Chapter Text
Late March, 1998.
The drawing room all but shone after the darkness outside. An ominous sign, no doubt, what with the way its cold light cast large shadows over the mahogany floors wherever someone or something stood. Even with her eyes squinted to a near close in her fear, Hermione could still make out the room’s wide proportions and its decorations.
A crystal chandelier with silver accents in the form of open-mouthed snakes hung menacingly from the ceiling. Countless portraits of mostly good-looking purebloods long gone covered the dark green walls. Three couches rested by an ornate marble fireplace to the left.
A figure rose from the couches as the prisoners were manhandled further into the room by the Snatchers.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Raw panic flooded Hermione’s veins upon hearing that awfully familiar drawl. Abraxas Malfoy, of course. His voice was just as low and venomous as she remembered it to be, but there was a touch of underlying madness there now, probably brought forth by his short stint in Azkaban the year prior, that made her shudder in fear.
“Why is this scum sullying our home, my dearest wife?”
“They say they’ve got Potter,” said Henrietta Malfoy coldly. Then, in a much more adoring note she added, “Draco, come here.”
Hermione didn’t dare look at Draco. Still, she caught a glimpse of him when he rose from the armchair: face gaunt and eyes sunken into their sockets slightly, his Adam’s apple wobbling as he swallowed, hands twitching with each step he took towards them.
Fenrir Greyback had them turn around with a bark. His mouth curved into a sickening grin as he watched them scramble until Harry was directly underneath the chandelier.
“Well, boy?” rasped Greyback, staring at Draco with barely-contained excitement. “Is this Potter?”
Harry was too busy staring at the mirror over the fireplace, a great gilded thing with an intricately scrolled frame, to notice Draco’s slow approach.
Judging by his little flinch, he didn’t recognise himself.
Everything about him was wrong. His face was a huge, shiny and pink mess; and there was a dark shadow around his jaw. All of his more defining features had been distorted one way or another by Hermione’s jinx. Even his eyes didn’t look like his own; rather, they were so swollen that they had become slits he most likely couldn’t see through all that well. And his hair… His unruly hair had grown since leaving Grimmauld Place and now reached his shoulders.
He certainly didn’t look like Harry Potter at the moment.
“Well, Draco?” Abraxas Malfoy prompted. He sounded avid, extremely so. “Is this Harry Potter?”
“I can’t… I can’t be sure,” Draco replied as he avoided looking at Harry. “My apologies, Father, but I don’t know.”
“Nonsense! Look at him carefully. Here, come closer.” He guided his son forwards. “Draco, listen to me. If we are the ones to hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgi—”
Bearing his fangs at the blond man, Greyback growled dangerously. “Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught it, I hope, Mr. Malfoy?”
“Of course not, of course not!” Abraxas reassured, impatient. He then approached Harry himself, his steps slow and calculated as though he were an apex predator circling his hapless prey; came so close that even Hermione could see his face in sharp detail. His eyes had a mad glint, heavily highlighted by the dark rings beneath them. “What did you do to him, mutt? How did he get into this state?”
“That wasn’t us.”
Sounding transfixed, Abraxas hummed. “Looks like a Stinging Jinx to me… But why? Got something to hide, boy?” His gray eyes examined Harry’s forehead. “There’s something there,” he stated breathlessly, “it could be the scar, stretched tight… Draco, come here, and look properly! What do you think?”
Draco stepped closer.
They were extraordinarily alike, father and son, Hermione noticed at that moment; except that while Abraxas was behind himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance. And maybe, just maybe, something akin to fear.
“...I don’t know,” Draco eventually said, then walked towards the fireplace, where his mother stood watching.
“We had better be clear, Abraxas.” Henrietta’s voice was cutting once more. “Completely sure that it is indeed Potter before we summon the Dark Lord… They say this is his—” she nodded at the blackthorn wand in her hand, her brow furrowed in thought— “but it does not resemble Ollivander’s description. If we are mistaken… If we call the Dark Lord here for nought… Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?”
Abraxas shuddered at the mention of the Death Eaters, and his excitement seemed to fade somewhat.
There was another growl coming from the werewolf. “What about the Mudblood, then? Her face don’t look weird to me.”
Suddenly, Harry was nearly thrown off his feet as the Snatchers forced the prisoners to swivel around again so that the light fell on Hermione instead. A pang of dread coursed through her shivering body. Greyback had been right; unlike Harry, she was recognisable enough.
