Of Blood and Magic, Chapter 9 Part II

[evanesco75]

Part Deux of the latest Chapter under the cut: (just figured out how, novice that I am!)


Hermione was impatient. Matthew seemed to have fastened himself to her and it wasn’t that she minded, exactly. He seemed pleasant enough. Didn’t talk much, and was currently buried in some book as he sat across from her at the Library.

But his presence meant she couldn’t research what she was itching to: Blood Magic. And there were several reasons for that, the most crucial being secrecy. It was Ministry business, classified, and extremely dangerous.

Beyond that, the very thought of Blood Magic was avoided. Never spoken about or even alluded to, not even in the most elite academia. When it was whispered about rarely, it was always with fear-and sometimes, apparently, with desire. And this was only natural since the magic was linked inextricably to slavery and torture, and discrimination. The robbing of free will, in a nutshell.

What it all meant was that she couldn’t possibly risk being caught researching it. Not by faculty, and certainly not by some stranger.

She smiled sadly. There had been a time when she wouldn’t ever have mulled over the issue so carefully. She would have sprung up and literally raced to the back of the library, where she knew archaic tomes were housed. She would have been impatient, excited.

Now, she was suspicious and furtive and ever so cautious. Now, she knew you couldn’t trust everyone. It wasn’t even as simple as having one Bad Bloke (plus cohorts) whom you could tag as Villain, while you carried on believing in the goodness of everyone else. People had agendas. Ordinary people, normal people, sane people-everyone was after something.

And somehow, she and her friends inevitably got sucked into the situation; as defenders of what was right, no less.

An image rose unbidden in her mind, of her and Ron and Harry dressed as those comic book type super heroes, flashing magic wands and weapons at an unseen enemy.

She giggled.

Matthew glanced at her, looking curious and rather nervous. She waved a hand in dismissal, but he put his book down and leaned forward.

“Something amusing?” His tone was genial.

She shrugged, that familiar, deep-rooted wariness surging inside her. She didn’t share information with strangers anymore. Even the most casual, harmless words may strike fear or anger or hatred in someone. That was how the world worked, after all.

He sighed tiredly.

“I get the feeling I’m intruding. I’m sorry, I just… I was lonely.”

She was irked initially, defensive about why he’d solicit reassurance from her, especially when he was intruding. But it evaporated just as fast, leaving her morose. His voice had hitched over the word ‘lonely’ and his eyes looked… desperate.

I t was an echo of what she carried inside, and it terrified her.
‘Ron, Ron,’ her mind reminded her gently, and the relief was nearly overpowering. She wasn’t alone. She had Ron. And Harry, Ginny, George, Molly…

But most of all, Ron.

She felt cruel now, and tried to fix it.

“No, you aren’t intruding. Really. I was just… restless, is all.”

He looked relieved again.

No. He looked grateful.

It made the shame swell up again and she quashed it with a ruthless impulse, aware even as she spoke that she didn’t actually feel like spending another minute with him.

“You want to head out for a while? A walk, maybe?”

He hesitated.

“I could use the company,” she pressed, perversely keen to get his agreement despite-or maybe because of-her instinctive aversion to the prospect.

He smiled broadly, reminding of her a stray kitten that had been picked up and cuddled for a moment.

He rose, swallowing.

“You’re kind,” he muttered, flushing.

Something tugged at her insides, and she realized abruptly that no one had referred to her as kind since the War. Back then, many people had thanked her, pressed her hand or her shoulder and wept with gratitude, even, over everything she’d done.

But since Australia, since the Wilkins, it hadn’t ever happened. She hadn’t let it.

Suddenly she couldn’t grasp how it felt, being viewed as an actively good person again. She’d always be a War Hero, part of the Golden Trio. But who was she now? More importantly, where was that small, burning bit of her that used to vibrate with energy at the thought of helping someone, doing something right, making a difference?

All these thoughts rushed through her head at frenetic speed, sorted and filed away just as quickly.

Matthew was watching her, his expression a mix of concern and interest.
She blinked and managed a smile.

“Thank you, but I haven’t done anything lately to warrant such praise.” Her voice was low, but firm.

They left the Library, their steps falling into an amiable sort of concert.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Blaise’s heart thumped so loud, he was sure she could hear it. Or sense it somehow, with that amazing, infuriating mind of hers.

