Interwoven

Hermione didn’t really mind when droplets of coffee split over the rim of her cup, landing directly on the front page of The Daily Prophet, blurring the moving image of the shell-shocked witch on the front. In fact, she relished in the way the coffee distorted the picture, bleeding the outline of the face until it was nearly unrecognizable.
 
She shouldn’t have been surprised to find herself splashed across the newspaper; she was more shocked that the article had taken two weeks to print and that they’d used such a horrid picture of herself. 
 
It was a photo taken only days after The Battle of Hogwarts. The reporters had caught her stumbling from a bar, only hours after Remus Lupin’s funeral. She’d been covered in sweat and grime, coated in it for days because the thought of washing the battle off of her felt like washing away the memories of it. 
 
The picture looped again, showing her wide-eyed drunken look before she had bent over the railing of the bar steps and spewed a mix of stomach acid and vodka. 
 
A lovely image. 
 
Hermione sipped her coffee, her eyes dancing over the article once more—
 
War Heroine Returned?
 
The Daily Prophet, August 22nd, 2005| By Ophelia Finch-Nettle
 
After six years abroad, Hermione Granger—one-third of the Golden Trio, war heroine, and champion of Muggle-born rights—has been spotted once again on English soil. The former Gryffindor was seen leaving the ministry in a hurry on August 5th; the scene she left behind has raised more than a few eyebrows.
 
According to several eyewitnesses, Miss Granger was seen stumbling, wide-eyed, and disoriented. As she made her way to the Floo, one patron, a Mr. Barney Babberdy, claimed that she was seen bleeding profusely from her eyes, ears, and nose! The ministry remains tight-lipped about her apparent blood-soaked dalliance in the atrium. 
 
What’s driven Hermione Granger to return after all these years, and in such a conspicuous fashion? According to sources, Miss Granger has spent the last six years involved in various projects overseas, but her activities have been notably secretive. Some suggest she’s been furthering her research on magical creatures in Eastern Europe, while others speculate a diplomatic role with the French Ministry. Then there’s the readership’s favorite tale—that Miss Granger might be returning to reconnect with a long-lost flame. Perhaps childhood love, reconciled?
 
As for her reasons for coming home, friends and acquaintances have been tight-lipped. The Daily Prophet reached out to her closest companions— Harry Potter, Hogwarts’ Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and Ron Weasley, Co-manager of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes—for insight. Both declined to comment on Miss Granger’s return. 
 
 
Hermione burned the paper, watching as the flames surrounded the image of herself, turning it to ashes right as she blew chunks. She ran her hand over her face, sickness building in her gut. The article had been released yesterday, and she worried about who all now knew of her arrival—about who would try to contact her now that she had overstayed her original timeframe. 
 
Though, she supposed, that was only a flitting thought. One that was swept up in the maelstrom of her mind nearly as quickly as she’d thought it. Hermione brushed the ashes off the countertop, letting them flutter to the floor onto the pile of tattered notes and useless research. 
 
The books she had borrowed from the ministry had little to no information on soul-bonds nor how to break them. She’d nearly set the entire pile alight when the most she had gleaned was that soul-bonding, while ancient and out of date, was a ‘beautiful process, making two lovers nearly inseparable’. 
 
A beautiful process. 
 
Hermione had spent two days after the bonding ritual laying on the mattress she had stripped down to the bare pad, staring blankly at the wall. The sheets had been left in the hallway, as soon as she’d been able to pull herself out of their tangled grasp. 
 
She’d given herself those two days to think about the consummation. To analyze it, and replay every second in her mind. She hadn’t cried, not that she’d assumed she would have. She hadn’t done much of anything— no screaming at whatever god had given her this punishment, no vomiting with bone-racking sobs, not even any magical tantrums where she destroyed the room. 
 
The conclusion she’d come to was that what happened was not rape. She had agreed to the act, yes under duress of death, but Malfoy had not forced himself upon her. If she was going to call it assault, then it was not simply that she alone had been raped. 
 
They both had. 
 
She could still picture the distressed look in Malfoy’s eyes— the sound of him retching into the toilet before he apparated so hard the bathroom mirror had cracked. 
 
It had been a horrible experience, and part of her hated him for it despite the fact that she could acknowledge that it wasn’t his fault. His ancestors fault, yes. And so she supposed she could hate him by proxy in that regard. She could hate him in the way purebloods had hated muggleborns— thoroughly but not personally, and entirely because of his bloodline and their crimes. Mostly she pendulumed between loathing him for his family’s creation of the artifact that had cursed her, and hating herself for activating it. 
 
