1,602Chapter 18
The summer sun baked her freckles brown. Hermione rolled on her belly in the grass and put her head in her hands. She listened to the radio transmission with bated breath. There was still no sign of Amelia Earhart or her plane. The last broadcast had come from New Guinea and then – only silence.
She had disappeared without a trace.
Hermione worried the skin of her thumb with her teeth. A shadow blocked the sun above her.
"Still on about that stupid pilot?" Tom sneered.
He had been interrupting her all of summer, mainly out of boredom. He rarely allowed her a moment of focus.
"She's not stupid. She's attempting to fly around the entire globe! She's the first female aviator to do so. I'd like to see you try it."
Her brother did not look impressed. "You are so easily carried away by the silly things Muggles do. Why would anyone want to fly around the world in a tin can? What's the use of it except to say you've done it?"
"Like you don't brag all the time."
"I'd never brag about anything so useless."
Hermione shot off the grass. "Just because you have the imagination of a teaspoon doesn't mean others can't appreciate what she's doing."
Tom grabbed a fistful of dirt and threw it at her radio, knocking it over.
"How grown-up of you," she drawled and kicked at his shins with her sandals in a display of equal maturity.
Before they could lay further hands on each other, Cora called them from the doorway. Her hands were white with flour.
"It's far too hot for baking. Shall we go to the lido? There's a new one just opened in Tottenham. Wouldn't it be nice to have a swim?"
Hermione felt queasy at the prospect. Ever since she'd witnessed Lavinia and her beau in the Prefects' bathroom, she had become averse to pools and baths. Tom did not show it, but he was not keen on the idea either.
"Could we go to the Natural Gallery instead, Mummy? I'm sure it's nice and cool inside those big rooms," Hermione proposed instead.
Cora fanned herself tiredly. "We'd all have to put on fine clothes for that, or at least I would. Hang on – what if Clara took you instead? I shall give her a ring."
Hermione's uneasiness did not dissipate. She had not seen Clara since that fateful day in the park the year before when Tom had goaded one of his friends to insult her. She hoped the young woman had forgotten the incident, though hurtful names had a habit of sticking. She would never be able to shake off "Mudblood" entirely.
But she was relieved when, half an hour later, she saw Clara turn the corner of their house and wave at them with an unbothered smile. She looked quite happy to take them out in the city, particularly since Cora was footing the bill.
On the dusty ride on the bus, Tom sat a seat behind the girls and kept knocking Hermione's feet from underneath. Hermione ignored him and turned to Clara. "Have you heard the news about Amelia Earhart?"
"Who?"
Hermione couldn't believe it. Presumably, Clara owned a radio and read the papers. How could she not know? She immediately launched into a detailed account of the intrepid pilot's adventures and subsequent disappearance.
Clara smiled and nodded absently. She seemed preoccupied.
"I haven't kept up with it, I'm afraid. I'm more worried about what's happening in Germany."
Hermione eyed her curiously. "What's happening in Germany?"
"Well, they say Hitler has plans for annexing certain territories with German speakers in them. Annexation is one word for it. Conquest is another."
Hermione scrambled to recall if she'd read about it in the newspapers. Her father allowed her to read a few sections, particularly the Arts and Entertainment, but she was rarely encouraged to go over world politics, nor was she terribly keen on it as a rule, but now she felt ashamed she was not better informed. She had a hazy sort of idea about Hitler. Everyone did. Her parents often mentioned his name at dinner.
"That sounds rather bad," she said, searching for a clever thing to say.
"It is."
"Surely our country will make him stop if things turn serious. Just like last time," Hermione added because she had often heard adults say this and it sounded sensible enough.
Clara smiled a very sad smile. "I'm sure you're right. But I oughtn't to have mentioned it. You're too young to talk politics."
"I'm not!" Hermione insisted fiercely. "I understand more than you think."
It was on the tip of her tongue to say, I'm also a spy for the Slytherins, but she realized how utterly absurd that would have sounded to Clara.
She wished she could tell Clara that there was a world beyond this one where powerful wizards and witches could stop bad men. Though, perhaps they could also help those bad men…which was a worrisome thought.
Tom's foot kicked her under the seat and she kicked back forcefully.
She had been right about the National Gallery. It was quite cool and lovely inside the cavernous halls and the sunshine coming through the double glass had a muted, milky quality to it.
She always felt so small in these opulent, spacious rooms of lush, brocade wallpaper, larger-than-life oil paintings and sparse, ornate sitting chairs. She could see her reflection in the chocolate-hued floor, the wood polished to a mirror-like glimmer. The paintings' gilt frames sent little golden lights across the floor, melting in the chocolate. Yes, she felt quite small, taking a delicate step inside.
