Veneficium

Thursday, June 18th 1998

Her fingers gently moved the branches aside so she could watch. 

Once more, Hermione found herself hiding in the shrubbery on the outskirts of Hogwarts, and spying on the Death Eaters; neither her nor Bill’s Disillusionment Charm was as effective as Professor Flitwick’s, their silhouettes translucent as a ghost, so extra caution had to be taken. 

The sight before her was devastating. In just under two months, a catastrophic surge of magic had crumpled the Great Hall, the Staircase Tower, and even the ancient rocks the Castle had been built upon into a bottomless chasm—a jagged wound in the earth formed after Voldemort’s death. Theories abounded among the five of them, each more implausible than the last, and Hermione doubted they would ever truly understand the cause. 

She and Bill had arrived there before sunrise and, under cover of their invisibility and Notice-Me-Not charms, dared to approach enough to gaze down into it. Everything had vanished inside — from the stone walls to the hourglasses holding the House points to the paintings and portraits of wizards past. They had had to run away fast though, as the dark wizards that oversaw the… repair of the Castle grounds had arrived.  

By now, the Death Eaters had come too, to resume their roles. 

Her eyes darted involuntarily towards her left, where Bill was crouched, his elbow touching her accidentally.  She stiffened but made no further move. 

Crouching in the bushes, she watched silently as Antonin Dolohov came into view, a brigade of wizards trailing behind him. He had all but given up on wearing his old Death Eater mask, his roughened-up face clearly visible; the years had not been kind to him; scars carved his sharp features, a map of battles past, while a scruffy beard and unevenly cropped hair blurred the lines of his age. Yet, despite the ruin time had wrought, he carried himself with a confidence so commanding it could have lent charm even to the grimiest of goblins. Once upon a lifetime, he had been a well-respected Curse Breaker. 

Dolohov barked orders to the others, who moved with practised efficiency. Hermione recognized Amycus Carrow and Thorfinn Rowle among them, the group forming a loose row around the edge of the crater, their boots pushing around the broken-up stones and pebbles on the uneven terrain. 

Her breath hitched in her chest, and Hermione bit the inside of her lip. She watched with a terrified curiosity as Dolohov began chanting in what she presumed to be Russian, waving his wand in a complex spiral as golden ribbons stretched across the chasm, their gleaming light flickering in the growing gloom. Soon, the other wizards joined, silently weaving the spell in unison. The ribbons tugged and strained as if struggling to pull the gaping rift together. The earth trembled beneath them, shaking violently, and Hermione felt as though they were trapped on a boat in the middle of a roaring thunderstorm, braving the crashing waves.

A sharp cry escaped her throat as the ground beneath her shifted.

Her voice was masked by the shouts of the twenty or so wizards around, but she knew it would’ve been a close call had Dolohov not been so concentrated on his spell. The edges of the chasm seemed to close ever so slightly, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione dared to hope the spell might succeed. But Dolohov’s efforts wore him down quickly. He fell to his knees, gasping for air, his chest heaving with the strain of the magic. 

She had never seen magic like that—earth manipulated with such terrible precision. The sight of Dolohov, so powerful and unrelenting, filled her with a deeper, more visceral fear. What other curses did he hold in his inventory, waiting patiently for the right victim? 

A bug climbed on her arm. Crushing it with the end of her wand, she shared a look with Bill; his expression was grim, but there was no time to dwell on it. 

Dolohov rose slowly, his breath ragged, and the others regained their composure. Without a word, they resumed their chant, the golden ribbons spinning once more as the ground trembled beneath them. This time, the force of the magic seemed even greater. Dust rose in thick clouds, obscuring the clearing. The scraggly branches of the bushes Hermione was hidden within dragged across her skin, drawing droplets of blood. 

“Dolohov!” came a voice from the distance, sharp and urgent. Through the haze of dust, Hermione could make out a figure rushing toward them from the ruins of the Castle. The platinum hair gave him away before his face came into view. Lucius Malfoy.

He stumbled halfway across the clearing, looking every bit as dreadful as he had in the past year. His voice, strained and filled with impatience, called out to Dolohov.

Only when the spell finally broke did Dolohov acknowledge him, his gaze heavy and unsteady, balancing his hands on his knees, although his voice carried as sharply as always. “What?” 

“Rodolphus wants you present — they found an Order safe house.” 

Carrow approached, wiping sweat from his large forehead with a grimy sleeve. His voice trembled as he asked, “Order members?”

