Chapter Text
She trailed her tongue across the smooth expanse of pale, supple skin, catching salt and sweetness. The warm smell of flesh, sweat and a hint of perfume intoxicated her.
“Come here.” The smooth, lustful voice called above. A hand held her shoulder and pulled her, pleading her to come up.
She followed gladly, peppering kisses along the way, on the protruding rib bone, in the valley between soft breasts, and around the straining, pink nipples. The woman’s taste, feel, and pleasured sigh drowned her senses.
Up and up and up… she nosed gently at the curve between her lover’s neck and jaw, and flashed her teeth on a small ear lobe, before finding a pair of slightly parted lips which were painted a rich, deep red.
“Hermione…” The woman moaned.
And she bent to swallow that heavenly sound and heated breath. Just as she was about to claim those pouty lips in a passionate kiss, she…
She awoke.
Instead of the cool blue eyes that shimmered with want in her dream, there were two yellow eyes blinking lazily from his perch on the wardrobe. Crookshanks stretched out his paws and clawed the frayed edge of her furniture before hopping down to his food bowl, silently demanding breakfast.
She pulled her duvet over her head and groaned.
Three weeks came and went without a single word from Narcissa. She almost wondered if everything was her imagination, and that their paths never crossed to begin with. Except, the increasing frequency of her lustful dreams indicated the contrary.
Hermione had talked with Harry and Ginny a few more times, though she struggled to tell the whole truth to Ron. Bless him, but Ron saw things much more black-and-white, so he was only let in on the fact that they had a fight which had resulted in the radio silence. Even as headstrong as he was, he sensed that there was something fragile in her. There had been no “I told you so”, or “good riddance” type of comments from him. They all gave her plenty of space and never pushed her to confront her feelings.
Slowly, she’d started to have better insight. In the safety of her own home, Hermione could admit to herself that she missed her. If it was only her body that missed Narcissa, then it could be chalked up to her lack of a regular partner. But her mind also missed a mind that kept astounding her, a mind that, even without getting to know Narcissa on purpose she could easily tell, contained a breadth of knowledge, keen curiosity, and a wicked sense of humour.
For three weeks, when her thoughts drifted to the blonde, there had been tiny, sharp pains in her chest. What if Narcissa had already replaced her – surely, beautiful and clever as she, any suitor would be lucky to get a minute of her time, and surely, she didn’t need a clumsy, brutish, angsty girl to antagonise her. Hermione snapped her eyes shut forcefully.
And for three weeks, she stewed in her loneliness, refraining from reaching out. She felt shameful, for lashing out so unfairly at Narcissa. Her drunkenness or pain were not a good enough excuse. She felt intimidated by the potential cold glares and snarky remarks that would come her way if she did go knocking on the woman’s door. And she felt undeserving, of an easy forgiveness, of the intimacy and trust that they were building, of a gentle embrace with a soft whisper in her ear, “you’re alright, darling.” She so, so wanted to hear it.
But upon hearing Crookshanks’ scritching at her poor floorboard, Hermione flung herself out of bed and left behind the morning regret that seemed to be as constant as her three-sugared coffee.
Today, there was another thing she had to face.
After her morning routine, she floo’d straight to work, neglecting the rumble in her stomach that protested its emptiness - she couldn’t eat breakfast, her nerves feeling more tattered than ever. Her work calendar, though she didn’t need to check because of how many times she’d looked at it in the week leading to it, marked today as the date she was meeting with Logan to assess his readiness to go without detainment during the full moons.
She familiarised herself one more time with Kingsley’s written order, and the protocols they came up with in the event that he was not cleared, before hearing a knock on her open door.
“Miss Granger,” the department secretary popped his head in, “Logan Lisle is here for you.”
“Thanks Eddie, please send him in.”
The secretary gestured behind him, and in, shuffled the young man, who Hermione could hardly believe to be the same person that he was three months ago.
If she was being honest, he even looked drastically worse off than the last full moon, which was only two weeks ago. She secretly chided herself for not arranging this meeting sooner.
