Think of Me
Part 1: Think of Me
The water pouring from the third-floor shower at Grimmauld Place slowly heated from chilled to lukewarm as Hermione Granger pulled off the oversized tee-shirt she'd slept in the night before. Something caught her attention in her peripheral vision, and caused her to look down.
She screamed.
Think of me
The words started at her cleavage and curved over her right breast. It looked like the scar that cut across her torso had expanded overnight, grown upwards to form elegant script. Like the rest of the scar, they were a faded magenta in color, standing out starkly against her skin. She ran her shaking fingers over the letters, then pressed harder; they were slightly raised, like the rest of her scar, and weren't painful to the touch. Sensitive, maybe - easily irritated.
Wands and warthogs, was there more scar writing? She stood in front of the mirror, for once glad that it took forever for hot water to reach the upper floors of the old townhouse - it was completely unfogged. She stared, as her fingers ran down the rest of her scar.
The words might be the only change. It wasn't as though she'd memorized the contours of the mark Antonin Dolohov's curse had carved into her body. But…just above her navel, where the scar drifted to the left, ending just above her hip there. Had there always been a little bump? She wasn't sure.
She closed her eyes and tried to smooth out her breathing, long slow inhalations, exhalations that didn't jump and stutter. The shape of her scar had changed a little naturally, especially the year on the run when she'd lost so much weight, and during the long process of relearning how to feed her body.
But there was no natural process that caused scars to sprout text. The words were oriented for her to read - they would be upside-down to someone facing her. Why would her body be writing notes to her?
Think of me
Unless it wasn't her body sending the message. Dolohov had created the curse that left her scarred, and she was, supposedly, the only survivor of the curse. Dolohov had a reputation as something of a mad genius, and was skilled at long distance charms - he had created the taboo spell that sent Snatcher teams anywhere Voldemort's name had been spoken.
But Antonin Dolohov was in Azkaban, in an impenetrable prison that sapped the magic out of his body.
Well, mostly impenetrable. But the flaw that had allowed Sirius to use his animagus form to escape had been addressed. No one aside from Sirius had ever escaped - not that the Ministry had admitted to.
...there was really no such thing as an impenetrable prison.
Kingsley was Minister for Magic. They had fought together, on the back of a thestral. He would have informed her about any escaped Death Eaters.
Think of me
These words on her body, they could be an extremely tactless prank. She knew inventive pranksters who could be remarkably blind to their own cruelty. She hadn't seen the twins in several days, but they had floor access to Grimmauld and could have planted a prank.
Think of me
Those words could be a threat, and she had made many enemies who were not in Azkaban.
But who else would use her scar to prod her to remember them?
***********
To be fair, Hermione's day had been horrid before she'd walked into the Ministry of Magic, leaving her at somewhat less than her very best self. There had been the disquieting discovery that her scar was altered, which led to her skipping breakfast. She'd stopped for a coffee at a muggle kiosk on the way to teach her morning class, and had opted for a pumpkin spice special, which was overly sweet and had her feeling nauseous all morning.
The class itself gave her unexpected sympathy for Professor Snape. As part of her pursuit of a Mastery in Arithmancy, she'd studied muggle mathematics at King's College, and had, at the urging of her mentors, pursued a Master's in Complex Systems Modeling. Muggles were far beyond the wizarding world in mathematical theory and modeling techniques, and she was finding groundbreaking new techniques to apply to previously impenetrable Arithmantic problems.
But the cost was tutoring basic statistics to muggle students who hated math. If she had to spend one more morning explaining why a run of ten heads when flipping a coin was just as likely as a run of alternating heads and tails, she was going to go mad. It was as though her voice triggered a trance state in some students, making them impervious to outside stimuli.
At least her students couldn't cause explosions with their errors.
It was raining, a cold, windy, relentless rain, driving people into alleys and nooks to smoke and wait for buses, which meant her two closest apparition points from the campus to the Ministry were unusable, due to muggle proximity. She was cold, wet, and frustrated by the time she'd reached the external entrance to the Ministry, and had to share the phone booth with two others - one of whom had, judging by his breath, just eaten a meal of sauteed onions, topped with fried onions, with a side of minced garlic and onions.
The booth got jammed, somehow, and she was stuck in the cramped space for a good half-hour, breathing in other people's masticated onions and responding with fewer and fewer syllables to speculation about what might have gone wrong with the booth, how quickly it could be fixed, and the chances of the Ballycastle Bats this season.
She did make a point of going directly to her tiny desk next to her Master's office in the Department of Real and Imaginary Numbers, to dry off, warm up, and get a cup of tea before engaging with others. She really did try to put herself in a better frame of mind.
It was just that Harry and Ron came battering at that frame before it was even half assembled.
"Oi! Mione, where've you been?"
The casual tone and loud volume might be acceptable in the Auror's offices, but the rest of the Ministry maintained a quite formal, old-fashioned set of workplace standards, which included formal address of colleagues and the use of inside voices. Disapproving looks were darting her way. She'd already been the recipient of one 'friendly' discussion discouraging socializing at her desk; even though she had just arrived in the office, she had to move this discussion to the cafeteria.
