Chapter 7: Drained to the CoreNotes:
Thank you for all the comments and kudos, I love hearing all your thoughts!
On we go!
Chapter Text
She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she wakes up curled in the chair and still dressed, sunlight warming the room.
"Tempus," she mumbles. Eleven in the morning? She must have needed the sleep.
She stands up, stretching out her back, and walking over to the bed cautiously. Snape must be back at Hogwarts by now. And Bellatrix is still in a dead sleep…
She feels her heart begin to pound as she stares down at her. Can't hurt you. In a coma. She's not going to jump up and grab you, Hermione, don't be ridiculous.
Oh. A note on the bedside table and rather a lot of potions. She recognises the scrawl from her years at Hogwarts.
I shall return tonight at midnight. I believe a fidelius charm may be of use to you. We shall speak more later. For now, administer the potions, one of each in the morning and evening — S.S
Her eyes slide to the potions. Let's see…
Blood replenishing, some kind of muscle relaxant, bone strengthening…and what she assumes is a restorative draft for the malnourishment.
How has she ended up as Lestrange's primary healer? It's rather ridiculous to find out that all this time it was Hermione who saved her life. Hermione who restored her good looks.
Not good looks. She doesn't mean— She just means that she looks a damn sight worse now, straight after Azkaban, than she did later on in the war when she wasn't in hiding. That's all. It's just…aesthetically. In comparison.
Hang on, what had she been thinking? There's something, oh!
The woman would have died if it wasn't for her! She owes Hermione a life debt! Now what does that mean?
Well. It's a place to start with keeping the witch in line.
After potions for Lestrange and breakfast for herself, of course. Now that the woman is sound asleep, and Snape isn't arriving until midnight, Hermione finally has a second to think. To eat. To feel half-human.
To wash Lestrange's blood off her hands…
She distracts herself by making a mental shopping list whilst tipping potion after potion into Lestrange's mouth, not wanting to think about it too much. It's strangely intimate. And she's terrified the woman will either begin choking or suddenly wake up.
She doesn't do either of course, just lies there peacefully. That's even more strange, seeing the witch at peace. Lestrange is always on the move. Always full of energy, either bottled up ready to burst, vibrating, or stabbing out at the nearest person, tearing the world apart.
Hermione rolls her shoulders and stretches once more. Merlin she's aching. It's been a long time since she's had to fight tooth and nail for her life.
Time for a hot bath, some fresh clothes, and a trip to the village shop. If she can find some money…she should have asked Snape…
Maybe she should have summoned Narcissa instead. She definitely has some galleons to spare…
She drifts upstairs to the bathroom, already puzzling out her money problems. The first of what she is sure will be many problems today. She pushes the door bathroom open with a sigh.
Washed and refreshed, and in new robes transfigured from an unfortunate curtain, she heads downstairs and pulls on Aunt Muriel's old cloak. It smells rather stale.
"Scourgify."
Nothing happens. How strange…
Well. Maybe the cloak is protected against alterations.
And then her robes turn back into a curtain.
Ah! Hermione clutches the cloak around herself and hurries upstairs to the room she had gotten changed in. What is happening?
"Accio clothes!"
Her clothes from yesterday remain crumpled on the floor. She's starting to panic now.
Oh no. No no no she'd left the protection spells on herself all night. She must have completely drained her magical core!
She pulls on her clothes from yesterday. She needs to see a healer for this! This is terrible, what if she's lost her magic? What if—
Stop panicking. If your magic isn't working, then the protection wards on yourself must have fallen, so you're no longer being drained. Your magic will come back. It has to.
Oh this completely ruins her plans for today! She'd decided to apparate straight to Diagon Alley and transfer some money from her muggle savings account. Her parents had set one up for her to access once she was twenty-one, and she was hoping Gringotts would take her age quite literally rather than going by her birth date – magic is a lot more literal about these things than computer monitored filing systems.
Her stomach grumbles at her.
"Yes, I know! I'm thinking!" she mutters to herself.
Oh no.
If her magic has run out…have all the wards fallen? She bangs her way down the stairs again, out of breath now.
The runes should be okay. Those hold for years, centuries. They're ancient for a reason. If the pyramids are still active, then the cottage should hold up for a few hours.
