Of Blood and Magic: Chapter 9, Part One
I know it's been ages, but I've finally managed to crank out Part 1 of a new chapter.
Yay?
Anyway, you know the drill: r&r, please!
Chapter 9, Part One.
The Everton Manor, the night Claire Everton died:
She couldn’t sit. She paced up and down the room, forever watchful. It had been precisely forty seven minutes since the Cure had been administered; she knew because her faithful servant stood in a corner, holding the ornate gold clock that had been in their family for centuries. It worked as beautifully as it had that summer’s day in 1567, when the Grand Warlock presented it to her venerable ancestor as a token of his deep, abiding affection for their House.
She stopped walking and inclined her head.
“Still time, Mistress,” the elf squeaked.
She nodded, tapping her fingers on the mahogany desk she leaned against. Soon. Soon, her daughter would awake and claim her true, rightful place in this world.
Her heart raced in anticipation. Gratitude mingled with a fierce defiance within. That she were the one to eventually find a weapon against their family’s affliction; that it had been her courage, her steadfastness and most of all, her whole-hearted belief in her child’s innate ability… it was truly delicious. She would prove them wrong. All of them, those witches and wizards who had taken such savage delight in whispering about the inevitable decline of her Great Line.
She pressed her fingers to her temples to still the tumult inside, but it surged to the surface anyway. Her own father had rebuked her coldly when she’d first discussed the possibility of reversal. It had been Ellie that time, her own sister, her twin. Sickly sweet Ellie, clinging to her hand every second, sighing with a wistful joy whenever she’d perform the simplest spell.
Ellie had died too young. They’d buried her in the grounds but secretly, late at night. Father didn’t want to make a fuss over it, she remembered him telling her. She’d wept till he raised his wand in that precise, ominous gesture.
“Do not shed tears over one who was always weak, Clara. Eloise was not meant for more than this.”
“Mistress?” The elf’s voice shattered the memory, and she was relieved.
Tonight. She would put a stop to all this tonight. There would be no more Ellies, not for the Evertons.
She turned.
“It has been fifty seven minutes, Mistress.”
She nodded, approaching her daughter carefully.
Claire was shifting restlessly, her skin pale and sweaty. Clara sat beside her, placing a cool hand on her forehead.
Claire jerked up, convulsing. The elf moved swiftly to the other side, taking her arm and holding her down, mirroring Clara’s movements. Together, they restrained the child as she thrashed madly, possessed by a new strength.
Then, abruptly, she opened her eyes.
“Mother?”
“Yes, child. I’m here,” Clara kept her voice steady with enormous effort, stroking the damp hair back.
“I’m…” Claire sat up suddenly, glancing feverishly about the room.
“Yes?”
The girl met her mother’s eyes. She looked confused.
“I feel…I feel different, Mother.”
Clara nodded encouragingly, suppressing her triumph for now.
“How, child? How do you feel?”
Claire pressed a trembling hand to the pit of her stomach. Her skin felt hot, flushed, and as her mother studied her she seemed to vibrate a little, her very flesh buzzing with energy.
‘The magic is taking hold.’
Slowly, Clara gestured to the elf and he darted to a sofa, returning with her wand. She held it for a moment, bidding her racing heart to slow down. Claire was watching her fearfully.
“Here.”
Claire flinched away.
“Here, daughter. Take it,” her voice brooked no argument, and long years of ingrained obedience overcame Claire’s diffidence as she grasped the wand, gingerly like it was a priceless artifact.
It was the first time in memory that the child had actually touched a wand, and the effect was instant: she smiled in wonder, even as her fingers shook with that persistent, crippling inadequacy.
“Use it,” Clara commanded with a steely certainty that masked her own fear.
Claire blinked up at her mother for a second before waving the wand in a graceful arc, a precise imitation of her brother’s fluid movements.
“Accio,” Claire whispered, tears already brimming in her eyes.
And then the purple velvet cushion soared up joyfully, flying across the room and straight into Claire’s lap.
For long moments they stared at each other, hardly daring to breathe because even a single, careless movement might dispel this miracle.
“You have your brother’s grace,” Clara told her in a matter-of-fact tone.
Claire beamed at her, a smile full of elation, devoid of that usual hint of apology she’d always carry around with her.
‘This is her true self.’
“Try another.”
For the next fifteen minutes they were in the embrace of complete, pure happiness. Everything fell away, the past with its weakness and imperfection, the burdens they’d carried, the distance they’d endured. Mother and daughter close as one, as they were always meant to be. Clara clapped her hands with each spell, rejoicing over her daughter’s clear talent. Claire threw back her head and laughed freely, the sound sinking into Clara’s blood like the sweetest wine.
