione bit back a response. The plan was working, at least from her perspective. Helping her father, while part of this, had never been the main focus. “We need something new.”

“What did you have in mind?” Hermione asked.

“The auror’s office in Glasgow,” the Dark Lord said. Hermione paused.

“Why not go bigger?” she asked.

“What are you thinking?” he asked. Hermione smirked.

“There are seven people imprisoned for speaking Celtic Languages,” she said. The Dark Lord stared at her.

“You want to break into Azkaban,” he said flatly.

“I’ve done it before,” Hermione replied. “I’d just be showier this time. I can even try to cause enough damage your Death Eaters escape too.” The Dark Lord sat there for a moment, contemplating. It was a dangerous mission, yes, but not something unthinkable. Loathe as he was to risk his heir, she had done it before. And she’d have Bellatrix, Augustus, and Antonin with her this time. Possibly others too.

The Dark Lord looked at his daughter, staring into her eyes. The amethyst flecks made up a little less than half her irises now. She’d been practicing something. Something big, something dark . Given her confidence, something to do with Azkaban.

“Go,” the Dark Lord said. “Be careful.”

“I will,” Hermione replied with a smile. “Thank you, father.”

Chapter Text

“Everyone have their wands?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” the group of wixen replied.

“Portkeys?”

“Yes.”

“Protective gear?”

“ Yes .”

“We all remember the spell, correct?”

“Darling,” her mother said. “We’re ready.” Hermione nodded, biting her lip. She was nervous. Not so much for herself, she knew she was ready, but for everyone else. One slip and they could die, or have their soul could be sucked out.

“On three,” Hermione said. Everyone gripped the carved wooden bracelets. They worked slightly different from most portkeys. Rather than a codeword, one pushed magic into the bracelet, which took them to their destination. Each bracelet was keyed to one location. On the current mission, everyone had two; one to Azkaban, and one back.

“One,” Hermione said, gripping her own bracelet. “Two. Thr--” Her voice was cut off as she activated her bracelet, spinning through a tunnel and popping out the other side, hundreds of miles away. Three of the wixen had arrived before her. The others came afterwards, each one slipping neatly through Azkaban’s wards.

The group fully assembled, Hermione set off, wand clutched tightly in her grip. Even knowing she was fine, she couldn’t shake the feeling of doom and decay that clung to the island. Her mum, Gus, and Anton no doubt had it worse.

They strode forward as a group, walking down the empty corridors. Everyone was twitchy. There was something wrong about Azkaban. Something had bleed into the island over the centuries, the dementor’s presence affecting the very land beneath them.

The Celtic-Speakers were held in the medium-security area, across the island from the maximum-security area, in a tower of its own. The minimum security prisoners had a tower of their own too.

They managed to reach the courtyard in front of the tower before being noticed. The aurors weren’t the ones who’d caught them. The dementors had noticed the large group of souls wandering around. There were no patronii guarding them, no aurors to protect them. The dementors, hungry, insatiable, soul-sucking demons that they were, had gathered near the tower, waiting for them.

Hermione moved instantly as they reached the courtyard. Her wand carved through the air in two movements, symbolically cutting through the veil between realms. “ Atar peake kerdn, ” she intoned. She’d been practicing this spell for weeks, ever since she’d found it in a well-hidden book in the Chamber of Secrets. It was in a secret drawer in the hidden study of Slytherin’s secret rooms in his secret chamber. It was half-stubbornness, part luck, and rest was the approval of a portrait, which later revealed itself to be the great Merlin Emrys, ancestor of Salazar Slytherin’s student, Merlin the Younger.

Merlin Emrys, it turned out, had been a Zorastrian Magi. He had fled his home when the Byzantines re-conquered part of Asia Minor (as he called it). His wife and children had died in the purges of magic-users and non-Christians. In Britain he had started a new house, a new life, and served as Arthur Pendragon’s advisor and a mentor to Morgan le Fey, ancestor of Morgana le Fey and Morrigan Sayre.

Merlin the Younger, during his struggle with Morgana, had hidden Merlin Emrys’ tome of knowledge with his mentor. Slytherin, recognizing the potential and danger of the tome, had secreted it away, behind a basilisk, concealment charms, and an extremely cantankerous portrait.

A bright white flame poured from Hermione’s wand. Another flame moved from where she’d pierced the veil. The two flames combined, mixing together as they moved towards solid form. A loud neigh emerged from the finished shape as it reared in mid-air. It snorted as it lowered its hooves. It lowered its horn, pointed toward the dementors, and charged.

The unicorn charged the dementors, who tried to move out of the way. Their dark coaks caught fire as it neared. It pierced through one’s ‘face’ as it charged. The dementor let forth a wailing shriek before imploding, leaving nothing behind.

“ Atar peake kerdn, ” her mother said. Weakened by the first tear, the veil split easily, and soon a panther rushed to join her unicorn. More animals soon joined the fray, pure white flames destroying the foul beasts, the casting easier with each successive opening. Hermione smiled as the dementors fled. She moved towards the tower, gesturing for them to follow her. They did, though many watched their creation burning away the soul-suckers.

Her mother’s panther stuck with them, clearing the way, while Hermione’s unicorn continued routing the dementors, Rookwood and Dolohov following in its wake. The others moved quickly up the stairs, ignoring the largely empty cells at the bottom. After a brief while they reached the right floor, and Hermione drew her sword.

“Alan Guinness?” Hermione asked as she walked toward the first door.

“Aye,” the man replied, his voice raspy with disuse.

“Nice place.” The man glared.

“Come to mock me?” he spat.

“No,” Hermione said. “Come to free you.” The man looked at her in deep confusion. His confusion turned to shock when Hermione swung Excalibur, cleaving through the cell’s lock. One by one she cut the locks, the prisoners shocked for a moment before scrambling to their feet.

“Right,” Hermione exclaimed. “Escapees, grab hold of someone. We’re portkey--”

“Your grace!” Saoirse shouted. “Aurors!”

“Perfect timing!” Hermione said, striding towards the back of the group. “On my mark.”

“What’s the--”

“ FIENDFYRE! ” As cursed flames flew from Hermione’s wand the group popped away. Hermione waited a moment before jerking her wand to end the spout of flame and portkeying herself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

AZKABAN DESTROYED!

Fiendfyre, Unknown Spells Destroy Ancient Prison

Inmates Whereabouts Unknown

Azkaban has been the Ministry’s most famous, or infamous, prison since 1718. The island has long been thought of as inescapable, until the infamous madman Sirius Black escaped two years ago. While the recent triple-escape of Bellatrix Black, Augustus Rookwood, and Antonin Dolohov further damaged Azkaban’s reputation, it was still a terrifying, intimidating fortress.

That is no longer the case. According to an auror, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, the Medium-Security Tower has been reduced to rubble. Several buildings are severely damaged, and the Maximum-Security Tower was destroyed when its inmates rioted. The Minimum-Security Tower has been damaged as well.

How could so much damage be done to such an impregnable fortress? How could the attackers get past the Dementors? Who even were the attackers?

“We’re not sure how they got in,” a different auror said, also speaking on the condition of anonymity. “They just appeared. It was like they portkeyed or apparated in, but the wards are too strong for that.” When asked why the aurors did not immediately interfere, the auror replied, “We decided to let the dementors handle them.”

But instead of handling the threat, the feared guardians of Azkaban were sent running by an unknown spell, described as, “A patronus, but made of white flames.” This spell, cast by multiple invaders, not only pushed back the dementors, but destroyed them. This is when the aurors decided to involve themselves.

The aurors traced the group to the Medium-Security Tower, but instead of finding Azkaban’s attackers, they found a raging case of cursed flames, which took more than an hour to put out. While they were struggling to put out the flames, the Death Eaters in the Maximum-Security Tower had somehow gotten wands and had begun taking apart the fortress. Some of them even broke into Azkaban’s central building and destroyed the heavily-guarded central wardstone, allowing them to apparate away.

Despite the obvious failings of Azkaban’s aurors and protocols, it is unclear whether they could have stopped this mass-escape. Nearly twenty wizards and witches appeared suddenly and without warning, somehow getting through Azkaban’s wards. With the dementors taken out with this new mystery spell, Azkaban’s aurors were outnumbered more than two-to-one.

“We will obviously be re-evaluating our procedures when it comes to Azkaban,” Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, said. “For the moment, any prisoners will be held in our other facilities.”

For more on the escaped prisoners, see page 4

For Minister Fudge’s plan for improved security, see page 3

For information on dementors and Azkaban, see page 10

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Irish, Scottish, Welsh Wizards, Witches Declare Independence

Is the Union Breaking?

A statement was delivered by unknown means to the editor’s office of the Daily Prophet, following our article on the most recent Azkaban escape. The statement, written by several prominent Irish, Scottish, and Welsh wizards and witches, is below.

“Despite recent efforts and public condemnation, neither the Wizengamot nor the Ministry have moved to repeal the laws banning Celtic languages, religion, rituals, spells, dress, and overall culture. Instead they have moved to further restrict our people, in effect committing genocide by cultural erasure. There are muggles who know more of our culture than many of us. This is an unacceptable state of affairs.