Once her two days of self-allotted moping were up, she didn’t allow herself to think of the consummation again. She buried the memory deep in the recesses of her mind, where she put all the memories that were not useful, the painful ones that caused duress and paralysis. Instead, she focused on breaking the curse placed upon her blood. Because that is what this was— a curse like any other. 
 
And she refused to have her magic, her life, tied to Malfoy’s for any length of time. 
 
She could feel it, the bond. During the day, she could feel its golden cords wrapped tightly around her heart, or her magical core; she couldn’t really differentiate between the two. It would occasionally give a thrum, like someone had plucked it, sending a resonance throughout her body. But at night—
 
At night, as she lay in the darkness, with nothing else to occupy her mind, the bond would ache. It had started as a gradual throb, like when you had a splinter left too long in the heel of your foot. But as the weeks progressed, it became all-encompassing. A gnawing sensation right at the center of herself. As she would stare at the hotel room ceiling, wrapped in new sheets untainted, the bond would tug at something, only to leave a hollowness in response. 
 
Hermione worried at first that the consummation hadn’t taken, that she was dying once more. But there was no fever, no blood, no sickness. The pinprick in the middle of her palm was no longer irritated, leaving only a pale scar behind. There was nothing beyond the sense of incompleteness that left her reeling. Loneliness incarnate. Like the bond was a dog howling for its lost master. 
 
Last night she could stand it no longer—the way the bond tried to manipulate her feelings—the way it attempted to pull at the man on the other end without her desire for it. So she had downed a dreamless sleep, a habit she had kicked a few years ago when the reliance became too intense, and numbed herself to the bond’s effects. 
 
Now she sat at the little table in the living area of her room, ashes surrounding the legs of the chair, while she sipped coffee that was far too bitter for her liking. 
 
A letter sat to the right of her twiddling fingers, a response from Elias telling her that he would most definitely research the ‘interesting’ topic of soul-bonds created through a physical object. He had ended the letter with a request to meet soon, as he found himself missing the way she looked pressed against his bookshelves. Hermione hadn’t sent a message back, too agitated when the bond had given a sharp tug when her mind had pictured the scenario Elias had illustrated in his letter. 
 
Hermione hadn’t sent a message to the Ministry either, though she figured she would soon have to explain why her mission remained incomplete— without explaining the details of why she had been dripping blood all over the atrium floor. There would be no payment, but Hermione couldn’t give a single shit about that. She only hoped they wouldn’t look into why she had failed, when they had hired her for her flawless record of missions past. She didn’t think they were aware, however, of what had been in that bog, just that something cursed likely laid amongst the ruins they had pointed her towards. 
 
She had thought briefly of telling the ministry that the Malfoy’s had interfered with her mission, if only to punish them for their part in her misery. But she had quickly dispelled that as an option when she thought of how Malfoy would spill every detail of their consummated soul-bond to whoever would listen, if only to punish her for his misery. 
 
Hermione was penning a quick to-do note over the issue when she heard the telltale pecking of a beak at the window. Perhaps that was the ministry now, demanding an answer for her lack of communication. She knocked back the dregs of her coffee before making her way towards the offending sound. 
 
She frowned as she let the owl into the room; its appearance was one she did not recognize as a ministry messenger. The owl swooped past her as if she were unimportant and perched itself on the table, right on top of her to-do list. A regal-looking eagle owl, with eyes of piercing amber set beneath a delicate fringe of feathers that gave it an almost crown-like appearance. Its chest feathers were pristine and snowy white, dappled with subtle streaks of gray that softened into smoky silver down its wings and back, like fine strokes of charcoal on parchment. It held itself with an air of proud composure, each slow blink giving the air of an almost haughty gaze. 
 
It surveyed the room, eyes flickering over the unmade bed through the archway, the piles of books all over the floor, and the sitting area— specifically the couch— covered in thrown-away notes and food wrappers. She wasn’t sure how a bird could look disgusted, and yet it did. 
 
It clicked its beak once, when she didn’t immediately come to retrieve the rather large package under its ebony talons. 
 
Hermione pursed her lips, guessing immediately whose owl this was. She moved towards the bird, “Don’t sneer at me that way; it reminds me too much of your owner.” 
 
The owl blinked slowly again before stepping off the package with a delicate and purposeful hop. It let out a chuffing sound, puffing out its chest feathers as she cast a diagnostic charm over the brown paper-wrapped item as if offended she would even check for curses. 
 
The package was free and clear, though she cast her charm twice more since she could guess whose manor it had come from. 
 