The old elf wept tears of joy.
Then Claire performed her best spell yet, an effortless Shrinking Charm she’d seen her family do a million times. Her mother kept applauding even as she made quick plans for her unveiling to society, her glittering debut, and a whole world of unlimited possibilities that would be available to Claire Everton at last.
“Mother, I’m a witch!” Claire leaned forward and hugged her hard and fierce and more significantly, without permission.
She’d never done that before, and that realization finally brought tears to Clara’s eyes. She returned the embrace, gathering her fragile daughter-so gentle and sweet, so like Ellie-to her heart.
“Thank you, Mother.”
Those were the last words Claire ever spoke. Seconds later she was convulsing again, gasping for breath in her mother’s arms. No magic could soothe her, nor revive her. As Clara screamed spells and charms, as the elf scrambled to get help, any help, a hideous orange glow enveloped Claire Everton before literally bursting out of her, creating an unbearable heat and noise in its wake.
When it dissipated, Claire was dead.
The elf returned with their trusted Healer moments later to find Clara on the floor, holding onto her daughter’s corpse, wailing in pure agony.
Every day since, Clara could not rest. She dealt with the burial and the Aurors and her own weak Benji. She kept the danger at bay and exerted all her will to ensure her family’s honour and safety. She did all this, and the entire time her brain screamed those words at her unrelentingly, till she was sure she would lose her grip on sanity.
“Mother, I’m a witch.”
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France, Present Day:
Hermione strode down the dim corridor, her mind churning. Ron’s wide blue eyes, brimming with fear were at the centre of her thoughts. She needed to hurry through the formalities so she could rush back home and be with him.
The things he’d told her… she could scarcely bear to dwell on it, yet it was all she could think of. Kate and her magic, the Everton girl… Umbridge.
Umbridge.
A shudder ran through her as she turned a corner quickly, and nearly ran smack into someone.
“Oh!”
“Hermione?”
It was Matthew. Again.
She frowned.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugged.
“I was looking for the Transportation Office, actually.”
Her heart began beating just a little faster.
“At this time of night?”
He grinned ruefully.
“I got an Owl from home just now and I wanted…”
He trailed off, chewing his lower lip, looking befuddled and embarrassed and generally harmless.
And yet, it was too convenient. He’d visited her room minutes ago and now he was here. As Ron would put it, it stank.
She gripped her wand tighter in her right hand, concealed between the folds of her robes.
“I see. Well, it’s just straight down. Go on,” she motioned with her left hand.
He stared down at her, looking uncertain.
“Weren’t you going…”
“How did you know?” She cut across him, her tone suddenly cold and questioning.
He faltered.
“I, you were in the Floo earlier and I…”
“You were eavesdropping?”
He flinched as if she’d struck him, and moved back a step. His visible fear relaxed her a bit, but her mind cautioned her all the same. It could very well be a ploy, she knew.
“I was… I wanted… fine.” He spread his hands out, grinning charmingly at her.
“I’m rather besotted with you, Hermione. That’s the truth, and that’s all.”
He sounded perfectly sincere. His voice shook, his face flushed and his eyes glistened with hope.
She suppressed a bizarre urge to laugh. It was all so wrong. It was fake and hollow, without any sort of basis in reality. How could she not glean that immediately, when she knew what real affection looked like, had glimpsed it so often in Ron’s searing blue gaze?
Without debating further, she whipped her wand out and jabbed it at him in a short, precise movement.
The wordless Stunner took him straight in the chest and he collapsed at her feet.
Heart thudding madly, she Levitated him to a shady corner and left him there. He’d keep for a while, long enough for her to retrieve an Apparition Permit for herself and get ready to leave for London.
As for ‘Matthew’, well, she’d just have to take him with her.
A smile spread across her face without warning, and she flushed. It wasn’t like her to be so devoid of conflict over something as dubious as Stunning a person who hadn’t actually been proven guilty of anything.
But she was sure, deep in her gut. Her instincts were aiding her as they’d done innumerable times before when all hope seemed lost, and she wasn’t about to refuse such help.
Matthew would be going to England tonight, without question.
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Number Twelve, late night:
“Ron, stay still for a bloody second!” George huffed at him. He’d returned to Number Twelve a while ago, looking contemplative but calm. Ron and Harry had briefed him quickly, with interjections from Ginny and for once, George looked interested and engaged.