“We, the Alliance of Celtic Wixen,  declare the independent Wizarding Republic of Ireland, the independent Wizarding Kingdoms of Scotland and Wales. We fight not for power, not for ourselves, but for our people and our children. We fight that our children might be free to speak the tongues of their ancestors--languages Helga Hufflepuff and Rowen Ravenclaw both spoke. We fight that they might practice their ancestor’s religions and rituals--both of which all four Hogwarts founders are known to have participated in, as did Merlin Emrys, Merlin the Younger, and Morgan le Fey.

“We name ourselves free, independent, and at peace with all nations. No longer shall we follow the oppressive laws of the Wizengamot, nor do we recognize its authority. We offer the English Ministry a chance to accept this peacefully. Do not mistake this mercy for weakness, however. Should the English Ministry decide to reject our peaceful freedom, we are unafraid to fight for our liberation.”

The document was signed by, amongst others, Lord Aebard MacDougall of the Wizengamot (Scottish, Light), Aeden MacDavie of the Wizengamot (Elected, Irish, Unaffiliated), Ciara O’Mahoney of the Wizengamot (Elected, Irish, Unaffiliated), Kenneth MacDonald of the Wizengamot (Elected, Scottish, Unaffiliated), Llewlyn Pritchard of the Wizengamot (Elected, Welsh, Unaffiliated), and Lady Gwendolen ‘Hermione’ Morgana Athena Slytherin Black, the Lady Black-Slytherin-Peverell-Rosier-Ravenclaw-Gaunt (Scottish, Dark).

Warrants have been issued for all the signatories, and they have been censured by the Wizengamot. All six Wizengamot members assigned proxies before releasing the statement, however, and the motion to strip them of their seats failed 20-21, with four abstentions, in a vote that saw many crossing party lines.

For the Ministry’s response, see page 4

For more about the signatories, see page 6

For more about the Wizengamot vote, see page 10

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Dumbledore,” Fudge called. The Wizengamot had just voted on stripping the traitorous members of their status. A vote that had narrowly failed, despite seeing both Dumbledore and Fudge on the same side. “This is a serious problem.”

“Yes, Cornelius,” the older man said. “It is. Voldemort has made his opening move. He hopes to divide the Light--”

“You’re still on that?” Cornelius asked incredulously. “Things are bad enough without your fearmongering!”

“Cornelius!” Dumbledore thundered. “Voldemort has returned! How far will you let this country go before you see the truth?!” Fudge flinched but summoned what little courage he had.

“You’re turning into Mad-Eye Moody!” he replied. “Even when faced with a clear problem you see eighteen shadows and think they’re all You-Know-Who!” Dumbledore closed his eyes, taking a moment to breathe and center himself. He hadn’t had this kind of an outburst since Grindelwald’s War. Knowing he’d say something rude, possibly image-destroying, Dumbledore simply turned on his heel, summoning Fawkes. They disappeared in a burst of flame, leaving only a hint of soot behind.

Chapter Text

The rioting in Edinburgh had been a completely unexpected turn of events for Hermione Slytherin, aka Gwendolen Black Queen of Scots and of Scotland. While she had been relatively isolated in the Wizarding World, planning and executing the Attack on Azkaban, Norman Irons’ spitfire daughter had galvanized the crowds at her father’s funeral into a mob and destroyed the Police Headquarters. While Hermione was writing and editing the public letter for the Daily Prophet James McLewis, her outed supporter, had returned to his hometown Edinburgh and led an attack on the Redford Barracks. Helped by secret allies inside the ranks and unhindered by the many disgusted by the civilian shootings he had managed to capture the Barracks after a brief but fierce firefight.

All this had happened in the three days following the funeral. Hermione hadn’t expect any serious territorial holdings for quite some time, let alone one so far south as Edinburgh. Which was why she had come herself. That her arrival coincided with the attack from the Dreghorn Barracks was an unfortunate coincidence.

The attack had been heralded by the rumbling of tank treads on civilian streets. It had begun with an almighty explosion as an explosive round blasted through their makeshift barricade on the A702. Hermione had been called while she was meeting with James.

Standing on the roof of a building and looking through binoculars, Hermione let out a low whistle.

“How bad?” James asked, leg jiggling as he stood next to her.

“Bad,” Hermione answered. “They’re taking us seriously. Twenty tanks, followed by IFVs. Probably a pack of humvees hiding behind them.” Taking in a deep breath she turned to her companion. “If we back down here we’ll never be able to face them in pitched battle,” Hermione said. “We’ll be fighting a long, drawn-out guerilla war that will leave our home and people devastated. I’m not willing to risk that. I want people on roofs with mortars and anti-tank guns and RPGs shooting from as far away as they can manage. I want every building cleared of civilians and machine gunners put in the windows.”

“And you?” James asked. Hermione gave him a sharp-toothed grin.

“I’ll be buying you time.”

“Your majesty!” James tried to object, but Hermione was already stepping past him, numbers dialing into her phone.

“Sinead,” the woman answered.

“Sinead, this is Gwen,” Hermione stated. “Are you ready?”

“Ready enough,” she answered. “What do you need us for?”

“Poms are invading Edinburgh,” Hermione stated. “We need to distract them long enough for our forces to get organized.”

“Understood,” Sinead said. “Where are we meeting?”

“Location Six,” Hermione answered.

“Be there in three.” Hermione nodded. Checking to make sure James was gone, she twisted on her heel.

Hermione appeared with a crack, standing in the middle of a dusty upper-story flat. Muttering a spell beneath her breath the illusion cleared. The dust disappeared, replaced by clean tile flooring. The walls pulled back, revealing well-stocked lockers, chests, and cabinets. Opening one herself, Hermione pulled out an assault rifle. Checking it over, she grabbed another couple magazines before moving to a second locker. Strapping the gun to herself, Hermione unlocked the second locker and pulled out an RPG-29 and claimed a small box of anti-ERA HEAT rounds.

A crack behind her had Hermione turning sharply, wand outstretched and pointing. Sinead MacDuff cocked an eyebrow, and Hermione lowered her wand, sheathing it as well. Moving towards the window, she glanced out it.

“We should get started,” she said softly. Behind her Sinead hummed in agreement. Unlatching the window, Hermione closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She exhaled, inhaled again, and began pulling from her magical core. She spread it through her body as she breathed. She felt lighter than a fairy, stronger than a dragon. Her senses flew through the roof. She could hear the tank treads, the wheels of the humvees behind them, the orders being given by the pom army and her own. She could smell the burning fuel, the nervous sweat, the oiled gears. Opening her eyes the entire world felt bright and so, so big. She could see every tread on the approaching tanks, the narrowed pupils of the soldiers behind them. She breathed in and out, in and out, and slowly her sense came to heel, focusing on what and where she wanted them to.

Hermione moved swiftly, as if it was born to her. The RPG was placed neatly over her shoulder, round sliding into its breech. Narrowing her eyes, she focused on the lead tank and fired. The round flew from the launcher on her shoulder, her magic-strengthened body unaffected by the recoil. The round flew through the air, stabilizing fins deployed. It seemed to almost curve as it came closer, finally hitting the tank on its side, near the engine block. The small front charge took the brunt of the Explosive Reactive Armor, allowing the main charge to detonate. The explosion was powerful, tearing into the armor with enough force the massive tank stuttered. A second round was fired with ease, flying directly into the breech begun by the first. Already damaged, the tank’s armor broke under the second explosion. The flames and metal tore into the engine block, further fueling the explosion. The tank seemed to jump on the road before falling, covered in fire. The hatch was forced open as the crew struggled to crawl out, by Hermione was already moving on. One, two, three grenades were in the air before the first landed, tearing through the next tank in the line. Two more were fired from Sinead’s launcher, breaking through a third. The air cracked behind them as more of Sinead’s group appeared, grabbing guns and launchers before making their way to the windows.

Enhanced as they were in speed and precision, it was only after the eighth tank was destroyed that the British Army began firing back. The machine guns from the tanks lit into the side of their building. A heavy IFV sped towards them, only to be halted when Alec Guiness fired a grenade into its engine block. Jeeps and humvees moved towards them as well, meeting with similar ends. After one of her soldiers was injured, Sinead shifted her aim, taking out the machine gunners while Hermione focused on the tanks themselves. The others continued firing at the horde of vehicles arraying themselves against them, armored carriers and IFVs trying to get closer, or at least close enough to kill. Their bullets were met with grenades, their vehicles exploding beneath them. Thanks to the enchanted lockers they had hundreds of anti-tank rounds in the building and were more than willing to exhaust their supply one at a time.

The British Army, however, was less willing to engage in such a drawn-out process. A heavy armored carrier bolted towards them, a pair of grenades destroying it. The poms remained undeterred, instead driving forward. Dozens broke formation to rush at their building, and despite their heightened physical abilities the wizards and witches were unable to destroy them all.