Yet, this feeling was not the same as being insignificant. She rather liked this smallness. It gave her the sense that the whole world was here, in front of her, for the taking.
Even Tom, who always liked to dominate a place, let himself be spelled by the silent rooms of Muggle art and the wonderful atmosphere of the Old Masters.
There were not many visitors breaking the enchanted silence today. Soon enough, all three were dispersed in different parts of the Gallery, Tom for once being interested enough in the art not to follow her around with the intent of causing her headaches.
But Hermione couldn't fully enjoy the sky-blue Titians and luminous Canalettos because she was still thinking about Hitler and Germany. She did not like not knowing things and she did not like the sad look on Clara's face. Perhaps it was a mixture of all these discomforts and the sudden chill that crept up her spine, contrasting with the warmth outside, that made her feel lightheaded and tired. There was a dull pain in her belly, like the ache of an old wound, but she tried to ignore it as she passed from painting to painting.
After a few minutes, she felt a wetness spreading between her legs. She was sure it could not be sweat.
Alarmed, Hermione quickly brushed her fingers under the hem of her dress and touched the sticky wetness on her thighs. When she brought up her fingers they were red with blood.
It took all her self-control not to scream.
Nothing like this had ever happened before. The wetness kept spreading. She felt the blood leak into her underthings. Soon it would stain her dress. She ought to have worn her stockings, even in such weather.
Frightened, she tried to look for Clara, but she was afraid of walking too far or too quickly, lest she made the blood come faster. She couldn't remember where the bathrooms were and she saw no signs for them, but she wasn't sure a bathroom could have helped her.
This must be magic.
Someone had cursed her.
Had Tom done it? It was just like him. But would he have risked practicing magic outside of school, especially after what had happened the last time they'd done that?
Stuck between moving and standing still, Hermione darted into an adjacent hallway and hid behind an equestrian statue, in a secluded corner where she hoped no one would spot her.
She stood there for a few moments, breathing hard, wondering if she'd have to wait there until closing time. It seemed like a horrible way to pass the time, but what else could she do? She opened her little purse and flapped out her handkerchief, which she then pressed surreptitiously between her legs. She could feel it soaking up.
How to stem the flow? She wracked her brains for counter-spells, though, whatever she came up with would probably do her more harm than good in the long run. And then she thought, what if I brought this upon myself? Could witches make themselves bleed on command? Perhaps it was useful for potions. Yet, if she could make herself bleed, she could make herself stop, couldn't she?
So caught up in her troubles was she that she hardly noticed the people passing by until her brother popped round the statue.
"There you are. Clara has been pestering me to find you. She's been looking everywhere. I told her you're not very good with directions."
Hermione was almost glad to see him. "Could you – could you tell her to come fetch me? I'm not feeling well."
"Come fetch you? Her Royal Highness cannot walk anymore?"
"I told you I'm not feeling well." And she pressed a hand to her stomach where she felt the dull ache again.
That was when Tom noticed the blood on her fingers.
"What the hell happened to you?"
Hermione clenched her hand into a fist. "Nothing that concerns you. Unless you're the one who did this to me, though I don't imagine even you would be this reckless."
"Did what to you? Make you bleed? Where's the cut?"
Hermione blushed with a vengeance. How could she even begin to explain?
"Well?" he demanded.
She was still blushing, and yet part of her, a part which she wanted to believe was only Tom's influence, wanted to show him the ugly thing.
She dipped her hand under her dress and pulled out the blood-soaked handkerchief. She held it out to him like a bleeding heart.
Tom stared at it in disbelief, eyes wide, lips parted.
Hermione stuffed it back between her legs with the vulgar dexterity of someone much older than herself.
His nostrils flared a little as he watched her do it. They air smelled of iron.
"Oh," he said.
"Yes," she said.
"You're bleeding from –"
"Yes. Is it a curse, do you think?"
Tom smiled a superior smile, though his eyes were feverish with excitement. "You ninny. That's not a curse. All women bleed sometimes. It's something to do with being mothers."
"I'm not a mother!"
"But you might be... one day," he trailed off, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the thought.
"How do you know this?"
"I've been around older girls."
"At the orphanage?"
Tom did not reply. He said instead, "I'm sure Cora bleeds too. Matter of fact, I think I saw some sanitary napkins, once or twice."
Hermione stared at him, utterly horrified. "You're talking about Mum! How awful! I don't want to spend years like this. Can't I make it stop with magic? For good?"