Kate had no idea of the developments the four were discussing. She was asleep and for now, blessedly ignorant of the truth. Ginny felt ill each time she envisaged breaking the sordid truth to the woman. Such a violation was too terrible to even imagine, and gods knew how Kate would react.
The door banged open while Ron was heatedly telling George to shut the fuck up and go brood in a corner or something. Charlie stomped in, drenched to the skin.
Harry raised his eyebrows and Charlie grunted, waving a hand in dismissal.
“You’ve missed loads, mate,” George told him.
“I’ll be the judge of that, runt,” Charlie shot back, grinning rather menacingly.
“Where were you anyway?” Ginny couldn’t stop herself as usual.
Charlie shrugged.
“Out.”
A burst of irritation buzzed through Ginny and she leaned forward.
“Having a lark, were we? Fat lot of good you are to Kate. It’s a good thing she’s got us around to care.”
Charlie’s face flushed.
“I’ll ignore that. One more word though, and I’ll thump you, Gin-gin. I don’t care how old you are, or who you’re bloody engaged to either.”
Ginny jerked back in shock. Harry laid a soothing hand on her arm, and she refrained from a nasty reply.
“We don’t have time for your shite, okay? Bloody hell! Talk about fucked up priorities,” Ron snapped at the room at large, his face creased with anxiety.
“What’s up his arse?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just, we’ve figured out a possible way for someone to steal another’s magic, we’ve linked it to the case we’re working on and we’ve also discovered a possible ring that’s involved, with some criminals we’re well acquainted with,” Harry told him in a fake-blasé tone.
Charlie blinked at him.
“Yeah. Shocking isn’t it, how these sods keep coming up with gold?” George added cheekily.
“I… does Kate know?” Charlie was on his feet, his mind reeling.
“Not yet. We want to get some proof before we tell her,” Ron said quickly.
Charlie sank back into his chair, feeling queasy and guilty and just, shitty.
“Who?”
“What?” Harry leaned forward.
“Criminals, you said. Who?”
Ron met his eyes, his face hard.
“Umbridge, Charlie. We think it’s Umbridge doing this.”
A thousand sharp memories flooded Charlie’s mind then, each more horrifying than the last. He’d had classmates arrested during the War, wizards and witches stripped of their wands and their belongings, forced to live beggar-like existences among the same people they’d once worked with, lived and loved and laughed with.
Jaime, Asha, Bobby… those were just a few names, but there were dozens more. Charlie’s Hogwarts class had had so many Muggle-borns, after all.
“What do we do?” His voice was hoarse as he posed the question, staring at his younger brother for answers.
“I, we need proof. That this is even possible, for a start.”
“What do you think? Is it?”
Ron struggled for coherence, pushing past the image of a young red-eyed Voldemort, hissing promises and threats at him in the freezing dark.
“Yeah, I do. There’re spells for it, for trapping… something. In a container of sorts.”
He fell silent as the rest gazed at him in pure horror. Ginny looked sick, George blank and Charlie… Charlie looked enraged.
“That’s what happened to her? To Kate?”
“We’re not certain but yeah, most likely.”
“Sex magic can steal or suppress someone’s essence temporarily, and…”
“And that’s why the person violated her,” Ginny finished.
Charlie clenched his fist, the stubby nails digging into his palm. He didn’t know what to do. He was utterly, utterly helpless. At the Reserve, such feelings could be easily relieved by a long, hard fly, or a rigorous session with one of his dragons. If all else failed, he’d simply drink himself senseless and cap it off with a bout of energetic, mindless sex.
Unbidden, Alicia’s face swam into his mind, flushed and eager, damp tendrils sticking to her skin as she arched her back invitingly, and…
‘Fuck. Fuck.’
He shook his head, humiliated, miserable and horny. All those fancy resolutions he’d made mere hours ago, and now this? He was hopeless.
“Sex isn’t interchangeable with a Numbing Charm, Charlie,” he could hear Bill in his head, wry and just a tiny bit sad as he tried getting through to him.
“Charlie?” Ginny sounded worried now. She had a genuine tender spot for him, despite her outward sharpness.
“Yeah, ‘m fine.”
“What’s next?” George asked the room at large.
“We need to tell Kate, of course!” Ginny’s voice was loud and indignant.
Harry nodded in agreement.
“She’ll take it hard, the whole story I mean.”
“I just wish we had more to go on, y’know? Not just a bunch of hunches and guesswork,” Ron said fretfully.