He had gigantic dark circles under his eyes, his cheeks were sunken, as if he had not been eating or sleeping properly for days on end. Curiously, his spiky golden brown hair had grown longer and became streaked with inky, wiry strands. What was more startling was his mannerism, the soft, polite, even timid young man now stood charged with a dark and dangerous energy that she could pick up without being particularly great at reading auras. He walked with his head co*cked to the side, and as if not used to using his limbs, he almost staggered into the seat before her.
Hermione cleared her throat, but he didn’t acknowledge her. “Logan, my apologies that we haven’t been able to meet for the past two weeks. How have you been?”
Then, slowly, he peered up from under his eyebrow at her with black, hollow eyes. Her back suddenly became damp and her scar started to simmer with pain. “How have I been? What a question you ask.” He rasped, his voice also sounded strangely high-pitched, with a sickening sing-songy lilt.
“Logan, what happened?” She was concerned, and more than a little scared.
The side of his mouth stretched into a lopsided, sharp-toothed grin, “Oh, you know, once I realised how much I can control the wolf, I’ve never felt better, can’t you tell?”
Hermione ignored the hissing heat on her forearm, and silently slid her wand out of her robe sleeve. She continued her questions because this was a very unexpected development, “Control the wolf, what do you mean by that?”
“Some people are weak and stupid, weak and stupid people can’t control the wolf, the wolf controls them.” He said, “but I’m different. I became stronger, and now, I control the wolf.”
“Logan, I don’t understand…” Her hand was almost shaking as she held her wand, but she tried to keep her voice even.
“There’s nothing to understand,” he swerved on the swivel chair, his legs long and loose, his feet dragging on the floor, and pointed a finger lazily at himself, “I’m in better shape now, because I’ve gotten help from someone way more powerful and experienced, someone who could really show me the real gift of my condition.”
“Who did you get help from?”
But he ignored her question and continued, “you saw it yourself, no more attacks in the past three months, right? Isn’t that what you wanted to see?”
“Yes, and it completely contradicted my expectation. That’s why I am concerned, Logan–”
“If you just write up your little report to the Minister, and call off the Aurors on me, then I can be out of your hair.” He smiled again at her, but it was a smile that she thought belonged to someone who tried to mimic despite not knowing how to smile normally, it was fake, cold and calculating. “Three months under surveillance has been exhausting, I would very much like to take a vacation alone.”
Hermione shook her head, unconvinced, “Logan, this is not the best idea. What happened while you were on Madam Black’s wolfsbane potion was still not clear to me. Now, I will put you back on the advanced trail, but I need to make sure that you are safe.”
“No need.” He waved his hand, and scoffed dismissively, “Narcissa is pretty good at what she does, I’ll give her that, but I know more.” He grinned a cryptical grin. Hermione could tell that his patience was wearing thin though. She considered briefly what would happen if she let him loose like this but quickly banished the idea.
Frowning, she proceeded to put away the piece of clearance report into her drawer. “I’m afraid I’m not convinced, Logan. We need to meet again and do a full assessment - I don’t have an adequate instrument today. It’s best that I consult my colleagues first before I can comfortably sign this report.”
As she predicted, the fake smile disappeared. But what she didn’t foresee was his violent outburst.
“You dare defy me, you filthy Mudblood!?” He shrieked, as if possessed suddenly by a malicious spirit. He jumped up from the seat, lunging forward with both hands reaching out in claws to strangle her.
“Mister Lisle!” Hermione pushed herself back just in time. Her scar was now open and weeping, the pain amplified a hundredfold, but she didn’t have time to check it. She pointed her wand at him, “you need to compose yourself before I call someone to remove you from this area!”
Logan barked out a laugh, “oh, but that wouldn’t be very fun, would it, pet?” He held up his wand too, and tsked at the sight of her turning pale and sweaty in agony.
She inhaled sharply. No one had ever called her that, besides…
He flicked his wand without care, “Crucio!”
“Expelliarmus!”
They shouted at the same time, their magic meeting in a powerful stream of blue and red fires, punching through the office furniture, the tiles, and the door. Glasses shattered, vases exploded, wood splintered. Documents, letters, feathers, and artefacts went flying in all directions.
The chaos drew the attention of her coworkers outside. Eddie was shouting on the inter-department telecom to call the Aurors.