He laughed. "You wouldn't want that."
"Why not?"
He shrugged. "I don't know exactly, but I'm pretty sure it's what the body is supposed to do."
"Isn't the point of magic that we can tell the body what to do?"
Tom considered this for a moment. His eyes turned glassy with that imponderable hunger that always took over him when he imagined the limits of his power. "Suppose it is. Suppose we could manipulate the body to stop."
"Exactly!" she said, squeezing her thighs together. "We shouldn't have to live like barbarians."
She did not notice the strange gleam in his eye. He was thinking about it very seriously, but perhaps not in the way she was.
"I believe, for once, I agree with you."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "That's all very well and good for you, but what do I do now? I cannot use magic on myself outside of school and I wouldn't know where to begin."
"I guess you'll have to walk out like that for now until we get home," he said with a mean little smile.
Hermione glowered. "Why don't you go find Clara, please and thank you?"
Tom cocked his head to the side. "Sure. If you give me your handkerchief."
"What?"
"I'll go fetch her for you if you give me your handkerchief."
"You mean the one between my –"
"The very same."
Hermione scowled. "Why would you want something like that?"
"To use against you. I'm pretty sure a person's blood comes in handy for certain spells."
She was annoyed that she had been contemplating something similar earlier. She shrank back.
"I'd rather wait here forever."
"Suit yourself. I'll go tell Clara you've run off to the bus stop ahead of us because you were ill and you'll meet us back home."
Hermione winced at the pain in her lower region. Her head was starting to ache too. She glared at him. "Why can't you ever be nice?"
"I am nice. I offered my services in exchange for the handkerchief."
"You're foul."
"So are you, but I don't hold it against you, do I?"
"Yes, you do. All the time."
"Fine," he relented. "Then you can stand there until you turn to stone, for all I care."
And he turned on his heels to leave. Hermione quickly leaped forward and grabbed his arm.
"Tom!"
He glanced at her over his shoulder. "What?"
"Will you honestly try to use my blood for dark magic?"
He laughed. "Dark magic? You don't know anything about it."
"Neither do you."
"I know a few things," he said, eyeing her meaningfully.
"You should leave it alone," she insisted. "You might hurt yourself and others."
"That should suit me very well. Now, will you give it to me or not?"
Hermione stared at him for a moment. Then she furtively pried the sticky cloth from between her legs and passed it to him without looking. Tom took it from her hand and clenched it in his fist, seemingly unbothered by its dirty, gluey consistency. Then he quickly stuffed it in his pocket.
Hermione felt sick to her stomach.
"Wait here," he told her.
"I should have just screamed for Clara."
"No, you're too proud to scream," he said in a knowing voice and walked away from the statue.
As she watched him go she knew, deep down, he was right.
She did not expect him to make good on his word, but a few minutes later, she saw Clara rushing towards her hiding spot, looking pale and worried, yet also smiling, as if she had received good news.
"Oh darling, you're a little woman now," she told Hermione as she bent down to embrace her.
Hermione did not like the sound of that, but she hugged her back anyway.
Cora was just as misty-eyed when she was apprised of her daughter's "great change".
It seemed that this spontaneous bleeding business was not such a bad thing, after all. Her mother took her aside that evening to explain to her what this meant from a biological standpoint, but even after Cora's rather flowery and staid explanation of her womanly body, Hermione did not find the process reassuring. She would much rather read about it in a book, which she planned on doing straight away. She was also quite confident that magic had better solutions for this than simply waiting for the 'womb's lining' to bleed out, whatever that meant.
All in all, the day had left her feeling exhausted and miserable, and to top it off, her brother had taken her handkerchief and that Hitler fellow was probably planning on invading half of Europe.
She lay in bed with a hot water bottle under the covers and turned on her bedside radio, hoping for more news about Amelia.
She had not resurfaced. There was still only silence.
Hermione fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming and stirring awake by turns. She was not at first sure whether he was real, but she recognized his outline.
Tom was in her room. He was sitting at the foot of her bed. He had her handkerchief in his left fist, now stiff with dried blood.
"Are you still bleeding?" he asked her queerly.
Hermione nodded sleepily. Tom pinched the covers with the tip of his fingers, as if wanting to pull them aside and look, but she held onto them tightly.
Hermione wondered if Amelia ever bled. Her mother said most women did. Did she ever bleed while she was flying?
She looked up at her brother.
"Do you think she might be a witch? Maybe she Apparated somewhere or found a Portkey in the middle of the ocean."
Her brother shook his head, his look almost piteous.
"No. I think she just died."