Charlie imagined it, imagined Kate’s big blue trusting eyes and he couldn’t endure it an instant longer.
He lurched to his feet, heart hammering in his chest, stomach roiling.
“Cha…”
He didn’t hear it. He was out the door.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Hermione appeared outside Number Twelve, her wand maintaining a firm Levitating hold on her unconscious captive. Her face was grim, mouth tight. Anyone who knew her well enough would cringe away from that expression, before hurrying to assist her. It was either that, or enduring her magnificent wrath.
She let the Wards confirm her presence, tapping her foot as the door glowed blue and then slid open.
Hurriedly she strode through the foyer, bumping the man into a wall twice, and not caring. He’d suffer much worse soon.
She could hear heated voices in the kitchen, and made her way straight there.
Ron was pacing, his hair a glorious mess. Harry sat facing him, drumming his fingers on the table-top: a sure sign of that restless worry he was always visited by in times of crisis. Ginny sat with arms crossed, scowling as George gesticulated at her with feeling.
Hermione cleared her throat, and four heads whipped toward the door as one.
In a flash, Ron had crossed the floor and enveloped her in a tight hug. It lasted barely three seconds though, because he spotted her… companion just then.
“What the fuck?”
A giggle escaped Hermione’s mouth without warning, and she clapped a hand to her lips. It was the joy of seeing him again, of course. She’d been resigned to missing him for another week just hours ago, after all. To suddenly be near him, close enough to…
She made a valiant effort to drag her mind away from a series of searing images, all featuring a disheveled, grinning, naked Ron.
Instead, she contented herself with a brief brush of her lips against his, before stepping back. He was staring at the floating man even now.
“What’s he doing here, Hermione?” Ginny had slid off the table and was approaching them, tailed by Harry.
“Wasn’t he in your year, Ron?” George piped up.
Ron nodded mutely.
“He was. And he was at my Uni, too.”
Harry looked confused.
“How come you didn’t mention…”
“Because he wasn’t Blaise there. He was pretending to be someone else.”
A thick silence fell over the room.
“Are you saying he was… Matthew?” Ron’s voice was hoarse when he posed the question at length.
Hermione nodded, positioning Blaise so he leaned against the wall, his mouth open.
“Spiffing, isn’t he?” George commented lazily.
“He was the best looking bloke at Hogwarts, George,” Ginny replied distractedly, keen on hearing the whole story. Harry raised an eyebrow at her; she swatted him.
“He joined recently, and naturally he was a stranger to me,” Hermione continued, sitting down and crossing her legs. Ron joined her, his large hand clasping hers tight.
“He seemed friendly enough, a bit shy, really. I thought he was harmless all this time. It was only tonight…” she broke off, glancing lovingly at Ron.
“Ron was suspicious of him when we Flooed earlier, and that just stuck in my head.”
She paused, fighting a smile: they were all staring at her as if she was half-insane, and half-brilliant. A regular enough occurrence, if she contemplated it.
“You Stunned him on a whim?” Harry asked-without a trace of surprise, she noted.
She nodded.
“More or less. You see, once I decided to come back I had to make the necessary arrangements, and while I was on my way to the Transport Office-at eleven on a weekday, mind you-he, ‘Matthew’ suddenly showed up. I just knew, then. I didn’t realize he was someone else entirely, just that he wasn’t… right.”
“Did he try anything?” Ron glowered at Blaise.
“No, he didn’t. I’d Stunned him before he understood what was happening, actually. Well, unless you count a rather lame declaration of love, that is.”
Ron looked astounded, then enraged.
“He did what?”
“Ron, he was trying to trap me,” Hermione replied with serene patience. Harry snorted, and she winked at him.
“Let’s revive the prat,” Ron growled, his fists clenched.
“So you can pound him?” George asked with an idle sort of curiosity.
Ron turned, eyes burning.
“So we can interrogate him,” he bit out.
“Ron, are you sure? Shouldn’t we take him to the Ministry?” Harry cut in then.
Ron hesitated.
“I’m not… not yet, I think.”
“You could get into serious trouble,” Hermione pointed out quickly.
Ginny smirked.
“No more than you could, attacking a fellow student.”
Hermione glared at her.
“That was an emergency and besides, I’m not an Auror, am I?”
Harry shook his head.
“This is pointless. I think Ron’s right. Let’s wake him, ask him a few questions. Something tells me he won’t be too keen on the Ministry either.”
“Right,” Ron looked relieved. He gripped his wand and aimed it at Blaise Zabini, and muttered the Incantation that would revive him.