Confronted with a highly potent surge of magic, Hermione lost her footing. She took a tumble backwards and fell, but quickly rolled under her desk to avoid being hit by the unforgivable curse. A few more strikes came in her direction, all diverted by the sturdy marble, and then suddenly, her opponent stopped. Her ears rang from the explosions.
Hermione raised her wand and poked out her head. She saw the retreating form of the young man out of her door. At the end of the hallway, a fireplace for the convenience of her department staff had been installed not too long ago. Knowing it was where anyone would be able to get out from the Ministry, she ran after him. At the secretary’s desk, Eddie lay unmoving on the ground.
She quickly went to check on him. He was dead. By the look of it, he was killed in an instant by the unforgivable killing curse.
And Logan - if she could still call him that, still smiling his sickening, fake smile, slithered back into the fireplace and disappeared in a woosh of green flames.
******
“Where could he have gone!?” Shouted Kingsley Shacklebolt to the group of Aurors, Harry and Ron included, that gathered in Hermione’s ruined office. Then to the pair of Aurors - Sutton and Gemma - who supposedly were on Logan’s surveillance duty, “How could you have let this happen?”
They bowed their heads in shame. Hermione thought that they deserved the scolding, given no one deemed it worthy to mention the sudden peculiar changes in the boy until she found out in such an unpleasant way.
“Sir, it seems the boy has accessed the floo network to a broom shop in Hogsmeade, after which witnesses have reported him going in the direction of the Dark Forest.” Gemma reported.
“You, make sure Eddie Swanson’s family is taken good care of. You two, sweep the forest, ask the centaurs and giants if needed! You and you, go to Logan Lisle’s place and find out what we’ve been missing. You, owl Narcissa Black and request her to meet with me, at her earliest availability.” Kingsley ordered sternly, but he skipped Harry and Ron, so they could stay with Hermione. The Aurors scampered to get out and get started.
“Ouch!” The mediwitch put a slather of healing salve on the reopened wound when Hermione was not paying attention. It stung so badly that she cried out, drawing eyes from those that were left in the room.
Kingsley and Ron looked at her with concern. Harry, though also worried, seemed to have something to say.
“Miss Granger, I’m sorry to have kept you this long. Your detailed statement has been very helpful.” Kingsley said, more gentle than he had been, “though, I wonder if you could elaborate more on the effect Mister Lisle’s foul name-calling seems to have on your scar.”
She hesitated, unsure if she should share with him her hypothesis, which had the potential of inciting panic and unrest. She looked at Harry.
As if hearing her thoughts, Harry put his hand on her shoulder, “Hermione, what you’re thinking, I have the same theory.”
Kingsley eyed the two thoughtfully, and ordered the mediwitch and his personal assistant to take their leave. Then he gestured for her to speak in confidence.
“Okay, during the war, Bel-” she felt herself choke, took a deep breath and restarted, “Bellatrix carved this word on my arm when she tortured me for information about her vault. Apparently, she’d used a cursed blade.”
“The scar never healed.” Kingsley said, reminded of her testimony at Narcissa's trial.
She nodded, feeling tears well up again. “And it seems to be sentient. Opens up from time to time. At first, I thought it responds when someone speaks it, or when I perceive the feelings or memories associated with it. It’d bleed.”
“Blimey, Hermione.” Ron muttered under his breath, only now made aware of the extent of damage she’d endured from the war. Kingsley regarded her with sympathy.
“Now I have another thought, about why it reacts to something more than others. For example, the first time I met Logan, even though he was never a part of that past, my scar still ached. But with Narcissa–” she paused at the mention of the blonde witch, weighing her next word, “when I met with her to discuss… work matters, its reaction disappeared – after I’ve gotten over my initial scepticism and equivocation about her, that is.”
“And you think there is another explanation, than what triggers your emotions.” Harry stated more than asked.
Hermione looked at each of them with conviction as she responded, “I’m positive there is. I think the scar responds to the other person’s intent, and more importantly, it responds to its creator worse than anyone else.”
Silence descended on them after this revelation. They took her words in, considering the possibilities and what this could mean to their hard-fought era of peace.