"Ron, could you lower your -"
"All morning, Harry and me have been waiting for you to show up. It's only a possible serial killer, nothing to get excited about. I'm sure Apprentices have much more important reports to be working on."
Oh, for… Ron was wasted as a Junior Auror. Somebody who made every little irritation into a dramatic performance belonged in the theater. Even more looks were directed at them, and it was clear that Ron had chucked a huge, bloody slab of gossip into the piranha pool.
"Ron, mate…" Harry, at least, had some sense of what loose lips might do. Not enough sense to actually say anything to damp down the gossip, of course, not if it would set Ron off further.
"Let's go get a bite," she said through gritted teeth. Food always distracted Ron. Speaking just a little louder, enunciating very clearly, she added, "I've just gotten back from teaching my class. Then we can talk about the cold case analysis you asked me to have ready by tomorrow afternoon."
She did take a moment to take the folder containing the, yes, already completed report from the warded drawer in her desk. She stood back up, turned, and caught Ron staring at her ass.
"You've got mud splashed all over the back of your legs."
Maybe he hadn't been staring at her ass, after all. From several desks down came a burst of whispering that included the words "muddy" and "blood," followed by a feminine titter of laughter.
She cast a silent cleaning charm on her clothes, slid the robe she kept at her desk over her shoulders, and walked out of the Department offices, not caring if Ron or Harry followed.
**********
The next morning, the words across her breast had changed. Instead of reading:
Think of me
they now read:
As I think of you
There was also a new tendril of scar snaking up over and around her left breast, in a wandering, wavy path that ended in a shape like a bud.
So far, she hadn't found anything in the Black family library about scars as a medium for spells. She still had about half the library left to search. She'd found a bit about the healing and care of curse scars, which she wished she had learned years ago. Apparently the scar tissue of a curse scar had to be constantly regenerated; the lingering power of the curse continuously etched into the flesh that worked to contain the dark magic. If the bearer was in poor health or had her magical core drained, the scar would fail, leaving the wound to open again, and the curse would slowly continue in its course.
That explained why the "mudblood" scar on her arm would occasionally resume bleeding, when things were going particularly poorly. There were potions that could support the scar in containing the curse, and Hermione noted down the recipes to try in the future.
But the scar on her torso wasn't thinning, bleeding, or giving any other signs of failing, making it unlikely that the growth of these words was a continuation of the original curse. Not that it made any sense whatsoever to encode messages into a curse designed to kill. But Dolohov was unpredictable, even for his close colleagues.
Think of me
As I think of you
Curse messages. Almost romantic messages, if they weren't appearing on her skin. Marring her skin.
Without conscious direction, her hand drifted up and she traced the letters with the tip of her index finger. They really were sensitive, almost as sensitive as the skin along the side of her throat. Her eyes closed as her focus narrowed to the sensation of gentle stroking along her chest, and the texture of her scar against the tip of her finger. These new tendrils were strangely smooth to the touch…
She opened her eyes, and realized she'd been leaning against the bathroom wall, lost for over ten minutes in a haze of petting her scar.
*********
That afternoon, she attended Harry & Ron's presentation to their superiors in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She was the consulting Arithmancer, and the analyses she'd prepared for the boys on the cold cases - and the three dimensional graphic charms she'd created to display those results - were well-received by the decision-makers in the DMLE. Harry and Ron had looked good, Harry had directed queries and credit to her, and she'd directed credit to her Mastery supervisor in the Department of Real and Imaginary Numbers.
Harry invited her to celebratory drinks with a group of Aurors after work. She'd a nagging feeling that this might be a bad idea, but wrote it off as her social anxiety manifesting. It would be good for her, in some way, to get more practice socializing with the Aurors, who could be a rowdier crowd than she preferred, and anyway, she ought to show support for her best friends by attending.
She was kept a bit late with a last-minute request for projections of the gillyweed harvests in Cornwall over the next ten years under a range of scenarios impacting estuaries. By the time she arrived, the celebration was in full swing and everyone around the cluster of tables was several drinks in.
This would not have been an issue had Ron not been part of everyone.
Finding Harry's table was no trouble, and after greeting him, she was able to squeeze in an additional chair next to Ron. After ordering a lager, as Hermione was in no mood for the sweetness of a butterbeer, she struck up a conversation with Auror Entwhistle. He had served as Senior Auror for several of the boys' cases, and his younger sister had been in the DA, so she was able to keep him talking easily.
Only after Entwhistle, and most of the other senior staff, left, did matters start to go pear-shaped.
"Didn't know you were so friendly with Entwhistle." Ron's tone was perfectly appropriate for a group of friends at a pub, and garnered no attention from anyone else at the table. But Hermione had danced this waltz with Ron before, and didn't care to follow his lead into a public scene, complete with shouting and dramatic exits.
She took a drink of her beer, buying time to find an answer that would avoid a fight. "I'm not, particularly. But I've been reading up on how to make small talk." There. A little self-mockery should put Ron in a better mood, even if he was a few firewhiskeys in.
"You would," and he gave a little snort of laughter, resting his arm around the back of her chair. He leaned in, close to her ear. "And of course, you would use it on someone just like him."
She leaned forward in her seat, away from his arm. "And what’s that supposed to mean, Ron?"
“You know exactly what it means.” Ron sat back into his chair, but left his arm over her seat. “Older man, position of authority, of course you had to show off your new tricks.”