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Yay?
Anyway, you know the drill: r&r, please!
Chapter 9, Part One.
The Everton Manor, the night Claire Everton died:
She couldn’t sit. She paced up and down the room, forever watchful. It had been precisely forty seven minutes since the Cure had been administered; she knew because her faithful servant stood in a corner, holding the ornate gold clock that had been in their family for centuries. It worked as beautifully as it had that summer’s day in 1567, when the Grand Warlock presented it to her venerable ancestor as a token of his deep, abiding affection for their House.
She stopped walking and inclined her head.
“Still time, Mistress,” the elf squeaked.
She nodded, tapping her fingers on the mahogany desk she leaned against. Soon. Soon, her daughter would awake and claim her true, rightful place in this world.
Her heart raced in anticipation. Gratitude mingled with a fierce defiance within. That she were the one to eventually find a weapon against their family’s affliction; that it had been her courage, her steadfastness and most of all, her whole-hearted belief in her child’s innate ability… it was truly delicious. She would prove them wrong. All of them, those witches and wizards who had taken such savage delight in whispering about the inevitable decline of her Great Line.
She pressed her fingers to her temples to still the tumult inside, but it surged to the surface anyway. Her own father had rebuked her coldly when she’d first discussed the possibility of reversal. It had been Ellie that time, her own sister, her twin. Sickly sweet Ellie, clinging to her hand every second, sighing with a wistful joy whenever she’d perform the simplest spell.
Ellie had died too young. They’d buried her in the grounds but secretly, late at night. Father didn’t want to make a fuss over it, she remembered him telling her. She’d wept till he raised his wand in that precise, ominous gesture.
“Do not shed tears over one who was always weak, Clara. Eloise was not meant for more than this.”
“Mistress?” The elf’s voice shattered the memory, and she was relieved.
Tonight. She would put a stop to all this tonight. There would be no more Ellies, not for the Evertons.
She turned.
“It has been fifty seven minutes, Mistress.”
She nodded, approaching her daughter carefully.
Claire was shifting restlessly, her skin pale and sweaty. Clara sat beside her, placing a cool hand on her forehead.
Claire jerked up, convulsing. The elf moved swiftly to the other side, taking her arm and holding her down, mirroring Clara’s movements. Together, they restrained the child as she thrashed madly, possessed by a new strength.
Then, abruptly, she opened her eyes.
“Mother?”
“Yes, child. I’m here,” Clara kept her voice steady with enormous effort, stroking the damp hair back.
“I’m…” Claire sat up suddenly, glancing feverishly about the room.
“Yes?”
The girl met her mother’s eyes. She looked confused.
“I feel…I feel different, Mother.”
Clara nodded encouragingly, suppressing her triumph for now.
“How, child? How do you feel?”
Claire pressed a trembling hand to the pit of her stomach. Her skin felt hot, flushed, and as her mother studied her she seemed to vibrate a little, her very flesh buzzing with energy.
‘The magic is taking hold.’
Slowly, Clara gestured to the elf and he darted to a sofa, returning with her wand. She held it for a moment, bidding her racing heart to slow down. Claire was watching her fearfully.
“Here.”
Claire flinched away.
“Here, daughter. Take it,” her voice brooked no argument, and long years of ingrained obedience overcame Claire’s diffidence as she grasped the wand, gingerly like it was a priceless artifact.
It was the first time in memory that the child had actually touched a wand, and the effect was instant: she smiled in wonder, even as her fingers shook with that persistent, crippling inadequacy.
“Use it,” Clara commanded with a steely certainty that masked her own fear.
Claire blinked up at her mother for a second before waving the wand in a graceful arc, a precise imitation of her brother’s fluid movements.
“Accio,” Claire whispered, tears already brimming in her eyes.
And then the purple velvet cushion soared up joyfully, flying across the room and straight into Claire’s lap.
For long moments they stared at each other, hardly daring to breathe because even a single, careless movement might dispel this miracle.
“You have your brother’s grace,” Clara told her in a matter-of-fact tone.
Claire beamed at her, a smile full of elation, devoid of that usual hint of apology she’d always carry around with her.
‘This is her true self.’
“Try another.”
For the next fifteen minutes they were in the embrace of complete, pure happiness. Everything fell away, the past with its weakness and imperfection, the burdens they’d carried, the distance they’d endured. Mother and daughter close as one, as they were always meant to be. Clara clapped her hands with each spell, rejoicing over her daughter’s clear talent. Claire threw back her head and laughed freely, the sound sinking into Clara’s blood like the sweetest wine.