“Keep firing,” Hermione ordered, dropping her RPG after a final shot towards yet another tank. Grabbing her gun, she braced it against her shoulder. Below her she could hear the stomping footsteps of the soldiers as they charged up the stairs. Stepping next to the doorway, Hermione waited for them to reach the landing. As the first step landed on the last bit of stair, Hermione pivoted from the doorframe. Her gun leveled as she moved, two bursts leaving the muzzle at each soldier’s face. They were dead instantly. More were coming up the stairs, and Hermione moved to meet them. Standing on the landing, she greeted their arrival with another series of bursts and continued making her way down the stairs, stepping over the blood, bodies, and brains that now littered the wooden steps.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lieutenant-Colonel Jason Taylor was not having a good day. Any day he was ordered to go into combat was not a good day, but this was an exceptionally ill one. Ordered by his commanding officer, Major-General Jonathan Hall, to reclaim Edinburgh from the insurgents, Jason had known the day would not go smoothly. The attack on HMNB Clyde proved that well enough, and the insurgent’s support in Edinburgh had been nearly fanatical as of late. Still, commanding twelve hundred active-duty soldiers and bolstered by a few hundred reservists, Jason had expected to defeat the outnumbered insurgents.

Things had gone wrong from the moment the first tank was destroyed. Two grenades, fired swiftly and succinctly with supernatural precision had torn through the Challenger’s armor. That had been but the beginning. The seemingly endless wave of precise rocket-propelled grenades had torn through his tanks, killing and injuring dozens. The destruction only increased when Jason ordered his men to focus on their attackers. Still, Captain Andrews had reported that some of his men managed to get into the building.

“Lieutenant-Colonel?” In a swift motion Jason grabbed the walkie-talkie, pressing the button to answer.

“Captain Andrews? Over.”

“This is Captain Andrews,” the Captain reported. “We’re in the building, over.”

“Have you found your men? Over.”

“Nega--Gary, repeat that.” Jason stood stock still as he waited, mustache quivering. “We’ve found them,” Captain Andrews said, his voice sounding pained. Biting his lip, Jason forced himself to ask the question he didn’t want to know the answer to.

“How did you find them? Over.”

“Dead,” Captain Andrews stated. “Burst the face. We’re pushing up--” The Captain’s voice was drowned out by a series of explosions, far closer than before. Jason watched in horror, voice silent as mortar shells landed amongst his convoy. Halted as they were by the first group of insurgents, they were sitting ducks for the volley. Shrapnel and flames covered the convoy, smoke rising high in the sky.

“Lieutenant-Colonel?” They could still manage a victory. They could push on past the first group, take out the rooftop insurgents. But that would expose the more vulnerable jeeps and other unarmored vehicles to the destructive precision of the first group. They could win, but not without dozens dead and hundreds injured.

“Captain Andrews, pull back,” Jason ordered. “Get your men out of there.” There was a pause before the walkie-talking crackled back on, and Jason feared he was being ignored.

“Understood,” Captain Andrews said. “Over.” Nodding to himself, Jason turned towards his second-in-command.

“Get to the back, have them start retreating,” Jason ordered. “I’ll organize the front ranks.”

“Understood, sir,” his Major replied. Jason nodded, again more to himself than anything else, and his Major headed off, hand-radio gripped tightly. Turning to his own, Jason pushed in the frequency.

“Captains,” he stated. “Begin withdrawing your men.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione sighed in relief as she heard the Army forces were retreating. She hadn’t looked forward to fighting off a full company. Moving up the stairs she let her gun hang from the strap around her body. The magic enhancing every inch of her body faded, flowing back to her much-depleted core. Hermione slumped under the sudden weight of reality, pausing for a moment to readjust before standing upright and making her way back up the stairs. Her muscles strained as she climbed. Brief though the battle had been--only fifteen minutes before the retreat began--it had taken much out of her. The ceaseless use of magic weighed heavily on her core, even more than when she used Merlin’s spell.

A sharp crack sounded from the stairs above her. Hermione assumed it was one of Sinead’s group heading out. At least until the bright red light caught her attention. Her eyes flew wide as she took in the spell. Flinging herself to the side of the stairwell, the spell only caught her in a grazing blow. A sense of sleepiness seeped into her bones. Gritting her teeth, Hermione pushed through it, forcing her head upright as her wand fell into place.

“Lady Hermione Slytherin, you are under arrest,” the auror declared. Hermione glared up at him.

“Not yet,” she replied through gritted teeth. Another spell flew towards her, and Hermione just managed to block it, her shield knocking the stunner into the wall. A cutting curse bouncing against her shield as well before Hermione managed to snap off a spell of her own, one easily dodged by the auror. Another crack sounded behind her and Hermione ducked, a jet of light flying over her head. More cracks sounded as the rest of the auror team arrived. Glaring at them, Hermione turned on her foot, only to slam into a harsh wall, bouncing off the anti-apparation wards.

“Falbh a-mach!” Hermione shouted. Grabbing her knife she slit her palm, blood pouring forth as she began to chant. “ Bidh fuil an stiùiriche, air a thoirt seachad gu deònach, a ’tionndadh ballachan gu drochaid .” Blood of the leader, willingly given, turn walls to bridge. Hermione’s blood floated up from her palm, curving into an intricate pattern of Ogham. The aurors stumbled from the sudden wave of Dark magic. They recovered swiftly, but Hermione’s allies were already gone in a series of sharp cracks. Deprived of the rest, they focused on their main prize, but Hermione seemed gone as well.

Dawlish cried out in pain, hand flying to his neck as a pair of fangs dug into him. The snake evaded his hand, coiling and pressing off, leaping to her next victim, fangs ripping into his skin as well. Dawlish looked at his hand, the venom-tainted blood on his fingers, and stumbled. The other aurors aimed at the snake, firing spells at the horned serpent as it moved through them, ducking between legs and biting with ease. A volley of curses flew towards the serpent as it hung on a light post. The snake dropped, shifting as it did. In place of the snake stood a young woman, a vicious grin on her face. A powerful blast from her wand knocked the aurors backwards, giving her enough time to leap down the stairwell. Rolling with her fall, Hermione pushed off the ground, sprinting across the street and into the building opposite. Once inside she twisted on her foot and with a faint crack disappeared.

Chapter Text

The year’s first meeting of the Celtic Liberators was a far more somber affair than the previous year’s last. The circumstances were drastically different after all.

“It was hard for me to get here,” Anita MacDuff admitted. “Umbridge’s pets followed me half the day.”

“Us too,” Isobel MacDougal said, gesturing to her sister.

“Same here,” Kenneth Dunn said.

“They’ll be keeping a close watch on anyone with known ties,” Daphne Greengrass sighed. “She’s drawing heavily on Slytherin though. If she makes it a formal thing, we’ll be able to join. Keep some of them off your backs.”

“Dumbledore’s groupies will be following you just as much,” Morag MacDougal replied, shaking her head.

“They’re too busy with Umbridge and their claims about You-Know-Who,” Seamus said. “I don’t think most of them even know about the war.”

“Do you think he’s back?” Harvey O’Brien asked.

“Nah,” Seamus said. “There’d be kidnappings and deaths left and right if he was. Poms are just using his name to attack us.” Daphne, Blaise, and the Carrow twins bit their tongues. No need to cause chaos within the group.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Scottish flag flew over their heads. Motors hummed as treads and wheels spun over asphalt. Even to Maol, who had organized them for a month, the sight was an unusual one. Two thousand soldiers was tough to miss.

Inverness was not a city to be taken lightly. Protected from the north by the Beauly Firth and from the west by the River Ness even a half-competent engineering corps could hold off the most competent of invaders. And despite Maol’s best efforts, these were not the most competent of invaders. The unit had trained together for only a few months, just one of those under his leadership. Many were veterans, but green volunteers made up the rest. Fortunately, it was not a half-competent engineering corps they needed fight.

Three miles from the Firth Maol fired a flare gun high into the sky. Behind him each of his captains did the same, nearly drowning out the sun in a sea of red. By the time they reached the bridge smoke could be seen from Fort George. Gunshots rang through Inverness as the English and Scottish troops at Cameron Barracks fought.

How so many of the British troops had been converted to their cause was not Maol’s concern. In fact, he pushed the question far from his mind. Their cause had many followers who would do anything to free Scotland, and in the back of his mind Maol knew his Queen would not be the one to stop them.

Not for the last time Maol pushed his concerns away. Focusing on his core, he drew his magic through his body in the age-old tradition of gaelic warriors before shouting out the latest set of commands.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Last Private Army in Europe was a joke. A ceremonial unit allowed to exist only by tradition and laziness. It was meant to be an excuse for people to dress up and relive the glory days of the Highlands. Some drinks, some food, and more bagpipes than even a true Scotsman would know what to do with. Then it would be over until the next year. For more than a century and a half the most serious they had been was ceremonial guards.

What they were not supposed to do was conduct a bombing run on a series of RAF Radar Stations in Scotland. What they were not supposed to do was march fifteen hundred soldiers down to Perth just when the 51st Highland Volunteers had marched to gather with the rest of their men in Aberdeen.

The 51st Highland Volunteers did not take losing their Headquarters well. The three companies gathered in Forfar quickly marched back to Perth. The Atholl Highlanders, expecting this, marched north to lay in wait.