For better or worse, Seamus Finnegan, fellow former Gryffindor and current Junior Auror, overheard at least the last of Ron’s words from across the table. “New tricks? Heard our Hermione wowed the room - Robards was on about needing to make some of those what-if pictures for his meetings with the Minister.”
Hermione pushed down her anger with Ron and seized the new conversational topic. “Oh, that was just the dynamic graphical representations. The hard work was Ron and Harry digging through all the old cases to find potential matches and translating those into arithmantical matrices.”
“Matches to what?” asked Susan Bones, who was sitting next to Seamus. Hermione thought she worked as a liaison between the Aurors and the barristers within the DMLE.
Harry cast a Muffliato around the table, blocking eavesdroppers, before speaking. “A murder victim came in, about a week ago, in a state that suggested premeditated murder.” He flicked his eyes around the table, nervously. “I need non-disclosure wand oaths before I say more.”
Wands came out around the table. This was clearly high-intrigue inside information; even if no one could speak of it, just knowing had a certain satisfaction, particularly for the sort of person who wanted to join the DMLE. Hermione had already vowed her silence, back when she was enlisted to consult.
“Right,” said Harry. “The victim was exsanguinated from a very precise set of cuts, the forehead, breastbone, wrists, and ankles, carefully avoiding the radial and femoral arteries. The cuts themselves were complex - they looked like runes, or foreign letters, but not from an alphabet we could identify. Some of the blood was used in markings on the body, but the rest of it was not found on the scene where the body was found.”
Attention was riveted to Harry. This kind of gruesome crime was far more likely to be found in a novel than in Britain, even Wizarding Britain.
“What kind of markings? More runes?” The questioner was someone Hermione didn’t know, but she wore the uniform of an Auror.
“No,” said Ron. “It was more like a costume. Decoration. To make the body look like an animal.”
The looks of confusion around the table prompted Hermione to add, “Think of it as body paint, to create an impression using light and dark - use large sections of darkness to give the illusion of empty space, or smaller ones to create the illusion of shadows cast by prominent ribs. I thought they looked like very stylized hunting hounds.” It reminded Hermione of costuming in avant-garde theatrical productions she had attended with her parents, but that was not a reference wizards would understand.
“No, they looked more like wyverns. So Auror Hopkirk-” started Ron.
“Mafalda Hopkirk is an Auror?”
“No, not her. Maybe her grandfather. Old man looks like he was eligible for his pension before we were born! But he says he’s seen bodies like that before, and sends me and Harry off through cold cases, looking for them. Thought we were hunting for bloody horny crumpet Snorkacks, but no, we found ‘em. 1952. 3 victims, same cuts in the places. Marked with their own blood, too."
"We found more, looking further back," added Harry. "Four victims in 1919. Three in 1874, I think -"
Hermione could not stop herself. "1875, Harry. Three more in 1807, then -"
Ron pulled his arm off of her chair to wrap around her. His hand squeezed her shoulder just a little too hard to be affectionate. "That's 'Mione, correcting us all. But this time you're wrong."
He cut off her protest. "Not with the years, I'm sure you've got them all memorized. But all your little number grids that you made, that say they aren't connected, this body and the ones in 1952 and the ones in 1919. They're wrong."
He shook her as he spoke those last two words, emphasizing his point, tightening his grip on her shoulder to the point of actual pain in the process. She shrugged out of it, and he let go, but kept his arm resting on her. She didn't want to be touched by him just then, but there was no way to get rid of his arm without risking a scene.
Several people at the table were giving her skeptical looks. She sighed, counted backwards from ten in Japanese, and addressed them. "That's not exactly what the Arithmancy concluded. It's highly likely that there is some link between each… outbreak of murders. But it is almost certain that the perpetrator of this killing did not kill the people in 1952. Those people were probably killed by the same person. Similarly, neither killer inflicted the wounds on the 1919 victims, who were all killed by one individual. Very likely."
She turned to look at Ron, and tried, once again, to get him to listen. "This is not a serial killer who waits decades between clusters of attacks. You found descriptions of cases as far back as 1737! Wizards live a long time, but not that long."
"Vampires do." Ron's face was flushing, which was never a good sign. "Dark spells can make a wizard nearly immortal. You ought to know that, 'Mione."
"I analyzed the cuts and the marks. They were not made by the same individual. They were made by people with very different hand sizes, and your current killer used their left hand. None of the others did that, Ron!"
"That's what your numbers say. But numbers aren't real, 'Mione! You're basing this off of photographs and drawings! You haven't even seen a body, and you're dismissing the theories of actual Aurors!"
"I'm dismissing your theory, Ron, of a single killer. And suggesting that examination of past cases is unlikely to help predict future victims, as they will be victims of convenience, not ones that fit a psychopathology."
Harry threw himself on top of the verbal hand grenade she'd dropped in front of Ron. "To be fair, 'Mione, Auror Hopkirk also thinks we're looking for a single dark wizard or vampire serial killer. A handful of followers at any given time, at most."
"What's your theory, Harry?" asked Susan.
As Harry awkwardly tried to explain that he tried not to form theories so early in the case, Hermione bit her lip, forcing words back down her throat.