“Wait,” Henrietta gasped, examining her frantically. “Yes—yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet some days ago! Look, Draco, isn’t this the Granger girl?”
Much to Hermione’s surprise, Draco did not look her way. “I… Yeah… Could be…”
If things had been different, she thought sadly as she examined the boy, maybe we could’ve been friends. All of us. If you weren’t such a prat… If your circumstances had been different…
“But then, that’s the Weasley boy!” Abraxas’ statement broke her out of her thoughts. She saw him walk to Ron, grin growing ten times wider and a hundred times darker. “Yes… It’s them… Potter’s friends! Draco, look at him! Isn’t it Arthur Weasley’s son, what’s his name—?”
“Hmm…” Draco said, his back to the prisoners. He was trembling lightly. “It could be. I’m not sure.”
It was then that the drawing room’s door flew open all of a sudden, shattering the tense atmosphere for a brief yet precious moment. A low and velvety voice followed, wounding Hermione’s fear to heights unknown. “What is this?” the man who had tortured Neville’s parents to mindless insanity and who had nearly killed Sirius at the Department of Mysteries questioned light-heartedly. “What is going on here, Abraxas? I wasn’t aware we had visitors.”
His friend laughed. “Not any visitors, Cyg. Potter and his friends.”
Cygnus Black III sauntered around the prisoners, examining them all with detached eyes. He walked past Harry in seemingly no hurry and stopped in front of Hermione with a raised eyebrow. “But surely…” he mused in a quiet voice that had her quivering in her boots, “this is the brains behind Potter’s heroic deeds, the so-called Brightest Witch of Her Age?” He turned to Abraxas. “This is the Mudblood? This is Granger?”
“Yes, yes, it’s Granger!” The blond man cried out as he joined Cygnus, who looked almost bored. “Draco isn’t quite sure just yet. But oh, Cyg, it has to be her.”
The raven-haired wizard hummed, taking his friend’s words into consideration. His lips curved into a charming smile. “Not quite sure, you say…?” he whispered mostly to himself, eyeing the doors behind their prisoners with newfound interest. “I hear your son’s not one to frequent the library… Bellatrix, come here!”
Hermione blanched even further upon hearing the not-so-unfamiliar name, and her stomach churned unpleasantly.
Somehow, even with her heart galloping a mile per second, she heard the approaching footsteps. It wasn’t long until she saw a black skirt halting to a stop in front of Cygnus.
“My dear, Rodolphus told me you spend most of your time at the library. Surely you must have seen this filthy little Mudblood around there, hm?”
Cygnus shoved Hermione’s head upward with his wand.
When those silver eyes—still unreadable and impassive, though somewhat tired—met her brown ones, Hermione swallowed hard. An unpleasant tremor rushed down her spine. Still, she refused to break. To show any signs of fear, of weakness, of anything that could possibly give her away.
I know you know, she thought miserably. Please, don’t do this.
Recognition flickered within the girl’s silver eyes.
December, 1996.
Hermione sighed for the twelfth time. “Darn it. Another dead-end…”
She could hear her exhaustion laughing in the depths of her mind. It did that often now. Mocking her when she ran into dead-ends, gnawing on her tired bones, and whispering vile nothings into her ear every so often.
That, or she was beginning to hear things.
All these bloody nights in the library are taking a toll on me. Hermione shot the alumnus’ Potions essay she’d been examining a death glare. Whoever this bloody Half-Blood Prince is, he must have been a self-centered prat. Who on Earth calls themselves a prince just like that, anyway? Must have been a Slytherin.
She shuddered all of a sudden.
Feeling eyes on her, Hermione raised her head slowly and blinked at her surroundings.
And now you’re getting paranoid. Great job, Hermione! Sheesh… I should just go to bed and try again tomo—
The remainder of her inner monologue withered away upon spotting a young Slytherin witch looking at her rather intensely. So maybe she wasn’t as paranoid as she thought, that was good to know.
“Uh…” Hermione said intelligently, fixing her posture. Her joints popped pleasantly as she did. “Can I help you?”
Twirling her thumb ring—a nondescript black thing that contrasted with her pale skin effortlessly—left and right, the young witch hummed. Not once did those piercing silver eyes leave Hermione’s, seemingly studying them in detail. Or something. Her gaze was simply unreadable.