She'll have lost the anti-apparition and anti-intruder wards, but that can't be helped.
So, food.
The problem with Wizarding households is everything relies on magic. She won't find a car or a bike around here. She's going to have to walk into Tinworth.
And then what?
She reaches into her expandable pockets. No, still just a prophecy, a scroll, a note, floo powder, and a love potion. She'd left all her money in her outer robes at the office.
She puts the floo powder back on the mantlepiece above the fire, not even able to use that without magic.
Fine. No money. No magic. Trapped in the past with no friends, where no one she knows can recognise her without further complicating matters, trying to stop a world-ending paradox. And with only Sleeping Beauty for company.
Not beauty. Sleeping Demon. She's definitely more Maleficent than Princess Aurora. She'd loved that film as a child. She now finds the whole sleeping thing a lot more creepy.
She wanders over to Lestrange's room, readying herself before leaning around the door.
She is looking a lot better. A bit more colour to her at least. Less corpse-like.
That makes it a bit worse. It feels like she might just wake up at the slightest sound...
Focus, Hermione. Breakfast.
Oh please say the woman had some money on her…it's very unlikely, but…
She turns her gaze from the bedroom to the front door.
The bloodied clothes are still lying on the floor in the hall. Snape hadn't exactly cleaned up before he left then.
She walks over and crouches down, grimacing. Pure blood it may be, but still just as disgusting as anyone else's.
Let's see, corset, dress…pockets? No. Guess pockets haven't been invented yet in whatever era Lestrange is living in. Backwards mind, backwards body. So…where did she keep her wand this whole time? Or Hermione's wand when she took it?
She doesn't want to know.
Wait. Before the Women's Rights movement, when pockets began to appear, women used to keep their money and other belongings in purses tied to their wrists or the inside of their dresses. Thieves would often cut them lose. That's why anti-theft charms and hexes were invented.
She checks the inside of the dress more carefully, hoping she's not about to get a nasty curse coming her way. It would be just like Lestrange if her clothing bit back.
Aha! A purse!
She cautiously draws the string open. No hex so far. Guess no one would dare steal from the witch. She's her own anti-theft hex. She peers inside….
And drops it with a start. She's going to be sick.
She runs to the kitchen sink, only just making it in time before sweat breaks out on her forehead and she begins retching, her stomach heaving.
Tell me the truth! You're lying to me! How did you get into my vault?
She clutches the edge of the sink, the room spinning.
I don't know I— Get off me, just stop! It, it hurts.
She clutches her arm to her chest, staring out the window at the sea. Window.
She's not trapped. She can leave. She—
She runs out the front door, letting it slam behind her in the wind and tumbling down the dunes towards the waves. The sand is flying into her face and the salt air stings, her eyes watering.
And then she's just crying. Screaming into the wind and the sea and collapsing into the sand, gripping it in clenched fists and watching the sand fly through the air.
"I want it to stop! I can't do this anymore! I want to go home!"
She curls her knees up and hides her face from the sand, and the wind, and the world.
She doesn't want to be here. She's worked so hard to move on from this place.
The silver dagger.
She has the dagger. In her purse. Just lying there.
The dagger that cut that word into her arm. The dagger that kills Dobby.
Oh.
She slowly lifts up her head. Will it work?
"Dobby? Can you hear me?"
For a moment, nothing. And then the crack of apparition.
"Miss Hermione? You be calling Dobby, Miss? Oh!"
Hermione pulls the elf into a hug. "Oh Dobby! Thank you! Oh I'm so happy to see you!"
The elf turns pink and pulls back from her, tugging at his ears.
"You is very kind, Miss. Always kind to Dobby. Dobby is still being wearing the clothes you made him."
He looks down at his feet. He's wearing mismatched knitted socks.
Hermione smiles and wipes at her eyes. Oh she missed him!
"Oh! You is crying! Dobby isn't noticing, is you hurt? Bad Dobby! Bad bad bad—"
He looks around for some way of hurting himself, but with only sand, he's a bit lost. He dives for the ground, slamming his head towards the dune, but Hermione catches him by the shoulder and pulls him back.