Hermione bit back her evaluation of Auror Hopkirk's opinion, which had been based solely on his recollection of the 1952 cases. What was harder still was biting back the impulse to defend her chosen field of work. Numbers were the truest reality of all, and if Ron had so little respect for her professional efforts…
Well, it wouldn't be much of a change in their relationship. He'd always dismissed the results of her research when it didn't please him. Right now, very little that she did would please him; Ron's feelings towards her had followed an annual migration pattern since that last year of the war. As the days grew short and the weather turned cold, he became both clingy and angry, demanding touch, particularly sexual touch. He became jealous, territorial to the point of paranoia. Eventually there would be a blow-up, from which they would reconcile before Christmas, and return to friendship. That would last until the approach of the anniversary of the war's end, when an excess of sentimentality convinced him that they were fated lovers, and he'd engage in a variety of awkward public romantic gestures. He'd eventually get angry at her for not responding as he wanted her to, tell her off as a failure at womanhood, and find another girl to pursue for the summer. Once he had a new love, things would settle between them again, until the cold returned.
Ron was exhausting, but predictable. Well, the shaking was new and a bit worrying. For all his viciousness in arguing, Ron didn't express his anger physically at her. She knew he was perfectly capable of hitting girls, as she'd seen him and Ginny brawl - but not her.
********
A touch - not so light as to make her doubt the sensation, not so firm as to register as pressure - stroked along her collarbones, along the base of her throat. Whatever was touching her was cool and smooth, and drew slow, lazy patterns over the top of her chest, dipping down to brush the top of her breasts, but avoiding her sensitive nipples.
A deep rumbling voice was speaking. She’d heard this voice before, but it wasn’t really familiar. She couldn't make out any words, but something about the rolled consonants and the continuous undulation, without pauses between words, suggested a Slavic accent, or maybe frequent drops into a Slavic language. The tone was affectionate and without urgency, leaving her uncharacteristically unworried about her inability to comprehend the words. It was okay; she wasn’t missing important information, she wasn’t failing to follow directions. She could just let the voice vibrate through her body, let it cancel out the anxious vibrations of her thoughts until her mental voices silenced.
Up and down the column of her throat, the slow stroking continued. Between and above her thighs, her body warmed and tingled, but her arousal was slow and gentle, a grace note to the relaxation that was melting throughout her body instead of a driving beat of need. It was an extra bit of sweetness, a promise of what might come later. But this time was for slow sensuality, a reminder that her body was capable of so many pleasures, and not just a tool of action or a source of pain.
She hadn’t even realized how much pain had clustered at the base of her skull until it was gone, coaxed away by long, soft caresses against her skin.
The smooth, cool stroking reached her shoulder, and she let out a whimper at the unexpected sensation of pain. Something… something wasn’t right, and she was so disoriented. The voice uttered a few sharp sounds, and then returned to an even deeper, more crooning noise. A softer touch, on the edge of perception, drifted over her shoulder, exploring every centimeter. But - what…?
Hermione blinked, peering through the darkness. She patted her chest, her neck, the space next to her, searching out the soothing coolness that had stroked her - no, that was her pillow, she was in her bed. She was in her bedroom, in Grimmauld Place, waking from a dream. She touched her shoulder, and was surprised for a moment to feel real discomfort. Right, it was from Ron, and his squeezing and shaking. She’d have to apply bruise salve in the morning. She must have rolled over onto it in the middle of her dream. Her very sensual dream.
She drank from the water bottle on her side table, and laid back down. If she had further dreams, she did not remember them when she woke.
*********
The next morning was heralded by Ron’s stream of continuous curses down the hallway as he moved from his bedroom to the bathroom. If she interpreted his imprecations correctly, the household was out of Hangover-Over Potion. It wasn’t on Hermione’s list of potions to restock, as she rarely needed it and the boys had proved incapable of marking down when they took one from the cupboard.
She kept one in her room for emergencies, but was not feeling inclined to give it to Ron this morning. Let him stagger off to Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes before work and deal with purchasing some from his brother in the brightly colored store full of flashing lights in his current state. She wallowed in schadenfreude for a moment before she walked into her en suite and removed her shirt.
Ceaselessly, in thought & dream
This phrase was long enough that the scar script trailed down the outside edge of her breast.
In thought & dream
Abruptly, it came to her, where she had heard the voice in her dream before. No wonder she hadn't recognized it - she had never heard him speak outside of a battle or a courtroom. She'd no real idea of what he sounded like when he wasn't casting, cursing, or calling out the Wizengamot and entire Ministry of Magic for gross hypocrisy.
Her dreaming mind had decided his voice in contentment would be decadent, an invitation to sin.
Or was it truly her dreaming mind? An unpleasant chill ran down her spine.
It was time, past time, for her to confirm that Antonin Dolohov was still in Azkaban, with his magic bound. She should be discrete, as frankly, it was far more likely that all of this was some sort of psychotic break induced by the stress of the war and all that came after. Still, she needed to rule out the possibility that Dolohov was somehow continuing to curse her through her scar before she seriously considered other options. Before she concluded that her own mind was no longer reliable.