Moments later, her mouth curled into what her fellow Gryffindors had dubbed ‘the Slytherin smirk’.
Hermione felt her hackles raise. Bracing herself for the worst—the classic Slytherin taunt, a hissed Mudblood or clichéd insults of the like, a nasty jinx to her belongings—the Gryffindor tilted her head up in silent defiance.
It was absurd, honestly, to be so wary of a younger student like this. But a Slytherin would always be a Slytherin and—
The girl’s smirk changed all of a sudden. It morphed, no, melted, into something else entirely.
“So you are Hermione Granger.”
Truth be told, Hermione could have possibly come up with a much more dignified response than… well… staring at the poor Slytherin in blatant disbelief for a solid minute. Or what felt like a solid minute, anyway. The girl had managed to render her, Hermione Jean Granger, completely speechless with five mere words.
Or rather, the sentiment behind those words.
Still in shell-shocked disbelief, Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly. “Yes, and you are…” she trailed off, analysing the puzzling Slytherin for a fleeting moment.
A mane of black curls, proud stance, pale skin, silver eyes… Oh! This is the girl who became a hatstall for nearly six minutes during the Sorting ceremony. Hermione remembered the uneasiness wafting from the Slytherin table while the Sorting Hat took its sweet time choosing a House for the girl. Wait a moment. Black! She’s related to Sirius!
“Er… Bellatrix Black, was it?”
The Slytherin merely smirked again.
Blinking, Hermione offered her a small smile. “So, uh, did you need any—”
“Mister Lestrange!” Madam Pince’s growl reverberated throughout the entire library. The bookshelves shook, as if sensing the librarian’s ire. Hermione focused on the distraught woman down the corridor. “You are not allowed in here anymore, leave at once! Out—out—OUT!”
“Hah, serves him right…” Hermione murmured bitterly. “Good riddance.”
Rodolphus Lestrange was a seventh-year Slytherin who had never gone into the library up until that year. He’d probably never even heard of it in the first place. But, somehow, for whatever twisted reason Hermione couldn’t comprehend, Rodolphus had taken a shine to disturbing the poor students’ study-time as of late.
And terrorising the muggle-borns here when possible, Hermione thought with great disdain. Looking for someone, he says. You don’t have authority over me, he says. Ugh… Those bloody, narcissistic Slytherins!
Feeling slightly guilty over that last thought, she turned to the girl. “Anyway, as I was—huh?”
The Slytherin witch was nowhere to be seen. Gone. Vanished into thin air. Left without a prior warning, unseen and unheard.
“Okay then…? That was weird.”
Relying on muscle memory alone, Hermione gathered her belongings while pondering over the whole exchange till she could recite it with her eyes closed.
“So you are Hermione Granger.”
Awed.
The young Slytherin—Bellatrix Black—had sounded awed.
Cygnus tightened his hold on the girl’s shoulders. His fingers dug deeper into her flesh, and Hermione saw the little grimace she made.
“Well?” he said in a dangerously quiet voice. “Is this the Granger girl, my dear?”
“I don’t know, Father.” A corner of her lips twitched upwards nigh-on imperceptibly. Hermione noticed, though. Just about. “I’ve never seen the Mudblood at the library. My apologies.”
Thank you. Oh dear God, thank you.
Abraxas stepped forward, shaking like a dying leaf in autumn. “Forget about the girl, Cygnus, she matters not. This—” he grabbed Harry’s hair roughly— “is what truly matters. This, my friend, is Harry Potter. It has to be him.”
For the first time since Cygnus came into the drawing room, he sputtered. His eyes widened almost comically and he looked at Harry in surprise. Hadn’t he heard what Abraxas had told him when he got there?
“Potter?” Cygnus yelled, tossing his daughter aside. “Are you sure? It looks nothing like him.” But his charming smirk morphed into something akin to unhinged, triumphant, the more he examined Harry. “If you’re so sure, then… the Dark Lord must be informed at once!”
With palpable eagerness, Abraxas Malfoy dragged back his left sleeve.
Hermione saw the Dark Mark burnt into the flesh of his pale forearm; a symbol of oppression, hatred, madness and death.