"No, Dobby, stop. I'm not hurt, I just need your help. Can you help me?"
He stops struggling and turns to face her, eyes unbelievably wide.
"Oh yes! Dobby always be helping Harry Potter's Granger. You is a good witch. Dobby knows it."
Perfect! See, this is why she works for the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical creatures. Her whole word is crumbling, and here's Dobby, someone Lestrange wouldn't dignify with a name, clothes, sees as dirt beneath her foot. And he is so powerful he can save Hermione without even trying. He deserves so much more.
"Thank you, Dobby, that's very kind of you. You see, my magic isn't working at the moment, and I'm rather hungry and cold, and I need some things. Could you take me to my house, my parents' house? I need to collect some things. And then I might need to go to Gringotts as well and get some money."
"Of course Miss, where do you be living?" He holds out a hand.
Hermione takes it with a smile. "Picket Post Close, Martin's Heron. And we'll need to be invisible. It's a muggle area, and I'm not sure if my parents will be home. What day is it today?"
The question doesn't seem to confuse him, he just nods. "It's Wednesday, Miss Hermione. The Nineteenth of June."
Okay good, her parents will be at the practice, and there's still at least a week until her teenage self comes home for the summer. Oh.
"Oh Dobby I'm sorry, you're not needed at Hogwarts are you? I can wait if you still have things to do today."
"You is asking if Dobby is free? You is very kind, Miss, but Dobby is always being free. Mister Dumbledore tells Dobby this. He says Dobby can stay at Hogwarts, but Dobby is still being a free elf."
"Of course, yes, sorry. Then I'd be most grateful for your help."
Dobby nods firmly, and the beach disappears, her feet smacking onto tarmac.
Well, that was a lot smoother than normal apparition. She'll have to ask him how that works; she could actually breathe through that, rather than feeling like she was being squished through a tube.
"We is being invisible if you be holding onto Dobby, Miss."
No car in the drive. So they are at work.
She walks up to the front door, still holding Dobby's hand, and reaches under a flower pot with the other for the spare key. She's told her parents a million times not to leave it there, but now she's rather glad they're not too safety conscious, trusting the neighbourhood watch and the wards the Order put in place last summer.
The door unlocks easily enough, and she quickly steps into the hallway, pulling Dobby in with her and shutting the door behind them with a sigh. Finally. Some semblance of home. Time to make a list and find an old trunk. It would be a lot easier with magic, but…actually, she might have to rely on Dobby for some more favours.
She smiles down at him. Oh what an afternoon they have planned. She's going to have to pay him back for this somehow. How many socks can she knit?
Chapter 8: Reading Into the NightChapter Text
Hermione sighs in relief as they crack into existence, back in Shell Cottage. Finally, all sorted. Her new possessions appear around them – food in the kitchen, books on the bookshelf which magically expands to accommodate them, and she assumes she has some robes as well as casual jeans and tops in a trunk upstairs.
"Is there anything else you be needing Miss Hermione?"
Oh, Dobby! If only there was something she could do for him.
"You've done more than enough, Dobby, thank you. And you're sure I can't pay you? Or repay you another way? I'll be sure to knit you that scarf you mentioned, but if there's anything else I can do—"
"Dobby is not wanting anything more! No, you is a friend! Helping Harry Potter and his friends is not needing repaying."
She chuckles. Of course.
"Well then, I'll let you get back to the kitchens. Give my best to Winky and the others."
At this he looks slightly uncomfortable. "Dobby…maybe it is best if Dobby is not mentioning you, Miss Hermione. They still be remembering the clothes…"
"Oh. Yes. Well, don't worry about that then. Have a nice day."
He disappears with a pop.
So much for house-elf relations and welfare. She still just cannot figure out how to right that without meeting extreme resistance from all sides. It's very frustrating.
Still, for now she has bigger problems. Time to put the kettle on and get reading. Now, where to start…
She hums in thought as she begins making tea. The Muggle way, she hasn't chanced any magic yet.
Getting home, at first glance, appears to be the main issue…but that will be useless unless she can find a way to fix the timeline and get Lestrange back on track.
Then there's the prophecy. It said she can only return if they don't drift asunder. That could refer to the timeline…but it seems more likely, given the next line, that it refers to for some reason working together with Lestrange. Yet another impossibly difficult task.