Self-screwing skrewts, Grimmauld Place was always cold, and the damp of late October made it worse. She wrapped her arms around herself, and waited for the sounds of Ron's shower to stop. As a magical house, Grimmauld could produce infinite amounts of hot water, but as a practical matter, only one bathroom at a time would receive it.
Think of me
As I think of you
Ceaselessly, in thought & dream
To distract herself, she looked at her torso in the mirror, to see if anything other than the words had changed. A new tendril of scar peeped over where her arm wrapped around her breasts, curving across her chest, disappearing over her shoulder, and reappearing over the other shoulder, ending a bit above the script on her breast. A moment of whimsy had it looking like a little magenta snake to her, wrapped around her shoulders, tail in her cleavage, reading the message below its head.
There was something amusing about the notion, as opposed to the cluster of round bruises on her shoulder. Those weren't amusing at all, and looking at them only made her colder.
*********
"Harry, can I talk to you?"
She'd expected an unenthusiastic response, as Harry took any variation on 'we have to talk' as 'you have failed,' no matter how gentle the tone. But an outright flinch, followed by a flush, was more than she'd expected.
"Sure." He sounded as though he'd rather fight a basilisk again, possibly without a sword this time.
"Let's go down to the kitchen." Harry usually responded well to being fed, and she hadn't meant to upset him. Once there, she put the kettle on, and set the teapot with a strainer full of ginger-mint infusion, two mugs, and a plate of chocolate biscuits and miniature pumpkin tarts on the kitchen table.
The price for Ron's potion purchase hours before the shop opened was assisting George with inventory after the shop closed, leaving her and Harry alone at Grimmauld that evening. As unhappy as Harry was, she couldn't let this opportunity slip.
Once everything was set out and the infusion was steeping, they sat side by side. Harry ate an entire miniature tart in one bite, blockading his mouth, staring down at the table. He glanced at her covertly, and did it again. She knew it would best to make him break the silence, but her patience - and her time - was limited.
"Harry," she said, trying not to chide him and probably failing.
"I can't make Ron give up his serial killer theory."
That was not what she was expecting. "I don't expect you to. Once Ron gets an idea in his head, it can't be dislodged. He still sometimes believes we shagged behind his back when we were on the run - even though he sometimes says he believes us."
Harry scowled at the reminder. "That's different."
"Is it?" She filled both the teacups.
Harry leaned forward and ran his hands through his hair. "I thought you'd be upset that he's telling people your Arithmancy is wrong."
"It didn't best please me last night, no."
Harry stared at the table again and the pink started at his scalp and worked its way down.
"Not just last night then." At the Ministry, most likely, and just what her Pureblood detractors were waiting for. "I don't expect you to stand up for me or my work when I'm not there, Harry. But you need to know that standing there silently isn't neutral. It's seen as agreeing with Ron."
"What exactly do you expect me to do, Hermione? He's my partner, it's my job to have his back."
"I'm not asking you to do anything." She ought to remind Harry that eventually, he would have a difference of opinion with Ron himself, and she hoped he realized then that being partners didn't preclude disagreements. But he'd figure that out eventually; he didn't really need her to tell him this. While post-war Harry was more conciliatory with the Weasleys than she'd ever imagined him capable of being, he did still have a temper.
She shifted the topic. "But Harry, that wasn't what I wanted to talk about."
He looked relieved, although a certain degree of frustration lingered in the tight corners of his mouth. "So what was it?"
She'd start off small. She pushed the plate of treats towards him. "First, when will I get the photos and data on the new body in your case to add to my matrix? Assuming I'm still consulting on the case."
"What -" Harry's expression grew stormier. "Hermione, there's a complete lockdown on a lot of the information about the case. How did you find out -?"
"That there was at least one more victim? Calm down, Harry, it wasn't a leak, it was a conjecture." She looked him in the eyes until he calmed a bit. "Last night, Ron derided my experience by saying that I hadn't seen a body. Of course I've seen plenty of bodies, I was at the Final Battle. So he was talking about bodies in this case. If there was still only one, he would have said 'the body,' not 'a body.'"
"That's a lot of precision to assume for Ron."
She shrugged. "But I'm right, aren't I? And remember, I'm under a non-disclosure oath. I knew information was being withheld; there was a great deal redacted from the copy of the file I was allowed to see. I'm not gossiping, I'm letting you know that if you expect useful conclusions from the matrices, you need to give me the autopsy information, at least."
"I'll suggest it." He sighed, and the tension leaked out of his body. "Honestly, I'm not sure they've finished examining the body yet. They only discovered it the day before yesterday, late in the day, and placed the time of death roughly a day before that."
They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the warmth of the kitchen.
"Harry? Can I ask you… kind of a silly question?"
He looked at her, amused. "Didn't you tell me there were no silly questions, once?"
"No, I said there were no stupid questions. And this isn't stupid, it's just… embarrassing, that I'm asking." She felt ridiculous, half a step up from a child asking an adult to check the closet for monsters. She held her hands together tightly, to keep herself from breaking biscuits into tiny pieces in her anxiety.
Amusement replaced by concern, Harry turned in his chair to face her. "What is it, 'Mione? Are you okay? We've both been so busy, I've hardly seen you - ask your question, it's okay."
