Chapter Three - Dreams and Dreads
Chapter Warning: One use of the f-word.
During the next few weeks, Hermione realised that Sirius had been right. It wasn’t that she’d ever really doubted that, but blindly acting on the word of someone she’d only known for a few weeks wasn’t exactly a smart thing to do, even if that someone was your best friend’s godfather.
The Weasleys were the kind of family that anyone would want to belong to. Even when sibling arguments erupted – which they frequently did – it was always more fond bickering that full-blown rows. After a couple of days, Ginny convinced Hermione to tell her brothers about her parents and all five – Percy had been at work and wasn’t really the kind of person you could tell something like this anyway – promptly adopted her as an honorary Weasley, just as they already had with Harry. Bill and Charlie then talked Hermione into telling their parents. Like she thought, Molly immediately invited her to stay with them the following summer as well, despite Hermione’s insistence that she would find other arrangements.
On Sunday evening, the day before the World Cup, Arthur, Fred, George and Ron went to get Harry from the Dursleys via floo. Hermione was sure the Dursleys wouldn’t have an open fireplace, but Arthur had gone to such trouble to get the house hooked up to the network she didn’t say anything. Besides, Harry’s aunt and uncle deserved to have people show up in their chimney and have to blast the living room apart, which was exactly what had happened.
As always, Molly outdid herself with dinner. Hermione tucked in to chicken-and-ham pie, potatoes and salad, only half listening to the conversations around her. Percy was telling his father about his report, Molly and Bill were arguing yet again about his earring and the length of his hair and Charlie and the twins were discussing the World Cup.
It was while they were finishing up some delicious home-made strawberry ice-cream that Harry fixed Hermione with a stare and said, “It’s later.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. She had been delaying the inevitable talk about her parents since Harry arrived earlier that day. “For someone who’s more cryptic than a crossword sometimes, you’ve certainly got something about opening up to people.” She took a deep breath and told the bowl in front of her – which was somehow easier to look at than Harry’s expression – everything that had happened with her father in an undertone. Even though the other Weasleys knew what had happened, they didn’t know about the physical abuse that she’d suffered, because she’d only told Ron and Ginny. By the time she’d finished, his arm was around her shoulders again and he’d abandoned his ice-cream.
“If I ever meet him…” Harry trailed off ominously.
“Get in line, mate.” Ron muttered.
Hermione couldn’t help but smile at his best friends’ protectiveness. “So I decided to do what Sirius suggested and…”
“Hermione!” Harry hissed, nodding almost unnoticeably at Ginny.
“You’re about three weeks too late.” Ron told him. “Ginny knows.”
Hermione sighed. “In my defence, I was a little distraught when I told her.”
Harry squeezed her shoulder lightly, before removing his arm. “You won’t tell anyone, will you, Ginny?”
Ginny mimed doing up a zip across her mouth. “Not a soul. I swear.”
“Solemnly swear?” Harry asked and Hermione knew immediately that he wasn’t really upset.
“Yeah.” Ginny looked a little confused. “Was that a joke? Because, if it was, you might want to warn us in future, so we remember to laugh.”
Harry grinned at her. “Inside joke, Gin. We’ll explain everything after the World Cup.”
“Why not now?” Ginny asked curiously.
“I don’t know the Silencing Charm.” Harry explained. “I’d rather tell you when we can actually talk about it.”
Ginny nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Speaking of Sirius…” Hermione searched her pockets and pulled out the photo that Sirius had duplicated. “Long story.”
Harry smiled at the picture. “Thanks.”
Ron leaned in. “Harry, have you heard from…” he glanced up and down the table “…Padfoot at all?”
“A couple of times.” Harry answered. “Big birds though.”
Hermione laughed quietly. “Tell me about it. He’s written to me a couple of times as well.”
“Oh, that’s who the other letters were for.” Harry nodded. “That makes sense. I wrote to him the day before yesterday, so he might write back while I’m here.”
Hermione felt a strange expression rise briefly in the air; worry mixed with…grief? Fear? “You okay, Harry?”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Fine.”
“No, you’re not.” Hermione accused.
Harry sighed. “I’ll tell you after the Cup, okay?”
“How did you do that?” Ginny whispered.
Hermione paused, wondering how to tell them that she was a classified Dark Creature. She had just steeled herself for it, when the adults stood up.
“Time for bed.” Molly announced. “You’ll be up early tomorrow.”
Hermione jumped to her feet, glad for the distraction, and they followed the Weasley matriarch inside and up to their rooms. Outside their room, Hermione hugged both boys goodnight and the two girls slipped into bed.
“Well?” Ginny asked into the darkness.
Hermione grimaced, knowing her room-mate couldn’t see her. “After the Cup.”
***
“Harry Potter! You do know who he is!” Fudge repeated, loudly for the fifteenth time.
“He’s not going to suddenly understand.” Ron muttered to Harry. “Show him your scar, why don’t you?”
Harry self-consciously flattened his hair over his scar. “I’d rather not.”
“Harry Potter!”
Hermione stood up suddenly, her head pounding. “Excuse-moi, Monsieur. Parlez-vous français?” (Excuse me, Sir. Do you speak French?)
The Bulgarian Minister nodded. “Ah, oui. Je parle anglais aussi, mais votre ministre est un idiot. Vous semblez pour avoir un cerveau. Peut-être que vous pourriez traduire, Mademoiselle?” (Ah, yes. I speak English also, but your Minister is an idiot. You seem to have a brain. Perhaps you could translate, Miss?)
“Certainement.” (Certainly.) Hermione turned to Fudge. “Sir, he doesn’t speak a word of English, but he’s fluent in French. Would you like me to translate?” She didn’t intend to volunteer, but Fudge was being unnecessarily loud and her head wasn’t thanking him for it, with the already heightened emotions around them.
Despite the annoyance in the air, Fudge sighed in relief. “Thank you, young lady. I’m no good with languages; no good at all. I really need old Barty for this.”
Hermione turned back to the Bulgarian Minister – Mr. Oblansk – and introduced herself and Harry, then, at Fudge’s request, everyone else in the box. Mr. Oblansk seemed to be entertaining himself by insulting everyone in French, except for the Weasleys, whom he seemed to like, and Hermione had to fight not to laugh.
