Broken
Hermione flinched as she splashed her face with the frigid water once more, scrubbing vigorously at her raw skin. It didn’t help.
She stood facing a tall mirror, staring sullenly at the image that the greeted her. The girl before her had dark marks set deep into her skin, underlining tired, dull eyes. Her skin was ghastly pale where it wasn’t rubbed red from the icy water. Worry and fatigued creased her brow and her once shiny bronze hair was dull and fell flat like a mop atop her head.
Hermione couldn’t recognize herself. She didn’t know the girl looking back at her and she certainly know the storm raging through her mind.
She was levelheaded. She was smart. She was a wallflower. While she never thought much of her looks, she at least prided herself in being well rested and clear eyed.
This was not Hermione Granger.
She bent forward, breathing heavily over the sink. Her body shook with tremors of magic raging through her.
Hermione was done. She was so completely done with all of the chaos that had suddenly reared its head in her life. While she never could fully fade away, she had been able to do a good job of ignoring it all, confident in her independence and happy with her solitude.
What changed? What changed the day those stupidly beautiful Beauxbatons students arrived and took over Hogwarts. Everywhere she went, whispers about them taunted her. And somehow, for some unforeseeable reason, they had ignored the rest of the student body. They had bypassed the more interesting, prettier, and powerful students and had set their sights on her.
She shook her head as her magic warmed with the thoughts of them, dispelling the feelings bubbling inside of her.
Her thoughts flashed to the night before, to Fleur’s face as she claimed Hermione as her mate. What was the Veela thinking?
Fleur was gorgeous, Hermione wouldn’t contest that, she was kind and powerful and brutally honest and sure, Hermione was intrigued by the girl, perhaps even attracted to her. But she was wrong. There was no way Hermione was her mate, she must be mistaken. She was made for someone like Isabelle Dubois. Two beautiful, powerful, and kind witches—well they were built for each other, a force to be reconned with.
As for Hermione, she was just Hermione—muggleborn, outcast, nobody.
She craved to escape the tsunami of confusion and strange power that had entered her life. She craved the familiarity of existence before the Beauxbatons students arrived and turned everything sideways.
Feeling the strange and fierce magic raging through her, she struggled to settle it.
Hermione Granger was done with whatever game was being played.
Standing upright, she strode out of the bathroom to her bed and grabbed the book Professor Black had given her, the book that started it all. Hesitating for a moment, she also picked up the mystery letter and feather, pausing for a moment to look at them, her determination wavering.
But she was resolute in her goal. Hermione gathered all the items under her arm and charged towards the dungeons.
She walked purposefully through the halls, not sparing a glance at anyone she passed. The crowd of students parted for her, moving around her as she went. She stopped before a great door, the nameplate carved into it read: Professor Narcissa Black.
She knocked once and was not surprised that the door opened quickly, the professor standing there with a stern look on her face that softened notably as she took in Hermione.
Hermione gathered the items in her hands and shoved them at her professor, watching as the professor’s concern and sadness grew. “I’m done.” Hermione said, “I don’t know what’s going on anymore and I’m done.”
Not giving her professor a moment to reply, Hermione turned on her heel and walked away, disappearing into the crowded hallway.
Hermione avoided everyone as best she could over the following week. When she saw a Beauxbatons student in the hall, she would turn and walk the other way. She ate her meals before or after the crowd and spent her time hiding away in the library.
Fleur tried to approach her, several times, but Hermione wouldn’t have it. She ignored the other girl and the accompanying pain in her chest. Fleur kept trying, but eventually dropped her head and moved on. Hermione wouldn’t admit how her heart broke every time the other girl walked away.
Even Isabelle tried to reach out to her, finding her in the dark corners of the library or hiding spots around the Hogwarts owlery. Once she realized Hermione wasn’t going to speak with her, she just sat down, giving the girl some space, and provided silent company. Isabelle didn’t give in, even when Hermione yelled at her to go away and leave her alone. She just sat there, like a statue. Hermione wouldn’t admit how calming the girl’s presence was.
Hermione wouldn’t admit anything to anyone, she hadn’t spoken a word out loud since handing over the book, feather, and letter. She had dumped the remaining potions Madame Pomfrey had given her down the sink—not willing to be helplessly controlled by something for no given reason.