Then both, now lost, shall be returned, though not without the other.
She has a horrible feeling that it doesn't mean returned to Voldemort, but actually means Lestrange will be returned to life. She'd mentioned it to the witch as a passing thought, grasping at anything to make her stay, but now that she thinks about it, how else would the woman be lost and then returned?
Should she ignore the prophecy? Focus on how to convince her to go back to Voldemort but keep Hermione's secret and leave her be? On finding a way home?
She sets the teapot, a cup, and milk down on the table, and then heads towards the bookshelf. Maybe she should just reread all her books on time travel for the time being. Lestrange can wait.
She squints at the page. It's becoming impossible to read now. What time is—
"Tempus."
Nothing. Oh that's extremely worrying.
She holds her wand steady, just feeling the wood, breathing slowly. She can feel something. An energy. So she has some power still, under the surface.
She walks over to the window so that she can see her watch in the moonlight.
Eleven o'clock! How did that happen? She's only been reading for…seven hours. Gosh. She really is a bookworm.
Oh no! Lestrange's potions!
She stumbles down the hall in the dark to the back of the house, bumping into a shelf on her way and cursing the lack of electricity in the Wizarding World. Dark Ages indeed.
She reaches Lestrange's room, and whilst the moon isn't visible through the window, there is some starlight, and her eyes have adjusted slightly to the darkness by now.
She shivers as she makes her way over to the bed, fumbling to pick up the potions. The fire has died out. She can't quite see the catch holding the cork in place, her fingertips searching to open the first vial. Oh this is ridiculous.
She reaches for an oil lamp on the bedside table instead. She has magic! She is a witch.
"Incendio!"
Nothing.
She positions her wand closer and feels for her magic, gripping her wand more firmly.
"Incendio!" A slight spark.
Oh. Well she can probably manage a spark, just to light the oil. She's seen Lestrange do that accidentally before. Her eyes slide to the witch on the bed.
Okay, anger. Let your anger out.
"Light you bloody thing! I am sick and tired of everything being difficult today! I am alone and away from home and I have more important things to deal with than not being able to see in the dark!"
Anger, anger, rage, come on. You are fucking pissed off! Feel it. Argh!
Sparks. The room glows to life in the lamplight.
Aha! Hermione does a little jig on the spot in glee, a laugh escaping her lips.
Then she clamps a hand over the mouth. Don't turn completely into Lestrange. Maybe madness is catching.
She looks down at the woman again. Definitely looking a lot better. She almost looks normal in the hazy orange light. Like she's just gone to bed, peacefully asleep. Her hair looks shinier and—
Hermione pulls her jaw open to begin feeding her the potions. Her teeth look better too.
Snape really is a skilled potions master.
"What should I do about you then…?" Hermione whispers to the sleeping witch.
…these two, through sand and sea, do not drift asunder…
She needs her. For some unknown, prophetic, fateful reason, they have to stay together in this. But how? Lestrange will never help her. Especially to get back to a future where her side loses and she dies.
Maybe she shouldn't have told her the truth.
Oh well, can't change that now…
She sits down on the side of the bed, staring at the witch. It almost helps, actually …to see her so vulnerable. So small. She's not the big scary monster right now.
How did she become that way? Is it purely madness? Because for being mad she is rather logical, tactical.
Andromeda and Narcissa have both turned away from their pureblood upbringing. Is it possible…
She scoffs. Yeah right. Don't kid yourself, Hermione. She'll want you dead again as soon as she opens her eyes.
No, she either needs to make herself indispensable to the witch, or force her to obey. Trap her somehow.
She swallows. She has a feeling Lestrange won't like being trapped. Her obedience has never really been forced upon her. She is quite vocal on her decision to follow her Lord, proudly showing her face, revelling in her notoriety.
In fact, she's quite the contradiction. Proud of everything pureblood and traditional, and yet she, the eldest sister, essentially decides to ignore her husband and any wifely duties to instead join a rebellion and become the most ruthless fighter the Wizarding World has seen in centuries. If she wasn't so obsessed with Voldemort, blood purity, and torture, she'd be a bit of a feminist icon.