It wasn’t long, however, before an unwelcome – to her, at least – visitor entered the box: Lucius Malfoy and his wife and son.
Hermione barely heard Lucius introducing his wife and son to Fudge; she was focusing on the emotions around him.
He obviously felt himself better than Fudge – then again, who wasn’t – and, oddly enough, there was very little affection towards his wife and son.
Mrs. Malfoy – Narcissa, Hermione remembered from her extra reading in the library, one of Sirius’s cousins – felt no affection towards her husband at all, but seemed to dote on her son.
And Draco …
Hermione wasn’t sure whether to be worried or relieved that he appeared to hate his father, although he did still love his mother.
She was shaken back to reality when Fudge addressed her.
“I’m sorry, young lady; I didn’t catch your name. A charming young lady offered to translate for me. This is Minister Oblansk of Bulgaria.”
Hermione didn’t bother telling Fudge her name; she knew he didn’t really want to know. Seeing Lucius sneering at her, she focused her energy on keeping her expression blank instead.
“Monsieur Oblansk, permettez-moi de présenter Lucius Malfoy, sa femme, Narcissa, et leur fils, Draco.” (Mr Oblansk, allow me to introduce Lucius Malfoy, his wife, Narcissa, and their son, Draco).
Mr. Oblansk shook their hands and turned to Hermione. “Mademoiselle, pourquoi est-il ici? Il est un Mangemort. Même je sais ceci. Et pourquoi pas il vous aime?” (Miss, why is he here? He is a [?]. Even I know this. And why doesn't he like you?)
Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Lucius and Draco looking lost, but Narcissa seemed … worried?
Hermione tested the air. Not worry, but an odd kind of triumph.
Clearly, she understood, but Hermione had no idea what one of the words meant. Hang on. “Manger” is “to eat” and “Mort” is “death”. So “Mangemort” must mean “Death Eater”.
“Oui, il était, mais maintenant il est un bon ami de Monsieur Fudge.” (Yes, he was, but now he is a good friend of Mr Fudge.)
Hermione paused, wondering how to answer the second question. She glanced at Narcissa. The emotions around her led Hermione to believe that she could trust her.
Should she stain the whole family in Mr. Oblansk’s eyes because of the head? “Je ne sais pas pourquoi il ne m’aime pas.” (I don't know why he doesn't like me.)
Surprise and gratitude flared in the air and on Narcissa’s face for a second, before her expression was back to one of carefully schooled neutrality.
Just then, Ludo Bagman bounded into the Top Box. Fudge thanked Hermione casually and sat down, but Mr. Oblansk shook her hand once more. “Merci beaucoup encore, Mademoiselle. Appréciez le jeu.” (Thank you again, Miss. Enjoy the game).
“Merci. Et vous aussi.” (Thank you. And you also).
Hermione bowed her head respectfully and re-joined Harry and the Weasleys, grinning at the look of shock on their faces.
“Since when do you speak French?” Ginny asked.
Hermione laughed. “My cousin lives in France.”
“Everyone ready?” Bagman asked, his face shining like a large Edam.
“Minister, ready to go?”
“Ready when you are, Ludo.” Fudge said comfortably.
Ludo directed his wand at his throat. “Sonorous.” When he spoke again, his voice carried over the roar of sound filling the stadium. “Ladies and gentlemen … welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”
The spectators cheered and screamed. Special flags waved, adding the two national anthems to the racket. The giant board opposite the Top Box, currently advertising Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, wiped clean and flashed Bulgaria: Zero; Ireland: Zero across the crowd.
“And now, without further ado,” Bagman announced, “allow me to introduce the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!”
While the right hand side of the stadium roared their approval, Arthur leaned forwards. “I wonder what they’ve brought. Ah!” He whipped his glasses off and wiped them hurriedly. “Veela!”
Hermione and Ginny exchanged a confused look as a hundred Veela glided onto the pitch; women with pale blonde hair, who were just too beautiful to be human. And then they began to dance.
Ginny shrugged at Hermione. Neither of the two girls could see what was so amazing about the Veela, except they were clearly more attractive than either of them.
Hermione was momentarily distracted by a note being pushed into her hand from behind her. She looked back, but no one seemed to be watching to see if she’d received it.
She shoved the note into her pocket, before glancing at Harry to tell him what had happened, but the note was instantly forgotten as her blood ran cold.
Arthur, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred and George had their hands over their ears, but Ron and Harry hadn’t bothered.
Ron was in a spring-board position and Harry was standing with one leg on the wall of the Box, as though he was about to jump.
“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione asked in alarm.
The Veela had stopped dancing and the stadium was filled with angry shouts. Harry shook his head slowly, taking his leg off the wall, but stayed standing. Ron was mindlessly shredding the shamrock on his hat, staring open-mouthed at the Veela.
Arthur tugged the hat out of Ron’s hand with a smile. “You’ll be wanting that once Ireland have their say.”
“Huh?” Ron asked eloquently, still gawping.
Hermione tutted and tugged Harry back into his seat, hitting him over the back of his head for good measure.
“Honestly!”
“And now!” Bagman roared. “The Irish National Team Mascots!”
What appeared to be a green and gold comet came hurtling into the stadium and circled it once, before separating into two smaller comets. As the leprechauns flew up above the stadium to form a giant shamrock, gold showed over the crowd.
Ron shoved a fistful of gold coins into Harry’s hand. “There you go! For the Omnioculars! Now you’ve got to get me a Christmas present!”
The shamrock dissolved and the leprechauns settled on the other side of the pitch to watch the game.
Hermione took a deep breath and managed to block out the majority of the emotions around her. “Let the games begin.”
***
The morning after the World Cup, the Weasleys, Harry and Hermione took the earliest Portkey they could back to Ottery St. Catchpole.
“They’ll be talking about this one for years.” Ludo Bagman had said, after Bulgaria’s shock victory – and they certainly would, though not for the right reasons.
The team mascots had started a brawl on the pitch, a group of wizards and witches – who may or may not have been the Death Eaters who escaped Azkaban – had kidnapped a family of Muggles and gone on the rampage, and the Dark Mark – Voldemort’s sign – had been fired into the sky metres from where Hermione, Ron and Harry had been standing.