The two armies met near Scone. The 51st’s tanks pushed through the barbed wire as the men covered with mortar fire. The Atholl Highlanders responded in kind, shells falling from the heavens and landing with an almighty explosion that tore through flesh and metal alike. As the 51st neared they opened with machine-guns and the latest Carl Gustaf anti-tank RR. Smoke and fumes filled the air. Dirt hit the sky often as not. Blood and viscera were as common a sight on the ground as grass as the two forces fought. RPGs and anti-tank missiles streaked through the sky before exploding as they hit the thickly armored tanks. Under Captain Erskine, the 1st Cavalry Battalion of the Atholl Highlanders let loose with their rocket artillery. Coordinated by radio, the rockets fired from two miles away in Perth. They arched through the air before landing in an almighty fire that tore through the 51st’s tanks.

Piercing shrieks ripped through the soldier’s ears as British reinforcements came from the south, a trio of fighter jets strafing the Atholl Highlanders’ formation to deadly affect. They targeted the anti-air missiles first, two destroyed in the first pass. During the second a volley of missiles shot from the third and fourth but managed only to singe a wing. The 51st were pressing in now, the Highlanders forced back between a fresh wave of tanks and the violent air support. When the planes flew overhead again the Highlanders nearly broke, even their commander flinching in fear before three missiles hit the lead jet. Two came from the anti-air guns, but one came from above. The British jets jerked up and away as the Atholl Highlanders’ fighters came into view. Outnumbered the British fighters retreated. The Highlanders pursued them. They flew over Edinburgh, where volleys of missiles launched from the city at the British, and from the Dreghorn Barracks at the Highlanders. They finally broke off the pursuit as they neared English airspace, turning back to Scone.

Without their air superiority, the British advance stumbled. The Scottish surged forth, Captain Erskine ordering his tanks into a charge. They shattered the left flank of the 51st’s tanks, breaking into their defensive lines and opening fire on the artillery. The center and right turned to help defend, but were soon caught in their own battle with a new wave of Infantry Combat Vehicles and anti-tank weaponry.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione Gwendolyn Slytherin Black was utterly oblivious to the success her forces were having without her. For the past six days she’d been on the run. The death of Dawlish had attracted the fury of the Auror department. Every spell, trick, and avenue they could use to find her, they did. She’d gotten barely two hour’s rest before the apartment she’d ‘borrowed’ from an absentee landlord had been raided. It took six apparations to evade them, though at least she got a full night’s sleep that time. By the end of the next day she’d been found again, forced to shrink and cram away her paperwork without a thought to organization. That alone angered her enough to let loose a stream of curses when they caught up to her on the fourth apparation. Soon she was cursing her impulsive revenge as she nursed a long cut on her arm, quickly bandaged between apparations six and seven.

It had been nearly a week since Hermione truly had time to think. She was exhausted, frustrated, and increasingly injured. She had no doubt she could defeat the aurors being sent after her. The problem was they did not arrive one at a time, and each exacted their own payment whenever she turned to fight.

“Slytherin!” Hermione snarled and winced at the voice. Moody, of all the aurors, it had to be Moody this time. He would never hesitate to kill her, and was one of the few who might match her skill, if not her power. “ Diff- ” Hermione turned sharply, hoping her next hosts could sort out the flagrant violation of international law she was about to commit.

“ -do! ” The cutting curse flew towards her, nicking the inside of her elbow as Hermione turned through the fourth dimension.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“This is an outrage!” John Redwood roared. “This budget undoes more than a decade and a half of deficit reduction! For sixteen years we have governed this country with proper fiscal responsibility, yet with a single proposal the man who claims to speak for the Conservative Party seeks to negate out hard-won victory over excess spending!”

“Are you proposing we do not fight back?” one of Major’s allies bellowed.

“We have no need to!” Donald Dewar yelled. “If the Tory government had been willing to negotiate on the issue of devolution this would never have happened!”

“Appeaser!” one of the Tory back-benchers shouted. As the yelling escalated the Speaker banged his gavel several times.

“The Speaker recognizes the Honorable Minister Down,” Betty Boothroyd said.

“Thank you Madame Speaker,” Patty Down said, facing the Commons. “While the hypocrisy of an administration dedicated to deficit reduction cannot be overstated, it is hardly the most important nor most objectionable part of this bill. In addition to the funds set aside for mobilising the Reserves, more than eight billion pounds has been set aside for the Trident Missile Program! The Cold War is over! Even the most obstinate of military experts agree there is no need for these weapons, not one of which has been used in the last half-century! How can we, the people’s representatives, vote to support such an extravagance?”

Chapter Text

The Delacour family had several residences. The most famous and impressive of these was the Palais de Bordeaux, constructed by their ancestors during the reign of the Sun King. It was also far too large for anything but a formal occasion, which is why the Delacour family kept it in stasis most of the year, opening it only for balls and--on rare occasion--when they needed to intimidate someone. Usually a foreigner trying to make inroads in the French Ministry.

The family instead resided in a country house, just shy of a chateau in size. It was far cozier than the Palais de Bordeaux, the rooms lovingly decorated by generations of Delacour wives, children, and house elves--an even the occasional lord, when they could be bothered. The grounds were dominated by a meadow, though there was a more formal garden on the eastern side. A pond sat between the two. In winter and fall it was a quiet peaceful place, though in summer the pond was often dominated by the sounds of laughters as Delacour children and their friends played and splashed about. Just beyond the meadow was a small orchard where more than one Delacour heir had broken their first bone falling from a tree.

The country home was a place of relaxation, childhood, laughter, and all-around light-heartedness. Which made the sudden appearance of a haggard witch bleeding from the arm stand out all the more.

The sound of her arrival--a sharp crack--attracted Apolline Delacour’s attention. Though it was early for her husband to return it was not out of the question, especially if he was irritated enough to apparate so loudly.

Finding the stumbling, bleeding witch, Apolline gasped as she rushed forward, wand in hand.

“Dame Delacour,” the witch said, coming to a halt. Apolline gasped again as she caught the purple-stained eyes. “Je m'excuse pour. . .” Her brow furrowed.

“Non, none of that,” Apolline said before she could resume. “We must get you inside, and looked at. You are bleeding!”

“Ah,” Hermione said with a wince. “I got nicked by a spell turning into the apparation,” she said as Apolline hurried her inside.

“Zat is more than a nic,” Apolline replied dryly. “Fleur! Viens ici! Votre cœur a besoin de guérison!”

“Mon cœur?” Fleur asked, rushing down the stairs, gasping as she caught sight of her mate. “Hermione! Quoi dans tous les enfers--”

“Nice to see you too,” Hermione replied, moving to lean against the wall. Apparently the wound was worse than she’d thought, for she misjudged the distance and would have fallen to the ground had Fleur not caught her.

“What happened?” Fleur asked as she and her mother moved Hermione to the couch.

“Moody,” Hermione said with a wince as Apolline magically cleaned the wound. “Caught me with a cutting curse while I was apparating. I apologize for any inconvenience I’ve brought onto your doorstep,” she said to Apolline.

“Hmph,” Apolline huffed. “ Ferula. ” Instantly a large bandage wrapped itself around Hermione’s cut arm. “You are family. Or will be,” she added with a glance towards Fleur, who blushed uncontrollably. Not that Hermione’s cheeks were any less red. “Your ministry will not seek you ‘ere. Take time to recover. I know Fleur has been missing you as well--”

“Maman!” Fleur exclaimed, her cheeks heating again.

“I cannot remain for long,” Hermione sighed. Thoughts of war finally killed the last of her blush. “I have no doubt that the English are on the offensive, and without--”

“You are no good to zem ‘alf-dead!” Fleur exclaimed, getting over her blush as well. “You ‘ave ozers, what is ze point of an army if you must be zere for ezery-ting?” Hermione shot up, the amethyst in her eyes glowing.

“I cannot be a leader who abandons her people!” Hermione exclaimed, shooting out of her seat. “I cannot simply let others fight my battles for me, I have to fight them. I have to lead them, I have to be there, I cannot--I refuse to be like my father!” she spat, face misaligned with fury. “I refuse to be like Dumbledore, sending those who put their faith in me to their deaths! I refuse to be like them Fleur. I convinced thee people to rebel, I convinced them to fight, to risk their lives and the wellbeing of their families. I convinced them to trust me, and I’ll be damned before I break that!” Hermione was panting as she finished. Her shouting carried through the halls, her face once more red, her eyes now hiding tears.

“Delegation is not abandonment,” Fleur said, forcing her voice to remain calm. “You cannot do zis by yourself mon coeur .”

“I know,” Hermione said, seeming to deflate. “I know, I just--I can’t leave them Fleur,” she said, begging her mate to understand.

“You aren’t leaving zem,” Fleur said, gingerly stepping closer. “Just trusting zem to hold while you recover.”

“Right,” Hermione sighed. “Trust.” Her mind healers had always been on her about that. Now that she knew her parentage, it seemed at least partially an inherited problem. Not that assigning blame made solving it any easier.

