Vengeance

Vengeance
Chapter Six


Disclaimer – I do not own Harry Potter, and am not making any money off of this. J.K. Rowling owns all Harry Potter related ideas/items, and makes a crapload of money. The idea for the orb’s ‘personality’ comes from The Belgariad series by David Eddings, which I also don’t own.


000


“It is double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.”


-Niccolo Machiavelli


000


The Great Hall of Hogwarts was once a haven for the magical children of Great Britain. A grand, cheery place under the dominion of Dumbledore, it made all things seem possible. Even to a small, orphaned boy who had never understood hope.


Now, the enchanted sky was dark and dull. The stone walls were dark and soot-covered, and all the brightly colored tapestries were in tatters. On the dais where the Head table once stood, there was now a terrible throne.


It was whispered that the throne was created out of the transfigured blood of Harry Potter. Or perhaps it was Dumbledore’s. In any case, those who stood in front of the throne had a statistically small chance of ending up alive. Often that terrible, black chair was the last thing that an unfortunate soul saw.


Hogwarts was the impermeable stronghold that Voldemort had never captured outright; only invaded, with the help of Draco Malfoy. It was only when the survivors of the last battle fled from the field outside the castle that the doors reluctantly opened to the victor. Even now, there were some places that Voldemort could not access. The headmaster’s office had been sealed tight, and no amount of dark magic could open it again.


Today, the self-proclaimed Dark King was lounging on that horrifying throne; idly tapping his long, cracked fingernails on the edge. He and the rest of his council were listening to a drawn out report given by Macnair on the receptivity of the Eastern Governments to the new ideology of Wizarding Britain.


Bored, Voldemort surveyed the assembly of fawning courtiers with a small measure of satisfaction. Finally, he had what he wanted. What he deserved. He was the most powerful wizard in Britain, and on his way to becoming the most powerful wizard in the world. Also, those thrice-damned muggles were well on their way to extinction.


Finally, he had true power.


He only needed to keep it.


Young Malfoy was becoming a problem, just as his grandfather and father were before him. Such powerful, influential blood did not heed well to taking orders. Draco was used to being a leader, he mused, and while he was a model follower at the moment, he would soon become too power-hungry for his taste.


Ah well, followers were easily replaced anyway.


Turning his attention to the conversation at hand, he mused on the current state of politics. Attacks on muggles were going smoothly, but outright war had been postponed until other magical governments would lend their support. The time was almost upon them. Most of the European governments were allied to them, and the others would come around. Ambassadors had been sent to the farthest reaches of the globe, and the results were promising.


“…The far east is going to be harder to convert than Avery thinks.”


“But they are very traditional, more traditional than Europe in some respects.”


“Yes, but there were no widespread witch-burnings in Asia in recent history, no mass hysteria of the muggles. The wizarding community there is much closer to the muggle one than we are. It will be very hard to convert them to our cause.”


Avery stammered a reply, and looked at the Dark King out of the corner of his eye. The King wore a terrible smile on his face at his public embarrassment, but made no move to go for his wand. Avery gave an inner sigh of relief. He would live to see another day.


Blaise Zabini idly flicked an imaginary piece of lint of off his already immaculate robes. “The Swiss have the reputation of being neutral, of course. There have been rumors of sightings of… certain individuals in the region around Interlaken.”


“It is very mountainous there, very dangerous.”


Blaise sniffed haughtily, “Yes. People could, and have, been swallowed up without a trace. We think we have found leads to the whereabouts of the Rebel base, but we are not certain.”


Voldemort smiled slightly. “Good, Lord Zabini. Continue. I would like to see… results.”


There was a collective shudder at the kind of ‘results’ that the Dark King would want.


“You are dismissed.”


The Death Eaters tried to hurry out without actually looking like they were hurrying. Few accomplished it.


“Except… Young Lord Nott. Attend me.”


Silkily walking up to the throne, Nott’s body was tall and relaxed. Only his pale eyes showed any fear. He walked up the dais and prostrated himself in front of the throne, taking the hem of Voldemort’s robe and kissing it.


“Rise.”


Theodore Nott stood gracefully, and said smoothly, “How shall I serve you, Your Highness?”


“Tell me about Draco Malfoy.”


“ He is the worst of blood traitors, like his father. If not openly spying for the Rebels yet, he soon will,” Nott sneered, his thin lips curling unattractively, “His desire for power will soon outstrip his loyalty to you. He has made no headway in the Gringotts Robbery, and even if he did find the object, I have no doubt that he would keep it for himself.”