She bit her lower lip, then looked at him. "It's just - if something had changed, with one of the Death Eaters, especially one we'd fought, I'd be told, right? Like, if they had died, or been paroled, or escaped? I would be informed? Even if the Ministry were keeping it quiet generally?"
She sounded like a pathetic, rambling idiot. Harry might just agree, because his bearing shifted - his shoulders pulled back just a little, and the open concern on his face became a little cooler.
"I think so, Hermione. In most of those scenarios, you'd be assigned a protective detail, given our history." He leaned forward and put his hand over hers, a gesture which felt odd. Harry didn't really do the touching thing. "Is there a reason you're asking, 'Mione? Did something happen?"
"Not really," she said. She felt even more awkward, but tried to offer him a little honesty. "I just… Just have been having dreams. Involving Dolohov. And I've been feeling edgy. Unsettled. I'd feel better if I could be absolutely sure that he was still locked up."
Harry just looked at her.
She pulled her hands out from under his, and took a chocolate biscuit. "I said it was silly and embarrassing, didn't I? Needing to be sure the Boogeyman is still in Azkaban because of some disturbing dreams? I shouldn't have asked, I'm sorry." She pinched off a corner of the biscuit and rolled it between her fingers until it fell to sugary dust.
Harry shook his head, and a familiar apologetic smile crept onto his face. "No, no, I'm glad you asked. I just forget sometimes, that you struggle with the war, too. That you're not always rational and in control. It's kind of a relief to know that even Hermione Granger has bad dreams and needs someone to tell her they aren't real."
"And you're sure about that? That Dolohov is still in Azkaban?"
“As far as I know, yeah.” Before she could ask, he offered. “And I’ll do my best to confirm that.”
“Thank you,” she said, as more biscuit powder fell to the tabletop beneath her fingers. “Could you not mention it to Ron?”
Harry sighed rather forcefully. “You know, it would do him a world of good to know you were vulnerable, too.”
“I’d be more likely to let him know if I didn’t think he’d bludgeon me with it the next time we quarrelled, no matter who we were quarrelling in front of.” She cut Harry off, knowing it was rude, but needing to finish her point. “And you know that it’s only going to get more quarrelsome for the next while. That’s… how things go between us. You can’t fix it, Harry.”
He sighed again, a more drawn-out and gentle exhalation, and picked up another miniature pumpkin tart, shoving it into his mouth, whole.
She rubbed her tender shoulder, realizing she’d forgotten to apply bruise paste that morning. She couldn’t fix things with Ron, either. All she could do was minimize the pain from the fallout.
*********
Before retiring to bed that night, she put up wards around the inside walls of her room. She didn’t have confirmation about Dolohov’s status yet, after all. She hadn’t cast wards this thorough since her time in the tent with the boys, hiding from Snatchers and Death Eaters. The barriers were designed to keep out most magic, and to unobtrusively alert her of any incursion that could not be blocked. No outside magic should be able to reach her, and if it did - she would be awakened. She would know.
The plumbing in the en suite was not compatible with these wards, so there would be no bathroom trips in the middle of the night, but the higher level of security was worth the potential discomfort.
Despite her efforts, she dreamt again that night.
A firm touch pressed against the base of her skull; pressure undulated against the back of neck. After a day spent teaching statistics and worrying about her talk with Harry, the tendons were knotted like a macrame project. The rippling massage was a good pain, though, even at her most unyielding moments, and again, a headache that had become background noise faded away.
She didn’t know that just being in her body could feel this pleasant. She wasn’t sure she’d ever known it.
The cool touch slid along her hairline, from the base of her skull to the back of her ear, moving back and forth lazily, awakening to nerves. Each caress felt more intense, as nerves awakened and sensitized. She wanted to squirm and toss her head, but the paralysis of dreams held her motionless. Before anxiety did more than prickly lightly down her arms, the rumbling voice from the night before was back, hushing her and making reassuring noises. Dream-logic told her all was well, then - she wasn’t alone, he was with her.
From behind one ear, slowly down the ridge of her jaw to her chin, up the other side of her jaw to the other ear in one smooth, cool caress. Shorter strokes, explored the space behind the other ear, as if to see if her sensitive spots were symmetrical. Then the gentle touches moved across her cheek, learning the topography of her face, the curve of her lips and the arches of her brows. She could make out words, sometimes, from the deep voice that vibrated through her bones. “My North Star,” “Soon, very soon,” and “Let me.”
She let him. She could do no other.
*********
That morning, she curled in her bed, surrounded by her uninterrupted wards, hair grasped tightly in her hands, trying to make her breathing something other than a series of choked sobs. Whatever this was - the words, her growing scar, the dreams - it wasn’t from some outside magic. It came from within her. Either from her scar, or from her scarred mind.
She lay there, wrapped around herself in the smallest space she could occupy, shaking, as the lemon-pale light of dawn slicing horizontally behind her curtains brightened into the brilliance of a cloudless October day, spilling down onto the floor. It was Saturday, and while she was expected to put some work in at the Ministry, she was not expected in at any particular hour - thank Circe, because if there was some discipline that could have cut her anxiety attack short, it was utterly beyond Hermione’s capacity.
When she could, she sat up, and drained her water bottle. Taking a deep breath, she took off her shirt and looked.
My sharpest torment
She inhaled sharply upon reading it. Was this revenge? Was he trying to drive her mad?