So. Historical debate. How do you topple a powerful woman's belief in the patriarchy?
She wants power. Show Voldemort to be weak, his plans foolish.
No. That didn't work. He was a madman by the end, and it only made Bellatrix more desperate, madder.
"Well, well. What a romantic tableau."
Hermione jumps as a voice comes from the doorway. Snape? It's midnight already? And what is he talking about—
Oh. She's been gazing at Lestrange for a whole hour.
She wasn't gazing at her. Her mind just wandered. She wasn't focusing on anything.
She folds her arms at him. "I was just thinking. This is tricky. I need to figure it out."
He smirks at her and folds his arms back, swishing his cloak around him.
"…In the dark…in the lamplight?"
Why does he insist on—
"It's dark because I haven't got my magic! I was hoping as a potions master you might be able to offer some advice, but if you're just going to mock me I won't bother asking."
He frowns and sweeps closer to her, muttering out a diagnostic spell.
"Severely compromised magical core…you are lucky you did not lose your magic indefinitely. I'd expect such bonehead ideas from Potter and Weasley, but I assumed you wouldn't be stupid enough to cast protego maxima and the like on your person."
"I had to! She could have killed me! She's tried enough times before."
"And so you decided to nearly kill yourself instead. Ingenious."
She slumps her head back to rest against the headboard. "I know. I know, it was stupid. I…I was scared. I wasn't thinking rationally, are you happy?"
A pause. She looks up.
"I have informed the Dark Lord that she is ill with spattergroit, and in my care so as not to infect the others. He appears to have accepted this as fact, although her sister remains suspicious. You have a month, maybe two, to get any use out of her that you need…or can persuade her to offer."
She smiles gratefully. "Thank you. I know that must have been quite the risk. I…I'm still not sure how to…what to do about her. But I think maybe…do you know anything about life debts?"
For a moment he just stares at her, expressionless. She opens her mouth to ask him again, when he abruptly whirls around, leaving the room.
Now hang on a— how rude! She hurries after him, able to see now that he has lit fire. He heads towards it, as if to leave.
"Professor, please! If you know anything that can help me— we have to! She can't tell anyone what we've done, if we can control her in any way—"
He whips around and looms over her, jaw clenched. "Listen here you little— Lestrange will never be controlled, so forget about that this instant. A life debt is not to be used or bargained with. It is old magic. Unpredictable, but immensely powerful. You may be correct in assuming such a bond has been created, her life was saved due to your interference. But these are not classroom rules you can memorise."
Hermione shrinks back, but he just crowds closer. "I'm not going to lecture you, there is no one book on the matter. She will only know when she feels it. It will be uncomfortable, tug at her unconscious mind. In what form, I do not know, and I'm sure she will not tell you. She will resist. She will fight against it with all her being. And I think we both know how capable she is of fighting, of ignoring mental and physical pain. Of choosing her own master. It. Will. Not. Be. You."
He's panting at this point, spit flying in her face. What in Godric's name…She takes a step back.
And he…calms. Steadies himself. Reconstructs his usual disdainful expression until it slots seamlessly into his features. She needs to learn how to do that. She hasn't been able to fool anyone since she got here!
"Um…yes. No. I never wanted to control her. I just…how do I stop her telling him about this. We can't leave her asleep forever."
She backs into the sofa and cautiously sits down, hoping he'll take the hint and stay to discuss things. There's too much to unravel by herself. Her mind is fizzing.
Thankfully he does take a seat in a chair by the fire, steepling his fingers and staring at her. "As usual, Miss Granger, you are complicating matters with your idiotic Gryffindor tendencies. You will not need to stop her doing anything of the sort."
What? "But that's crazy! She was about to tell him before she collapsed, you saw, in my memories, she was leaving to tell him!"
Snape raises an eyebrow at her. "Was she?"
Umm…
Huh?
Hermione frowns. "Well…yes. She said so. And she was leaving to kill Harry, at least that's what she said."
He nods at her. "And how would she have done that? Potter is at Hogwarts. He is protected by the strongest wards in Wizarding Britain, Albus is at his side. Lestrange was weak. Barely able to stand."