Voldemort studied his face impassively, almost looking through him. Nott was glad that he had conformed to fashion and wore his hair long, because the back of his neck was rapidly accumulating an embarrassing amount of sweat. Calm thoughts. Occlumency. I can do this!


“Young Malfoy has outlived his usefulness. If he does not report favorably at the next meeting, he will be executed for treason.” Voldemort flicked his fingers slightly, dismissing him.


Inwardly, Nott’s brain was doing the can-can. Outwardly, his face showed no sign of his delight. He bowed deeply as he retreated from the throne, “You are very wise, Your Eminence.”


Voldemort’s cold voice cut through his joyous inner monologue, “If I find that you are deceiving me, I will make you feel so much pain that you will wish you are dead.”


Nott practically ran out of the castle.


000


Hermione Granger struggled wearily into the apartment after an exhausting morning rehearsal. Legally belonging to the fictional Helena Gardiner, the apartment was functional and sparse. And Hermione liked it that way, the fewer ties to a place she had, the easier it was to leave behind.


But here she was, back in England again. In Wizarding London, no less. At the very heart of danger her cover had to be perfect. Her act needed to be perfect. And it was compromised.


Stupid, sodding ferret. How the hell did he recognize me?


At least she had neutralized that potential threat. But she was still stewing over the indignity of being recognized. She was so far away from her Hogwarts persona. And she was so close to finally getting her revenge. So close. And it was too late to stop, even if she wanted to.


She conjured up a pot of tea using her wand, (‘Helena’ would never use something as mundane as a stove) and half-heartedly cleaned the already sparkling apartment while she sipped. Her eyes kept wandering to the clock as she worked. When it was fifteen to one, she stretched her muscles and walked leisurely into the washroom.


Looking at the mirror over the sink, she impassively took in her features. Her painted face and yellow hair stared back. Suddenly, she turned on the taps and furiously began to scrub her face. When the sink was stained with rivulets of color and her face was blessedly clean, she took out her wand. She removed the glamour on her hair and it returned to her natural dark, wild curls.


The face in the mirror was more familiar now, but there was sharpness to her features and shadows under her eyes that bespoke of too much worrying and not enough sleep.


Oh, Harry… Ron…If you were here, would you recognize me?


Her conscience, that practical, dry voice in her head that had never led her astray told her that she was being a whiny little brat. She did what needed to be done. That was all. They will pay…and that is all that matters.


Taking a few shuddering breaths, she checked her watch. One o’clock exactly. She picked up the tube of toothpaste sitting on the sink and felt the familiar tug behind her navel.


000

The Rebellion was born of practical measures. After the defeat, all the survivors portkeyed to a storm-tossed isle off the coast of Wales. When Hermione Granger showed up – dry-eyed, tear-stained – carrying Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak and other items that had been strewn around Hogwarts, they knew.


It was over.


Harry Potter was dead.


As everyone stood in shock, in what was to be her defining moment, Hermione took charge. Sending home the youngest children who may have had a chance at a normal life, and the children of Death Eaters. When all the survivors who had nowhere safe to go were gathered, they apparated separately or with a child to the base that had been set up in the wilds of Russia.


The Order had become the Rebellion.


They moved often in the five years since the horrid battle, one step ahead of Voldemort and his followers. Some were caught. Some were not. This was war, and one learned to be immune to pain even if it could not be stopped.


As Hermione jerked back into reality, she blinked her eyes rapidly to try to dispel the nausea that portkeying always brought to her stomach. She sighed as she felt her innards return to normal.


The current base, deep in the French Alps, was charmed to look like a muggle Ghost Town. There were no access roads, so only the occasional adventurous hiker stumbled upon them. A careful Obliviate took care of that problem nicely.


Hermione walked through the little village, passing Luna Lovegood teaching some of the students Transfiguration in a little sun-drenched meadow by the houses. She stopped, and as she observed their struggles at changing spoons to pillows, she was brought back to her first lessons. At least there were proper teachers. Thinking wistfully of McGonagall, lessons, and happier times, she helped a young boy (who looked remarkably like Seamus) to conjure a pillow that didn’t have a metallic sheen. Luna shot her a distracted smile of thanks, and went back to explaining her personal theories behind the efforts of The Dark King’s to cover up the existence of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.


Hermione rolled her eyes and smiled.


Some things would never change.