But the thing that preyed on Hermione’s mind happened in the woods around the camp site while they were hiding from the rioting crowd …
The coloured lanterns that had lit the path earlier in the evening had been extinguished. Figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; shouts and cries were reverberating around them. Hermione felt Harry grab her hand, her head almost bursting with the swirling sea of emotion, as they were buffeted around by terrified campers.
Then they heard Ron cry out in pain.
“What happened?” Hermione asked, her stomach feeling as though it had disappeared. “Ron, where are you? Oh, this is stupid! Lumos!” Illuminating her wand, she directed its beam across the path.
Ron was sprawled on the ground. “Tripped over a tree root.” He explained irritably, climbing to his feet.
“Well, with feet that size, hard not to.” A voice drawled.
They all spun around to see Draco Malfoy, leaning casually against a tree. He was watching the carnage out on the field, a smirk on his face. Despite this, Hermione could sense nothing but fear and disgust coming from him. Putting this aside to think about later, she grabbed Harry’s hand before it could reach for his wand.
“Oh, fuck off!” Ron snapped.
“Language, Weasley.” Draco smirked. “Hadn’t you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn’t like her spotted, would you?” He nodded at Hermione.
At the same moment, a blast like a bomb sounded from the field and the air momentarily lit up green.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hermione asked defiantly, inwardly marvelling at how steady her voice was. She could sense concern in the air…but was that Draco’s himself or were Ron and Harry’s emotions over-riding his?
“Granger, they’re after Muggles.” Draco elaborated. “Do you want to be showing off your knickers in mid-air? Because if you do, hang around…they’re moving this way and it would give us all a laugh.”
Disgust again. Harry and Ron’s? No, Hermione thought. It was self-disgust. Could it be that Draco only acting like this because of his father?
“Hermione’s a witch!” Harry snarled, moving in front of her protectively.
“Have it your own way, Potter.” Draco grinned. “If you think they can’t spot a Mudblood…” the self-disgust escalated briefly “…stay where you are.”
“You watch your mouth!” Ron shouted.
Hermione grabbed his arm. “Never mind, Ron.”
Another bang sounded from the other side of the trees, causing several people to scream.
Draco chucked. “Scare easily, don’t they? I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? What’s he up to – trying to rescue the Muggles?”
“Where’re your parents?” Harry snapped, his temper flaring; Hermione put a calming hand on his shoulder. “Out there wearing masks, are they?”
Draco smirked. “Well, if they were, I wouldn’t be likely to tell you, would I?” He turned his gaze back to Hermione, seeming to read the expression of concern and curiosity on her face. He was still smirking maliciously, but the emotion swarming around him was…Hermione couldn’t place it. “Come on.” She said uneasily. “Let’s go and find the others.”
“Keep your head down, Granger.” Draco called with a slight sneer in his voice.
It was quite unnerving, realising that she had misjudged someone who she had gone to school with for three years, especially someone who regularly inserted himself into their lives without invitation or provocation.
How many other people have I done that to?
Mrs Weasley was, understandably, frantic by the time they arrived home and it was only once she’d been given a cup of tea with a shot of firewhiskey in it and Arthur and Percy had gone to work that Hermione had a chance to talk to the others.
Harry, Ron and Ginny followed her up to the boys’ room and the trio told Ginny about the events in the woods, elaborating where they hadn’t the night before. Like Harry and Ron, Ginny was intrigued at the speed with which Hermione had managed to drag Harry and Ron away from Draco – which was usually at least a three-person job (one to talk Harry down and two to grab hold of Ron).
“That’s a good point, Hermione.” Harry agreed. “You’ve never managed to get us to do that before.”
“I’d say it wasn’t the time, but I’d be lying.” Hermione sighed. “I’m an empath.”
Ginny and Ron’s expressions didn’t change, but their emotions changed from curiosity to worry laced with panic.
Hermione collapsed on Harry’s bed. “Come on, guys; I’m still me.”
“What is an empath?” Harry asked.
“A Dark Creature that feeds off other people’s emotions.” Ginny answered quietly. “A bit like a Dementor, but doesn’t focus on happy thoughts.”
Hermione laughed. “Ginny, that’s ridiculous! Empaths don’t feed on emotions!”
“They don’t?” Ron asked. “That’s what the legends say.”
“Yeah, well, the legends say that werewolves eat small children even when it’s not the full moon, don’t they?” Harry frowned. “Besides Hermione’s not dark.”
Hermione beamed at him, as the panic in the air receded rapidly.
“Of course she’s not.” Ginny agreed. “I’m sorry, Hermione – I should have known those stories weren’t true.”
“Yeah, we should.” Ron seconded, his ears bright red.
Harry sighed wearily. “We still haven’t established what an empath actually is.”
Hermione chuckled and told them everything she’d read and found out, before explaining what had happened in the woods. “Malfoy wasn't making any sense.”
“Does he ever?” Ron asked blankly.
Hermione stifled a snigger. “I mean his emotions weren’t making any sense. At the match, it was like he hates his father.”
Ron frowned. “How can you hate your own father? Besides, Hermione, we were there in the woods with you, remember? He loved what was happening.”
Hermione shook her head. “He was scared, Ron. When he warned me …”
“Threatened you, you mean.” Ron growled.
“Self-loathing.” Hermione corrected. “He was genuinely concerned and he was telling us that his father was in that crowd. Lucius Malfoy knows who I am; he would know I was Muggle-born, even if the others didn’t. Oh!”
“What?” Harry asked sharply.
“In the Top Box, someone passed me a note while everyone else was distracted by the Veela.” Hermione rummaged through her pockets, and finally found the crumpled piece of parchment. “Tell SB I’m sorry. He was right. NBM.”
Ginny’s eyebrows rose into her hairline. “What?”
“Well …” Hermione frowned. “SB … Those are Sirius’s initials.”
“Wait, someone knows …” Harry’s face paled. “What if …”
Hermione held up a hand. “NBM – Narcissa Malfoy.”
Ron snorted. “What’s her middle name? Betty?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “That’s not a middle name, Ron; it’s a maiden name. Narcissa Black-Malfoy. She’s one of Sirius’s cousins.”
“She is?” Harry asked blankly.
“What was Sirius right about?” Ginny asked.
Hermione shrugged. “He’ll know.”