The old elf wept tears of joy.
Then Claire performed her best spell yet, an effortless Shrinking Charm she’d seen her family do a million times. Her mother kept applauding even as she made quick plans for her unveiling to society, her glittering debut, and a whole world of unlimited possibilities that would be available to Claire Everton at last.
“Mother, I’m a witch!” Claire leaned forward and hugged her hard and fierce and more significantly, without permission.
She’d never done that before, and that realization finally brought tears to Clara’s eyes. She returned the embrace, gathering her fragile daughter-so gentle and sweet, so like Ellie-to her heart.
“Thank you, Mother.”
Those were the last words Claire ever spoke. Seconds later she was convulsing again, gasping for breath in her mother’s arms. No magic could soothe her, nor revive her. As Clara screamed spells and charms, as the elf scrambled to get help, any help, a hideous orange glow enveloped Claire Everton before literally bursting out of her, creating an unbearable heat and noise in its wake.
When it dissipated, Claire was dead.
The elf returned with their trusted Healer moments later to find Clara on the floor, holding onto her daughter’s corpse, wailing in pure agony.
Every day since, Clara could not rest. She dealt with the burial and the Aurors and her own weak Benji. She kept the danger at bay and exerted all her will to ensure her family’s honour and safety. She did all this, and the entire time her brain screamed those words at her unrelentingly, till she was sure she would lose her grip on sanity.
“Mother, I’m a witch.”
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France, Present Day:
Hermione strode down the dim corridor, her mind churning. Ron’s wide blue eyes, brimming with fear were at the centre of her thoughts. She needed to hurry through the formalities so she could rush back home and be with him.
The things he’d told her… she could scarcely bear to dwell on it, yet it was all she could think of. Kate and her magic, the Everton girl… Umbridge.
Umbridge.
A shudder ran through her as she turned a corner quickly, and nearly ran smack into someone.
“Oh!”
“Hermione?”
It was Matthew. Again.
She frowned.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugged.
“I was looking for the Transportation Office, actually.”
Her heart began beating just a little faster.
“At this time of night?”
He grinned ruefully.
“I got an Owl from home just now and I wanted…”
He trailed off, chewing his lower lip, looking befuddled and embarrassed and generally harmless.
And yet, it was too convenient. He’d visited her room minutes ago and now he was here. As Ron would put it, it stank.
She gripped her wand tighter in her right hand, concealed between the folds of her robes.
“I see. Well, it’s just straight down. Go on,” she motioned with her left hand.
He stared down at her, looking uncertain.
“Weren’t you going…”
“How did you know?” She cut across him, her tone suddenly cold and questioning.
He faltered.
“I, you were in the Floo earlier and I…”
“You were eavesdropping?”
He flinched as if she’d struck him, and moved back a step. His visible fear relaxed her a bit, but her mind cautioned her all the same. It could very well be a ploy, she knew.
“I was… I wanted… fine.” He spread his hands out, grinning charmingly at her.
“I’m rather besotted with you, Hermione. That’s the truth, and that’s all.”
He sounded perfectly sincere. His voice shook, his face flushed and his eyes glistened with hope.
She suppressed a bizarre urge to laugh. It was all so wrong. It was fake and hollow, without any sort of basis in reality. How could she not glean that immediately, when she knew what real affection looked like, had glimpsed it so often in Ron’s searing blue gaze?
Without debating further, she whipped her wand out and jabbed it at him in a short, precise movement.
The wordless Stunner took him straight in the chest and he collapsed at her feet.
Heart thudding madly, she Levitated him to a shady corner and left him there. He’d keep for a while, long enough for her to retrieve an Apparition Permit for herself and get ready to leave for London.
As for ‘Matthew’, well, she’d just have to take him with her.
A smile spread across her face without warning, and she flushed. It wasn’t like her to be so devoid of conflict over something as dubious as Stunning a person who hadn’t actually been proven guilty of anything.
But she was sure, deep in her gut. Her instincts were aiding her as they’d done innumerable times before when all hope seemed lost, and she wasn’t about to refuse such help.
Matthew would be going to England tonight, without question.
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Number Twelve, late night:
“Ron, stay still for a bloody second!” George huffed at him. He’d returned to Number Twelve a while ago, looking contemplative but calm. Ron and Harry had briefed him quickly, with interjections from Ginny and for once, George looked interested and engaged.