“Are they to be executed?” Dolohov’s voice was hoarse, but his words cut through the air like a blade. He looked worse for wear, but his hunger for power was still apparent. Everyone was at the end of their powers, save for Malfoy, who merely seemed extremely uncomfortable in his skin, far removed from his old proud self. 

Hermione felt Bill stir, and she looked at him, her eyes open wide. It couldn’t be their safe house, could it? She felt herself shaking, a storm of emotions raging through her; whoever the Death Eaters had found must have been a friend of hers. The faces of all she knew to still be alive flashed in rapid succession across her vision, from the kind face of Mrs Weasley to the lopsided grin of Luna Lovegood. They needed to run and save them, try to get to them before they met a brutal end at the hands of Lestrange or whoever else was assigned to the murders. The thought that they might be under torture as they spoke was enough to bring a tear to Hermione’s eye. 

“Yes,” Lucius Malfoy confirmed, and this time, there was no cover to conceal her scream, her fear spilt over.  

Over a dozen people looked in their direction, and she knew they had been spotted. 

Bill sent a bright red spell towards the crowd as he stood up, roughly pulling her up to her feet by her shirt. “Fuck, Hermione!”

He ran back further into the forest towards the closest spot where they could apparate away, and she tried to follow after him, her vision blurred by tears and dust. An onslaught of curses flew past her head, distinctly green,  as the Death Eaters attacked them, just barely able to make out their translucent forms in the chaos. She threw back as many as she could muster up, and she could tell the only reason the two of them weren’t dead on sight was because of how exhausted all of them had been left by Dolohov’s spell. 

When she dared a glimpse over her shoulder, she realised Lucius Malfoy wasn’t following after them.

She couldn’t focus. Her emotions were a storm, overwhelming, and out of control. A liability. Her eyes blurred with tears, and she cursed herself for her weakness.

A sudden explosion rocked the ground beneath her feet — Bombarda Maxima — and she stumbled, barely managing to keep her footing. Rocks and branches tore into her tender skin. The pain was unbearable. Her scream rang out, raw and unrestrained, and her vision splintered into fragments of light and colour. Hermione had lost sight of Bill. 

She could hear nothing but the roar of the attack, the pounding of boots in the distance as they ripped through the Forbidden Forest, and the frantic chorus of curses. Her vision narrowed to patches of white and green, the edges of reality warping as she fought to stay conscious. Her body felt like it was floating — too light, too unsteady — as she fought to stay conscious. 

A curse struck her down, and she fell, face-first, into the cold earth. 

Praying for a swift death, already accepting her fate, Hermione imagined herself reunited with Ron and Harry at last. And then, the strangest sensation took over her body. Her arm moved as if under the control of an independent entity, a burst of black exploding out of her wand and knocking into her attackers. She didn’t hear the wild screams of pain inflicted by the foreign spell she had cast, and her eyes struggled to stay open. A second spell emerged from the tip of her wand, shimmering tendrils wrapping around her body as she fainted. 

oOo

Dear Bill,

I wish I were writing under better circumstances, son, but I’m afraid I bring sad news. Your Aunt Muriel passed away in her sleep last night. It was peaceful, at least, which is something to be grateful for.

I can tell you she was as sharp as ever right up until the end. She was muttering about her jewellery and how “if the goblins didn’t steal it, the Ministry surely would” not a day before. I suspect she’d be relieved to know she went out on her own terms, still arguing about inheritance and tradition. 

We’ll figure out the next steps soon. With everything going on, we’ll have to be careful about arrangements. If you can, let us know when you can come by. We could use you here. 

Your mother is handling it as well as can be expected, though she’s been keeping herself busy. George hasn’t said much, but you know him… he grieves quietly. Ginny, on the other hand, is putting on a brave face, but I see the sadness in her eyes. Miss Lovegood is a welcome distraction for her. We all knew this day was coming, but that doesn’t make it any easier, not after every loss we have had to endure in recent times. Our family has been through unmeasurable suffering, but we must stay strong and keep fighting. 

How are Fleur and Hermione? I know you’ve had your hands full, but I hope they’re holding up. Hermione’s been through more than most, but she is a resilient girl. And Fleur… well, I imagine she’s worrying about you as much as your mother is. Please, Bill, take care of yourself. I don’t like the thought of you constantly in harm’s way, not now, not with everything at stake. If you can, have Kingsley join you, and we’ll see about bringing you all over here. Plenty of space for everyone now. 

Have you heard word of Charlie and Percy yet? Your mother is worried sick about them. 

Stay safe, son. I don’t want to lose anyone else. Take care of the girls. 

Much love, 

Dad 

The letter had arrived at their house after breakfast, shortly after the two of them had left. Only after ensuring Hermione was to be taken care of did he read it. 

