Love Letters to You

Hermione Jean Granger is a planner. 

She has always been one as a matter of fact. 

One must if you have Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley as best friends because God knows how much trouble likes them. 

But she hasn't planned for this. 

For Umbridge, that horrid toad, to so gleefully brag about sending Dementors, Dementors, after Harry to silence him after he told the truth. 

For a Ministry official, a highly trusted adult, to so easily resort to torture while teachers remain unaware, unable to help. 

Hermione is a bookworm. She has read dystopian novels, has devoured them as a child. She has read all about how governments seized control and buried the truth because it was convenient for them, but Hermione had thought the Wizarding World better. 

It had to be. 

But it wasn't, and she has known so since she was eleven, so very hopeful to find her place in the world only to have her dreams crash and burn at the hands of blood Purists. Oh, Hermione hadn't let them get to her, of course, but it had stung. 

A bit. 

And more. 

Maybe Hermione had been naive, has underestimated the famed Potter luck that Harry swears doesn't exist, but she shouldn't have to take into account a teacher's cruelty. 

They are teachers for Merlin's sake. 

But Hogwarts never does have a good history with hiring decent, law abbiding teachers. 

"A few Crucios will loosen your tongue," Umbridge hums thoughtfully,though her smile, wide and frog-like, betrays her glee. 

Which, what? 

"You can't do that! It's illegal!" the protest slips from her mouth like a righteous cry even as Black's voice echoes in her mind, a memory of another injustice, another cry of unfairness left unanswered. 

"It's not fair!" First Year Hermione practically sobs, crouching to her knees, and warm, fat tears roll down her cheeks.

And though the young Gryffindor is sobbing her heart out, Elara Vespera Black doesn't offer sympathy or physical proximity. She just hums.

"Life is never fair. Especially for Mudbloods." 

Mudbloods. 

It is a sneer, an insult to all born to Muggle parents. 

Pansy and Millicent had used it as a weapon to be thrust and twisted in Hermione's heart with all of the scorn and malice two eleven years old girls can muster.

In Elara Black's voice, it sounds just like a casual observation. 

"Not Mudblood," Hermione grits out, more a reflex and an attempt to preserve whatever dignity she has left rather than actually trying and correct Slytherin's Princess. 

"Muggleborn, then." 

Hermione glances up, speechless. Black's aristocratic and angelic features are set in a cold, neutral mask as if she has not just amended her Pureblood prejudice. Black crouches down, waving her hand elegantly, lean fingers nibbling the air before splots of green and silver spark up her fingertips. 

Hermione clenches her jaw. Call her petty, ungrateful, but it always infuriates her to see Black so casual and careless with her feats of magic. The bushy-haired girl knows that everything comes easy to Black, that her life has always been perfect, but must she rub it in Hermione's face now of all times?!

"Why are you here, Black?" The Gryffindor asks spitefully. To gloat about how the world will always bow down to her in comparison to Hermione?

"Because you are loyal to your friends, and I can respect that." Which, doesn't quite make sense. Black leans against the wall, eyes lingering in the empty hallway. 

But they are fogged as if stuck somewhere else as she continues. "You can't do anything about what Pureblood will say about you. Once you’re a Mudblood, Muggleborn to them, that’s all you’ll ever be." 

"If you're going to be rude, you can just piss off-" 

"If someone wants to find fault in you, they'll do so no matter what you do." Black's voice is soft though there is resentment and bitterness that lingers in it like a fine mist. As if she is speaking of experience, which doesn't make sense because she is Lady Black, born to be beloved and worshipped. Not like Hermione who had never quite fit. Too clever for children, too brilliant for the wizarding world. "Someone will always talk behind your back. Even if you succeed, there will always be someone that will find you lacking." Suddenly, Black's eyes pierce through her, sharp and powerful and it feels like Hermione's soul is left suddenly open for the girl's eyes. "You can't do anything about what they say behind your back, but you can control what they say to your face. Whether they'll come to you with cruelty and sneers, or with careful smiles. You have potential, Granger." 

Potential. 