Still, there were congratulations due. He’d played a masterful hand and later, in the privacy of his room he’d be free to marvel at his brilliance, and celebrate.

It was hard trying to know Granger. He’d never bothered before the War, hadn’t had a reason to. After the War, he’d been compelled to revise his opinion of the blasted Trio, to acknowledge their power and courage and heroism. And to loathe it.

The thing was to know your enemy. He was pragmatic enough to understand this simple truth. And the qualities regarded as virtues by the general public, seemed to him to be petty weaknesses; borne out of an innate need to be wanted and admired.

The Trio was used to feeling magnanimous and special and loved by all. He’d assumed this and taken it for granted.

But when he’d met Granger-that fearsome, formidable witch who scared the living shite out of him, if he was honest-he’d glimpsed a blank sort of emptiness in her eyes, which had disconcerted him greatly. And for just a second during their first encounter, he’d spotted an enormous sadness there as well, before she masked it with polite indifference.

He’d retreated to revise his strategy.

And today, he’d understood something. All three of them liked helping people. It was legendary, in fact. But where the men, where Ron and Harry heroically thwarted criminal endeavours, where they saved people from being murdered or robbed or taken, Hermione did more.

She was the one who possessed the most native compassion. She was the one who’d react as strongly to an ostracized child or a mistreated elf, as she would to torture or rape. She’d created that ridiculous Saving Elves committee, she’d hung about that fat bastard, Longbottom….she was probably the only Prefect he could remember who hadn’t ever ribbed the young ones.

She couldn’t bear injustice of any sort. And she couldn’t leave a genuine need unmet, however ordinary or trivial it might be. It wasn’t just about adulation with her after all.

So his jokes hadn’t done the trick; his charm might as well have been nonexistent. But when he’d spoken about being lonely, her face had changed. And soon after, she’d offered-actually offered-to spend a bit of time with him.

He was on track.

But still, as she led the way out the doors and onto the path, terror had him in its inexorable grip. Her kindness could morph into ruthlessness easily and quickly, he knew.

And there was power in her, the sort that thrummed within constantly; the sort that could crush him without pause.

A tiny voice piped up in his mind without warning.

‘Surely such power can’t be stolen or taken? Surely it’s hers by birth; by right?’

He suppressed it mercilessly, his boss’s toad-like visage flashing ominously before his eyes.

No. Hermione was a useless Mudblood, a thief and an impostor and a nothing. She needed to be put down, just like any other dirty Muggle did.

He could only hope she wouldn’t discover his identity before that happened.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Ron rubbed his stomach to try and quell the uncomfortable tightness within. Didn’t work. He groaned softly, running a hand through his chaotic hair.

He was still in the library; had been locked in for over ten hours now. And uninterrupted for the most part save Ginny’s visit earlier, and periodic trips by Kreacher to deposit food and drink onto his table with a complex clearing of the throat that somehow managed to convey indignation, concern and deference at once.

Vaguely, he wondered whether something he’d eaten had been off. No. Kreacher was meticulous about such stuff. And he’d probably kill himself if Ron even hinted at questioning the quality of his cooking. The thought made him grin fondly.

The discovery he’d made earlier still occupied his mind. He’d not had success rummaging through shelves during the morning. After Ginny had exited, he’d paced about a bit out of frustration. Not too surprisingly, he’d eventually tripped over a book he’d chucked at the floor earlier, reaching out toward the wall in an effort to remain upright.

And the wall had shuddered, just a little. He’d frozen before investigating the thing. After about an hour of cursing, charming, and banging, he’d smacked his hand to his forehead.

‘Pure blood, you dolt.’

Swiftly, he’d sliced a tiny cut into his hand and pressed his bloody palm to the wall. It had slid open.
And inside was a veritable cornucopia of Dark Material: books, artifacts, objects…

It was astounding, really. He only wondered why neither Harry, nor any of them had sensed the thrum of ancient, malignant forces pulsing through this room.

The answer was self-evident. No one who currently lived at Number Twelve had any interest in reading. They all avoided the library, as much for its mustiness as for what it represented: terrible memories of endless, forced swotting back at Hogwarts.