“It’s just a few days mon coeur.” Fleur held open her arms. Hermione hesitated before stepping forward and falling into them. Her head rested in the crook of Fleur’s neck. Fleur’s arms wrapped around her, a comforting weight that seemed to take away the stress and expectations of the world. Unable to stop herself she began to cry as Fleur gently moved them back to the couch.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Violence Rules in Scotland

Even as the deaths from the Battle of Scone continues to be counted more violence continues to erupt throughout Scotland. Emboldened by the military success of Gwendolyn Black’s supporters, further uprisings have emerged. A ten-thousand strong protest march for independence in Aberdeen turned violent after a car backfiring was mistaken for a gunshot. When protesters threw rocks the Grampian Police responded with tear gas and rubber bullets. While many fled at this point, others retaliated, throwing gas cannisters back at the police. Some, believed to be agents of Black’s, were revealed to possess firearms and opened fire on the police, at which point the 51st Highlanders were called in from the Gordon Barracks. Faced with trained riflemen and machine guns, the protesters retreated, though attacks on police and servicemen continue to be reported throughout the city.

Glasgow, however, has eclipsed even Aberdeen. While massive protests distracted the police, armed supporters of Gwendolyn Black seized BBC Headquarters. As gunshots rang out through the city, the protest quickly turned into a mob, attacking police and storming City Hall where the Union Jack was taken down and burned. The 52nd Lowland Volunteers, based in the city, have clashed with armed irregulars and the police have been pushed back to their headquarters.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bellatrix smiled. Not the kind, loving one she shared with her daughter, nor the hungry gaze she gave her lovers. It was a vicious, bloodthirsty thing even the most stringent of goblins would be proud to possess. Looking over her small squad, she nodded once and turned on her heel, disappearing with a pop.

They arrived together, a grey nondescript building standing some twenty meters away. Bellatrix sneered, and one of the muggleborns in the squad rolled his eyes. Nondescript, save for the fact that it was in the middle of nowhere. With only a dirt road leading to it.

Without a word they set about their jobs. Rookwood approached the ward lines. He held his wand like a calligraphy brush, fine movements drawing lines in the air only he could see. The wards tensed and relaxed at his command. Gently they frayed at the edges. Alan Guiness joined the task there, his own wand held more like a pencil as he gingerly pulled at the frayed edges, unraveling the wards bit by bit. Alan had been a respected ward-builder’s apprentice until an auror caught him calling home. Less than two days later he’d been thrown into Azkaban for speaking Gaelic.

The wards rolled back as one, their magic gathered into a small ball at the end of Rookwood’s wand. With a silent spell he shot them into the sky, where they slowly dissipated. Taking in a deep breath and wiping sweat from his brow, Rookwood nodded at Bellatrix. Bellatrix smiled, and turned towards the rest of the squad.

“Now,” she said, violence dancing in her eyes. Anti-apparation and portkey wards went up swiftly, strengthened by the whole group’s participation. Bellatrix’s enthusiasm had her acting next.

“ Bombarda Maxima !” she cried, wand pointed at the grey building’s walls. The spell flew across the grass silently. It landed on the concrete wall. It’s impact was marked by an explosion deafening even from their distance. The wall shattered, bits of rebar and concrete flying in and out, leaving a massive hole in the side of the building.

“Attack!” Bellatrix yelled gleefully before running towards the building, more spells already leaving her wand. The wall shattered further as her spells were joined first by Dolohov’s, then Rookwoods, and at last their less experienced companions. As the wall collapsed the roof began to teeter.

Six wixen in auror’s robes rushed out of the side door, turning towards their charging foe.

“ STUPIFY! ” an older wizard bellowed, red light flashing from the end of his wand. Dolohov easily blocked it, returning fire with his signature curse. A modification of the entrail-expelling curse, his actually expelled entrails from the body rather than clearing them of blockages. The grey haired auror was no exception, his internal organs decidedly less so as they spilled from a hole in his stomach.

“ Diffindo! ” another auror shouted, slashing with his wand. Bellatrix dodged easily, shifting sideways. She was about to respond when Craig Dunn beat her to it. A viscous cutting curse ripped through the air, severing the witch’s head from her shoulders. His eyes were burning with righteous anger. Without pause he turned to the next auror, intercepting his blasting curse with a counter-curse before filling the air with bone-breakers and blood-boilers.

“Retreat!” one of the aurors called out. “We’re--” Whatever the aurors were, Bellatrix would never learn. Her confringo shattered the man’s skull. Bits of brain, blood, and bone were sprayed across the grass.

“Fall back!” another called, calling forth a powerful shield. Craig Dunn’s hastily-cast bone-breaking curse bounced back, hitting him in the calf. The young Scotsman cried out in pain, falling to the ground. Cinaid Ancrum stood over him, blocking the auror’s targeted curses as the last three retreated.

“ Avada Kedavra! ” Dolohov’s curse passed through the auror’s shield. His second stood, eyes wide, but the third was regrettably competent. Acting quickly she summoned a thin shield of stone. It blocked the curse, shattering on impact. The shielding auror cried out in pain as bits of stone tore into his flesh. The female auror grabbed the back of his coat, pulling the last few steps out of the anti-appartation wards. She twisted on her heel, disappearing before their frantic curses could reach her. The other auror was not so lucky, falling to the Rookwood and Dolohov’s mixed barrage.

“Four of six,” Alan Guiness remarked. “Not too bad.” Bellatrix snarled silently. She wasn’t used to letting people get away.

“They’ll know we’re working with you now,” Rookwood remarked.

“That’s a discussion for later,” Bellatrix said sharply. “Ancrum, heal what you can and get Dunn back to Clogaid Cruaidh. Rookwood, Dolohov, take Guiness and search the building for anything worthwhile.” Rookwood and Dolohov both nodded, turning towards the building while Alan Guiness hesitated before jogging to catch up with them. Cinaid Ancrum didn’t bother nodding, instead bending down to hastily set and wrap Craig Dunn’s leg. Turning away from them, Bellatrix began to take down their wards.

Chapter Text

Glasgow Rising Defeated

After three days of deadly conflict, the Strathclyde Police have declared that Glasgow is now once again under the control of Her Majesty’s government. Aided by the 51st Highland Volunteers, the 52nd Lowland Volunteers, and the members of the HMS Dalriada (a stone frigate) the Strathclyde Police were able to defeat the armed elements that had seized control of Glasgow’s City Hall and the Scotland BBC Headquarters. Interrogations have revealed that they expected help from the rebel elements that have seized control of Inverness and Fort William. Instead said rebels, led by Kenneth McDonaugh, assaulted the undefended Isle of Bute.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione glared at the numbers floating above her head. With a sigh she rolled off Fleur. Climbing out of bed she stretched, muscles protesting as they were suddenly forced into wakefulness. With a yawn she headed to the bathroom, and a warm shower.

When she stepped back into the room, hair still damp despite her efforts, Fleur was performing her own ablutions.

“Are you certain you must leave?” Fleur asked, wide blue eyes staring into her lover’s. Hermione nodded stiffly. She wouldn’t be able to hold back a sigh if she spoke. Fleur deflated, looking out the mirror. Dropping her towel, Hermione began to dress. She chose clothes it would be comfortable to fight in. Even if she was just heading back to Clogaid Cruaidh it was best to be prepared.

“I could come with you.” Hermione turned, shirt in her hands. She blinked. “I ‘ave some training in healing,” Fleur said. “Even ze best armies need healers.” Staring at her mate, Fleur tilted her head. Hermione had not said anything yet. Her eyes were wide, staring blankly. Fleur couldn’t tell if she was shocked or having a stroke.

“Mon coeur?” Hermione shook her self, blinking once more as she stared at Fleur.

“You’re sure?” Hermione asked. Fleur nodded. “This isn’t something you’ve just though of on the fly, you’re really, really sure?”

“I am.”

“War isn’t good,” Hermione said. “I--the thing’s I’ve already seen, and this is just the beginning. You’re really willing to sign up for that, to try and treat people as they’re dying and apparating in from a battlefield, people who are murderers and torturers--”

“I am,” Fleur said firmly. “I may not wish to take lifes, but I am more zan willing to save zem, even if zey are ze scum of ze earth, so long as it means I am close to you.” That was more than Hermione could take. She dropped the shirt she’d been holding and lunged at Fleur, locking lips and wrapping her arms around her. Fleur was stunned for a moment before she responded in kind, rolling them over onto the bed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Seamus Finnigan shuffled awkwardly into the Hog’s Head. He hadn’t been sure about attending the meeting. He still wasn’t, but between Dean and the other Celts he’d been persuaded. Even if Harry was lying (which Seamus was increasingly unsure of, given how much Umbridge and the Ministry were doing to keep him quiet) there was no denying he was skilled at DADA. Besides, it was only a meeting about meeting.

The building was sketchy at best, as were the others around. A man covered head to toe in bandages and a witch with worse fashion sense than Neville’s grandmum. Seamus could only hope they weren’t spies. Still, he decided to keep himself well-surrounded and hidden in the middle of the cluster of people. That was the only reason he gave the Weasley twins a few sickles for a butterbeer--he certainly didn’t trust the mug, but it was best to blend in. His fellow celts seemed to agree. Isobel MacDougal took an especially reluctant sip from her mug. Taking another sip after the first hadn’t killed him, Seamus nodded along to what Parvati was saying. After commandeering Harry throughout the Yule Ball they’d settled into decent friends.