Bill sat hunched on the vanity stool, fingers absentmindedly tightening the bandage around his upper arm. The pain was sharp, but nothing he hadn’t endured before; years of studying cursed tombs had hardened him better than any war could’ve to the cruelty of magic. He and Hermione had barely made it out of the Forbidden Forest alive, pure luck alone allowing them the safety of another breath. He needed to leave, to check, but his legs kept him firmly in place, as unmoving as a cliff’s tender edge against the inevitable onslaught of the crashing waves. 

Clutched tightly in his hand, his fingers ran over the ripped edges of the envelope. He exhaled slowly, watching Fleur from the corner of his eye. She was moving around the room in sharp, deliberate motions, fumbling with a box of potions, muttering to Kingsley’s elf. The tension in the set of her shoulders was palpable, her breath hitching unevenly as she bottomed out the last of a potion in a glass, stirring it, the drawn-out clinking of the crystal spoon against the edges echoing as deeply as the death bells in his bones. 

His old Aunt Muriel has passed away in her sleep in the middle of the night — peacefully. Having reached a respectable hundred and nine years of age, it was nothing short of natural that she would leave the land of living sooner rather than later. 

It could’ve been a pure coincidence that her death had coincided with the day the Death Eaters had found an Order safe house, but Bill knew better. His instinct had never betrayed him. Muriel had been the Secret Keeper. 

 “The poor dear, did you hear what spell it was?” Fleur asked as she vanished the potion from the glass and into Hermione’s stomach. They were in her bedroom, with the young girl laid out on the bed, resting. 

He cleared his throat, his voice creaky. “No, there was an explosion just before.” 

His wife turned to face him, her face distorted in shock. “An explosion, Bill, are you serious?” she cried out, holding her hands up as she struggled to make sense of his words. “You could have died!” 

“But we didn’t,” he said quietly as he bit his lip, lowering his eyes to the papers in his grip, distant from her. Lately, all Fleur ever did was complain about him until her words all blended into one, a cutting chorus that he tried to drown out. 

“— nearly did, again and again…” 

She marched over to him and ripped the letter from his hands, exasperated. “Are you even listening to me?” 

Bill looked up at her with a cold smile on his badly scarred face, feeling more like an animal than a man than ever before. “Stop pestering me, Fleur.” His insides were turning over themselves, twisting into tight knots, the pain that pulsed from his new wounds paling in comparison; the last thing he needed now was for her to start another argument. “You’d do good to stay out of it.” 

Hot pus was starting to leak down his arm, marking where the curse had burned him. 

“Am I not allowed to worry now?” 

“You’re being ridiculous, Fleur,” Bill spat as he tightened his bandage, drawing in his breath at the pain. “Get off my back and maybe you will stop being bothered so often.” 

“I’m being ridiculous?” 

“Very.” 

Fleur let out a sharp breath and turned abruptly toward the bed, smoothing the blankets with restless hands. Bill followed her gaze and found Hermione, still as a ghost, her eyes shut tight. He knew better than to believe she was fully asleep. The girl was too clever, too cautious. She wouldn’t let her guard down so easily — not after all what they had been through. 

Bill dragged a hand down his face, exhausted beyond words. He knew that he should apologize, knew that he should tell Fleur that she was right, that he hated seeing the worry in her eyes, that he hated even more being the cause of it. But before he could find the words, Fleur’s voice softened, raw and trembling. 

“Do you have any idea what I go through every time you leave? Every time you return with another wound for me to patch up? How I- I have nightmares from the stories you tell me? I wake up panting and sweating and you’re so still in your sleep, sometimes I am convinced you are dead at last.” 

He heard it then, the unspoken plea beneath her anger. The fear. The love. The way her voice wavered made something inside him crack wide open. The chair screeched against the floor as he stood, crossing the room in two quick strides. 

“Fleur —” 

Her arms wrapped around herself as if holding herself together lest she crumble into shreds. Her hair fell limply around her face, a washed-out white that only gave her the appearance of illness, her skin sickly in its paleness, so far removed from the sparkling woman he loved. She was so vulnerable in that fragile moment, so exposed before him, the seconds passing as they looked at one another, Kingsley’s house elf noisy rummaging through the potions’ box the only sounds anchoring them to reality. 

Bill reached for her and as his fingers brushed her skin, she whispered something so softly he almost didn’t hear it. “I’m pregnant, Bill. Please stop —” 

His heart stopped. He blinked, sure he had misheard. “You’re what?” 