If Hermione had lived here, on the other hand…

He’d started sorting through the room soon after, examining and discarding books rapidly, searching for relevance.

Now, he sat at the desk with a pile of frayed texts before him.

There had been significant success, if you could label it that. The book stretched on the table detailed Binding Magic: in other words, how to enslave your spouse-or any other witch who took your fancy.

Also, Hermione had been right. It wasn’t just meant for wizards; witches could employ the spells too.

And there was more. Most such spells had to be ‘sealed’ with sex.

He squinted wearily, a strange urge gripping him. He felt like throwing up, actually.

He took several deep breaths to try and quell the impulse.

Still wasn’t working. Frantic, he lurched to his feet to try and make a run to the nearest loo…

The door opened and Harry peeked in.

“What the hell, Ron? It’s dinnertime!”

Ron shook his head silently, trying to master himself. Harry was immediately concerned, entering the room quickly.

“Mate?”

Ron gulped air in, relieved as the feeling subsided.

He sank back into his chair and shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them, Harry was sitting across, tapping a foot on the floor steadily.

“What is it?”

“Felt sick,” Ron replied hoarsely.

Harry raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“From food? That’s new.”

Ron shot him a glare before leaning back.

“Not the food. This,” he gestured at the book he’d been wading through.

“Where’d this come from?”

Ron gestured at the hole in the wall.

“Secret compartment.”

They didn’t bother discussing it further. Wallpurga Black was well known to them both, albeit posthumously.

Harry snatched it up and perused the page in question.

He put it back presently.

“That is sick.”

Ron nodded, serious.

“Dunno why it’s affecting me so much; I mean, I’ve known about this stuff since I was a runt, you know?”

“But just as a story or something far off, yeah?”

“Yeah. And now… the idea of victimizing witches, and taking away their freedom, it just…” he swallowed, feeling the revulsion again.

“So, what do we know?” Harry attempted a matter-of-fact tone.

“We know Blood Magic exists, that it’s used to enslave people. And that it usually requires sex.”

They sat in silence, deep in thought.

“So we’re sure someone used it on Kate? The sex thing, I mean?” Harry asked after a pause.

Ron nodded.

“It would seem so. Some books have hinted at such Magic weakening the victim, draining her…”

“So, the wizard could absorb it?” Harry’s voice shook a little.

“I’d say it’s possible. Likely dangerous and risky, but possible.”

“And once he’d absorbed it, even if temporary, he could siphon it off into a vessel…”

“Ala Horcrux, yeah. Pretty much,” Ron managed to keep his voice steady.

“And then what, channel it into the receiver?” Harry sounded skeptical.

Ron shrugged.

“Why not? A bit of soul in a Horcrux could possess someone, couldn’t it?”

He refrained from referencing himself; Harry wouldn’t abide it, ever.

Harry nodded, deep in thought.

“We’re speculating. We need solid evidence, even if it’s just in theory. We need to tell Hermione, have her look…”

Ron paled again. Suddenly he had a vivid flashback: he was sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a tattered edition of the Prophet as Lupin explained the measures instilled by the Ministry to ‘root out’ Muggle-borns. Fury had coursed through him, fury and terror and protectiveness as he glanced at Hermione’s brave, determined face.

It was like that all over again, he realized. Some prejudiced, evil bastard had decided to exterminate Muggle-borns, what else could it be? Some arsehole had theorized that such folk had ‘stolen’ magic from its rightful owners. In other words, Squibs. And he wanted to ‘return’.

From all Muggle-borns to all Squibs; was that the ultimate goal here?

“This is definitely a lot bigger than an old witch going senile.”

“Ron?”

“Harry, Harry… someone wants to get rid of Muggle-borns,” he spoke with certainty.  They’d considered the possibility yesterday, but it suddenly seemed much more than a far- fetched likelihood.

The room felt colder.

“We talked about this, but how can we…”

“I just know it. It’s… it’s like the War, when they accused Muggle-borns of stealing it.”

Images crowded Harry’s mind, tripping over each other: Mad-Eye’s eye swiveling in that office door; Mrs. Cattermole weeping, cowering, desperate to convince the tribunal of something their entire world knew to be irrevocable fact…

The pure rage that had seized him, making him irrational, making him want to hurt that bitch…

“Where’s Umbridge? Do we know anything about her whereabouts?” Ron spoke at the exact same second.