Summer crawled and sped in equal measure. September was looming on the horizon.
Tom lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He wanted to be older, stronger, wiser. He wanted time to skip over these dreadfully tedious periods.
His mind worked quietly, yet his body was aflame. He did not know how to feed it, or he knew, but he was loath to do it.
He took out the handkerchief from a locked drawer. Inside it, he also kept her faded blue ribbon.
He squeezed the handkerchief between his fingers and a fine powder of blood sprinkled his shirt. He inhaled softly.
His sister was a disgusting little monster, but he couldn't help the strange pang his body gave at the sight of her ugliness. Monster calls to monster.
He sank his hand uncertainly inside the hem of his trousers and touched himself experimentally in that place he knew he should leave alone. Not because it was wrong, but because it could cloud his judgement.
Still, he couldn't resist.
He stroked himself.
He held onto the handkerchief as he did it.
And so, summer crawled and sped.
Sixteen months later
It was in the winter of her third year that Hermione found out Amelia Earhart had been officially declared dead.
What with the state of Europe and the world in general, her mother and father often sent her newspaper clippings through the post. She had asked them to keep her informed, because the wizarding papers hardly bothered with Muggle affairs. War was imminent, everyone said. Hitler was going to advance on Poland any day now.
And yet, it was this sad piece of news about her beloved pilot that depressed her more than anything and seemed to announce the end of an era.
That might have been why she was not really putting much effort into jinxing her opponent.
Tom noticed her lack of rigor and did not appreciate it.
He threw a hex that made her skin break into pustules and boil. That quickly roused her from her thoughts.
"Ow! You arse! I said no skin boiling!"
She quickly healed herself and threw a Bat-Bogey Hex at him which Tom barely managed to avoid. He rubbed at his nose angrily.
"You're clearly distracted," he complained.
"I was thinking."
"About what, precisely?"
Hermione looked away, saddened.
"Oh for fuck's sake, don't tell me it's about that pilot again."
Hermione did not flinch at the expletive. She was quite used to it by now.
"They're going to stop looking for her. She's been declared dead," she said, leaning back against one of the sofas in the Room of Requirement. The floor was scattered with cushions and rugs, though these items did little to break their fall when they landed a jinx. Out of pride, they had refused to wish for mattresses.
Tom kicked one of the cushions out of his path. "They ought to have done that months ago. Why are you so fixated on this story? You won't even get on a broom you're so scared of flying."
She threw him a look. "Have you ever considered there's a correlation there? That maybe that's precisely why I'm interested?"
"I have considered it and I think you're being foolish. No one should want to fly, if they know what's good for them. Quidditch was a bloody mistake, whoever came up with it."
Hermione opened her mouth to tell him exactly who came up with it, but he silenced her with a finger.
"Yes, yes, I've read Quidditch Through the Ages too. My point is, any flight is a flight of death, if you ask me."
"I wasn't asking you," she pointed out, "but I suppose that would be an accurate description in this case."
They fell back into silence for a few moments.
"Do you think we'll be safe at Hogwarts from the war?"
"Which one?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
He had a point. Rumors abounded about the spate of strange murders which had cropped up in various wizarding communities across Europe, almost like a strange, skewered parallel to the real war. Dark magic, every time. Very dark magic indeed. There was talk of a troublemaker, someone well-placed and talented, a Durmstrang alumni who wanted to shake things up and frighten the Ministry. But surely – it wouldn't come to war in the wizarding world too, would it?
"Surely, we are more civilized than that," she argued.
"I wouldn't count on it. Would you call you and me civilized?"
Hermione shivered. "Let's talk about something else."
"We're not here to talk," he reminded her, twirling his wand.
Hermione picked up her own wand. She eyed him surreptitiously. He'd grown taller over the past months, which was not necessarily an advantage, but it annoyed her because she had remained relatively tiny while he was looking more like a young man every day.
"Are you going to the Yule Ball?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Tom frowned. "Yes, but not because I want to. It's expected of me."
Of course. The Golden Gryffindor Boy, popular and beloved. Many older girls would want to extend him an invitation.
"Who invited you?"
"Madeleine Prewett."
Hermione's eyes went wide. She and Madeleine often said hello in passing and stopped to chat in the Kitchens. True, she had cultivated the acquaintance for purposes having to do with her work under Dolohov, but she genuinely liked Madeleine, who was funny and kind. She would always be grateful to her for that first train ride to Hogwarts.
And so it rather displeased her to know she was taking her brother to the Ball.
"But she's a Sixth-Year."
Tom smirked. "I know."
"That's too big of an age gap."