"Well yes, but she's mad! She doesn't care if she dies for her cause, she just wants You Know Who to win."
"Yes. And so…"
So what? So she wants him to win. And she has to kill Harry to do that. She heard the prophecy, she looked inside Hermione's head, she saw…
"She saw the future. She saw herself die, fail. And then…I felt it. She was scared. Horrified."
Snape smirks. "And what else scared her, Miss Granger?"
What else? Nothing scares Bellatrix.
Except…
"She was scared when she saw my memories. My childhood. Muggle things she didn't understand."
Snape raises an eyebrow at her. "She was scared, saw her own death, and then…ran away. Injured. Already defying direct orders from the Dark Lord, and with no knowledge of her whereabouts. Unable to fight you. And you still think she was leaving to attack? I thought you were smart, Miss Granger. Clearly…not."
Hermione scoffs. "So, what, Professor? You're saying she ran away because she was scared? She didn't seem scared to me."
Snape glares at her. "We are Slytherins. We are not so Gryffindor as to reveal every feeling, every inner doubt, on our faces. Why show fear to an enemy, a threat, when you can show strength, power? Her magic was useless against you. She was trapped. Trapped with someone whose every action, whose very being, is alien to her. I have no love for the woman, but I can certainly empathise. You need to learn to read people, if not their minds, then their actions. Or do you want to be fooled by everyone you come into contact with? The fate of the world is on your shoulders. You have a mind. Use it."
Hermione clenches her jaw at the uncomfortable truth. She never has been very good at reading people. That's why she likes books. They say exactly what they mean, most of the time. Give you step by step instructions, arguments, facts. You have to check their sources…but they don't lie to you nearly as much as people. She'd thought she'd improved since she was a child…but it looks like there's still a lot more to learn.
"I…hadn't thought of that. You're right. I…will you teach me? I know there isn't a book or anything, but…or at least tell me what to do. How to approach her."
He just folds his arms. "And what makes you think I have time to be your personal tutor? Follow your beck and call? Your every whim? I've told you enough. Use your mind. Imagine yourself as her, not what you would do if you were her. There's a difference. Find it. Owl me when your magic is back, and I will secure you as secret keeper. Until then, you're on your own. The necessary potions are in the kitchen cabinet."
And with that he gets to his feet, striding into the floo and away.
Chapter 9: Trust Thy EnemyNotes:
Hi guys, I can't believe it's only been one week since I posted this, and I just want to thank you all so much for the support and response this has got!
Seeing all of your comments and kudos makes my day and gives me the confidence to carry out all my little ideas, and definitely challenges me to keep on surprising you.
Anyway, on with the story!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It's been two more days, and Hermione is getting restless. Frantic. Alternating between sitting slumped at the kitchen table surrounded by books and walking along the seafront to drown her thoughts in the roar of the wind.
She still doesn't know what to do about Lestrange, or her way home, and her magic still hasn't come back. Other than some angry sparks, she's essentially a muggle. Which would be perfectly fine if she wasn't in a Wizarding town and trying to find a way to time travel.
And she keeps listening to the prophecy. She'd memorised it after her first hearing, but it's the only hint she has about this whole mess. Maybe there's a clue she's missing.
She hasn't found one yet, and it just keeps reminding her that she will have to wake up Lestrange.
She can wake her up at any time now. Snape had left her a potion to counteract the sleeping draught, and her wounds have all healed.
But she can't. No matter what Snape said, Hermione can't read her. She doesn't know what to do! She's tried every plan she can think of to convince the witch to keep her secret, but there's nothing.
She's actually been avoiding the room altogether, staying in the living room and the kitchen, only going in twice a day when she absolutely has to for the potions.
She spins the prophecy between her hands on the table. She has to figure this out. As Snape had reminded her, the fate of the world rests on her shoulders.
Think, Hermione. If there's one thing you're good at, it's learning and planning. Snape had said he wouldn't lecture you, but he already did, in a way. Learn from the master of manipulation. What did he say?
Don't trust what she says, trust what she does, what she feels. Empathise with her. Imagine yourself as her.
Hermione shudders. Does she have to? It was horrible enough polyjuicing into her body all those years ago, now she has to delve into her mind? Her psychological make up?