Think of me
As I think of you
Ceaselessly, in thought & dream
My sharpest torment
But the voice from the dream, the sensual touches - if it was revenge, it was a twisted and complicated revenge, indeed, beyond her ability to fathom.
Beyond the design of a mad genius, locked in Azkaban? She couldn’t say.
She looked at the rest of her scar. There were no new tendrils on her chest, although she could swear that the one winding behind her shoulders like a snake sat slightly differently this morning - and there was a darker spot on the snake’s ‘head’ that looked like an eye.
But beneath her chest, where the scar widened, cut across her ribcage and curled over her left hip, the scar had grown. She twisted, and then was forced to use her fingertips to map out where the scar now wound all the way around her lower back to the opposite hip. It curved sinuously like the tendrils on top, but was thicker, perhaps two inches thick. It, too, was cool to the touch, and mostly smooth, but there was a faint hint of texture to it.
When she entered the en suite for her shower, she hung a towel over the mirror. She didn’t remove it until she was fully dressed for the day and needed her reflection to put her hair into a tidy french plait.
*********
On her desk at the Ministry was a package from the Aurors, security spelled within an inch of self-destruction. Hermione suspected that, had one of her coworkers glanced at it too long, it would have gone up in flames, likely taking her desk with it. At the moment, she wasn't certain that a conflagration would have been a bad thing, as the other item on her desk, out in plain view, was a request from her Arithmancy Mastery Supervisor for a meeting at 2 pm, today.
This was a bad sign. At the very least, it was a violation of office norms to schedule a meeting on a Saturday. One was expected to go in for some amount of time to work, but it was more for catching up. To assume that someone would be available at a given time on a Saturday, with no prior notice, implied you expected them in the office all day. Implied they had a great deal of work to catch up on. So far as Hermione knew, she was not behind on any project.
Attaining her Mastery might have been easier if she had been able to find a Master willing to offer her an Apprenticeship. Sadly, as she'd been warned, there were mysteriously no offers for a Muggleborn, no matter how high her scores or how impressive her achievements. Her connections with the Minister of Magic and the Headmistress of Hogwarts had been enough to cobble together this "supervised" program, where she learned from a variety of sources. She'd passed the Mastery exam for the Exclusive Set of Arithmancers over the summer, and was currently putting the finishing touches on her thesis. She expected to submit it by the end of January, and hopefully have her Mastery by next summer.
If no more unexpected roadblocks came up. But this 2 pm meeting boded ill.
Picking up the packet and the note, she headed to one of the high-security rooms to open the package from the Aurors. It would definitely explode if opened in an insecure area like her desk, and she had three hours in which to work before her meeting.
*********
Hermione considered her extremely firm closure of the front door behind her and her notably audible steps on the stairs to the kitchen to be less of a temper tantrum and more of an advanced warning system. It was a courtesy, really, to her two housemates, to suggest that perhaps it might be wise to give her space.
"Hey, 'Mione."
"We've been waiting on you to order take-out. Did you walk home or something?"
She should have slammed and stomped harder.
Both Harry and Ron were in the kitchen, sitting at the table. Several empty bottles of - was that a pumpkin ale? Morgana's garter, that sounded unappealing - beer-like product and a deck of exploding snap cards were scattered across the tabletop.
"Sorry, it was a long day. Order from wherever, I'm not sure I'm hungry for dinner." She put the kettle on and hunted up her silver needle loose-leaf tea, which she saved for self-indulgence. She grabbed a bar of Belgian chocolate from her hiding place as well.
"But we waited for you," said Ron. "C'mon, eat dinner with us. Show us your new small talk skills."
She placed a mug and steeper down on the counter a bit more forcefully than she intended to. Nothing cracked, at least. "Ron, it hasn't been a good day. I won't be very good company."
"Just eat with us," coaxed Harry. "Skipping dinner won't make you feel any better. How about Indian? Biryani for you, 'Mione?"
They meant well, and she hadn't eaten a hot meal all day. "Fine. Biryani is fine, too, thanks." She filled her mug and set the timer for three minutes.
"Not making any tea to share?"
She was about to remind Ron that he couldn't taste a difference between her fancy blend and a cup of PG Tips when he caught sight of the chocolate. "Oh, I see how it is."
"Ron!" That insinuating, condescending tone he'd used scraped her very last nerve, and she was whirling to advance on him even as she shouted.
"C'mon mate, let's go get the food." Harry literally pulled the redhead out of the kitchen and out of her reach.
By the time the boys returned, she genuinely felt better. Her dreams, no matter what else they did, had reminded her that focusing on sensory pleasures could help with her stress. So she had lost herself in the delicate scent of the tea, the faint apricot undertones of flavor, and the warm stream against her face. She'd taken the time to enjoy the silky texture of the chocolate melting in her mouth and the shift of flavor from sweet to rich as it moved to the back of her tongue.
Her mood had improved enough that she cleaned away the empty beer bottles and boxed up the cards to clear a space for eating. The food was good, and the conversation started casually, with Ron sharing gossip from George.
Then Harry said, "When I talked to him this morning, Robards said he'd give you the data you wanted. Did you get it?"
Ron's eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened. "Didn't know you'd met with him, mate."
