A Forbidden Birthright

Chapter Nine

The next morning was a blissful Saturday, a morning designated for delicious laziness, a pastime Hermione hardly allowed herself to indulge in. She knew she was a workaholic, she knew she used it as a distraction, but damn, did she enjoy what she did. But when she did allow herself a full day of relaxation, she enjoyed that, too.

She awoke to the sun streaming through her blinds and her blankets kicked halfway off her bed. Her books on dark magic lay strewn about her floor. After her friends had left, her mind tugged her towards the books, and between sips of her firewhiskey, she had grabbed a handful from the shelves and poured over them, taking in their information like water. Perhaps it was her never ending thirst for knowledge, or perhaps it was ambition that drove her, or even something else, but these books were ones she didn't dare read in her school years. But now, as an adult, there was nothing holding her back aside from herself.

She chided herself often on feeling like what she was doing was wrong, like she had to sneak around about it, when there was an entire wizarding school that taught it to their own students Her concern on the subject came from her friendship with Harry, and even Ginny. The two of them were so staunchly against the study of dark magic, although Ginny would maybe allow a little room if necessary, that their disapproval kept her from discussing it. 

As much as she hated it and knew how warped dark magic was, how it could warp a person, she had to know about it, had to study it. She may not be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, but she imagined knowing the spells dark wizards used could be more than helpful in a fight. If she knew her opponents attack spells and was able to recognize them quickly, she would stand a better chance at surviving, and she could develop counter-spells more specifically. She knew it was a risk to have these books in her home, to be touching their pages and memorizing their content, but how many risks had she taken in school and had come out alive?

Although not unscathed.

She shifted, sitting up, and gazed at her arm, at her scar, clenching her jaw as she looked at it. She had removed the glamour last night but couldn't bring herself to practice the idea she'd had, so she'd just stared at it. stared at it like she was doing know.

The wound did not heal cleanly, unlike Harry's scar on the back of his hand from when Umbridge used the Black Quill that used his blood as ink. The letters had been reduced to white lines that became clearer whenever he flexed his hand. Luckily for him, they only caused him pain if somebody uttered that evil witch's name, but for Hermione, the letters were raised. Each white letter puckered pink, each one sensitive to contact, and nearly always sore.

She slid to the side of her bed and grasped a vial of essence of dittany and unscrewed the cap, squeezing several drops from the dropper onto her scar. Gently, she rubbed the herb into her skin until the tightness and soreness faded. It now gleamed with the sheen of the oil. With a disgusted grumble, she cast the daily glamour until it was hidden from sight.

Every time she saw it, Bellatrix Lestrange's face flashed in the back of her mind. Her wild shrieks demanding to know about the sword were worse than the screams of a mandrake, and too many times, Hermione would hear it her nightmares. She couldn't tell which scream was her own over Bellatrix's shrill tones, her eyes wild with fear and anger. With panic over how the sword was taken from her vault. Hermione remembered how her breath felt against her cheek, her black curls grazing over her skin.

They said it was a testament to her strength that she walked away from that encounter after Bellatrix had not only carved a cursed wound into Hermione, but used the Cruciatus Curse on her to loosen her tongue beforehand. But nobody talked about the mental damage she sustained from experiencing it. The way her body felt like it was going to snap, like white-hot lightening had shot through her, sizzling her skin to the point of melting. Hermione's bones had groaned and she had writhed uncontrollably, her throat raw from her continuous screams. Every inch of her body was on fire, burning her from the inside, eating her alive.