Harry looked as pale as Ron now.

“We don’t know. She’s listed missing.”

Ron jumped up, feeling irrational and terrified and useless. Hermione was too far away and it didn’t matter how strong and capable she was, because no one was infallible.

‘She was hurt before, remember?’

Her screams, those tortured, agonized screams Bellatrix had torn out of her…

“That mad cow knows Hermione deliberately led her to the Centaurs…”

“Ron, what?”

“Umbridge! What if she’s behind this? What if she’s got herself a band of idiots, and…”

“She was at the Ministry for years, and she had access to the Department of Mysteries during the War,” Harry cut in shakily.

“And she hates Hermione because of Fifth Year,” Ron whispered.

Silence descended as they stared at each other. The room was heavy and still, almost throbbing with fear and urgency. To an outsider this theory may have seemed a stretch. After all, England had many Muggle-born witches.

But none as famous as Hermione, as powerful, none who was so loved and so loathed.

And certainly none who’d had the audacity to thwart Umbridge when she was a mere fifteen year old student.

“Tell her to come back here.”

“I tried last night, she wouldn’t…”

“Tell her all this, everything. Tell her…”

“We need her help,” Ron finished. It was the one trick that could work-and it wasn’t even a trick, because they did need her help.

It was all coming together. Umbridge and her insane loathing of Muggles and Muggle-borns; her extensive Ministry knowledge, her current ‘missing’ status; her connections with ‘old’ families and scum alike; her mania for her twisted version of order: it all fit.

And the Evertons, mortified at producing Squibs repeatedly, oblivious to the fact that their own customs encouraged the phenomenon; Claire, who’d died during an inexplicable surge of magic, perhaps because she’d been ‘given’ magic from another: from Kate.

“Her version of order would reduce us all to a handful of families, soon bound for extinction,” Harry said distractedly.

And it was true. The deranged bitch wasn’t preserving their world, she was destroying it.

But she wouldn’t succeed, because they wouldn’t let her.

“He’s going to ask for evidence,” Harry warned.

Ron didn’t care. They were right, he’d stake his life on it. Years of being thrust into battle, of escaping certain death through instincts and pure nerve alone had fine-tuned their senses: sometimes they just knew, him and Harry and Hermione.

It made him sick with rage and fear to imagine someone trying to hurt her again. He’d do whatever it took to keep her safe. He’d take on Proudfoot and the Ministry and Umbridge…even Hermione herself because he’d die before he let anyone lay a finger on her again. He hadn’t been able to do a thing the last time, and that was a failure he lived with every day. This time, he wouldn’t fall short. He’d disobey, he’d lie, he’d fight… he’d kill if he had to before that foul bitch touched Hermione.

Because he loved her with everything he had and he couldn’t, wouldn’t live without her.

And because he knew if it were him, she’d do exactly the same.

“These should do for a start,” he gestured grimly toward the books.

“Where’re you going?”

Ron paused at the door.

“To Floo Hermione.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Fortuitously enough, Hermione was already on Floo, chatting with a flushed Ginny.

“I still can’t believe it! Engaged!”
“I know! It’s just incredible, isn’t it?”

Ron raced through the door, skidding to a stop behind Ginny, who whirled around in alarm.

“What?”

He nearly shoved her in his haste to connect with Hermione. Ginny yelped as he knelt next to her, his large foot squashing her hand.

“’S important,” he mumbled and she scowled, withdrawing a bit.

“Gin, leave,” he ordered and for once, she complied. He looked frantic, but not in the usual Ron way.

This was serious.

“Ron?” Hermione looked shocked at his gruffness.

“You have to, we, it’s….” he was stumbling over the words, to his immense irritation.

He drew a deep breath, muttered, ‘fuck!’ and tried again.

“I found a secret compartment in the library with a ton of Dark stuff, books and all. There’s a lot on Binding and sex and how witches can be drained for a bit…”

“Slow down, Ron.”

He nearly yelled, such was the panic clogging his senses. He wanted to snarl at her, plunge both hands into the flames and haul her out, to him.

“Hermione! Our theory is very likely, and we also have an inkling who might be behind…”

There was a knock. Ron jerked his head back before realizing it was on her side of the Floo.