The sight of it made her sick to her stomach, but Cygnus Black was staring at it longingly, like it was something he yearned for.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Black,” Greyback interjected, his chin tilted up and proud. The blond looked at him, annoyed, while the raven-haired wizard merely scoffed. “But ‘tis us that caught Potter, and ‘tis us that’ll be claiming the gold—”
“Gold!” laughed Cygnus, interrupting him. He tore his eyes off his beloved Lord’s mark and looked at the Snatchers for the first time. “Take your gold, filthy scavengers, what do we want with gold!? We seek only the honour of His… of…”
The man lost his voice suddenly, recognition dawning on his pale face. His dark eyes were fixed upon something Hermione could not quite see, blown and manic. Swallowing hard, he turned to his friend. “STOP!” he demanded, grabbing Abraxas’ left arm shakily. “Do not touch it, we shall perish if the Dark Lord comes now!”
Visibly confused, Abraxas froze. “Cygnus, what are—”
With a primal growl that made Greyback’s seem but a whimper, Cygnus strode out of Hermione’s already-limited field of vision. “What is that?” he snarled somewhere behind her, his voice icy and calculated.
“Sword,” grunted an out-of-sight Snatcher.
“Give it to me.”
“It’s not yorn, Mister, it’s mine. I reckon I found it.”
A flash of red light, a loud bang.
“What d’you think you’re playing at, man?” Scabior questioned, seemingly emboldened. The other three Snatchers growled and screamed with him, pointing their wands at Cygnus.
“Stupefy!” Cygnus called, “Stupefy!”
Even though there were four of them against one of him, they were simply no match against the man: Cygnus Black III was a wizard, as Hermione had seen in the Department of Mysteries years ago, with prodigious skill and no conscience whatsoever when in a fight. They fell where they stood, all except Greyback, who had been forced into a kneeling position with his arms outstretched.
Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Cygnus bearing down upon the werewolf, the sword of Gryffindor gripped tightly in his hands and his face waxen.
Pulling the werewolf’s wand out of his unresisting grip, Cygnus sneered, “Where did you get this sword, mutt?”
“How dare you!” Greyback snarled, his mouth the only thing he could move as he was forced to gaze up at him in his kneeling state. “Release me, you madman, or else I’ll—”
There was another flash of red, and Greyback screamed.
“Where did you find this sword, you mongrel?” Cygnus repeated, brandishing it in his face. He kept his wand aimed square at his chest for good measure. “Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts! Where did you find this sword!?”
“It was in their tent,” he rasped, sweating profusely. “Release me!”
And that he did.
Cygnus gasped for air, pulling the sword close to his chest. Cradling it like one would do to a baby. “Draco, move this scum outside,” he eventually said, nodding at the unconscious men. “If you haven’t got the guts to finish them, leave them in the courtyard for me. Now!”
Sputtering indignantly, Henrietta frowned. “Don’t you dare speak to Draco like—”
“Be quiet!” Cygnus screamed over her. “The situation is graver than you could possibly imagine, Etta. We have a serious problem!”
He stood, panting slightly in his anger, looking down at the sword and examining its hilt intently. Then, he turned to the silent prisoners. “If that boy there is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed,” he muttered, more to himself than to the others. “The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself… but if He finds out… I must… I must know…” He turned back to the Malfoy matriarch again. “The prisoners must be placed in the cellar while I think of what to do!”
“This is my house, Cyg, you don’t give orders in my—”
“DO IT! You have no idea of the danger we are in!” Cygnus exclaimed, pacing around the place aimlessly. He looked both frightened and frightening, mad; a stream of fire issued from his wand and burnt a hole in the carpet. Even his daughter, who was now hiding beside the fireplace, looked wary of him.
Her very own father. Just how messed up was that?
Henrietta hesitated for a moment, looking at the man with narrowed eyes, then addressed the werewolf with utter contempt. “Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback.”
“Wait,” Cygnus said sharply. “All except… except for the Mudblood.”
Greyback gave a grunt of pleasure, which made Ron yelp. “No! You can have me, keep me!”
Cygnus slapped him across the face, his rings scraping his pale skin; the blow echoed through the room. “If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next,” he promised darkly. “Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book. Take them downstairs, Greyback… make sure they are secure, but do nothing more to them… yet. You can have the Mudblood once I’m done with her.”
“With pleasure, Mr. Black.”
