Frivolous Flowers
The next few weeks passed in a blur for Hermione. Since they’d delivered Peter on a silver platter for her all those nights ago, Ophelia had been busy. Over the course of the last two months the Order had dismantled three Death Eater safeguards, freed a building full of prisoners, and managed to get their hands on a map of the wards around Lestrange manor where they suspected Riddle was keeping another horcrux.
As much as the Order appreciated Ophelia’s help, Hermione couldn’t get past the secret identity. She had a desperate need to uncover this mystery, to untangle the puzzle that was Ophelia.
The conundrum that was rattling loudest in her brain was the name. Ophelia . It’s greek origins meaning to help or aid made enough sense she supposed, but being named after a Shakespearean work herself meant she couldn’t ignore the name’s connection to Hamlet.
It was a stretch, but Hermione thought there could be a connection to the muggle play. Ophelia; torn between her affection for her lover and her loyalty to her father, driven to madness when the former slayed the latter.
Her suspicions had only been reinforced over the weeks, as every clue and tip from Ophelia had been delivered via owl wrapped around various flowers; belladonnas for silence, white chrysanthymums for truth, hyssops for sacrifice, plumeria for new beginnings. The list went on. Hermione had dug up an old Black family book on floral meetings to keep track of what the different flowers stood for, and she couldn’t ignore the connections.
That was why she was so worried about today’s mission, which had been accompanied by a Rhododendron - danger-. As far as the Order was aware, they were to be intercepting a transport of high value prisoners who were being moved from the abandoned Prince house to an unknown location. It was going to be their most dangerous mission since Hermione had been fighting, and her magic was restless. Her hair rioted against the braid she was attempting to wrestle it into, having undone itself twice already during her efforts.
It was on her third try that Luna made her presence known to the brunette, floating in the doorway in that eerie way she always did.
“Your magic is much like your spirit Hermione, resistant to bondage.”
“Hello to you too Luna” she greeted the younger girl, not taking her attention away from her reflection in the mirror as she continued the losing battle with the wild locks. She’d gathered from conversations with Sirius and others in the house that Luna tended to unsettle mostly everyone with her words, save her ginger paramour, so Hermione did her best to be unruffled at the other witch's words.
“Your armour is remarkable in its workmanship, Sirius must truly care for you to gift you such an exquisite piece.” She commented absently, watching with that serene smile as Hermione wrestled with her hair.
“Its the Azkaban thing.” she dismissed, finally giving up and conceding to let her hair be. “We’ve both experienced things in there that others can’t begin to comprehend, it forges a twisted sort of bond.”
“Perhaps.” Was all the younger girl said.
“You’re not joining us tonight?” Hermione asked, noting the other girl remained in her usual attire rather than combat gear, flowers in her braids and all.
“Oh no, I can see that my presence would only cause harm to this mission. It’s best that I remain here to help the wounded when they return.” She spoke with such confidence that Hermione tended to believe her.
Luna did that a lot, speak about things that had either yet to happen or never came to pass. Hermione wondered often if the witch had a touch of the sight.
“You’re not the first to ask that, though none project their thoughts quite as loudly as you do.” Luna answered her unspoken question. That caused Hermione to turn and give the other girl her full attention, having not felt the pressure of legellimency she would have expected at the girl’s comprehension of her thoughts.
“My mother was a Rosier.” Luna continued, settling herself on Hermione’s bed as she told her tale. “The Rosier women have always been haunted with knowledge surpassing that of even the centaurs in terms of precognition, its why we so often take our lives before we have the opportunity to greet Death on natural terms.”
Luna did not seem phased as she spoke of her supposedly certain early death, Hermione noted. No grief or pain flashed in her silver eyes, just acceptance.
“Are you saying you’re a seer Luna?” Hermione asked disbelievingly. She’d never put much stock in divination, a distant and disjointed memory of a temper tantrum in a room full of pillows and crystal balls assured her of that fact.
“Oh no, seers are gifted with the ability to see a single timeline, the one most likely to come to pass without interference.” Luna explained. Hermione found herself fascinated, eager as always to gain any knowledge, even if she didn’t believe in the subject. “Rosier women possess the ability to see, to live, all possible realities that may come to pass.”
Hermione could not fathom it, what it would be like to live in the shadow of every timeline as it played out in parallel to reality.
“That sounds like a terrible burden.” Was all she voiced aloud, but the look in Luna’s eyes made her believe that the younger witch was appraised of her inner thoughts as well.
“Yes well, we all have our marks to bear in this war don’t we?” Luna’s eyes flickered to the exact spot on her chest were the deepest and angriest part of her scar lay, despite it being hidden beneath the layers of her armour.
“What do you-” before she could finish her question, not quite sure where she was going, the blonde interrupted her.