“But what if they’re watching?” Harry protested.
“We’ll send it with a school owl.” Ginny said. “They’d be less conspicuous than Hedwig. Speaking of Hedwig, why’d you ask Mum if she’d come with a letter?”
“There’s something I haven’t told you.” Harry admitted. “On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar hurting.”
Hermione gasped and Ron looked dumbstruck.
“It might just be me.” Ginny spoke up. “But what’s so terrible?”
“The last time my scar hurt, Voldemort was at Hogwarts.” Harry explained in an undertone, causing Ginny to turn white.
“But…But You-Know-Who couldn’t have been near you, could he?” Ron asked.
Harry shook his head. “I don’t think he was in Privet Drive, but I had this weird dream, about Voldemort and someone else and they were talking about a plan. I couldn’t figure out what it was supposed to be. But they’d definitely killed someone.”
Ginny gasped. “Tell someone!”
“Who?” Ron asked. “Who is going to believe…?”
“Write to Dumbledore.” Hermione interrupted. “Did you? Is that why you wanted to know if Hedwig had come?”
“No, I wrote to Sirius.” Harry corrected.
Ron’s face immediately cleared. “Good idea! He’ll know what to do!”
“But I haven’t heard back yet.” Harry sighed. “I’m worried.”
“About Sirius?” Ginny asked sympathetically.
“No.” Harry sighed again. “They were plotting to kill someone else. Me.”
Hermione and Ginny looked worried, but Ron clapped him on the back. “It was just a dream! A nightmare!”
“Yeah, but was it?” Harry asked, turning to look out of the window at the brightening sky. “It’s a weird coincidence, isn’t it? My scar hurts and, three days later, Death Eaters are on the march and Voldemort’s sign appears in the sky for the first time in thirteen years.”
“Don’t say the name!” Ron hissed.
“It was awful.” Ginny shuddered. “And it’s only a name.”
“How can you say it?” Ron asked. “And how did you know what the Dark Mark was?”
Ginny flinched. “Tom already had that sign made when he was sixteen.”
Harry gave her a comforting smile and turned back to Ron. “And remember what Trelawney said at the end of last year?”
Hermione gave a derisive snort. “Oh, Harry, you aren’t going to believe anything that old fraud says?”
“You weren’t there.” Harry reminded her. “It was different. You didn’t hear her. She was in some kind of trance; a real one. She said that the Dark Lord would rise again – greater and more terrible than before – and he would manage this because his servant would return to him…and that night Wormtail escaped.”
Hermione changed the subject hopefully. “Speaking of prophecies, what about this dream, Harry? Jess’s, I mean.”
“Who?” Ginny asked.
Ron explained about Jessica’s propensity for true/prophetic dreams while Harry searched his trunk, eventually pulling out piece of Muggle paper, half-covered in neat handwriting.
Hermione took it and read it through. “The pits of dark are seeded, this warning must be heeded, touch of cup brings respite’s end, and love and strength are keys to mend.” She pulled a face. “You’re right, Harry. This is much more cryptic than the last one. Although you did tell me that one in hindsight, which may have made it a bit easier for us. Anything else?”
Harry sighed. “Well, yes and no. She said that she couldn’t see anything, just hear it. It was like a voice talking in her ear, but before and after that poem was recited, the voice was too quiet to really hear, except a few words that were shouted.” He pointed to the next line.
“Red … rat … grim … heed warning …” Hermione pulled a face “… betrayal … end respite … cup.” She sighed. “I honestly have nothing.”
Ginny held out her hand. “Can I try?”
Hermione shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
Ginny ran her gaze over the page several times. “When did she have it?”
Harry frowned thoughtfully. “June, I think.”
“So about the time you found out about Sirius.” Ginny concluded, frowning at the page. “Is that ‘grim’ with a capital letter? Because if it is,” she continued, not giving Harry a chance to respond, “then it could refer to everyone’s favourite fugitive.”
“How?” Ron asked blankly.
Hermione sighed wearily. “Grim without a capital letter is an adjective, Ron, meaning dismal or gloomy. Grim with a capital letter is a proper noun, meaning a large black dog. As in the kind Trelawney insisted was following Harry all last year.”
“And he was.” Harry put in slightly smugly. “Makes that prophecy seem a bit more genuine, doesn’t it?”
Hermione just rolled her eyes. “You’re right, Gin. And running with that line, the red would be your family – redheads – and the rat would be Wormtail.” She stood up from Harry’s bed and began pacing, which wasn’t easy in the small space. “Harry, did Jess write those words down in the order she heard them?”
“I think so.” Harry confirmed. “Why?”
Hermione sighed. “Because ‘heed warning’, coupled with that poem, seems to refer to something that’s going to happen. Now, if the word ‘betrayal’ came first, then it could refer to Wormtail. But it came afterwards.” Her gaze swept over them, resting on Ron a fraction of a second longer than Ginny and Harry. “There may well be a split here.”
“Never.” Harry stated simply.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Harry,” she said gently, “don’t you think that’s what the Marauders once said?”
“Come on, Hermione.” Ron rolled his eyes. “None of us is going to betray him to You-Know-Who.”
“There are different kinds of betrayal, Ron.” Ginny said quietly.
Ron looked uncomfortable. “Well, maybe. But some of those words are repeated in that poem. What cup’s it talking about? And what’s a respite?”
“It’s a temporary suspension of something.” Hermione recited.
Ron shook his head. “I swear you’re a walking dictionary. In English, please?”
Ginny rolled her eyes and swatted her brother on the head. “Honestly, Ron. A respite is when there’s a pause in something. In this case, this temporary holiday you three have had from danger is going to end, and you’ll be right back in the thick of it.”
“Story of my life.” Harry muttered. “Do you think it means the Quidditch World Cup? Could it be a warning about the Death Eaters?”
“I don’t think so.” Hermione sighed. “That first line – the pits of dark are seeded – I think it’s talking about the prophecy, Harry.”
“Oh, so you believe in Trelawney now then.” Harry teased.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “I believe Jess, Harry. Besides, what happened at the Cup wasn’t personal. All through the summer, I’ve felt that something awful’s going to happen, and I still have that feeling.”
As the four sank into silence, Hermione sank back onto the bed and closed her eyes. As much as it pained her to admit it, she knew she was right. This ride was only just beginning.