“I don’t have any treats for you, I’m afraid.” Hermione murmured, carefully lifting the hefty package. She glanced back towards the large bird, who hooted indignantly before sweeping from the room— not without snapping its beak at her head as it flew by. She scowled at the empty window, her own feathers ruffled.
 
Hermione turned her attention back to the package, hesitating for only a moment more before her curiosity won out. She ripped open the neat brown paper, eyes widening when she glimpsed the contents.
 
A book. Or a tome, more like, because of its age and size. 
 
The tome was ancient; its leather-bound cover cracked and weathered with age, exuding an ancient air as Hermione pulled it from its wrappings. It was a dark, faded green, almost black in the dim light, with faint etchings that wound across the leather in intricate patterns, like a winding maze of vines. At the center of the cover was a tarnished silver crest, unmistakably the Malfoy family emblem, with a serpent coiled protectively around a shield, its eyes still glinting faintly as though watching her.
 
Hermione’s fingers hesitated, brushing lightly over the spine, which had been meticulously preserved despite the book’s evident age. She could smell the faint aroma of old parchment, mingling with a more subtle scent—lavender and smoke maybe? Or lilac. Her stomach turned at the thought of the scent she associated with her mother, tied to such a place. 
 
Why had he sent this?
 
Hermione held it gingerly, turning it over with suspicion. Her stomach twisted. She knew instinctively this was no ordinary text; it was a piece of his family’s legacy, a collection of spells, knowledge, and secrets that she would otherwise never have touched. Never have been allowed to touch. Had this book been cursed against her dirty blood prior to the bond tying her into that loathsome family? 
 
She turned it over in her hands. There was no note attached, but any suspicion of where the owl had come from had disappeared when she’d seen the crest adorning the front. 
 
Hermione knew immediately what information this book contained. It was likely the very one Malfoy had picked up the moment she’d arrived in his parlor— covered in filth, as he’d put it. 
 
Part of her wanted to burn the book immediately, turn it into ashes like the newspaper that still fluttered around the space under her feet. She didn’t want his help, didn’t want any acknowledgment that she was inextricably linked to him. But this— this would be real information, directly from the line who had crafted the item that had cursed her so. Not the watered down garbage she had retrieved from the ministry. 
 
Instead, she refilled her coffee cup with a wave of her wand before cracking the book open. 
 
___•___
 
The next day, after roughly twenty hours of reading with only a five-hour doze in the middle, Hermione’s eyes burned as she leaned back in her chair. She’d nearly finished the damn thing, but exhaustion threatened to pull her under once more. A tempus spell revealed it was near six in the morning. 
 
Hermione pushed the tome away, its gilded pages begging her to finish. She laid her head down on the table, resting her forehead on her forearms. Just a quick nap. 
 
She’d discovered the origin of the information Malfoy had told her— that the bond works specifically to tie magical cores together, regardless of whether the witch is willing or not. The book had turned out to be more of a journal, similar to the diary she had bought from Knockturn Alley that had described the barmaid’s unfortunate demise when she’d fled with an incomplete bond. 
 
How many witches had been cursed this way?
 
The journal had also given a wealth of knowledge about the bond itself; once the golden cord was in place between two souls, infidelity was impossible. An act of adultery would prove difficult to either side of the bond, and if it somehow occurred regardless, the dallier would find themselves in immense pain stemming from their magical core. 
 
 She would find no pleasure in lovers until she broke the connection. Just another layer of control exerted on her life. That explained why, when she’d allowed herself to think of Elias and their good times together, her chest cavity had ached. So she wouldn’t even be able to dream of other men? 
 
Like hell she wouldn’t. 
 
And what of Malfoy? He was okay with a life of celibacy? Sure, he considered himself nothing but a 'stud-horse,’ but a life with an arranged pureblood wife would’ve at least come with boring sex. But this— he hadn’t even brought it up as an argument before the bonding. He feared returning to Azkaban so thoroughly that he’d given up his freedom without hesitation— because she knew that was the only reason he hadn’t let her die on the hotel linoleum. 
 
She’d spent a good chunk of her reading time over that particular section, spitting nasty curses at the long-dead wizard who bragged about ‘the lovemaking his wife regularly gave him once he’d ensured she was free of a life of whoring.’ 
 
She’d also learned that the bond worked as a conduit. She could feel his emotions and pain through the bond, and vice versa. The book didn’t give specifics on if the bond worked as a magical conduit as well. She couldn’t bring pain to her bonded, nor could he bring pain to her purposefully. She doubted this very much; though, she supposed, Malfoy’s ancestors could’ve simply ordered a house elf to beat their wives if they wished. 
 