Hermione wouldn’t admit that, while she had been determined in her goal of avoiding the Beauxbatons students and returning her life to normalcy, she had become incredibly distracted. Her magic was out of sorts and took all of her energy to control. Sometimes, when she was alone or upset and lost focus, it would burst out from her in bright silver and golden waves. The power and rawness of it scared her. Hermione had gone back to normal, but something had shifted inside of her, something that was growing stronger day by day and was entirely outside of her control. And Hermione was left alone to deal with it, she had pushed everyone away and was too stubborn to break her promise to herself.
She didn’t even let Draco in. He came to find her when she hid in the kitchens, often with a cup of tea in his hands. He would stand there, talking idlily about his day, even as Hermione continued to ignore him. Eventually he would need to leave for class or quidditch practice and would gently place the cooled cup next to her, smiling softly before leaving her in the company of her own thoughts.
Sometimes, Hermione would drink the tea. That was the only time she felt calm. After a while she figured he was most likely slipping her something in it, probably on his mother’s orders. Hermione didn’t feel like being manipulated so she stopped drinking the tea.
Unfortunately, it got worse as the unpredictable nature of her magic grew and Hermione became increasingly afraid of it.
She managed to balance the avoidance and suppression for one whole week before everything came crashing down around her on the day of the first Triwizard task.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Meanwhile, deep in the dungeons, Narcissa Black paced back and forth in her office, wearing a path into the pristine floor. Her eyes were glued to the three items that sat undisturbed at a small table next to the couch in her office.
It had been nearly a week since Hermione had come to her office and carelessly offered her the objects. She had watched on as the girl slowly faded away, consumed by something great and powerful within her.
Perhaps she had been remiss to offer up the book in the first place. Maybe that wasn’t her place. Narcissa always had a way of getting herself in the middle of situations, but usually her entry ended in a resolution.
No, it wasn’t a mistake. Narcissa was sure of it.
Her eyes flickered to the two new additions to the frame on her wall. It was definitely not a mistake. Family first. Always.
It broke Narcissa, to watch Hermione slowly deteriorating, distancing herself from everyone around her. The girl ran out of class the moment it finished and ignored the professor in the hallways. She knew what was happening, but she couldn’t help if Hermione wouldn’t let her.
She enlisted Draco’s help to try to get Hermione to take at least one of her potions. Narcissa even brewed the powerful liquid herself. It had seemed to help, for a while, but she knew it wasn’t bound to last. Hermione had stopped drinking the tea. It was only a matter of time now.
Narcissa stopped pacing and walked slowly over to the picture frame above her desk. Her hand easily sliced through the wards around it and she took a deep breath as her fingers hovered close, nearly stroking the white tipped black feather in the middle.
She felt it burning lightly on her arm, like a lick of fire scorching along a set path.
Narcissa removed her hand from the feather and rolled up the sleeve of her robe, revealing the crisscrossing lines littering her arms. All of them had been involuntary but one. They restricted and they controlled her ability to do anything, and she detested them and the people who had bound her to them.
One glowed faintly, a silver line, etched delicately below the others. She had sworn an unbreakable oath to protect them, and she had done so willingly. A matching one snaked up Andromeda’s arm, likely glowing golden right now, thousands of miles away.
Narcissa’s heart cracked with sadness, tears that wouldn’t fall filled her eyes. Tracing over the faint line, over the promise she had ached to make, her resolve steeled itself.
She quickly dropped her sleeves and took a purposeful step forward, reaching through the wards and grasping the middle feather.
Damn the consequences, she was going to make this right.
Just as her fingers closed around the silken object, a hurried knock sounded on her door.
She retracted her hand as if it had been burned, covering the frame with additional wards and protections before settling her face into one of indifference and moving towards the door. Ancient magic help her, if this was Albus Dumbledore again there would be hell to pay.
She pulled the door open forcefully, but the harsh greeting died on her tongue as she took in the two girls on her doorstep. She stepped aside to allow them entry and they moved inside.
Isabelle Dubois stood before her, head held high and eyes fierce as she took in Narcissa’s office before focusing on the woman herself. Her arm was wrapped tightly around the shoulders of a red-eyed defeated Fleur Delacour. The girl looked like she had been crying for days.
Narcissa ushered them to the couch, two cups of cocoa appearing before them.
Isabelle broke the silence.
“This can’t go on,” she said solemnly, “she is breaking, and we are breaking with her. While I wish I could give her time, the tournament starts tomorrow and we must be focused if we hope to survive.” Her voice softened, breaking as she pleaded, her youth apparent, “Please, Tante Cissy, there must be something that can be done to help her. Famille vient en premier.”