During the next few weeks, Hermione realised that Sirius had been right. It wasn’t that she’d ever really doubted that, but blindly acting on the word of someone she’d only known for a few weeks wasn’t exactly a smart thing to do, even if that someone was your best friend’s godfather.
The Weasleys were the kind of family that anyone would want to belong to. Even when sibling arguments erupted – which they frequently did – it was always more fond bickering that full-blown rows. After a couple of days, Ginny convinced Hermione to tell her brothers about her parents and all five – Percy had been at work and wasn’t really the kind of person you could tell something like this anyway – promptly adopted her as an honorary Weasley, just as they already had with Harry. Bill and Charlie then talked Hermione into telling their parents. Like she thought, Molly immediately invited her to stay with them the following summer as well, despite Hermione’s insistence that she would find other arrangements.
On Sunday evening, the day before the World Cup, Arthur, Fred, George and Ron went to get Harry from the Dursleys via floo. Hermione was sure the Dursleys wouldn’t have an open fireplace, but Arthur had gone to such trouble to get the house hooked up to the network she didn’t say anything. Besides, Harry’s aunt and uncle deserved to have people show up in their chimney and have to blast the living room apart, which was exactly what had happened.
As always, Molly outdid herself with dinner. Hermione tucked in to chicken-and-ham pie, potatoes and salad, only half listening to the conversations around her. Percy was telling his father about his report, Molly and Bill were arguing yet again about his earring and the length of his hair and Charlie and the twins were discussing the World Cup.
It was while they were finishing up some delicious home-made strawberry ice-cream that Harry fixed Hermione with a stare and said, “It’s later.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. She had been delaying the inevitable talk about her parents since Harry arrived earlier that day. “For someone who’s more cryptic than a crossword sometimes, you’ve certainly got something about opening up to people.” She took a deep breath and told the bowl in front of her – which was somehow easier to look at than Harry’s expression – everything that had happened with her father in an undertone. Even though the other Weasleys knew what had happened, they didn’t know about the physical abuse that she’d suffered, because she’d only told Ron and Ginny. By the time she’d finished, his arm was around her shoulders again and he’d abandoned his ice-cream.
“If I ever meet him…” Harry trailed off ominously.
“Get in line, mate.” Ron muttered.
Hermione couldn’t help but smile at his best friends’ protectiveness. “So I decided to do what Sirius suggested and…”
“Hermione!” Harry hissed, nodding almost unnoticeably at Ginny.
“You’re about three weeks too late.” Ron told him. “Ginny knows.”
Hermione sighed. “In my defence, I was a little distraught when I told her.”
Harry squeezed her shoulder lightly, before removing his arm. “You won’t tell anyone, will you, Ginny?”
Ginny mimed doing up a zip across her mouth. “Not a soul. I swear.”
“Solemnly swear?” Harry asked and Hermione knew immediately that he wasn’t really upset.
“Yeah.” Ginny looked a little confused. “Was that a joke? Because, if it was, you might want to warn us in future, so we remember to laugh.”
Harry grinned at her. “Inside joke, Gin. We’ll explain everything after the World Cup.”
“Why not now?” Ginny asked curiously.
“I don’t know the Silencing Charm.” Harry explained. “I’d rather tell you when we can actually talk about it.”
Ginny nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Speaking of Sirius…” Hermione searched her pockets and pulled out the photo that Sirius had duplicated. “Long story.”
Harry smiled at the picture. “Thanks.”
Ron leaned in. “Harry, have you heard from…” he glanced up and down the table “…Padfoot at all?”
“A couple of times.” Harry answered. “Big birds though.”
Hermione laughed quietly. “Tell me about it. He’s written to me a couple of times as well.”
“Oh, that’s who the other letters were for.” Harry nodded. “That makes sense. I wrote to him the day before yesterday, so he might write back while I’m here.”
Hermione felt a strange expression rise briefly in the air; worry mixed with…grief? Fear? “You okay, Harry?”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Fine.”
“No, you’re not.” Hermione accused.
Harry sighed. “I’ll tell you after the Cup, okay?”
“How did you do that?” Ginny whispered.
Hermione paused, wondering how to tell them that she was a classified Dark Creature. She had just steeled herself for it, when the adults stood up.
“Time for bed.” Molly announced. “You’ll be up early tomorrow.”
Hermione jumped to her feet, glad for the distraction, and they followed the Weasley matriarch inside and up to their rooms. Outside their room, Hermione hugged both boys goodnight and the two girls slipped into bed.
“Well?” Ginny asked into the darkness.
Hermione grimaced, knowing her room-mate couldn’t see her. “After the Cup.”
***
“Harry Potter! You do know who he is!” Fudge repeated, loudly for the fifteenth time.
“He’s not going to suddenly understand.” Ron muttered to Harry. “Show him your scar, why don’t you?”
Harry self-consciously flattened his hair over his scar. “I’d rather not.”
“Harry Potter!”
Hermione stood up suddenly, her head pounding. “Excuse-moi, Monsieur. Parlez-vous français?” (Excuse me, Sir. Do you speak French?)
The Bulgarian Minister nodded. “Ah, oui. Je parle anglais aussi, mais votre ministre est un idiot. Vous semblez pour avoir un cerveau. Peut-être que vous pourriez traduire, Mademoiselle?” (Ah, yes. I speak English also, but your Minister is an idiot. You seem to have a brain. Perhaps you could translate, Miss?)
“Certainement.” (Certainly.) Hermione turned to Fudge. “Sir, he doesn’t speak a word of English, but he’s fluent in French. Would you like me to translate?” She didn’t intend to volunteer, but Fudge was being unnecessarily loud and her head wasn’t thanking him for it, with the already heightened emotions around them.
Despite the annoyance in the air, Fudge sighed in relief. “Thank you, young lady. I’m no good with languages; no good at all. I really need old Barty for this.”
Hermione turned back to the Bulgarian Minister – Mr. Oblansk – and introduced herself and Harry, then, at Fudge’s request, everyone else in the box. Mr. Oblansk seemed to be entertaining himself by insulting everyone in French, except for the Weasleys, whom he seemed to like, and Hermione had to fight not to laugh.