The ache she had felt was described as well. When two bonded parties are apart, the bond attempts to draw them together like magnets—a coercion of sorts. A need to be close, to touch. When that is unsuccessful, the bond aches, like a phantom limb. She had already guessed that as the cause of the bone-deep pain, though the confirmation that her body was no longer her own but a puppet to be manipulated by a glowing fucking cord was a tad upsetting. 
 
There was no information on how soul-bonds came to be— who had discovered how to tie magical cores together? Why had the procedure ever come about? Nor was there any information on the composition of the bond, besides a basis of blood magic. Of course, the ritual itself—imbuing an artifact as a means to establish a bond—was not mentioned. 
 
Hermione slumped further over the table, burrowing her face in her arms. Just a quick nap, then she would look again. Her eyes had just fluttered shut when a sharp pecking at the window jolted her awake. 
 
Hermione ran a hand over her face, squinting towards the window as the morning rays seeped through. A second peck, accompanied by a soft hooting, had her up and dragging her feet. 
 
She threw open the window, rubbing her eyes as a small barn owl flew in. Not the same owl as yesterday, though this creature seemed to carry a similar elegance. The owl did a wide sweep of her room before settling on the back of her abandoned chair. The bird was more refined than regal, with soft, cream-colored feathers that seemed to shimmer like silk in the light. Its heart-shaped face was delicate, with large, round eyes a gentle shade of dark chocolate that focused on her with a quiet intensity. 
 
“You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” Hermione stepped forward and retrieved the scroll from where it was tied to the bird’s leg. She received a soft hoot in return. 
 
She quickly unrolled the letter, noting the floral scent accompanying the parchment—
 
 
Dear Miss Granger, 
 
I apologize if Apus wakes you, though I have a suspicion you rise early. I have heard that you are in pursuit of research, and so I send this letter as an invitation for you to access our family library any time you wish. 
 
Please consider our library and home open to you, as what’s ours is now yours. 
 
With regards,
 
Narcissa Malfoy 
 
 
Two letters from the Malfoys in the span of two days—what good fortune she had. A lead weight settled in her gut. What’s ours is now yours. So the Malfoy matriarch was aware of the completed bond. Was she aware then that what Hermione was researching was how to break the ‘delicate tie’ between herself and Narcissa’s son? 
 
Perhaps Narcissa wanted the bond broken so her son could marry more eligible witches. 
 
Hermione stared at the owl perched on the back of the chair, her voice ripe with exhaustion. “I hope your mistress isn’t expecting a response.”
 
The barn owl simply blinked before pushing off the chair and flying back out of the room. 
 
She looked back at the letter in her hand, her jaw tight. The manor library would have plentiful information about soul-bonds and blood magic. And yet, accepting the invitation felt like giving up even more control of her life. It felt like acceptance of her situation, which she would never, ever accept. 
 
Both of the occasions in which she’d found herself at Malfoy Manor were against her will. So walking willingly into the snake pit a third time felt like a sort of betrayal to herself— especially the version of herself who’d screamed helplessly on their drawing room floor while both Narcissa and her son watched. 
 
Hermione crumpled the letter. But didn’t burn it. 
 
She quickly gathered her bag, throwing a simple glamour charm over herself before apparating on the spot. 
 
 
___•___
 
Six in the morning was a tad early for any recreational activities. The shops along Diagon Alley were still setting up for the day. The local pubs would merely laugh if she attempted to purchase ale this early. And even open shops around muggle London would be hard-pressed to find— though she had popped in for a quick breakfast at a small coffee shop. 
 
Hermione nearly sank to her knees in muck when she landed from her apparation, the bog tugging mercilessly at her with the seductive promise of immortal sleep beyond its murky depths. 
 
She yanked her leg out of the boggy water and pulled herself onto the black-stone path. Once she straightened up and tugged her hair up and out of her face, she gave the landscape a once-over. 
 
Before, she hadn’t truly been able to see the area beyond her immediate wand light. But now, with the morning light, she could take in the desolate expanse, thick with an eerie, unnatural stillness. Muddy, stagnant water covered most of the ground, oozing in sluggish ripples when she’d yanked her boot out, as though reluctant to part for her. The air was thick and damp, clinging to her skin with a chill that seemed to seep into her bones. It was the end of August, and yet this place seemed stuck in the midst of autumn. 
 
Wisps of mist curled along the surface of the bog, swirling like ghostly fingers, occasionally parting just enough to reveal patches of the dark, brackish water beneath. There was no vegetation, save for the occasional clump of withered reeds sticking out of the muck, their brittle, yellowed stalks rattling softly with each passing breeze. The sky overhead was choked with heavy clouds, casting everything in shades of gray and dull brown, as if the bog itself had drained the landscape of any life or color.
 