The word echoes in Hermione's ears, a taunt and a promise all in one, and she preens at Black's words. 

Black continues, as if she is not complimenting a Gryffindor Muggleborn, best friend of the boy who lived. The raven-haired girl smiles, a vicious and bloodthirsty smile. "Become so great, they'll have no choice but to play nice in front of you."

(Harry had always said that Elara Black's smile was beautiful, something poets of old times could write of through hymns of beauty and grace. 

Frankly, Hermione disagrees. 

It wouldn't be hymns of beauty and grace.

It would be tales of warning.

Because there is a sharpness to Elara Black's smile that no child should ever have.)

"What the Minister doesn't know, doesn't hurt him." Umbridge brushes off Hermione's protest, chubby and wrinkly hands gripping her wand. "In fact, he will only award me. You have been a thorn in our side for too long, Potter." 

Hermione desperately tries to shake off Greengrass's grip on her, having already broken her paralyzing hex. But for a pureblood girl, too pretty, too fragile and dainty, Greengrass is surprisingly strong. Unyielding. 

Harry snarls, trying to get out of the thick ropes Nott had conjured to no avail. His face grow redder and he glares dagger though he keeps shooting a worried glance to where the rest of them are still held under the Slytherin's gleeful watch.

Umbridge approaches Hermione's best friend slowly as if reveling in the crime she is about to commit. 

That-

Hermione knows that Harry is strong. That he endured more things than adults have ever endured. 

But it isn't fair. 

That bitch cannot, Hermione won't let her torture her best friend. A plan starts to form inside her mind, variables flashing before her eyes and a script springing into life.

She opens her mouth at the same time that Umbridge starts her incantation. 

"Cruc-" 

"Crucio."

Someone screams. 

It isn't Harry. 

It isn't her best friend that looks up with both grateful and conflicted emerald eyes as a girl steps out from her place, ignoring her cousin's reaching hand, and with a wand still pointed at Umbitch curled into the floor, still screaming. 

They've all heard rumors of Slytherin's Princess, of the last Black. 

Of her ruthlessness and cut throat reign. That she is quick to curse but slow to forget any slight. 

It is sometimes jarring, especially for Harry, to connect that boogie man that is whispered of with the girl that would bicker with Harry almost daily. For the girl who is kinder than the rest of her cohort. 

But as Hermione watches Elara Black smile like it is a normal Friday, like she is not just torturing someone, she sees the one who made older students bow to her.

The spell cuts off, and Umbitch exhales a wet snarl. 

"You-"

"Me." Black responds evenly. 

"You little bi-"

"Crucio."

Another scream.

There is no hesitation, no fumble in the way that Black uses one of the Unforgivable Curses once more. 

Like Black has known that curse her entire life. 

From the corner of her eyes, Hermione sees Neville flinching, hands drifting towards his ears.

"Lara-" he chokes out.

The screams stop. 

Every Gryffindor just stares at Neville, Hermione included. 

The Slytherins, however, only roll their eyes, their famous neutral masks then slipping back on their faces. 

Their grips loosen, at least, the ones of those with enough brains. 

Crabbe continues to hold Ron by the neck.  

Hermione shoves off Greengrass, who still hovers next to her, and stupifies the dim Slytherin that still holds her friend hostage. 

Crabbe freezes, slumping to the floor as Ron stretches his neck, kicking his limp form for good measure. The redhead shoots her a grateful smile, and Hermione smiles back. 

The school has named them the Golden Trio. 

And the Golden Trio always have each other's back.  

Goyle, the other half of Malfoy's goons that are more brawn and stupidity than brains, takes a menacing step forward before Zabini, another constant in Harry and Black's daily interactions, swats him on the head. 

"Leave the girl be, she's only defending her friend." 

"She cursed Vin," Groyle grumbles. 

Zabini rolls his eyes. "Cause Vin didn't get the cue, he didn't let go of Weasley 6. What would you have done if Weasley had taken Vin hostage?"

"Tell Elara."