It wasn’t long, however, before an unwelcome – to her, at least – visitor entered the box: Lucius Malfoy and his wife and son.
Hermione barely heard Lucius introducing his wife and son to Fudge; she was focusing on the emotions around him.
He obviously felt himself better than Fudge – then again, who wasn’t – and, oddly enough, there was very little affection towards his wife and son.
Mrs. Malfoy – Narcissa, Hermione remembered from her extra reading in the library, one of Sirius’s cousins – felt no affection towards her husband at all, but seemed to dote on her son.
And Draco …
Hermione wasn’t sure whether to be worried or relieved that he appeared to hate his father, although he did still love his mother.
She was shaken back to reality when Fudge addressed her.
“I’m sorry, young lady; I didn’t catch your name. A charming young lady offered to translate for me. This is Minister Oblansk of Bulgaria.”
Hermione didn’t bother telling Fudge her name; she knew he didn’t really want to know. Seeing Lucius sneering at her, she focused her energy on keeping her expression blank instead.
“Monsieur Oblansk, permettez-moi de présenter Lucius Malfoy, sa femme, Narcissa, et leur fils, Draco.” (Mr Oblansk, allow me to introduce Lucius Malfoy, his wife, Narcissa, and their son, Draco).
Mr. Oblansk shook their hands and turned to Hermione. “Mademoiselle, pourquoi est-il ici? Il est un Mangemort. Même je sais ceci. Et pourquoi pas il vous aime?” (Miss, why is he here? He is a [?]. Even I know this. And why doesn't he like you?)
Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Lucius and Draco looking lost, but Narcissa seemed … worried?
Hermione tested the air. Not worry, but an odd kind of triumph.
Clearly, she understood, but Hermione had no idea what one of the words meant. Hang on. “Manger” is “to eat” and “Mort” is “death”. So “Mangemort” must mean “Death Eater”.
“Oui, il était, mais maintenant il est un bon ami de Monsieur Fudge.” (Yes, he was, but now he is a good friend of Mr Fudge.)
Hermione paused, wondering how to answer the second question. She glanced at Narcissa. The emotions around her led Hermione to believe that she could trust her.
Should she stain the whole family in Mr. Oblansk’s eyes because of the head? “Je ne sais pas pourquoi il ne m’aime pas.” (I don't know why he doesn't like me.)
Surprise and gratitude flared in the air and on Narcissa’s face for a second, before her expression was back to one of carefully schooled neutrality.
Just then, Ludo Bagman bounded into the Top Box. Fudge thanked Hermione casually and sat down, but Mr. Oblansk shook her hand once more. “Merci beaucoup encore, Mademoiselle. Appréciez le jeu.” (Thank you again, Miss. Enjoy the game).
“Merci. Et vous aussi.” (Thank you. And you also).
Hermione bowed her head respectfully and re-joined Harry and the Weasleys, grinning at the look of shock on their faces.
“Since when do you speak French?” Ginny asked.
Hermione laughed. “My cousin lives in France.”
“Everyone ready?” Bagman asked, his face shining like a large Edam.
“Minister, ready to go?”
“Ready when you are, Ludo.” Fudge said comfortably.
Ludo directed his wand at his throat. “Sonorous.” When he spoke again, his voice carried over the roar of sound filling the stadium. “Ladies and gentlemen … welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”
The spectators cheered and screamed. Special flags waved, adding the two national anthems to the racket. The giant board opposite the Top Box, currently advertising Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, wiped clean and flashed Bulgaria: Zero; Ireland: Zero across the crowd.
“And now, without further ado,” Bagman announced, “allow me to introduce the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!”
While the right hand side of the stadium roared their approval, Arthur leaned forwards. “I wonder what they’ve brought. Ah!” He whipped his glasses off and wiped them hurriedly. “Veela!”
Hermione and Ginny exchanged a confused look as a hundred Veela glided onto the pitch; women with pale blonde hair, who were just too beautiful to be human. And then they began to dance.
Ginny shrugged at Hermione. Neither of the two girls could see what was so amazing about the Veela, except they were clearly more attractive than either of them.
Hermione was momentarily distracted by a note being pushed into her hand from behind her. She looked back, but no one seemed to be watching to see if she’d received it.
She shoved the note into her pocket, before glancing at Harry to tell him what had happened, but the note was instantly forgotten as her blood ran cold.
Arthur, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred and George had their hands over their ears, but Ron and Harry hadn’t bothered.
Ron was in a spring-board position and Harry was standing with one leg on the wall of the Box, as though he was about to jump.
“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione asked in alarm.
The Veela had stopped dancing and the stadium was filled with angry shouts. Harry shook his head slowly, taking his leg off the wall, but stayed standing. Ron was mindlessly shredding the shamrock on his hat, staring open-mouthed at the Veela.
Arthur tugged the hat out of Ron’s hand with a smile. “You’ll be wanting that once Ireland have their say.”
“Huh?” Ron asked eloquently, still gawping.
Hermione tutted and tugged Harry back into his seat, hitting him over the back of his head for good measure.
“Honestly!”
“And now!” Bagman roared. “The Irish National Team Mascots!”
What appeared to be a green and gold comet came hurtling into the stadium and circled it once, before separating into two smaller comets. As the leprechauns flew up above the stadium to form a giant shamrock, gold showed over the crowd.
Ron shoved a fistful of gold coins into Harry’s hand. “There you go! For the Omnioculars! Now you’ve got to get me a Christmas present!”
The shamrock dissolved and the leprechauns settled on the other side of the pitch to watch the game.
Hermione took a deep breath and managed to block out the majority of the emotions around her. “Let the games begin.”
***
The morning after the World Cup, the Weasleys, Harry and Hermione took the earliest Portkey they could back to Ottery St. Catchpole.
“They’ll be talking about this one for years.” Ludo Bagman had said, after Bulgaria’s shock victory – and they certainly would, though not for the right reasons.
The team mascots had started a brawl on the pitch, a group of wizards and witches – who may or may not have been the Death Eaters who escaped Azkaban – had kidnapped a family of Muggles and gone on the rampage, and the Dark Mark – Voldemort’s sign – had been fired into the sky metres from where Hermione, Ron and Harry had been standing.