She turned sharply, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Be quiet or you’ll wake poor Hermione up!” 

He barely heard her as his mind reeled, struggling to catch up with what she had just said. Bill grabbed her shoulder, stepping closer to her as his head lowered until his cheek touched her face. “What are you muttering on about, Fleur?” he said softly. 

“I said that I’m pregnant, and I need you to stop leaving this house or I’ll wither away from so much worry.” 

Bill opened his mouth, then promptly closed it again. The room tilted around him, squeezing and pulling from all sides, but all he could see was Fleur, his beautiful, brilliant wife, held tightly in his arms, all he could feel was her warm breath brushing against his neck. For the briefest moment, his body was free from the pain of existence, his mind a blossoming field under the comforting sunlight. 

Fleur cried softly, and his hand brushed her hair, hoping to soothe her fright away. 

When he looked down at her, her silvery hair was aflame, a burning, scorching red, and Bill pushed her away, his eyes wide open as he saw his little sister in his arms for a moment. If he ran now, if he followed them he might just be able to save them, to stop the Death Eaters before they… 

“Bill?” 

But no. He was here, now, with Fleur, away from his family.  

Too far, too weak. 

“Bill, are you alright?” Fleur said, her voice trembling, disturbed by his sudden change, the darkness in his eyes.  

“Sir must take the potion,” Amina, the house elf, interrupted, pushing the glass into his hand, blissfully unaware of the storm raging inside him, the way he was pushed to the edge-

“Fuck the potion,” he spat, throwing the glass across the room where it smashed into a million fragments, sharp and cutting as if they were assaulting his heart instead, the commotion waking Hermione up, eliciting a small yelp from Fleur. 

“Oh, Bill!” she cried out, stepping away from him. 

He pounced towards her, catching her arm into his grasp, dragging her after him out of the bedroom. “Come, Fleur, for Merlin’s sake, come!” 

She screamed, trying to pull away from him. “What are you doing, Bill, let go of me!” 

“Hurry, we can’t waste any time,” he said as he grabbed her closer, running down the stairs. “We can still reach them.” 

“What is happening, Bill, please, I don’t understand,” Fleur shrieked as he threw open the front door, fat tears streaming down her face. He held her close, apparating the two of them away. 

Bill almost didn’t feel the uncomfortable pull of the spell, the tightness blending into everything else, until they landed on the stoned paving outside his Aunt Muriel’s country home. The front door was blown out of its hinges, and he pulled out his wand, turning to look back down at the frightened woman in his arms. “The Death Eaters had found an Order safe house earlier… m-my father wrote me of Muriel passing in the night — get your wand out, Fleur, what are you doing?!” he tried to frantically explain things to her, rushing towards the house, expecting a fight. 

The stillness was suffocating, yet he could ever so faintly hear something in the distance. 

He walked along the walls, a curse ready on his lips, as he checked the house. The furniture was thrown about, the curtains burned, and when he entered the sitting room, there was a hole blown through the wall all the way through it and the bathroom behind it and out into the greenery outside. 

Lifting his foot, Bill’s whole body tensed as he realised he had stepped into a splotch of blood. Breathing heavily with his mouth wide open, he looked around, before stepping back into the hallway.

He was so stupid, such a bloody idiot! 

No, no… no! He must, he had to keep looking, to hope, to trust that he would find anyone, be it his family or the Death Eaters, anyone at all. His feet held the weight of a thousand dragons, dragging him into the floor as he frantically ran around the house, the walls closing in, all air abandoning him. 

There were footsteps upstairs, and he instantly apparated on the top of the stairs, clutching his wand tighter than ever before as he slowly advanced, pulled back by his own traitorous body. More blood stained the walls and floors around him, and he sucked in his cheeks, following the slight sound ahead. Bill stepped over a shirt caught in a loose nail from the parquet, bloodied and ripped, and he instantly recognised it as belonging to his little sister. 

Holding in any of the noises that were dying to burst out of him, his hand trembled like a fish out of water as he ever so slowly opened the cracked door at the end of the hallway, Aunt Muriel’s bedroom, his wand ready to shoot a curse at a moment’s notice. 

“Oh, Bill!” Fleur threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. 

It had been just her. Just… Fleur. He had completely forgotten about her when he had seen the state of the house, the vicious fight that must have taken place. 

His arm slowly lowered, his wand falling to the floor, and he let out a pained cry. 

Fleur hugged him tightly, holding onto him even as he crumbled at last, lowering himself to the ground, his hands pressed against the old carpet. “Shh… it will be alright, Bill,” she whispered tenderly. “I love you.” He settled into her embrace, weakened by the morning’s fight, the brutal knowledge that his family was ruined. 