Ron frowned deeply, nearly sputtering, “you’re saying, Hermione, that Bellatrix is still out there? But that’s impossible! Mum exploded her to pieces!”
“We thought Voldemort died as well, and we were wrong.” Kingsley held his chin with one hand, still wrapping his head around the whole thing. “Then how did Logan Lisle get involved in all this?”
“He said he’d had help, from ‘someone much more powerful and experienced’.” Harry pointed out.
Ron copied Kingsley’s posture, stroking his invisible beard, “I wonder if he’d had contact with her before the random attacks started.”
“I’m afraid it happened much earlier than that,” she shook her head and gave Harry a look, which he returned.
“You said ‘creator’, Hermione. Do you think enough dark magic and unforgivable things were done before Bellatrix’s death that allowed a part of her to persist in something, or someone?”
“Like a Horcrux!?” Ron exclaimed and clamped his hands on each side of her arms, shaking her lightly and inspecting her closely, “Hermione, are you a Horcrux of Bellatrix Lestrange!?”
She pushed him off, rolling her eyes at how he managed to perfectly miss all the hints that lead up to her point. “Not me, Ronald. Logan.”
“Logan Lisle became a Horcrux…” Kingsley continued, “I suppose this isn’t unheard of. It’s just like when Voldemort faced mortal peril when his killing curse rebounded, a piece of his soul latched onto you, Harry.”
Harry rubbed his forehead, where his scar remained but had become fainter with time, no longer alive. “Right. Though, I suspect that had I been much older, he couldn’t have done it without meaning to.”
“It makes sense. At the moment when Bellatrix died, Logan would have already been bitten or severely wounded. Remember, he nearly bled out from his wound during the battle so it isn’t a far-fetched probability. Accidentally being made into a Horcrux, that person must be very defenceless or vulnerable.” Hermione concluded. Having talked through her suspicion, she finally felt like they were on the right track.
Kingsley sighed heavily. If they were right, it would indeed be disastrous. “The speculation about Bellatrix Lestrange stays between us for now.”
“What should we say to the press, sir?” Ron asked.
“That people should be aware of a dangerous werewolf on the run. Advise residents to keep clear of secluded areas and forests, if sighted, do not engage. And tell everyone at DMLE to detain on sight but kill if need be.”
Hermione winced. “Sir…”
A shriek announcing an owl’s arrival interrupted them at this moment. The gigantic hawkish looking black bird flapped its great wings. Hermione recognised Stormy, Narcissa’s snobby owl. She instinctively reached out to let it land, but it found Kingsley’s shoulder instead.
Harry raised his eyebrow at her, which she pointedly ignored while hiding a blush.
“Narcissa Black is available to meet me today at three in the afternoon.” The Minister read her letter. “I will have to tell her your hypothesis.”
“Is that the right call, sir? We’re not worried about her colluding with Lestrange?” Ron raised his concern.
“I think,” Hermione said cautiously, “she should know, we want to make sure she’s prepared for any contact from Bellatrix, if it hasn’t already happened. Besides, Narcissa and I… have an understanding.”
Harry was the only one who didn’t look surprised.
“Oh?” Kingsley took brief interest in Hermione’s change of heart from her previous stance on Narcissa’s guilt in the Logan Lisle case.
“She’d offered to research and treat my scar. And I believe it to be a genuine offer.”
“I think we can trust her.” Harry added in good spirit, and turned to Ron, “it’s not like you and I stand a chance at keeping a secret from her. She’s a darn good Legillimens.”
“Thanks for the heads up, Harry.” Hermione said sarcastically, still peeved that she’d left her thoughts running unhinged around Narcissa for so long before learning of her abilities.
“Then it’s decided.” Kingsley announced. “And you should come to the meeting.” He gestured at Hermione.
******The very same morning******
“Narcissa, you should take a look at this.”
As it turned out, to her great delight, Astoria was a natural at conducting research. She gladly dove into the task, perusing book after forbidden book Narcissa retrieved from the vast collection of the Black estate’s library. It seemed to have taken her mind off her undesirable pregnancy symptoms.