Kate had no idea of the developments the four were discussing. She was asleep and for now, blessedly ignorant of the truth. Ginny felt ill each time she envisaged breaking the sordid truth to the woman. Such a violation was too terrible to even imagine, and gods knew how Kate would react.
The door banged open while Ron was heatedly telling George to shut the fuck up and go brood in a corner or something. Charlie stomped in, drenched to the skin.
Harry raised his eyebrows and Charlie grunted, waving a hand in dismissal.
“You’ve missed loads, mate,” George told him.
“I’ll be the judge of that, runt,” Charlie shot back, grinning rather menacingly.
“Where were you anyway?” Ginny couldn’t stop herself as usual.
Charlie shrugged.
“Out.”
A burst of irritation buzzed through Ginny and she leaned forward.
“Having a lark, were we? Fat lot of good you are to Kate. It’s a good thing she’s got us around to care.”
Charlie’s face flushed.
“I’ll ignore that. One more word though, and I’ll thump you, Gin-gin. I don’t care how old you are, or who you’re bloody engaged to either.”
Ginny jerked back in shock. Harry laid a soothing hand on her arm, and she refrained from a nasty reply.
“We don’t have time for your shite, okay? Bloody hell! Talk about fucked up priorities,” Ron snapped at the room at large, his face creased with anxiety.
“What’s up his arse?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just, we’ve figured out a possible way for someone to steal another’s magic, we’ve linked it to the case we’re working on and we’ve also discovered a possible ring that’s involved, with some criminals we’re well acquainted with,” Harry told him in a fake-blasé tone.
Charlie blinked at him.
“Yeah. Shocking isn’t it, how these sods keep coming up with gold?” George added cheekily.
“I… does Kate know?” Charlie was on his feet, his mind reeling.
“Not yet. We want to get some proof before we tell her,” Ron said quickly.
Charlie sank back into his chair, feeling queasy and guilty and just, shitty.
“Who?”
“What?” Harry leaned forward.
“Criminals, you said. Who?”
Ron met his eyes, his face hard.
“Umbridge, Charlie. We think it’s Umbridge doing this.”
A thousand sharp memories flooded Charlie’s mind then, each more horrifying than the last. He’d had classmates arrested during the War, wizards and witches stripped of their wands and their belongings, forced to live beggar-like existences among the same people they’d once worked with, lived and loved and laughed with.
Jaime, Asha, Bobby… those were just a few names, but there were dozens more. Charlie’s Hogwarts class had had so many Muggle-borns, after all.
“What do we do?” His voice was hoarse as he posed the question, staring at his younger brother for answers.
“I, we need proof. That this is even possible, for a start.”
“What do you think? Is it?”
Ron struggled for coherence, pushing past the image of a young red-eyed Voldemort, hissing promises and threats at him in the freezing dark.
“Yeah, I do. There’re spells for it, for trapping… something. In a container of sorts.”
He fell silent as the rest gazed at him in pure horror. Ginny looked sick, George blank and Charlie… Charlie looked enraged.
“That’s what happened to her? To Kate?”
“We’re not certain but yeah, most likely.”
“Sex magic can steal or suppress someone’s essence temporarily, and…”
“And that’s why the person violated her,” Ginny finished.
Charlie clenched his fist, the stubby nails digging into his palm. He didn’t know what to do. He was utterly, utterly helpless. At the Reserve, such feelings could be easily relieved by a long, hard fly, or a rigorous session with one of his dragons. If all else failed, he’d simply drink himself senseless and cap it off with a bout of energetic, mindless sex.
Unbidden, Alicia’s face swam into his mind, flushed and eager, damp tendrils sticking to her skin as she arched her back invitingly, and…
‘Fuck. Fuck.’
He shook his head, humiliated, miserable and horny. All those fancy resolutions he’d made mere hours ago, and now this? He was hopeless.
“Sex isn’t interchangeable with a Numbing Charm, Charlie,” he could hear Bill in his head, wry and just a tiny bit sad as he tried getting through to him.
“Charlie?” Ginny sounded worried now. She had a genuine tender spot for him, despite her outward sharpness.
“Yeah, ‘m fine.”
“What’s next?” George asked the room at large.
“We need to tell Kate, of course!” Ginny’s voice was loud and indignant.
Harry nodded in agreement.
“She’ll take it hard, the whole story I mean.”
“I just wish we had more to go on, y’know? Not just a bunch of hunches and guesswork,” Ron said fretfully.