“Oui?” She called out melodiously. The sheer normalcy of her tone relaxed him a little; everything was all right at the moment, after all. She was safe, he could see her…

“Hi, you busy?”

He heard a low male voice, and stiffened automatically.

Hermione was speaking to the interloper casually, and he waited for her to dismiss him. She managed it with her usual polite efficiency and was back, kneeling across him inquisitively.

“Who was that?”

“Oh, just a new bloke from England, Matthew, he’s started here recently. Doesn’t have a smidge of French and…”

“When?”

“When what?”

Ron remained calm with supreme effort.

“This guy, when did he start? When’d you meet him?”

She furrowed her brow, an expression that normally made him want to ravage her senseless; at present it was nothing but a faint echo of his own anxiety.

“I met him right after my last trip home, I think.”

He could barely breathe. The timing, the coincidences, the new student reaching out to her, specifically…

“It isn’t safe.”

“Ron! What on earth is going on?”

He leaned forward, employing every ounce of persuasion he possessed.

“Hermione, please listen. It’s very possible that what we discussed is real. It can happen. Someone can steal another person’s magic using some version of the old Binding Spells. That someone can absorb this magic, after draining it away. Usually, according to the books I’ve seen, this would be temporary. The extra magic would prove too much for one person to carry, so it would return to the source eventually. Wizards used to keep doing the Spells each month to keep the witches ‘tamed’.”

Hermione was rapt, her brown eyes fixed with great intensity on his pale face.

Ron composed himself before continuing. It was crucial that he keep the fear at bay till he’d explained himself to her. With her, logic would win over emotion most times.

“You know how Harry’s always going on about magic? How it mutates and changes? We think that’s at work here, Hermione. A few people are aware of Voldemort and his Horcruxes-hell, more than a few, considering how many people were present at the last battle. So as you said earlier, it can’t have been impossible to figure out a way to contain magic within a vessel. And this vessel could then be used to channel the magic to a new person.”

Hermione bit her lip. Ron knew he had to finish, put the last piece in place but it was difficult, because even a casual allusion to that nightmarish time when he’d been prey to Voldemort’s malice, sat heavy on his shoulders.

He was trying to forget, to forgive himself, just like Harry and Hermione had done years ago. But if he was brutally honest, he’d confess that he hadn’t succeeded yet.

‘And maybe that’s good because as long as you remember, you won’t ever be that selfish and weak again.’

“It probably works like being possessed. The way a bit of soul could possess someone. That’s probably how the magic transfer works,” he ended in a hoarse whisper.

No one spoke.

Finally, she wrenched her eyes off his stark face, trying for objectivity. It was too impossible, too vile.

“I… that’s probably why Claire died, isn’t it? The magic overwhelmed her because she wasn’t meant to have it naturally,” she said instead, her voice sounding oddly detached.

Ron nodded, relieved enough to tremble.

“Come back,” he urged without further preamble.

A tiny frown appeared, likely a residual of her reluctance to abandon her studies out of fear.

“Hermione, I don’t trust anyone right now. This new bloke, he could be perfectly harmless. Or he could be an agent, sent here after you.”

“Why me?”She whispered, unwilling to believe it.

“Because of who you are, what you’ve done. You’re the most accomplished and feared Muggle-born we have, you know that,” he said patiently, reading her terror and wanting to hold her tight against it all.

“I…. that’s true,” she was forced to concede tremulously. Horrible memories came flooding back abruptly: her picture splashed across the Prophet, labeled ‘dangerous fugitive’, the Snatchers, Bella Crucioing her, wanting to slash her throat open…

“And because this scheme was launched before, though it didn’t work. Someone who wanted to get rid of Muggle-borns accused them of stealing magic,” Ron pressed, desperate to drive the point home.

It worked. Her eyes widened and he glimpsed horror, but it was overshadowed by a fierce, resolute anger. It lifted his heart a little.

“Umbridge. She wasn’t ever arrested?” Her mind snapped into work-mode without pause as she began connecting and analyzing.

He shook his head.

“She’s been missing since.”

Hermione mulled this over briefly before meeting his eyes and nodding.

“All right, Ron. Give me fifteen minutes to sort the paperwork.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………