But the thing that preyed on Hermione’s mind happened in the woods around the camp site while they were hiding from the rioting crowd …
The coloured lanterns that had lit the path earlier in the evening had been extinguished. Figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; shouts and cries were reverberating around them. Hermione felt Harry grab her hand, her head almost bursting with the swirling sea of emotion, as they were buffeted around by terrified campers.
Then they heard Ron cry out in pain.
“What happened?” Hermione asked, her stomach feeling as though it had disappeared. “Ron, where are you? Oh, this is stupid! Lumos!” Illuminating her wand, she directed its beam across the path.
Ron was sprawled on the ground. “Tripped over a tree root.” He explained irritably, climbing to his feet.
“Well, with feet that size, hard not to.” A voice drawled.
They all spun around to see Draco Malfoy, leaning casually against a tree. He was watching the carnage out on the field, a smirk on his face. Despite this, Hermione could sense nothing but fear and disgust coming from him. Putting this aside to think about later, she grabbed Harry’s hand before it could reach for his wand.
“Oh, fuck off!” Ron snapped.
“Language, Weasley.” Draco smirked. “Hadn’t you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn’t like her spotted, would you?” He nodded at Hermione.
At the same moment, a blast like a bomb sounded from the field and the air momentarily lit up green.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hermione asked defiantly, inwardly marvelling at how steady her voice was. She could sense concern in the air…but was that Draco’s himself or were Ron and Harry’s emotions over-riding his?
“Granger, they’re after Muggles.” Draco elaborated. “Do you want to be showing off your knickers in mid-air? Because if you do, hang around…they’re moving this way and it would give us all a laugh.”
Disgust again. Harry and Ron’s? No, Hermione thought. It was self-disgust. Could it be that Draco only acting like this because of his father?
“Hermione’s a witch!” Harry snarled, moving in front of her protectively.
“Have it your own way, Potter.” Draco grinned. “If you think they can’t spot a Mudblood…” the self-disgust escalated briefly “…stay where you are.”
“You watch your mouth!” Ron shouted.
Hermione grabbed his arm. “Never mind, Ron.”
Another bang sounded from the other side of the trees, causing several people to scream.
Draco chucked. “Scare easily, don’t they? I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? What’s he up to – trying to rescue the Muggles?”
“Where’re your parents?” Harry snapped, his temper flaring; Hermione put a calming hand on his shoulder. “Out there wearing masks, are they?”
Draco smirked. “Well, if they were, I wouldn’t be likely to tell you, would I?” He turned his gaze back to Hermione, seeming to read the expression of concern and curiosity on her face. He was still smirking maliciously, but the emotion swarming around him was…Hermione couldn’t place it. “Come on.” She said uneasily. “Let’s go and find the others.”
“Keep your head down, Granger.” Draco called with a slight sneer in his voice.
It was quite unnerving, realising that she had misjudged someone who she had gone to school with for three years, especially someone who regularly inserted himself into their lives without invitation or provocation.
How many other people have I done that to?
Mrs Weasley was, understandably, frantic by the time they arrived home and it was only once she’d been given a cup of tea with a shot of firewhiskey in it and Arthur and Percy had gone to work that Hermione had a chance to talk to the others.
Harry, Ron and Ginny followed her up to the boys’ room and the trio told Ginny about the events in the woods, elaborating where they hadn’t the night before. Like Harry and Ron, Ginny was intrigued at the speed with which Hermione had managed to drag Harry and Ron away from Draco – which was usually at least a three-person job (one to talk Harry down and two to grab hold of Ron).
“That’s a good point, Hermione.” Harry agreed. “You’ve never managed to get us to do that before.”
“I’d say it wasn’t the time, but I’d be lying.” Hermione sighed. “I’m an empath.”
Ginny and Ron’s expressions didn’t change, but their emotions changed from curiosity to worry laced with panic.
Hermione collapsed on Harry’s bed. “Come on, guys; I’m still me.”
“What is an empath?” Harry asked.
“A Dark Creature that feeds off other people’s emotions.” Ginny answered quietly. “A bit like a Dementor, but doesn’t focus on happy thoughts.”
Hermione laughed. “Ginny, that’s ridiculous! Empaths don’t feed on emotions!”
“They don’t?” Ron asked. “That’s what the legends say.”
“Yeah, well, the legends say that werewolves eat small children even when it’s not the full moon, don’t they?” Harry frowned. “Besides Hermione’s not dark.”
Hermione beamed at him, as the panic in the air receded rapidly.
“Of course she’s not.” Ginny agreed. “I’m sorry, Hermione – I should have known those stories weren’t true.”
“Yeah, we should.” Ron seconded, his ears bright red.
Harry sighed wearily. “We still haven’t established what an empath actually is.”
Hermione chuckled and told them everything she’d read and found out, before explaining what had happened in the woods. “Malfoy wasn't making any sense.”
“Does he ever?” Ron asked blankly.
Hermione stifled a snigger. “I mean his emotions weren’t making any sense. At the match, it was like he hates his father.”
Ron frowned. “How can you hate your own father? Besides, Hermione, we were there in the woods with you, remember? He loved what was happening.”
Hermione shook her head. “He was scared, Ron. When he warned me …”
“Threatened you, you mean.” Ron growled.
“Self-loathing.” Hermione corrected. “He was genuinely concerned and he was telling us that his father was in that crowd. Lucius Malfoy knows who I am; he would know I was Muggle-born, even if the others didn’t. Oh!”
“What?” Harry asked sharply.
“In the Top Box, someone passed me a note while everyone else was distracted by the Veela.” Hermione rummaged through her pockets, and finally found the crumpled piece of parchment. “Tell SB I’m sorry. He was right. NBM.”
Ginny’s eyebrows rose into her hairline. “What?”
“Well …” Hermione frowned. “SB … Those are Sirius’s initials.”
“Wait, someone knows …” Harry’s face paled. “What if …”
Hermione held up a hand. “NBM – Narcissa Malfoy.”
Ron snorted. “What’s her middle name? Betty?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “That’s not a middle name, Ron; it’s a maiden name. Narcissa Black-Malfoy. She’s one of Sirius’s cousins.”
“She is?” Harry asked blankly.
“What was Sirius right about?” Ginny asked.
Hermione shrugged. “He’ll know.”
“But what if they’re watching?” Harry protested.