She looked over the rag-tag group and observed their progress proudly. She worried about these children, so young, so innocent, so fucking guiltless in this whole mess. Worrying about the fate of muggleborns born in Britain now, when Voldemort held the throne, had Hermione up until the wee hours of the morning, kicking herself for not doing something, anything, to help them. Accidental magic, something so natural to those children, would mark them as unnatural, as something vile to be purified.


If Voldemort found them first, that is.


It was a race against time. The first thing that Hermione had stolen from the hallowed halls of Hogwarts had been the Great Roll of the school. Having taught the younger students in the base camps during the first weeks after their defeat to regain some sense of normalcy, Professor McGonagall had remembered the Roll. Charmed to list all the children of Britain who exhibited magical talent, it was used to send the invitations to the first years. Then.


Now, it was deadly.


Hermione had always idly wondered how the Wizarding World found her. Hence, she was alarmed that other muggleborns were in danger of slavery or worse from something that had brought her so much joy.


So, they concocted a plan.


It wasn’t much of a plan, really. More like an act of desperation. The Rebellion would break into Hogwarts.


Easy.


Right. And assassinating Voldemort on a bright, sunny day in the middle of his huge-ass fortress guarded by about fifty Dementors would be easy too.


Of those left, only Kingsley Shacklebolt and Tonks had Auror training. Kingsley had undergone extensive injuries, so he was out. Tonks couldn’t sneak up on a blind/deaf/mute. Neville, Lupin, and Ginny – last of the Weasleys – were willing but none of them had the grace of a thief. Millicent Bulstrode certainly was sneaky, but all of her cunning was put to better use by plotting rather then by trying to wedge her large frame through very small openings. Lavender Brown and Lisa Turpin were terrified of anything after the last battle. Loud noises, dark places, heights, water, guinea pigs, anything.


Funny that no one really thought to ask Luna.


Somehow, Hermione was the logical choice.


Small, smart, flexible, quiet and graceful due to her dance training at her Grandmother’s studio, she had all of the necessary qualities.


So, Kingsely and Tonks schooled Hermione in the arts of stealth and sneaking magic. And Lupin, who knew the basics of Occlumency, helped her erect the mental shields that would keep her invisible in all ways.


One day, Ginny had a brilliant idea. Why not cut up Harry’s invisibility cloak and make a suit? It was forever catching on corners and ripping at Hogwarts, and a suit would make for easier maneuvering. Somehow, Ginny procured invisible thread, then took Hermione’s measurements and tailored a skintight outfit that was leagues better than the old cloak.


Hermione’s new career was born. She stole from Hogwarts. She took from the ministry. She looted Gringotts.


She took items that The Rebellion needed, or ones that would be dangerous in the hands of the mad king. Never so much or with a distinct style, so that the robberies could not reasonably be connected together. Except by someone with extreme paranoia, of course.


As Hermione trudged through the village, she spotted a few more classes in session. Neville teaching Herbology, Lupin with the older Defense against the Dark Arts students, Millicent Bulstrode teaching beginners Potions, and – much to her disdain – Lavender Brown teaching Divination.


Finally stopping at a small, ramshackle house Hermione paused to inhale the heavy scent of the lilacs that grew by the door. Smiling slightly, she walked inside.


Tiny - only four rooms - it was the smallest house in the village, but for some reason all of the most important meetings of The Rebellion were held there. Perhaps because of the incredible sense of comfort that one had upon stepping into the house. Neat as a pin, but absolutely filled with books, plushy chairs and sofas, and little knickknacks collected during The Rebellion’s forced travels, it was the antithesis of Helena’s chic emptiness.


Hermione gave a sigh of relief as she stepped into the house. She felt safe here. She knew she shouldn’t, that she should be on guard at all times, but somehow she couldn’t help it.


Upon the mantel was the orb.


Glowing softly at her approach, it filled the room with a comforting pink light.


Hermione smiled at it in greeting, but refrained from touching it.


At three o’clock sharp, the leading members of the Rebellion filed in for their weekly meeting. Neville and Millicent, a surprising addition to Harry’s Army at the Last Battle, were holding hands and cooing over their new baby. Lavender, draped in layers of multi-colored gauze and bangles drifted in, murmuring to herself about dark omens. As Ron’s girlfriend in Sixth Year, she could never go back to a normal life in the outside world, even if she wanted to.


As the others settled on Hermione’s cushy sofas, Ginny eyed Hermione critically.


“You look skinnier.”


Hermione gave a crooked, tired smile and then rushed into her arms. She sighed slightly and said, “So do you.”