Well. Once again, there isn't much choice in the matter. Time to begin a preliminary analysis. Time to empathise.
It's been another two days. Two days of remembering every detail of everything the witch as ever said and done. Her expressions, her body language. Anything that might help. No detail is to be left unscrutinised. Hermione isn't holding back her Know It All tendencies. It's time for the final NEWT exam, and Lestrange is the subject. The essay. The last, and most challenging question.
So of course, she's now sat at the kitchen table, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, drinking far too much coffee and surrounded by parchment. Rolls of parchment. Scrunched up balls scattered on the floor. Diagrams and timelines of possibilities. Quills and ink and felt tips and post-it notes.
And a final draft.
Because Hermione thinks she might have found the solution. It was right before her eyes the whole time, it's just too insane to actually process.
Snape said don't trust what Lestrange says, trust what she would do.
And Lestrange had instantly understood what was happening when Hermione mentioned time travel.
Hermione gets to her feet, finger to her lip. And begins acting out a memory.
They'd been at the table…and when Lestrange heard about the time travel, she'd stopped being angry and…laughed…and sat down. In shock? Because she was tired? In disbelief?
So she does understand the consequences. She told Hermione she was stupid for messing with time. Bellatrix isn't stupid. So…she won't mess with time! She knows the world will end! And then Voldemort would die too, she'd never accomplish her goals, her cause.
She said she didn't care, said it was Hermione's problem…but that was when she was about to collapse and desperate to leave.
So. Lestrange doesn't want the timeline to change either…at least not noticeably. She's still a Slytherin, she'll definitely try to spin things to her advantage. Find a way to survive, maybe fake her death…or Voldemort's.
She shudders. Now there's a problem for a later date.
Bellatrix knows that she has to alter the timeline imperceivably. Cunningly. Like when Hermione had saved Sirius and Buckbeak – nothing looked like it had changed to anyone else. No-one but her, Harry, Dumbledore and Sirius knew the truth.
But to do that now…Lestrange needs information. Needs to know everything—
The same as at the Ministry! She said she'd memorised everything about the place. She only seems impulsive and in control because…she shapes the world around her into her comfort zone. Does things she knows. Goes places she knows.
That's why she hates the muggle world! Why she hates Hermione! Hatred comes from fear. She's never known anything Muggle, and she's been told that it's disgusting, dangerous. She's avoided the Muggle world her whole life…
So she doesn't know anything about it! She is a Know it All like Hermione, she just has one weak subject, and she hates not knowing about it.
Now this Hermione can deal with. Understand. If they both have the same goal of not changing time, then they can work together like the prophecy says. She just—
Hermione walks over to the bookshelf to grab some more rolls of parchment. This needs a lot of planning. When Lestrange doesn't know something, her first response is to torture the information from you until you give it. Well. It's a very risky strategy. Very Gryffindor, but…
She sits down at the table, making some room. What if Hermione just gives her everything she wants? Let's her do whatever, tells her anything? She'll have to keep Hermione's secrets, and not change anything from what Hermione knows as fact until she goes back in time in 2005.
So. Oh dear. Hermione will have to put complete trust in the other witch's intelligence. In her survival instincts. Give over control of the mission.
Hermione hates losing control. She's always the one with the plan, telling the boys what to do.
But she's going to have to change. Adapt. Snape is right, Lestrange will never be controlled. Especially not by Hermione.
And maybe…at the same time…
It's time for Lestrange to get some Muggle lessons. If Hermione can be subtle…Lestrange might accidentally learn some things. She is a Know it All after all, the brightest witch of her age. Hermione can empathise with that easily enough.
Hermione grins to herself. Time for a planning session. And once that's done, it's time to awaken the sleeping dragon.
This is absolutely barmy. A completely madcap scheme…
Good job she's a Gryffindor.
So, the next morning, when the sun is only just beginning to show its face through the rain and the lingering mist, everything is ready.
She'd decided that she can't show any threat or aggression. That will send a crucio her way.
Which means no trapping the witch. No restraining her. Hermione will simply wake her up and leave a note explaining that she is free to do as she wishes, but that Hermione hopes they can work together to uphold the timeline.