Charlie imagined it, imagined Kate’s big blue trusting eyes and he couldn’t endure it an instant longer.
He lurched to his feet, heart hammering in his chest, stomach roiling.
“Cha…”
He didn’t hear it. He was out the door.
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Hermione appeared outside Number Twelve, her wand maintaining a firm Levitating hold on her unconscious captive. Her face was grim, mouth tight. Anyone who knew her well enough would cringe away from that expression, before hurrying to assist her. It was either that, or enduring her magnificent wrath.
She let the Wards confirm her presence, tapping her foot as the door glowed blue and then slid open.
Hurriedly she strode through the foyer, bumping the man into a wall twice, and not caring. He’d suffer much worse soon.
She could hear heated voices in the kitchen, and made her way straight there.
Ron was pacing, his hair a glorious mess. Harry sat facing him, drumming his fingers on the table-top: a sure sign of that restless worry he was always visited by in times of crisis. Ginny sat with arms crossed, scowling as George gesticulated at her with feeling.
Hermione cleared her throat, and four heads whipped toward the door as one.
In a flash, Ron had crossed the floor and enveloped her in a tight hug. It lasted barely three seconds though, because he spotted her… companion just then.
“What the fuck?”
A giggle escaped Hermione’s mouth without warning, and she clapped a hand to her lips. It was the joy of seeing him again, of course. She’d been resigned to missing him for another week just hours ago, after all. To suddenly be near him, close enough to…
She made a valiant effort to drag her mind away from a series of searing images, all featuring a disheveled, grinning, naked Ron.
Instead, she contented herself with a brief brush of her lips against his, before stepping back. He was staring at the floating man even now.
“What’s he doing here, Hermione?” Ginny had slid off the table and was approaching them, tailed by Harry.
“Wasn’t he in your year, Ron?” George piped up.
Ron nodded mutely.
“He was. And he was at my Uni, too.”
Harry looked confused.
“How come you didn’t mention…”
“Because he wasn’t Blaise there. He was pretending to be someone else.”
A thick silence fell over the room.
“Are you saying he was… Matthew?” Ron’s voice was hoarse when he posed the question at length.
Hermione nodded, positioning Blaise so he leaned against the wall, his mouth open.
“Spiffing, isn’t he?” George commented lazily.
“He was the best looking bloke at Hogwarts, George,” Ginny replied distractedly, keen on hearing the whole story. Harry raised an eyebrow at her; she swatted him.
“He joined recently, and naturally he was a stranger to me,” Hermione continued, sitting down and crossing her legs. Ron joined her, his large hand clasping hers tight.
“He seemed friendly enough, a bit shy, really. I thought he was harmless all this time. It was only tonight…” she broke off, glancing lovingly at Ron.
“Ron was suspicious of him when we Flooed earlier, and that just stuck in my head.”
She paused, fighting a smile: they were all staring at her as if she was half-insane, and half-brilliant. A regular enough occurrence, if she contemplated it.
“You Stunned him on a whim?” Harry asked-without a trace of surprise, she noted.
She nodded.
“More or less. You see, once I decided to come back I had to make the necessary arrangements, and while I was on my way to the Transport Office-at eleven on a weekday, mind you-he, ‘Matthew’ suddenly showed up. I just knew, then. I didn’t realize he was someone else entirely, just that he wasn’t… right.”
“Did he try anything?” Ron glowered at Blaise.
“No, he didn’t. I’d Stunned him before he understood what was happening, actually. Well, unless you count a rather lame declaration of love, that is.”
Ron looked astounded, then enraged.
“He did what?”
“Ron, he was trying to trap me,” Hermione replied with serene patience. Harry snorted, and she winked at him.
“Let’s revive the prat,” Ron growled, his fists clenched.
“So you can pound him?” George asked with an idle sort of curiosity.
Ron turned, eyes burning.
“So we can interrogate him,” he bit out.
“Ron, are you sure? Shouldn’t we take him to the Ministry?” Harry cut in then.
Ron hesitated.
“I’m not… not yet, I think.”
“You could get into serious trouble,” Hermione pointed out quickly.
Ginny smirked.
“No more than you could, attacking a fellow student.”
Hermione glared at her.
“That was an emergency and besides, I’m not an Auror, am I?”
Harry shook his head.
“This is pointless. I think Ron’s right. Let’s wake him, ask him a few questions. Something tells me he won’t be too keen on the Ministry either.”
“Right,” Ron looked relieved. He gripped his wand and aimed it at Blaise Zabini, and muttered the Incantation that would revive him.
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