And the smell— 
 
Hermione pressed her face into the crook of her elbow. She hadn’t forgotten the rotten stench last time she had come, and yet having the scents of carcass and swamp gas once again fill her nostrils made her nearly gag. 
 
She moved forward, stepping through the broken wards of the ruins that she had dismantled at her last pleasant visit. Hermione had considered apparating directly into the alter chamber; after all, she was part of the bloodline now, wasn’t she? But the thought of accidentally springing a curse she hadn’t cleared yet and giving Malfoy’s ancestors another laugh had convinced her to land in the mud instead. 
 
Once the scent had lessened and the crumbling domed ceiling had ensconced her, she dropped her elbow from her face. Bodies of inferi lay burned and scattered across the chamber floor, their husks still smelling faintly of sulfur and earth. Once burned, the creatures would not revive themselves again, so she didn’t have to worry about a skeletal hand grabbing at her as she crossed through the middle of the room. 
 
She swept her gaze along the spanse of the space, stopping briefly on the alter table at the very front of the chamber before continuing. There were runes etched along the floor and walls, runes that she had given little attention to during her last social call. 
 
She had come for knowledge, for an understanding of the artifact that didn’t require traipsing through the vaulted halls of Malfoy Manor. Hermione cast her usual diagnostics across the room, satisfied when she found no lingering curses or traps. Her body seemed to sing in this place, as if her blood now belonged to it after she had dripped some all over the ground. The bond tugged, as if to say, ‘I’m here, I’m home.’
 
She was not home, and the mere thought of any piece of Malfoy property being home to her body made Hermione grit her teeth. 
 
She settled herself down on the packed earth floor, tracing the tip of her wand against the runes etched into its surface. 
 
Othala
 
Naudiz 
 
Ingwaz 
 
 
Ancestral property, necessity, fertility. 
 
The same three runes were repeated across the rest of the ground and up over the walls as well. Hermione could’ve bet that before the domed ceiling collapsed, the runes were etched there too. She quickly pulled out a notebook from her bag, sketching the three runes and their meanings. 
 
The symbols were an old form of magic, one used to aid in spellcraft all throughout history— imbuing objects, additional layers of protection in warding, and a way to buff up curses and spells when used in tandem. 
 
She had no doubt the countless etchings aided in not only creating the soul-bonding artifact but also in the binding process that had occurred in these walls. If she hadn’t picked up the artifact here— if she somehow would’ve moved it first— would it have worked at all? 
 
She didn’t know. Perhaps it would’ve, to a lesser degree. After all, the old diary she had read of Eldricus Thorne and his barmaid love had not mentioned anything of runes or a special sanctuary in which he had gifted the girl with the cursed jewelry. 
 
Her eyes tracked upwards, towards the altar, and her throat tightened when she saw footprints near the raised table. 
 
She scrambled upwards, wand brandished as she carefully stepped closer. She placed her own booted foot beside the print—
 
Much larger than her own.
 
She was sure that these had not been here before, during the incident. 
 
Had Malfoy come here recently, drawn by the same forces that had urged her back, or by the need to understand how to break the connection between them? 
 
Or perhaps the ministry had sent a second cursebreaker after her radio silence. They would’ve seen the wards broken if that was the case and known it was likely her who had undone them. That made her lie to the ministry a tad trickier. She could still play innocent— there were no artifacts to find. But she’d have to include that she had at least found the ruins if they had sent someone to investigate. 
 
And then she’d come down with Black Cat Flu, which is why she had not contacted them back. Yes, completely brilliant. Surely the greatest minds and political figures would believe it. 
 
Regardless, the footprints weren’t random. Whomever they belonged to had come in the three weeks between her visits, and the likelihood of some unrelated witch or wizard or even muggle finding this place around that time was slim to none. 
 
Hermione pulled out her flip phone, snapping a quick photo of the shoe print with her own foot beside them for size comparison. She took a few photos of the chamber itself as well, for good measure. She could draw the symbols all the live long day, but wizarding means of communicating and storing information were lacking significantly. 
 
Hermione studied the room for a few more hours, paying extra attention to the stone altar table and the pendant-shaped hole in the middle of it. So small and unassuming, and yet had caused her more damage than any cursed artifact in her past. She’d had more luck with horcruxes. 
 
Once her brain felt more like mush than matter, and she had just as many questions as answers, she apparated away— with thoughts of footprints, lilac, and libraries on her mind.