“You want to pass your Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. too though, I bet?” Michael Corner interrupted.

“That’s not the only reason though,” Parvati responded. “I want--I need ,” she corrected, “to learn Defense because--because,” she paused, taking a deep breath that seemed to settle her. Her eyes had a fierceness to them that Seamus hadn’t seen from her before. It was vaguely unsettling, and reminded him of his grandfather, who’d fought in the Easter Uprising. “Because Voldemort has returned.”

The reaction was immediate. A tall, skinny Ravenclaw shrieked and spilled butterbeer down her robes. Parvati’s twin Padma gasped. Neville choked, Terry Boot twitched, and Zacharius Smith nearly tripped over himself. Seamus’ eyes were blown wide. If Parvati believed it--but then, she believed half of what Trelawny said--but still . . .

“That’s the plan,” Parvati concluded, her gaze daring anyone to interrupt. Zarachrius Smith opened his mouth, but thought better of it.

“Is it true that you can cast a Patronus?” Harry blinked, as did Parvati.

“Yeah,” Harry said hesitantly.

“A corporeal patronus?”

““Er — you don’t know Madam Bones, do you?” he asked.

The girl smiled. “She’s my auntie,” she said. “I’m Susan Bones. She told me about your hearing. So — is it really true? You make a stag Patronus?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

With that they were off to the races, each member trying to relay some insane feat that Harry had managed. Seamus tuned them out, he’d heard of all of them before. It was unavoidable, given how frequently Ron Weasley would brag about them--even when Harry’d done nearly all the work. That made Seamus’ thoughts come to a halting stop. If Harry had done all that--beating a professor to protect the Philosopher’s Stone, killing a thousand-year-old basilisk, forcing back a swarm of two hundred dementors with a single spell--then why wouldn’t he have been able to escape You-Know-Who. He’d also never bragged about what he’d done, barely even mentioned it. That was all Ron. So why would Harry suddenly change? If he was just lying, wouldn’t it be more impressive to say he’d defeated You-Know-Who again?

Seamus shuddered. He didn’t like where his thoughts were leading. But if he was right, he had serious thinking to do. Which mattered more, Ireland’s freedom from England or both isles’ freedom from a dark madman?

Chapter Text

Parliamentary Delay! Tory Rebels refuse Major’s Demands!

Despite the insistence of Prime Minister John Major that new military funding and permissions are needed immediately, Parliament has once more voted to prolong debate. Joined by Tory rebels led by John Redwood the Opposition was able to delay a vote on the Emergency Military Readiness Act. Despite his defeat in July’s leadership election, Redwood seems determined to campaign against Major. Aides close to Redwood say that a new challenge may be in the works, and that “The situation has drastically changed since July’s vote.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The strategy meeting was a strange one, Hermione conceded. More than half of those involved were calling in from burner phones, and most of those present were her fellow magicals rather than muggle officers.

“The 51st is still busy in Glasgow,” Steven McMurray reported, voice crackling over the connection. “Perth’s wide open. We take that and we can march on Fife.”

“Fife’s well defended,” Hermione said. “We don’t want to stretch ourselves too thin.”

“We’ve had a surge of volunteers,” James McLewis said beside her. “Some are still in training, but we’ve enough to take Queensferry and the M90 bridge. It’ll cut Fife off by land at least.”

“We’ve had the same surge here,” Maol MacDuff said. “I can send some of them south to reinforce McMurray if you’re willing to hold off our attacks on Moray.”

“If we’re doin’ this, we’ve got t’ do it soon,” Angus McDonagh said, his voice barely intelligible over the static. “Poms’ll pass that damned bill eventually, gotta consolidate before then. Be better if ya don’ have to defend Edinburgh from north and south.”

“Angus is right,” Kenneth MacDougal said. “Edinburgh’s too much of a symbol for us to lose.”

“Very well,” Hermione said with a nod invisible to more than half of those listening. “Aoife, I’ll need to you to pick up the bombings. If Glasgow’s still too hot hit Dumfries, but we need the 51st busy in Strathclyde. Maol, Liam, you two coordinate for raids and attacks. Be best if the Aberdeen garrisons are looking North. Steven, you’ve permission to take Perth as soon as you’re able, but hold off on marching on Fife ‘til we’ve had a chance to soften them up. Bella,” she added, addressing her mother, “That’ll be your job.” Her mother gave her trademark bloodthirsty grin. Hermione couldn’t help but return it. “Dòchas agus Saorsa.”

“Dòchas agus Saorsa,” the others responded. One by one they all hung up, returning to their troops and their duties.

“You’ll march tomorrow,” Hermione said, turning to James. “I’ll tie up the Dreghorn and Redfort folks.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ministry’s Foes Working Together?

A recent report from the Ministry revealed the presence of Bellatrix Black during the Celtic Liberation Front’s attack on the North Scotland Auror’s Office. Bellatrix Black, an infamous Death Eater convicted of torturing renowned Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom into insanity, was one of three Death Eaters to escape from Azkaban earlier this year. The others--Antonin Dolohov, convicted for the murder of the Prewett Brothers, and Augustus Rookwood, convicted of spying for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named--were not confirmed to be present.

“We remain certain that the breakout was masterminded by Sirius Black,” Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge stated. “We believe that they may both be working with Hermione Slytherin, who is known to have a blood connection to the Blacks. This new conflict could be a rallying point for the other escapees.” Lady Slytherin claimed the Black seat in the Wizengamot, along with several others, before rebelling against the ministry. Her seats remain active under the proxy of Lady Narcissa Malfoy, sister of Bellatrix Black and cousin of Sirius Black. However, the Ministry has stated it remains certain of the Malfoy family’s loyalty.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Explosions broke through the fog of sleep. Not for the first time in the last month Jason Taylor cursed his choice of profession. Quickly throwing on his uniform and grabbing his sidearm he rushed out.

Smoke and fire fought for control of the sky. Rushing towards a group of men readying a firehose, Jason ordered one of them to wake everyone in the barracks. Taking the man’s place, Jason braced. The rushing power of the water made him stumble, and he wasn’t the only one. Even the largest man there, two meters and a conservative hundred-ten kilograms, was pushed off-balance. Still they managed to get it under control, slowly aiming the hose at the blazing fires.

An explosion broke the sound of the fires. Jason turned to watch in horror as one of the larger barracks went up in flames, roof caved in and only fueling the flames. Turning once more he saw Captain Robertson of the Military Police running towards the barrack’s exit, followed by a pack of RMPs. Watching them leave Jason wasn’t sure if he wanted them to succeed in their hunt. He just wanted the war over.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fleur had just finished wrapping one bandage when the next one was needed. Even as the muggle’s October Offensive wore on, the wixen were pushing forward too. Her latest patient had misjudged the range of the firebomb he’d planted at the auror’s Glasgow regional office. Her newest one had been shot twice before managing to escape. Grabbing her wand again, Fleur carefully extracted the lingering bullet. Accio was too crude to use. When hit with a summoning charm the bullets would tear through skin, uncaring of arteries or infections. Instead she had to use careful, unspelled telekinesis to lift the bullets out through the exact same path they’d entered from. Sighing in relief as the bullet finally exited, Fleur dropped it onto a metal tray. Grabbing a cotton ball, she soaked it in essence of dittany. Squeezing out the excess, Fleur gingerly inserted it into her patient. The wizard hissed in pain, but it was necessary. Traditional healing spells would cause long-term damage as the hole would be filled with scar tissue. Merely pouring dittany into the would would cause excess healing, usually resulting in internal bleeding. Setting a timer for seven minutes, Fleur turned to her next patient.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Pushed out of Fife! Major Presses for Immediate Vote!

In a joint press conference, Secretary of State for Defense Michael Portillo and Secretary of State for Scotland Ian Lang confirmed that the last military instillation under British control in Fife, RNAD Crombie, was taken by rebel supporters of Gwendolyn Black. Survivors of the attacks on the Rosyth Naval Yard have retreated to Clackmannan.

In Parliament, Prime Minister John Major lambasted opposition MPs, declaring that “If our Volunteers can be defeated by a group of fanatics supporting a teenage monarch in a desperate attempt to revive ideas that died in the seventeenth century, then surely that is evidence enough that the current forces and tactics are insufficient.” Funding for Trident continues to be an issue, however. Conservative MP David Evans noted, “While it is critically clear that the insurrection in Scotland be immediately and firmly addressed, the idea that now is the time to spend billions of pounds on a programme of--at best--dubious usefulness is ridiculous in the extreme.” Opposition MP Donald Dewar, Shadow Secretary of State for Scotland, sounded a different note.