And it was true. After her family and Harry died, Ginny was broken. She slept all day and ate practically nothing. After two months of crying, pleading and caring in vain, Hermione had begun to mourn the loss of yet another beloved friend. Then, magically, Ginny appeared one day at breakfast, pale, worn, but showing a hint of the vivacious spirit in he eyes that made her so dearly loved.


Like Molly before her, Ginny took over the practical aspects of the camp. Supervising the cooking and cleaning as well as teaching Charms, she was a mother to the parentless magical children that the Rebellion took into their care.


As Hermione and Ginny chatted softly about the progress of the students as the last stragglers joined the meeting, Lavender’s piercing voice cut through the gathering.


“Well? Are we going to get on with it? The cards will not wait for a more fortuitous time, you know. And I have a strong feeling that I will be able to read the fate of the next mission if I lay out a spread within the hour.”


Ginny shared a look with Hermione and, unseen by everyone else, rolled her eyes. Then Ginny turned around and smiled brightly. “Now that we are all here, we might as well get on with it. Anything new this week?”


Reports on student progress, activities of high officials of Voldemort’s court, etc. Hermione let the words wash over her, passively filing the information away for later dissection.


“Hermione? I do believe it is your turn to report.”


Hermione’s large eyes blinked rapidly as she looked into the deep eyes of Luna Lovegood. Looking away quickly, she drew a deep breath, wondering how she could word her… eventful… week delicately.


“Right. Well… You know how Malfoy approached me awhile back?”


She charged on without waiting for their answers, picking up speed as she got into her stride, “And you know the mission I went on to check the records stored at Hogwarts? Well I found that the… item… that we are interested in is stored at Malfoy Manor. And I also found that Theodore Nott and Wormtail are plotting to kill Malfoy. So I sort of… I sort of exchanged that information for Malfoy’s blood promise that he wouldn’t rat me out. For spying, that is. Not thieving. He doesn’t know about that… I think.”


Silence.


“So… you mean that you just… told him?”


“Erhm, yes.”


“For God’s sake, why?”


Everyone turned to look at Millicent, who had turned a strange purple color at the news. She cleared her throat and said, “You didn’t know him like I did. You weren’t a Slytherin and you didn’t live with him. He talks big, and is pretty much a coward, but he can be very dangerous with information and power. And he loves power.”


Hermione blushed under her censorious gaze, but straightened her spine defiantly. “I did what I felt was the right thing to do. I do not want to jeopardize the mission, and for it to work, we need to procure the item from Malfoy’s house. Which is one of the most magically fortified buildings in the magical world, I’ll have you remember. You need an invitation to get in, or the blood of a Malfoy.”


Neville looked crushed and sighed, “Well, there goes another good plan. Malfoy would never invite one of us to his home.”


Hermione just smirked slightly, “I won’t need to be.”


Ginny suddenly smiled and exclaimed, “Brilliant! I see where you are going with this. You don’t need to be invited because you already have his blood, don’t you? On that contract?”


“Precisely.”


There was a general murmur of approval, and it was agreed that Hermione would try to break into Malfoy Manor sometime next week. As the members of The Rebellion filed out of her house, Hermione stretched slightly and looked longingly at the orb sitting on the mantel of the fireplace.


Turning to Ginny, she smiled ruefully, “This new act we are perfecting is really doing a number on my quadriceps. I think I’ll just pop into the hot springs for a moment, then we can chat about supplies, alright?”


Ginny laughed and waved her along, “I’ll just hang about with Neville, Millie and the baby. You take your time.”


“Thanks Gin!”


Hermione quickly made a beeline for the orb, snatched it off the mantel and walked out of the house. Millicent cradled her squirming little boy a little closer, and watched her leave.


“There she goes again to commune with that rock.”


“Is that healthy? I mean she spends all of her time with it nowadays.”


“Well, it has got to be healthier than her last hobby.”


“True. Blowing up trees doesn’t say much for one’s sanity.”


000


Hermione softly padded through the forest with swift feet. Anxious to relieve the week’s tension, she absently caressed the orb between her hands taking comfort in the soft warmth it gave off.


It was strange how the orb seemed to ‘sense’ her moods and alter the special song that Hermione could always hear in her mind when it was around. Never annoying, it seemed to make her almost… happy. If she could be happy anymore.


She had asked the other members of The Rebellion if they could hear the song, but they all looked at her as if she was mad. So she stopped asking.