Zabini pauses, nodding in concession. He then pats Goyle on the shoulder. "Well, the poor Gryffs don't have an Elara," he says with a smile. 

But Hermione doesn't care for that small interaction though a small part of her can't help but notice the dynamic between the Slytherin students. They are cohesive, almost like a court under Black's guidance. 

It makes Black all the more dangerous. 

After, you know, she just crucioed their teacher. 

"Umbridge needs to pay. There is a debt she owes me," Black says. She isn't looking at them, only Umbridge, who is now twitching uncontrollably, the smell of urine strong in the air. The dark-haired girl's hand is steady, unflinching. 

"Lara, I-"

It doesn't make sense. 

Neville is from a Ligh oriented family. Hermione has read so. 

There is bad blood between the Longbottom family and all those affiliated with the Death Eaters. 

(Hermione knows that Sirius is not a Death Eater, that he fights for the light. 

But what of his daughter, who so easily wields the Dark Arts?)

Besides, only Malfoy, only family, gets away with calling the Lady of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black "Lara."

"Leave, Neville." Black has never been one for tenderness, the closest ever to come close to it being Harry, but Hermione thinks that whatever there is between Black and Neville, it is close enough. "I do not wish for you to see it, Cousin. But it is necessary." 

Neville nods, as if agreeing with what Black is saying. Because, if anyone forgot, Black is torturing someone, so that can't be right. He inclines his torso, a fist to his heart. 

"By your leave, Cousin." 

And he leaves. 

The Gryffindors share a puzzled glance. Hermione nods when Ginny nonchantly tilts her hair toward where Neville left. The redhead shoves off Travis's hand and rushes to catch up to their friends. 

No Slytherin runs after her. 

No Slytherin moves. They only watch. 

"Granger," Black turns toward her, grey eyes colder than what Hermione is used to. There is no softness, no quiet longing in the eyes that Harry likes to drown in. Maybe it is because Hermione's best friend almost got tortured. 

Maybe it is because Black regrets abandoning Harry to the mercy of ungrateful, rotten students who would rather vilify an innocent than get their heads out of their arses. 

"What were your plans for Umbitch?"

Umbitch. 

Ha. 

Hermione blinks innocently. "What plans?"

Black looks slightly amused. "You mean to tell me you didn't plan for something to get rid of her?" her elegant heel stabs Umbridge's hand, stealing another pained cry for the previously so mighty professor. 

Hermione did. 

Thousands of plans. 

She is a planner, after all. 

"Maybe."

Malfoy sneers. "Why even bother asking for her opinion? Umbridge's ours to deal with." 

Black walks up to him and cups his cheek. There is love in her every movement, and Hermione almost hysterically wonders if Harry is a bit jealous. 

"It is the Gryffindors who suffered under her," Black's voice then turns darker. "Who am I to refuse them revenge?"

Malfoy snorts. "You're a Black."

Nott nods. "They wouldn't even take revenge properly, Elara."

Hermione bites at her lip at his comment. 

That is not true. 

Hermione would. 

She tells them so. 

About her plans to lure Umbridge to the centaurs, pretending to bring her to Dumbledore's weapon. 

Black smiles brightly. 

"We're getting there," she nods with a little clap. 

Harry buts in. "Yeah but that was before you." He points at Umbridge, who still trembles and sobs from the aftermath of Black's Crucios. "Isn't that enough?"

Hermione can't help but think that it isn't enough. 

It isn't enough to make up for Umbitch's evil deads, her delight in torturing innocent children in the name of furthering her own power. 

It's almost tragic, Hermione supposes, how Harry cares barely for the hurts that he endures, too used to it. 

Black agrees too. 

"She hurt you, Potter," she objects with a frown. Like it is a sin, an unforgivable offense that must be rectified. The Slytherins around her, her court, straightens at that. "And for that, she will suffer a thousand more." 

And as Hermione watches the Death Eater who blasted Luna into the wall choke in the water bubble she created with agumenti, a hand clawing at his throat, Hermione understands. 

Because in this world, to survive, you have to hurt the ones who hurt you a thousand times more.