“The entire problem originates with the unwillingness of Major’s government to listen,” Dewar said. “The current violence stems from the feeling amongst many Scots that they are not being heard by Westminster. Responding by allowing the military unprecedented powers for engagements on British soil is not the way to proceed. [Major] seems determined to make himself a new Butcher Cumberland when a single plebiscite would end the situation peacefully. The majority of Scots desire to remain in the Union, we simply desire to be heard. A referendum on independence and devolution is what would end the situation without bloodshed, would result in a federal system for Scotland, and would strengthen both Scotland and the Union as a whole. That is the outcome the Labour Party supports.”

Chapter Text

Jonathan Smith sprinted down the alleyway. Behind him bullets hit the brick wall. Keeping going, Jonathan dove behind a large rubbish bin. Drawing a shaky breath he switched his assault rifle for a pistol.

Jonathan had always been fast. He’d been the star of his college track team, coming third in the Highland Track and Field Championships. Even a decade later his speed still held up, helped along by regular jogging and the intensive training Colonel MacDuff had forced them through.

Jack hadn’t been so lucky. The English bullets had caught him back on the third corner, running through his calf. It hadn’t been a fatal shot, but they couldn’t stop. That’s what Sergeant Duncan had said. He said it again when they heard a gunshot that could only have been aimed for Jack. He said it again when Oliva fell. He only stopped after a bullet ran through the back of his neck.

They were getting close. Jonathan could hear their footsteps. He stopped breathing as they moved down the alleyway. His hands were shaking as he held out his pistol. He turned sharply, squeezing the trigger.

Two shots rang out and Jonathan ducked back behind the rubbish bin. There was a scream of pain and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Bullets flew above his head.  Others hit the other side of the rubbish bin. Jonathan could only thank God it was full.

Leaning up over the edge, Jonathan shot again before ducking back. Gunshots rang forth again. Jonathan made to turn but stopped, halted by a sharp pain. Checking, he felt blood pouring from his back. His lungs burned as he tried to breath.

Fuck this, Jonathan thought, hand shaking as he once more picked up his assault rifle. I’m not going out hiding behind a rubbish bin. Quick as he could manage, Jonathan stood. He hands were pulling the trigger before he was fully up, making him stumble even before the English bullets hit him. The force of the bullets tipped him over, sending him crashing to the ground as his life fled his veins, blood-slicked gun fallen from his hands.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Military Act Defeated!

Despite the efforts of the Prime Minister--including threatening to remove MPs from his own party who voted against the bill--the Major Government’s answer to continued violence in Scotland was defeated in Parliament. Led be former Secretary of State for Wales John Redwood, a group of Conservative dissidents joined the Opposition in voting to defeat the bill. Despite support from some Northern Irish Unionists the Major Government was unable to make up for the defection of forty members.

In the aftermath of the vote, whispers have emerged that Redwood plans on making another leadership challenge. At the same time, anonymous sources close to the Prime Minister suggest there is serious consideration regarding a snap election.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sneaking into BBC Scotland’s headquarters was far more difficult this time. Soldiers guarded the doors and armed security guarded the interior. Fortunately, Hermione didn’t need to capture the whole building this time.

Under a powerful disillusionment spell Hermione pried open a window. Carefully slipping through, she silenced her footsteps as she climbed the stairs. Muggle security was present when she stepped out, standing on both sides of the doors leading to the broadcast room. Forcing herself to breathe normally, Hermione waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And-- oh thank the gods, Hermione thought as a man in a suit stepped through the elevator doors. Walking behind him, Hermione was careful not to overstep his slow plodding pace. She rushed forward once he was within the doors, barely slipping through before they closed.

Stepping around the workers at their desks and the producers hovering over them, Hermione gingerly slipped her recording into their planned broadcast. Tightening her grip over her magic, Hermione turned on the spot and disappeared, only the faintest pop to show she was ever there--until six o’clock.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Are we willing to work with Death Eaters?” The question was one that had been bubbling for a while, but it needed to be asked. Shockingly it was not Seamus, outspoken irishman that he was, who had asked the question but rather his fellow Gryffindor, Fay Dunbar.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Kenneth Dunn quoted. “Hardly ideal, but if it gets us out from under the Ministry it’ll be worth it.”

“What if You-Know-Who is back?” Seamus asked. Silence answered his question.

“He’s not,” Daphne Greengrass answered after a moment’s pause.

“But if he is?” Banga O’Delunga asked. “Shouldn’t we have at least a plan ?”

“Let the Ministry deal with ‘im,” Anita MacDuff offered. “Neither’s better nor worse for us, let them bleed each other out while we take what was always ours.” Seamus was not the only one shocked to hear such a cold statement from a Gryffindor.

“But You-Know-Who is so much worse !” Harvey O’Brien exclaimed. “He’ll kill anyone who isn’t pure! At least Dumbledore--”

“Dumbeldore sent my brother to Azkaban for speakin’ a few words!” Kenneth Dunn exclaimed. “The day I’ll help him is the day hell freezes over!”

“You’d let You-Know-Who loose among innocents because of one man?” Seamus demanded. He was far from the last one to shout, as voices and arguments drowned each other out until little could be hear despite the volume.

“Enough!” Greengrass shouted, the sound of a cannon from her wand quelling the volume. “It does not matter, because You-Know-Who is not back! Why fight with each other over something that will never happen?” Her speech ended the arguments, but as the meeting went on Seamus could only feel unease growing over him. He still wasn’t sure where he’d fall. For now he’d just hope Greengrass was right.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“John Major may have called this election to grant himself more power,” Gwendolyn Black, claimant-Queen of Scotland, said through the hijacked airways. His hijacked airways. “But that is not all it is. This election may well decide the future not only of our country, but of our people. Most of those campaigning for office oppose our independence. I can respect that. What I cannot respect, what I cannot abide, are those who would deny the Scottish people the right to decide our future. The Scottish people have a right to self-determination. Let this election show that the future of Scotland shall be decided by its people. As your queen I ask not that you vote for a particular candidate, nor any particular agenda. Instead I ask that you vote only for those willing to place your future in your hands.”

John Brit grit his teeth. It is , he reluctantly admitted, a strong message. Although that is beside the point. Grabbing the phone, John roughly punched in a number that was becoming overly familiar in recent times.

“Devan,” John said as his Chief of Security picked up. “Double our numbers in the Scottish office.”

“I take it you saw Black’s announcement.”

“Along with six million others,” John grumbled. “I don’t know how she keeps getting in. I don’t care . I want it solved, yesterday.”

“Can’t do yesterday, boss,” Devan said. “Tomorrow should work.”

“That is acceptable.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ceasefire Called as Election Nears!

At 6:18 pm last night, a temporary ceasefire agreement was been reached between the rebelling forces of Gwendolyn Black and Army Headquarters Scotland. Effective immediately, all conflicts are to halt. The ceasefire agreement is due to expire on 13 November, two days after the election. In accordance with the agreement both the rebelling forces and the British Army have withdrawn two miles from all active conflict zones.

“Given the importance of the elections to the future of this conflict, this is deal is a necessity,” Major-General Jonathan Hall, the General Commanding Officer of Scotland, said. “This is the best we could do on such short notice.”

In a statement given to the Guardian, Gwendolyn Black stated, “This election will determine whether the Scottish people are to decide our own future, or if we are to leave it in the hands of Westminster. To have such an important decision made in anything less than a safe environment would be a dereliction of duty.”

While the ceasefire was widely welcomed by Scottish MPs, not everyone was pleased.

“General Hall has a duty to defend and protect the Union,” Defense Minister Michael Portillo said. “This agreement is a dereliction of that duty and in defiance of his sworn obligations.”

A similar agreement between Gwendolyn Black and the various Scottish Police agencies was struck on Thursday. The agencies have agreed not to attain suspected members of Black’s rebellion unless spotted engaging in criminal behavior. The agreement between the Police and Black is set to expire on November 14th.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

John Major bounced his leg restlessly as he waited for the results to come in. He was unsure if he had ever been more nervous. The future of the United Kingdom hung in the balance.

“It’s certainly not looking like a good night for Tony Blair and the Labour Party,” the male host said.

“No, it’s not,” his female co-host said. “Exit polls showed a drop in popularity, but I don’t think anyone expected this.” On the ticker below them, the latest results were being announced. Clackmannan-SNP , the ticker read. Lithlingow--SNP. Slough--CON. Benthal Green & Stepney--CON.

“We’re leading in Barrow and Furness!” an aide shouted. John couldn’t tear himself from the television. The map was slowly filling in. John felt a sliver of dread creep into him as Scotland was coloured a bright yellow.

“While the focus this election has been on Scotland, Nationalist parties seem to have grown across the board,” the male host said. “In Northern Ireland Sinn Fein is having its best night in decades with two seats already called for them.”

“Exit polls indicate they’ve more than doubled their vote share,” the female host said. “A similar phenomenon looks to be happening in Wales as well, where Plaid Cymru is running second place, behind Labour.”

“The real story tonight might be John Major’s surprise victory,” the male host said. John tensed, jaw clenching. Were they ready to call it already? “While it is too soon to call, it appears Major’s Conservatives may have secured a parliamentary majority despite the collapse of their support in Scotland and Wales.”

“The Tories' appeal to English Unionism certainly seems to be paying off,” the female host said. “Of two dozen seats they were widely anticipated to lose in the next election, the Conservatives have held onto or are leading in eighteen of them.”