"Not when you're me," he said, inspecting his nails lazily.
Hermione glowered.
"No one's asked you yet, have they?" he inquired innocently, still staring at his nails. "Don't worry; I'm sure one of your Slytherin keepers will take pity on you."
She wanted to hex him out of existence. Why couldn't he have disappeared over the Pacific?
"Actually, someone's already asked me," she blurted out angrily.
Tom looked up. And snorted. "You've never been a good liar."
He was wrong, of course. She was excellent at deception. But he had a talent for denting her armor.
"I don't care if you don't believe me."
"Fine, then who is it?"
"Alphard Black," she said automatically, because it was the first name that came to mind. And perhaps the only name that made sense.
But Merlin, she wished she'd kept quiet.
Tom's eyes narrowed.
"Alphard Black," he repeated sourly.
Yes, she had cultivated that friendship too. Most of it consisted of them sharing a study table in the library or passing helpful notes in class. But it was something Hermione treasured, because Alphard, though a Pureblood, never seemed to look down on her. He was, in a sense, an outcast himself; shunned by his Pureblood caste, yet also unable to form lasting connections with his Ravenclaw peers. Hermione was, oddly enough, better situated with the Slytherins than he'd ever be. She could call Tilda and Beatrice her friends and she had stopped being an exotic Muggleborn bird and had become more of a common fixture, both within Dolohov's group and outside it. Even Darius Avery no longer minded being condescended to in matters of homework.
And therein lay the problem. Hermione might have been sociable, but Alphard was not. Knowing him and his taciturn ways, he wouldn't go to the Yule Ball at all, preferring his own company.
Bollocks, she thought, in unladylike fashion. I'll have to actually ask him to ask me.
She hadn't noticed the way Tom was staring at her.
"Did he really ask you?"
His tone was deceptively light.
"Why wouldn't he? We're good friends," she supplied, which was true enough.
"Friends with the son of those people?"
Hermione knew what he meant. Neither of them had forgotten Cygnus and Violetta Black and that awful Ministry Hearing.
"I told you he's different from the rest of his family."
Tom smiled an ugly smile. "We'll see about that."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you think Mummy and Daddy will let him go to the Ball with a Muggleborn?"
Hermione frowned. "Why should they find out?"
He shrugged. "Someone might blab."
She glared at him.
Tom rolled his eyes. "Not me, you dolt. But there's the rest of your House to consider."
Hermione stood up, brushing her knees. "Why don't you let me worry about that?"
Tom pushed himself off the wall and walked up to her. "So, are we going for another round?"
She looked up at him. She truly hated how much taller he was getting, and how much of a swagger he had in his step.
She heaved a sigh. "No, I have homework to finish. I'd better head off to the library."
The truth was, she had to go to the library to find Alphard, and beg him to take her to the Yule Ball. And she hadn't even wanted to go in the first place! How utterly stupid! It was Tom's fault, as usual.
He seemed to guess her frustration, because he smirked most becomingly.
"Hoping Alphard will be there?"
She knocked into his shoulder angrily, pushing past him. "See you next time. Or maybe I'll get lucky and you'll drop dead by then."
He could feel his eyes on the back of neck, amused but also incensed.
"The feeling, as always, is mutual."
A/N: so, did anyone catch the Voldemort reference this chapter? ;)
hi, hello. yes, last time I updated this story I specified that, in theory, I should be able to update in a few weeks. I really, really need to stop saying stuff like that. It's true I had this chapter done a few months back but I was not happy with it, so I tampered with it repeatedly. My biggest problem is being a perennial "rewriter", even though I want to be spontaneous. Anyway, maybe, just maybe, it'll be a bit easier now that we've gone past the time skip. There are lots of tiny references in this chapter to things mentioned or discussed in previous chapters and I don't know if anyone still remembers them, or even if I remember them accurately (lol) but I hope they make sense. And yes, this story is still weird and grotesque, and it will only become weirder and uglier as they get older, but I'm honestly excited to delve into some of these ugly things.
A question I wanted to ask all of you: some people have asked/suggested that I also upload this story on AO3 for efficiency's sake and better reading experience. Would that be welcome? The thing is, if I upload it there, I will probably do it in its raw form (aka the way it is now), because if I start tinkering and correcting typos and rewriting bits, well...you know what happens.
Anyway, thank you so much for putting up with me and following this story throughout the years. I love writing it and I love sharing it with you, despite my really uneven updates. Your reviews mean the world to me, so please keep writing them, even if I can't always reply.
Until next time!
(but seriously, did you catch the Voldemort nod? I'm sure you did)