They stayed like that for a while, the whole weight of the world crushing him down, praying for his doom, doing its best to put him six feet under. Only his wife's loving words tethered him, his lifeline. “I’m sorry I’ve been so cold to you, my love,” he whispered, holding her chin as he looked at her. So beautiful and kind, she didn’t deserve to be dragged into his world; she should’ve just stayed with her family in France, never tried to get a job at Gringotts for him, the stubborn girl. 

“I know you don’t mean it…” she gave a faint smile, sighing. “I know you’re trying your best to be better.” Fleur inched closer to him, pressing her lips softly against his. Her kisses had always been so sweet and tender, holding the very essence of life in them, gifting it to him so generously. 

She eventually stood up, helping him up too. His Aunt Muriel’s bedroom was a dark and gaudy place, reminiscent of times past, and he could just barely make out a shape in the four-poster bed. Fleur still held onto his hand as he walked forward, seeing his aunt lying in the bed, her eyes closed, looking more peaceful than she ever had in life. It was wrong to blame her for this, but the thought still crossed his mind. 

Bill turned away from her, his eyes falling on the picture of his great-great uncle on the bedside table, Muriel’s late husband. It was a small portrait, and it seemed as if it had been plucked from the wall recently. “When… when did it happen?” he dared ask. 

“You just missed them,” the man sighed, mournfully. “I heard many, you couldn’t have fought them all, son. It’s for the better you were late.” 

His head dropped. He had known it would happen, had felt it within him, and yet he had been powerless to help. 

Fleur placed a hand on his shoulder. “It will be alright, you’ll see. We still have each other, and soon a little baby too. Let it be a happy day instead.” 

Yes… he had forgotten entirely that she had confessed to being pregnant. Had they not tried since their wedding night, and at last their wish had been granted, almost a year later? It should have been a happy day — the happiest. But now? Bill tried to look on the bright side. He had his wife and unborn child, and maybe, just maybe, Charlie and Percy were still out there, in hiding, and he just hadn’t found them yet. Perhaps it was foolish to still hope, after so many days spent searching for them, but his brothers were smart. Maybe they had already left the country, left for Charlie’s home in Romania. If it had been him, he wouldn’t have, but they must have been so scared, so soon after losing Fred, that he couldn’t blame them if they had indeed. 

“We… should return. Hermione still needs me and your arm is leaking pus something terrible. We can come back to take care of things here later, alright?” Fleur said. “Please.”

Reluctantly, he followed her outside the wreck of Aunt Muriel’s house, already dreading having to return. What would he do without Fleur?

Upon their return to Kingsley’s place, she took him upstairs, still holding his hand. He couldn’t fathom how someone could have such a lovely smile, warming up even the darkest nook of his soul. Perhaps she was right, and all would be well in the end. 

Knocking at the door, Fleur paused. “Hermione? Can we come in?”

Following her response, the couple entered, finding the girl still resting in the bed, Kingsley’s elf muttering something to her. Had they been gone long? It seemed like his whole world had been turned upside down a hundred times since he had last seen them. 

“How are you feeling?” Fleur asked her, taking over from the elf. 

Bill lingered by the door, embarrassed by the scene he had caused before leaving; the elf must have cleaned up his mess in their absence, for he saw no trance of the shattered glass. 

“A bit better… I think,” Hermione said meekly, trying to push herself into a sitting position. “I’m fine, really,” she insisted once Fleur started fussing about her again, but allowed her to check on her dutifully. 

While the girls talked, he looked into the box of potions. He had never been particularly skilled at them, and throughout his job, he had always had someone else to deal with it, but he knew enough to know which tonic to administer himself. Bill picked up a bottle with a familiar deep blue potion swirling inside and poured himself a finger. 

Downing it all in one gulp, he knew he had to leave them alone. The dark cloud that shadowed him needed to stay far, far away from them; if he couldn’t even protect them from himself, what good was he? With one last look at his wife as he closed the door, he allowed himself to hope that things would turn around. They needed to. His child could not live like this. 

Things needed to change — his wife and child depended on him. Starting today, he would stop dwelling on the past, stop… stop thinking about his parents and little siblings, no matter how much his dark thoughts pushed him towards them. He wouldn’t tell anyone else about them. It was bad enough that he had stupidly dragged Fleur into it, but someone as fragile as Hermione could not handle anything more. In a way, things were much worse off for her; at least he had his wife. Kingsley would reprimand him and Filius would pity him, and he wanted none of that. No, this was his burden to bear.