Furiously, he threw Greyback’s wand back to him, then produced a small silver dagger from inside his robes. He cut Hermione free from the other prisoners before dragging her by the hair into the middle of the room. Greyback wasted no time in shoving her friends towards the cellar.
In the meantime, Cygnus searched for something with his eyes, and smiled grimly when he found it. “My dear, my Bellatrix… Stay. Watch. You must learn how to deal with this filth accordingly.”
“DON’T TOUCH HER!” Ron cried out. “I swear I’ll—”
A loud bang followed.
“Now…” Cygnus whispered once they were alone, forcing her into a kneeling position. “How did you get inside my vault?”
Hermione sobbed. “We didn’t. I promise—we have never been inside your vault!”
The wizard’s nostrils flared. “You are lying, filthy little Mudblood,” he sneered, his voice growing deeper and deeper with each passing word. “And I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!”
“We haven’t! I swear, we have—” cried Hermione.
“LIES! Crucio—Crucio—CRUCIO!”
A high-pitched scream erupted from her dry lips, tearing her throat to shreds. Her body convulsed, scorching pain coursing through her veins like magma and thunder. A myriad of white-hot knives embedded themselves into her body, ruthlessly slashing her skin apart.
Or that’s what it felt like, anyway.
Such was Cygnus Black III’s power and ire.
Distantly, she could hear Ron screaming her name again and again. Crying it in utmost despair.
“I’m going to ask you one more time… Where did you get this sword? Where?”
Her heart thrummed between her ears, deafening and unrestrained. “We found it—we found it—PLEASE!” She couldn’t help but scream when the man cursed her again.
“YOU WERE IN MY VAULT!” Cygnus shouted, pressing his wand hard against her larynx. Gargling, Hermione looked around the room, desperately searching for a way out. Anything that could save her from this bloodthirsty wizard.
But her eyes landed on Bellatrix instead.
The girl’s face was blank. The sheer terror that reigned over within her silver eyes, though, made her look old beyond her years.
Why are you still here? Hermione thought despairingly. Run, hide. Please.
“What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall carve your heart out with this knife!”
When the man removed his wand from her throat, keeping it dangerously close to her pulsing skin still, Hermione gasped for air greedily. “Nothing, I promise! We haven’t been inside your vault—we haven’t taken anything from you!”
The quasi Death Eater growled, displeased with her answer, and cursed her again. “Such filthy lies coming from such a filthy mouth. How did you get into my vault?” he screamed, sounding like a broken record. Hermione could hardly breathe. “Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you, hm? Did he?”
“W-We only met him tonight!” Hermione replied, shaking her head frantically. Every inch of her body had been set aflame, screaming and doubling over in pain. “We’ve ne-never been inside your vault… It isn’t the real sword! It’s a copy, just a co—”
“ENOUGH!” Cygnus roared, piercing her left forearm with the silver dagger. Hermione sobbed, unable to scream any longer. “Do you see, Bellatrix, why I keep telling you that mudbloods must be annihilated? They steal from us. Our things, our magic, our power. And they do so thinking we will never notice, but oh, we do… we really do…”
Desperate, Hermione glanced at Bellatrix one more time. The girl couldn’t realistically help her any more than she already had, but the pain she was in was muddling her thoughts.
I know… I know you’re young and scared, but could you help me again? Please…
The young girl was observing the scene, wide-eyed and leaning against the fireplace for support. Now that nobody was screaming, Hermione could vaguely hear her frantic breathing and soft whimpers.
Her heart broke for her.
“And now…” Cygnus continued, pushing the blade forward and engraving a straight line into his skin. He quickly followed it with two sharp gashes, carved in a down-and-up motion. “I’m going to teach this filthy Mudblood what happens when you do not respect your superiors.”
The weapon’s dark magic made Hermione’s flesh tingle unpleasantly.
Cursed. It’s cursed. Someone… Please… Help me.
Cygnus moved the blade back down painfully slowly, creating a line that mirrored the very first one through and through. It was an ‘M’. He chuckled low in his throat and carved a perfect arch near the last gashes.
The world was growing quieter by the second.
By the time Cygnus had carved ‘MUDB’ into her arm, the icy whispers of unconsciousness were much closer to her now than ever before, so Hermione let her eyelids fall one last time.
Bellatrix’s tear-stained face was the last thing she saw before everything went black.