"Nothing formal, I just stuck my head in his door and relayed 'Mione's request."
Harry's explanation didn't help; of course it didn't, it implied she'd asked Harry for something and Ron was out of the loop. Which she had, yes, and it oughtn't be a problem, except for Ron's insecurities.
"Yes," she jumped in, before Ron had the chance to work himself up further. "It was very heavily redacted, though - just pictures and measurements of the wounds, and a few of the blood markings. No whole picture of the body, not even a picture of his face, no background information on the victim at all."
"I did tell you that they were holding the information very tight."
"Surprised they gave you anything. You're not DMLE, and you already gave us your report." Ron's expression made it clear he disapproved of giving her any information.
"With what I've got, I should be able to tell you if it was the same killer as the other victim - using the left hand and so on. I might be able to tell you more - hand size and such. But without more information about the victim, I can't continue to test the hypothesis that the victims are of convenience."
"Don't worry about it. They've brought in another consultant. One familiar with Pureblood family grim-"
"Ron! Need to know!" Harry's voice was harsh.
"She's sworn to secrecy," came the sullen reply.
"Need to know only, Ron." Harry sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. "So, what put you in such a bad mood this afternoon, 'Mione?"
She knew he was just trying to change the topic, but felt as though he'd thrown her under the bus. She didn't want to get into this, but they were going to hear about it one way or another.
She took a steadying breath. "My Mastery Supervisor has arranged for me to teach Arithmancy at Hogwarts for winter term, under the supervision of Professor Vector."
There was a long pause.
"You're not happy about this," said Harry, sounding confused.
"No. I'm not. I wasn't asked if I wanted to go to Hogwarts, I was assigned. The reason given was that it was likely to be my best career choice, as apparently the Ministry is unlikely to have the budget to hire another Master Arithmancer in the foreseeable future, and the private sector is driven by old money - meaning Pureblood money."
Ron shifted his chair closer to hers. "But you love Hogwarts."
"I loved being a student at Hogwarts. I don't love teaching. I don't want to teach at a boarding school, particularly."
"No budget? But you've impressed a lot of people, 'Mione - I know there are people in the DMLE who think your work is brilliant, not even counting this week's 'what-if' pictures." Harry was genuinely confused.
"If I'm to have any chance at a position I want, solving real problems in the Ministry, I need to be there in the next six months, impressing people like Robards. Doing more projects for departments other than Real and Imaginary Numbers. I can't do that if I'm stuck in Scotland, patrolling the halls for snogging students!" Her better mood had been nice while it lasted.
Ron rubbed his hand over her back. "But you'd be good at teaching! And McGonagall would be thrilled to have you back!"
"If I do it, I'll be kissing a career in applied Arithmancy goodbye." She pulled out from beneath Ron's hand. She didn't want his touch.
"Look." He grabbed both her shoulders and turned her to face him. "Teaching is a perfectly respectable job!"
"But it isn't the job I want!" She tried to pull away, and his grip tightened.
"Why, because you insist on being a know-it-all at the Ministry and trying to make the entire Auror department bow to your whim?"
It felt like all the oxygen in the room had combusted. She sucked in air, but it was useless, she couldn't breathe. She twisted violently; she broke one shoulder free of Ron's punishing grip, but his other hand slipped beneath the neckline of her shirt.
"No, you pathetic, insecure piece of goat dung! Because I can use my skills, which I studied and practiced for years, to help guide the Ministry in making the best decisions possible!"
His hand squeezed and twisted, and something deep in her shoulder pulled in a way that felt wrong and hurt. She let out a low noise of pain at the same time Ron yelped. He yanked his hand back, and she caught a glimpse of blood at the base of his thumb before he closed his fist.
"What in Merlin's arse was that, witch? Felt like something bit me!"
Harry was there, separating them, pulling Hermione behind his back. "You know better than to lay a hand on a witch, Ron! 'Mione can cast wandlessly and wordlessly. You shouldn't be surprised that she made you let go of her."
She could, in fact, cast silently and without pulling out her wand. But she hadn't. Not that she cared in the least what Ron's problem was, so long as he was no longer touching her.
Ron muttered unflattering things. Hermione was fairly sure she caught the words "mental bitch," but didn't care to pay more attention. Harry fluttered over her, asking if she was alright.
"I'll be fine, Harry. I'll just take some potions and go to bed." She dragged up something that she hoped resembled a smile for him. "I did warn you that I wouldn't be very good company tonight."
"You weren't the only one. Honestly, 'Mione, if you need anything, even in the middle of the night, come and get me?"
She nodded.
Later, in her room, she drank a pain potion and a general healing potion. She looked at the final vial she had brought up from the potion cupboard for a long time before she opened it, and downed it in one long swallow.
The minty lavender flavor of Dreamless Sleep chased her into blackness.
*********
The next morning, she looked down at her chest. The script now read:
My sacred sanctuary
It was unmistakable - the head of what looked very much like a snake made of scar had moved. It no longer hovered above the words on her breast. Instead it sat on her collarbone, among the faded bruises inflicted last night. At its mouth was a small smear of blood.
*********
Think of me
As I think of you
Ceaselessly, in thought & dream
My sharpest torment
My sacred sanctuary