Narcissa herself had started deciphering Bellatrix’s diaries from her dauntless youth. While all entries proclaiming her devout faith in the Dark Lor–Voldemort had been confiscated and destroyed by the Ministry, she’d fought to preserve those that held valuable information on the various experiments Bella had conducted. Some were innocent little modifications used to cheat in class or seek petty vengeance on her siblings. Others, however, were dark and cruel.
Kingsley had been unconvinced when he leafed through the few pages detailing inconspicuous unbreakable vows that made people do horrible things, a drink that ensured splinching during apparation, and other barbaric inventions of the sort. But she’d argued that they may lend insights to other dark magic artists and their lingering curses in the world. She’d even made an unbreakable vow herself to not use any of the knowledge from Bella’s work to do harm. So he let her keep them for records.
Now, she thought with a little bit of arrogance, that it had proven her foresight correct.
Astoria had found an unpublished book, a ledger more than a book, that documented the practise of infusing blood magic in cursed objects used by ancient pureblood families. In which, House of Black of course took more than its fair share of writing space. The recorders of the book events, to her complete surprise, were generations of House Elves. Their use of the English language was as mystifying as it was endearing.
Narcissa had no idea they were the silent witnesses of centuries of magical history, unrecognised by the mainstream publishers to this day.
The book had stopped at the name Dobby. Her eyes stung and face burned in shame.
She read it carefully.
Bella had gone through a period being obsessed with blood magic and cold weapons. In her second week of organising her extensive notes and cross-referencing dark magic texts, she found the most promising lead: dozens and dozens drawn designs of swords, knives, axes and arrows, all beautiful and intricate from an artistic point of view, yet intended for the most violent fantasies. It disturbed her to see the madness that was slowly taking over her eldest sister even before her fateful meeting with Voldemort.
In the margins of her drawing of the blade she’d been almost certain was the one that maimed Hermione, Bella wrote:
Part the flesh to remember;
Pain to last as you wish;
Scar to stay and reopen.
Can’t be undone by a blood unworthy;
Can’t be reversed by a heart reserved;
Can’t be ended by a soul condemned.
Bit of a head scratcher it was. She remained stuck on it, for a while. Time flew by as her mind was kept occupied in every waking moment to solve this riddle.
Draco had gone on his trip and returned, pleased that the two witches had gotten along so famously. Astoria was energetic, full of new ambitions for furthering her studies, and Narcissa seemed lighter. It didn’t surprise him that she extended her stay with them as she approached a breakthrough in the research.
“You adore Astoria more than me, Mother.” He had jokingly complained.
She'd chuckled, and teased back, “well, I might very well do, since she’s the one who found me this!”
What Narcissa pointed to with her quill so excitedly, was another entry of the text, highly similar to Bella’s notes, in the House Elves’ ledger. And luck must have been on their side, the Elf who recorded the instruction had also written an essay on their own interpretation of the curse.
This gave her ideas.
Just as she was about to write to the Minister and make a request to access Bellatrix’s blade, he surprisingly wrote to her first.
“Uh-oh, a dove. Official.” Said Astoria.
Ministry owls needed extensive veterinarian clearance to cross borders — the French were highly critical of the Brits ever since the second Wizarding War and made avian flus out to be a greater threat than it really was, an excuse just to make things difficult — so a French dove completed the second leg past the English Channel to Draco’s residence.
“This can’t be good.” Draco observed as she read them the very vague, urgent-sounding letter, seeking her immediate return to London.
Narcissa penned a quick note back to the Minister and sent her own owl. She gathered the papers strewn about the desk in Draco’s study with a flick of her wand. They floated into the open face of her folder, sorting themselves chronologically. “Another werewolf incident,” she explained the gist of the whole investigation while assembling her luggage, “I’m needed back this afternoon.”
“Do you want me to join you?” Draco asked, deep concern in his voice.
“No, darling, I’ll be alright.” She kissed him on both cheeks, then hugged Astoria, “Thank you so much, my dear, for helping me. I wouldn’t have found these useful clues on my own. I truly am sorry to leave on such short notice.”
“I loved having you here.” Astoria returned the hug affectionately, “I hope you figure out this mystery, Narcissa.”
“Soon, I have a pretty good hunch about it.” She gave them each one more hug before stepping through the hearth.