“Not to mention the seats they’ve managed to gain. They’ve picked up three in Avon alone.”

“Four,” the female host corrected. “Bristol East has just been called for Jonathan Sayeed.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“I can’t say I expected this,” Hermione said, staring at the morning’s paper.

“None of us did,” Alex Salmond said.

“The war’s going to escalate, isn’t it?” Margaret Ewing sighed. Hermione grimaced.

“Yes,” she said plainly. “Our people have made a clear choice, but Major has his majority. He will not let us go easily. We must tear ourselves from England’s grasp.” She looked up, eyes catching both recently re-elected MPs. “I need you to set up a temporary government,” Hermione said. “Inverness is securely in our hands.”

“I will invite all those elected to join,” Salmond said.

“Most will refuse,” Hermione cautioned.

“Precisely the point,” Ewing said. “Our people will know who is truly on their side.”

Chapter Text

“With a vote of Three hundred Fifty-two for and Two hundred Thirty-three against, with Five abstentions, Bill 2, an Act to Promote the Sanctity of the Union, also known as the Scottish Pacification Act, is passed.”

“So it begins,” Hermione sighed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Maven McCabe huffed as she looked over the prow. Ten wixen was truly overkill for simple transport, even if it was an important one. Surely there’s something more important we could be doing, she thought.

“Brooding again?” Maven turned, glaring at her mission commander.

“Yes, sir.” Maol Egen chuckled at her response. Maven’s glare deepened.

“It’ll be over soon McCabe, no need to fret.”

“I still don’t see why this needs all of us,” Maven grumbled.

“Perhaps that will answer your question.” Maven turned, following Maol’s finger. She frowned, squinting her eyes. A long ship, an off-white shaded grey, hovered near the horizon, swiftly making its way towards them. She shivered as the guns came slowly into view.

“Start casting,” Maol ordered. “I’ll gather the rest.” Maven nodded, her wand slipping into her hand.

“ Abscond intus,” Maven chanted, waving her wand in a circular pattern. “ Sùil thairis , air chall , praeteritus .” The words and spells kept coming, growing in strength as the other wixen joined her on deck. Magic flowed from them until there was nothing left. Maven stumbled back, heaving breaths as she tried to regain her strength. The English she grew closer and closer. To Maven it seemed the very waves and the sky darkened. The guns pivoted. Maven held her breath. She heard another witch gasp as it hovered in their direction.

The gun moved. The English ship carried on. Maven let out her breath, sagging in relief and collapsing onto the deck.

“It worked,” a wizard said. “I--it worked.”

“No need to sound so surprised,” Mary Dunloch laughed. “It was our Queen’s idea.”

“I’m just glad we got through,” Maol said. “We need these planes.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Still think we’ll manage a Christmas truce?” Edwin asked sarcastically as a plane buzzed overhead.

“No reason not to be optimistic,” Jenna replied, placing a fresh clip in her Ak 5. Aeroplane engines roared back into life as the English swooped down. Both of them ducked further behind the concrete barrier, letting the machine gun launch its bullets less than a meter over their head.

An explosion sounded nearby. Edwin poked his head back up, sighing with relief as he spotted the plane’s burning wreckage. He flinched at the sound of crunching debris before spinning towards it. His finger brushed the trigger. He pulled it as the camo came into view, a burst of bullets serving as the Englishman’s welcome party.

Jenna popped up next to him, adding her fire to his own as the rest of the English squad pushed into the doorway.

“McLewis wants us to advance!” Jenna shouted over the weapons fire. Edwin opened his mouth to reply when he saw a small object being lobbed.

“Grenade!” he shouted, diving behind the concrete barricade. Jenna landed a second later, her arm reaching towards her belt. The explosion rattled their ears. Edwin shook his head as he pushed himself up. His vision was a bit blurry. His ears were ringing. He didn’t have time for this.

Jenna dragged him back down. Only seconds later another explosion, this one a bit further off--or were his ears just not working?--went off.

“That should take care of them,” Jenna said as she came back up.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione sighed, leaning into her girlfriend. Fleur’s hand carded through her black curls, drawing forth another sigh of contentment. Hermione smiled, nuzzling into Fleur’s shoulder.

“It’s been far too long, mon cherie,” Fleur said, gently kissing Hermione’s head.

“It has,” Hermione agreed, turning to answer one kiss with another. Their lips met, albeit briefly. Hermione smiled up at her girlfriend. “We should do this more often.”

“Your mozzer certainly seems to be enjoying herself,” Fleur said. What? Hermione thought, searching the room. There was Aunt Cissa, leaning on Lucius’ arm as they talked with some guests. Draco was talking with Nott while Crabbe and Goyle shuffled awkwardly. Daphne was dancing with Blaise-- they’d make a good couple, if they swung that way , Hermione thought--but her mother . . . 

Hermione squeaked and looked away, blushing a dark red. Fleur laughed as she buried her head in her girlfriend’s side.

“I can’t unsee that!” Hermione protested, gesturing wildly to where her mother was making out with the Lady Selwyn.

“At least this one’s not married,” Fleur pointed out. Hermione grumbled but acceded the point. Lady Selwyn had divorced her husband and Lord-Consort, winning custody of their twins.

“Maybe she’ll settle down?” Hermione hopefully suggested, before blanching a moment later. Emma and Emily would love her mother. A bit too much. The amount of mischief they get up to already . . .

“I do not think your mozzer is a one-witch woman,” Fleur laughed. The statement was, for the first time, a relief to Hermione.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Over there!” Brian Taylor called, pointing off the prow of the motorboat.

“Sir, we’re on in five minutes!” Adam Mallory protested.

“We need to get closer,” Brian Taylor said. “I don’t want the cameras missing a moment of this.” Adam groaned in frustration but gestured for the boat’s captain to hurry up. Bloody field correspondents, Adam thought. Massaging his forehead he grabbed the headphones connected to the cabin’s small TV. 

“--have finally been freed and are currently being transported to either their destination or point of origin,” Sally Magnusson’s voice said. “Chunnel operators have identified the issue at hand--electronic failures due to unexpectedly heavy ice and snow falls. They have promised to review their systems to ensure such an incident will not happen again.”

“We’re in the segue!” Adam shouted. Brian Taylor grimaced, looking around.

“Good enough I guess!” he shouted. “I’ll just make do.” Brian shifted to the side, standing in front of the camera. Adam stepped away from the headset, sidling next to the camera man.

“We’re good boss,” Larry told him. Adam nodded, moving back to the headphones.

“--has been calling for the ships to be released,” Sally said. “For a closer look we go to our correspondent Brian Taylor. What’s the situation Brian?”

“Well Sally, I’m fifteen miles off the coast of Edinburgh right now, and if you look off the prow you can see some of the freighters that are involved in this standoff.”

“The first question, I suppose, has to be what are those ships carrying? Do you know?” Sally asked.

“You’ve hit the nail on the head Sally,” Brian said. “The truth is, no one really knows what the cargo is. The Ministry of Defense has said they have reason to believe there’s contraband onboard, which could mean anything from high-octane fuel to fighter jets. Crowley Maritime, the company that owns these ships, says that they’re transporting humanitarian supplies, mainly food. The situation has been further complicated by the fact that the cargo--whatever it may be--was purchased by Gwendolyn Black, the leader of the Scottish rebellion. . . .”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“DOWN!” Army Major Jeremy Brown followed the instruction immediately, diving for cover behind a weapons rack. A rocket whizzed overhead, followed immediately by an explosive wave. Jeremy grunted as the ground shook underneath him. It did fortunately little to him, but the weapons rack must have been unbalanced as it landed painfully on Jeremy’s back a moment latter.

With a huff Jeremy forced himself back up, grabbing one of the fallen guns as he did. Officers might be given service pistols, but he felt more comfortable with a rifle on hand.

“How the hell did they get here?” Colonel Edmunson demanded, already standing in proper formation, pistol in hand.

“A91 from Kinross!” someone shouted. Jeremy turned, bringing his rifle to bear. He was just a fraction too slow, watching with wide eyes as the speaker--young, male, hint of stubble--shot the Colonel. Jeremy opened fire a moment later, killing the young Scot. More shots rang out, narrowly missing him. Jeremy ran, ducking behind the wall of a shed. Gun braced against his shoulder he peeked out from around the corner. Seeing a glint in his sights Jeremy shifted and opened fire.

“Sir!” Leftenant Sorner said, stopping next to Jeremy. “Captain Smythe’s reporting tanks on the south entrance.”

“Have Johnsson grab the M3s and help hold them off til we get our own up and running,” Jeremy ordered. “And get someone to radio central command for aide!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“You want us to what?”

“What would it take?”

“To rise openly? More than we have, that’s for sure. Even if we could get the volunteers, we don’t have nearly enough arms or cash--”

“How. Much. Would. It. Take?”

“I--I don’t know off the top of my head.”

“Then figure it out,” Hermione growled, her eyes flashing amethyst. “And I’ll get it to you. Just be ready to rise.”

“Right,” the man said. “Right. Okay. We can do that.”