“You must go now, if you don’t leave soon tonight will not have a favourable outcome.”
“You know who Ophelia is, don’t you?” Hermione asked abruptly, accusingly. Luna did not answer, simply fixed her with a smile and ushered her out the door.
–
Fucking Luna and her favourable fucking outcomes . Hermione thought bitterly as she kicked aside the latest body that had fallen under her wand. The mission had gone arse over tits the second they’d apparated into the area.
The death eaters had a caterwauling charm set up, so the second they’d rematerialized into existence the air had split with a deafening screech. They’d been on the Order in a second, spells flying from all around them.
It was a bloodbath, bodies and blood and wandlight all about. Hermione had taken a slicing hex to her cheek, but the graze barely even registered in the madness. She was currently pushed off down some side street of the unknown wizarding village, having pursued the death eater she’d just killed as the coward tried to flee outside the anti-apparition wards that had been erected the same time the caterwauling went off.
The crunch of gravel was the only warning Hermione received before a spell hit the brickwork beside her head, raining rock down on her as she spun to face the attacker.
Hermione had encountered many death eaters in her various missions, and was apprised enough to know what their various masks represented.
The silver ones were low-level pawns, barely capable enough to hold a wand let alone be a real threat.
Red masks were a toss up, they represented Riddle’s original followers who were all either geriatric and useless, or completely mad and not to be trifled with.
White masks though, white masks were who the Order truly feared. Placed in the highest ranks of Riddle’s army, the white masks were his toughest and most fearsome generals. They had the highest body count, and left paths of death and destruction in their wake.
And yet Hermione felt no fear staring into the Cerulean eyes that gazed at her from behind the ivory mask. They were not clouded by madness or bloodlust, they were clear and sharp as they scanned her body language.
“You missed.” She taunted, her wand arm twitching as her grip tightened around her wand. Her fingers were wet and slippery with someone’s blood, though she didn’t know who’s.
“Oh sweetheart,” the voice behind the mask purred. “I wasn’t aiming for you, just trying to get your attention.”
A lazy, almost lethargic bombarda came her way which she easily blocked, shooting back a nasty acid curse which the white mask gracefully danced out of the way of.
He -because Hermione knew the white mask was a man from the deep timbre of his voice and his tall broad frame- didn’t seem keen on engaging in a duel, but rather perhaps in a conversation.
“Yes well you’ve got it, not sure how much you’ll have the chance to enjoy it in death.” She shot another, deadlier curse his way, one meant to turn one’s vital organs inside out. He merely spun out of the way, not even bothering to send a spell back at her which drew a growl from Hermione’s throat.
“A death eater who doesn’t fight the Order, what must Riddle think of you?” She taunted, firing a scarlet spell his way which he deftly dodged.
“I shall obey, my lord ” was his response as he inclined his head in an odd gesture of a nod. His words brought her up short momentarily, the words startling in their familiarity bit Hermione could not place them in her adrenaline-fuelled thoughts.
In the briefest moment of her distraction, the white mask got a spell behind her shields and Hermione braced herself for the pain of whatever he’d sent her way.
Except it didn’t come.
Instead, her wand simply rattled in her grasp in warning.
Angered at being played with, she aimed her wand once more. The second bombarda hit its target, but the death eater’s shield blocked most of it. Instead of blasting him down the alley, the spell simply connected with the man’s mask, cracking it right down the middle before it fell to either side of his person.
The face that was revealed was familiar, in the same annoying way that most faces were familiar to Hermione without her knowing why.
Tan skin and sandy brown curls accompanied the cerulean eyes, and the white mask’s full lips were tilted into a playfully crooked smirk. If she wasn't so intent on killing the bastard she might've had time to think him handsome.
“I know you.” She accused. He laughed - laughed! - at her words.
“And I, you Granger.” He bowed in a mockery of chivalry as her brain reached uselessly for a name. He looked her age, and the voice was familiar when paired with the face.
“I thought death eaters were supposed to fight Order members.” She hissed, firing another spell that simply bounced off his shield. He chuckled again at her words.
“How easily we both fell prey to that illusion; but in the end, I was the more deceiv’d ” and with that, Hermione felt the anti-apparition wards crack and fall and the mystery-mask spun out of existence right as the pieces fell into place.
“Ophelia” she whispered in realization, to nobody in particular.
More pieces fell into place then, the rhododendron that had accompanied the information that let to this raid. Yes, it meant danger. But more than that, it meant ‘I am dangerous’.
Ophelia was a white mask. Ophelia, who had been helping the Order regain ground in this dragged out war, was one of Riddle’s most dangerous and trusted generals.
Not. Her mind whispered, in the way that made her think her thoughts did not entirely belong to her.
It was because of this disconnect between her own thoughts and her consciousness, that she didn’t realize that ‘Not’ was meant to have another t at the end of it.