She will leave Lestrange the prophecy as a reminder, and a promise to show her any memories of the future that she wishes to see in order to not change anything. That way, Lestrange will need her alive and mentally competent.
She'd also added a P.S about the whole spattergroit lie. It would be really bad if anyone saw her right now; for one thing, Snape's cover would be completely blown.
It has taken her a while to perfect the letter, but she thinks she's found the best approach. She'd had to rewrite it several times, always becoming too detailed or patronising. She has to remember, this isn't Harry or Ron, she's not teaching Lestrange anything, or giving advice.
She's surrendering.
Which is terribly uncomfortable, and feels plain wrong in the face of such blood purist, prejudiced nonsense but…
Hermione has to put her pride aside. In terms of fighting ability and experience…Lestrange wins. If she has to give up control to save the world, she'll do it. Lestrange won't bend, so Hermione will. Before everything breaks.
She's been awake for hours now, ready hours early as usual. In the end, she couldn't stand it any longer, and took one last walk along the beach, up along the cliff.
And stops. At the very top.
Can she do this?
She stares out across the ocean, warm from her hike but wrapped tightly in her cloak, hugging it to her for comfort, rubbing the fabric between her fingers.
Is this the right thing to do? Can she really just…surrender herself to a monster? A madwoman? And trust her to do the right thing?
She starts to tremble and takes a step back from the edge.
Why her? Why— hasn't Hermione been through enough? Why is more being asked of her?
This could be the last day the earth ever sees. If the witch doesn't listen…
And she could kill Hermione. This might be—
Is she ready to die? For the tiniest chance of saving the world?
She lets out a shaky breath and wipes some tears from her eyes. "Harry did it," she whispers into the wind and the open ocean. "You can do it too, Hermione. Face your monster. Give up control and…and if the world ends, if you don't make it, you have some friendly faces waiting for you up there."
Hermione stands outside the bedroom door, heart racing. She can do this. She has the letter and the prophecy. She has copies of the letter in other parts of the house in case the witch burns it on sight without reading it.
She has the potion to awaken her.
She just prays it's not too fast working.
She pushes open the door and walks over to the bedside table, placing down the letter, the prophecy, and the witch's wand, not yet looking at the bed.
This is bonkers. She should definitely not do this. She should leave her asleep and do this alone.
Her eyes fall on the prophecy. Oh, she hates divination. But…
The prophecy is already coming true. The first part already happened! She can't ignore that.
She wrenches her eyes from it and slowly turns to the bed. To Bellatrix.
She'd asked Dobby to bring her some of Lestrange's clothes yesterday. A dress and an outer robe. She's left it on the bottom of the bed, along with her purse.
She clenches her jaw and uncorks the potion, opening the witch's mouth for what will thankfully be the last time.
She takes a sharp breath. Here it goes.
She swiftly pours all of the potion into the woman's mouth, only pausing long enough to see that she didn't choke, before she's sprinting from the room, straight to the front door and out into the sand.
Oh Merlin that was terrifying. She doesn't even dare look back, just runs as fast as possible over the sinking sand dunes towards the town. Her lungs are burning, legs aching, but she doesn't stop. Just groans through the pain and carries on, ignoring her laboured breathing until she reaches the town and goes into the first café.
She collapses into a chair. Oh gods. She's dying.
What did she just do?
Stupid, Hermione. You're not Harry. Why on earth would you—
It's logical. She has her reasons. It's the only way.
Is it?
She pulls her cloak off. She's bloody boiling.
People are staring at her. She rolls her shoulders back and pulls a menu towards her. She's going to need a lot of tea to calm down. And maybe some cake. Lots of cake…
For breakfast. She forgot how early it is, it's barely gone eight. She's lucky the café is open.
A waitress comes over, looking at her uncertainly.
"Umm, hi," she pants. "Just umm, just one second. Maybe some water actually. That would be wonderful."
The waitress rolls her eyes and walks back towards the counter. Hermione just collapses her head onto the table with a groan. This is going to be a very long day.
Notes:
So I kinda feel reaally bad for this cliffhanger. This is a new level of cruelty.
Should I post another chapter later tonight? Or am I too fast with the updates and you all have other things to do?
I'll check the comments later sooo let me know.