“We’ll send it with a school owl.” Ginny said. “They’d be less conspicuous than Hedwig. Speaking of Hedwig, why’d you ask Mum if she’d come with a letter?”
“There’s something I haven’t told you.” Harry admitted. “On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar hurting.”
Hermione gasped and Ron looked dumbstruck.
“It might just be me.” Ginny spoke up. “But what’s so terrible?”
“The last time my scar hurt, Voldemort was at Hogwarts.” Harry explained in an undertone, causing Ginny to turn white.
“But…But You-Know-Who couldn’t have been near you, could he?” Ron asked.
Harry shook his head. “I don’t think he was in Privet Drive, but I had this weird dream, about Voldemort and someone else and they were talking about a plan. I couldn’t figure out what it was supposed to be. But they’d definitely killed someone.”
Ginny gasped. “Tell someone!”
“Who?” Ron asked. “Who is going to believe…?”
“Write to Dumbledore.” Hermione interrupted. “Did you? Is that why you wanted to know if Hedwig had come?”
“No, I wrote to Sirius.” Harry corrected.
Ron’s face immediately cleared. “Good idea! He’ll know what to do!”
“But I haven’t heard back yet.” Harry sighed. “I’m worried.”
“About Sirius?” Ginny asked sympathetically.
“No.” Harry sighed again. “They were plotting to kill someone else. Me.”
Hermione and Ginny looked worried, but Ron clapped him on the back. “It was just a dream! A nightmare!”
“Yeah, but was it?” Harry asked, turning to look out of the window at the brightening sky. “It’s a weird coincidence, isn’t it? My scar hurts and, three days later, Death Eaters are on the march and Voldemort’s sign appears in the sky for the first time in thirteen years.”
“Don’t say the name!” Ron hissed.
“It was awful.” Ginny shuddered. “And it’s only a name.”
“How can you say it?” Ron asked. “And how did you know what the Dark Mark was?”
Ginny flinched. “Tom already had that sign made when he was sixteen.”
Harry gave her a comforting smile and turned back to Ron. “And remember what Trelawney said at the end of last year?”
Hermione gave a derisive snort. “Oh, Harry, you aren’t going to believe anything that old fraud says?”
“You weren’t there.” Harry reminded her. “It was different. You didn’t hear her. She was in some kind of trance; a real one. She said that the Dark Lord would rise again – greater and more terrible than before – and he would manage this because his servant would return to him…and that night Wormtail escaped.”
Hermione changed the subject hopefully. “Speaking of prophecies, what about this dream, Harry? Jess’s, I mean.”
“Who?” Ginny asked.
Ron explained about Jessica’s propensity for true/prophetic dreams while Harry searched his trunk, eventually pulling out piece of Muggle paper, half-covered in neat handwriting.
Hermione took it and read it through. “The pits of dark are seeded, this warning must be heeded, touch of cup brings respite’s end, and love and strength are keys to mend.” She pulled a face. “You’re right, Harry. This is much more cryptic than the last one. Although you did tell me that one in hindsight, which may have made it a bit easier for us. Anything else?”
Harry sighed. “Well, yes and no. She said that she couldn’t see anything, just hear it. It was like a voice talking in her ear, but before and after that poem was recited, the voice was too quiet to really hear, except a few words that were shouted.” He pointed to the next line.
“Red … rat … grim … heed warning …” Hermione pulled a face “… betrayal … end respite … cup.” She sighed. “I honestly have nothing.”
Ginny held out her hand. “Can I try?”
Hermione shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
Ginny ran her gaze over the page several times. “When did she have it?”
Harry frowned thoughtfully. “June, I think.”
“So about the time you found out about Sirius.” Ginny concluded, frowning at the page. “Is that ‘grim’ with a capital letter? Because if it is,” she continued, not giving Harry a chance to respond, “then it could refer to everyone’s favourite fugitive.”
“How?” Ron asked blankly.
Hermione sighed wearily. “Grim without a capital letter is an adjective, Ron, meaning dismal or gloomy. Grim with a capital letter is a proper noun, meaning a large black dog. As in the kind Trelawney insisted was following Harry all last year.”
“And he was.” Harry put in slightly smugly. “Makes that prophecy seem a bit more genuine, doesn’t it?”
Hermione just rolled her eyes. “You’re right, Gin. And running with that line, the red would be your family – redheads – and the rat would be Wormtail.” She stood up from Harry’s bed and began pacing, which wasn’t easy in the small space. “Harry, did Jess write those words down in the order she heard them?”
“I think so.” Harry confirmed. “Why?”
Hermione sighed. “Because ‘heed warning’, coupled with that poem, seems to refer to something that’s going to happen. Now, if the word ‘betrayal’ came first, then it could refer to Wormtail. But it came afterwards.” Her gaze swept over them, resting on Ron a fraction of a second longer than Ginny and Harry. “There may well be a split here.”
“Never.” Harry stated simply.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Harry,” she said gently, “don’t you think that’s what the Marauders once said?”
“Come on, Hermione.” Ron rolled his eyes. “None of us is going to betray him to You-Know-Who.”
“There are different kinds of betrayal, Ron.” Ginny said quietly.
Ron looked uncomfortable. “Well, maybe. But some of those words are repeated in that poem. What cup’s it talking about? And what’s a respite?”
“It’s a temporary suspension of something.” Hermione recited.
Ron shook his head. “I swear you’re a walking dictionary. In English, please?”
Ginny rolled her eyes and swatted her brother on the head. “Honestly, Ron. A respite is when there’s a pause in something. In this case, this temporary holiday you three have had from danger is going to end, and you’ll be right back in the thick of it.”
“Story of my life.” Harry muttered. “Do you think it means the Quidditch World Cup? Could it be a warning about the Death Eaters?”
“I don’t think so.” Hermione sighed. “That first line – the pits of dark are seeded – I think it’s talking about the prophecy, Harry.”
“Oh, so you believe in Trelawney now then.” Harry teased.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “I believe Jess, Harry. Besides, what happened at the Cup wasn’t personal. All through the summer, I’ve felt that something awful’s going to happen, and I still have that feeling.”
As the four sank into silence, Hermione sank back onto the bed and closed her eyes. As much as it pained her to admit it, she knew she was right. This ride was only just beginning.