The glow, however, was much more apparent to the average person. Whenever the orb was around Hermione, it emitted a soft, pleasant, pink light. If another person tried to touch it, the orb was ‘angry.’ Or as angry as a rock could be, anyhow. Glowing a furious crimson when Lavender tried to pick it up after Hermione first stole the thing; the lightning it spat out nearly gave her third-degree burns.


Needless to say, no one else tried touching it.


The strangest thing about the orb was that it seemed to have a… consciousness… if you could call it that. It often would hold ‘conversations’ with Hermione, all in her mind through images, variations in the strange song and patterns in light it emitted.


The first time Hermione had touched the thing, it broken into a six part choral anthem, all in Hermione’s head (although she didn’t know it at the time and was quite scared that someone had heard the racket). Damned inconvenient when you were suspended over the floor trying to steal the most heavily guarded item in Gringotts. Once she had overcome her shock (and steadied herself in her harness) she had hissed at the stupid rock to be quiet. Surprisingly, it did. But not after humming an amused sound.


It had the strangest sense of humor sometimes.


It also had the oddest obsession with men.


Even as Hermione arrived at the hot spring nestled in a niche of the cliffs, she could feel the orb sift through her memories of the past few days and ‘pause’ whenever it came to an image of a man. In the first few days after… acquiring… the orb, it had undergone what Hermione termed the ‘getting to know you’ process. Looking through her memories and passing over what Hermione considered to be some of her defining moments (The Last Battle, for example, rated barely a minute of the orb’s time). It also obsessively examined trivial incidents over and over again (It absolutely loved memories of her happily eating ice cream as a child).


And it loved Draco Malfoy.


Hermione put the orb down on the soft earth as she stripped out of her clothing. She folded it quickly and neatly and placed them in a small cupboard built into the cliff face and pulled out one of the fluffy towels that Ginny always made sure were in ready supply. Somehow. Hermione didn’t really need to know what connections Ginny had that allowed her to gain such luxuries for the camp. It was one less thing for her to worry about. And she had enough worries.


She picked up the orb and carefully placed it on the towel by the side of the steaming pool. Finally giving into temptation, she slowly lowered herself down, groaning as the hot water touched her tense flesh. Oh yeah, this is just what I needed after my horrid week, she thought, Hot baths just aren’t the same. Sighing happily, she dunked her head under the water and allowed herself to relax.


The hot spring was a bonus that one of the younger trainees had found one day when hiking around the camp. After a through chewing out about the dangers of wandering alone through the Alps, the older members of The Rebellion had gone to check out the spring. After thoroughly assessing its safety, as Hermione was incredibly anal-retentive about that sort of thing, it was converted into a bath.


As it was inconveniently stationed about half a kilometer away from the main camp, most elected to use the on-premise showers. Only true hot water junkies like Hermione came here with any regularity.


Just deep enough to come up to the underside of Hermione’s breasts, with convenient rock shelves to sit on when she didn’t feel like standing, it was paradise. She smoothly ducked under the water and swam to the other side of the pool. As she was coming up for air, she was suddenly assaulted with images of steely gray eyes and platinum hair. Well I guess the orb was tired of being ignored. She sighed tiredly and sent thoughts of reassurance to the thing. And squelched any thoughts of Malfoy she might be having. She was not going to give the orb any reasons to launch into what amounted to a dissertation of his good traits.


She was not going to wonder how he recognized her (she had a good disguise!) or how he spent his time now, or reflect on how he had finally grown into his sharp features. He still wasn’t very muscular, but at least he had finally gained some height. With his thin mobile mouth, strong jaw, sharp cheekbones and nose, he wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he managed to be very appealing nonetheless…


Hermione suddenly shook her head and shot a glare at the orb. “What the hell? Why am I thinking of that bastard? Attractive? Hardly. As if I would find that pointy sneak attractive.” She swam over to the orb and picked it up, “And don’t you plant anymore of these thoughts in my head! I have much more important things to think about than Draco Malfoy.”


The orb glowed innocently and continued singing its bubbly song.

A/N: Thanks so much to my new beta Emily for doing a wonderful job correcting my grammar, and giving me the confidence to post! Now, I have a question to ask: My story and plot aren’t really affected that much by HBP (almost not at all) except for a few scenes and chapter 3. Should I rewrite it? Would love your opinion!

Reviewer Responses: I would just like to take the time to thank my reviewers – you guys are wonderful! I am so happy you like my story. I will definitely keep writing! I wanted to respond to reviews individually, but that will have to wait for next time, as I am very busy right now and need to post… Till next time!