Flight of the Stars

Chapter Twelve

Disclaimer: "A mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone if it is to keep its edge." Alas, the Harry Potter books do not belong to me. (I'm kind of stretching it at this point, but you know what, whatever.)
A/N: I guess this is going to become a regular thing. Song recommendations, I mean. For this chapter, I listened to Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Lorde and Whatever It Takes by Imagine Dragons.

o-0-o

The dreaded day finally came.

Hermione was hardly able to focus that Thursday. She would begin to take neat, detailed notes as always, then stare into space for the rest of the lesson. She hid in a stall in a girls' lavatory between classes, trying to calm her breathing. She found herself more often than not rubbing the smooth, unblemished skin of her left forearm, because after that day, it would never be pure again.

She gave up taking notes in Transfiguration when her hand was shaking so badly that her quill left long, scraggly lines on her parchment rather than her usual neat handwriting. She overheard her friends remark to each other that she looked a bit paler than normal, and was she alright, and did they think she needed to visit the nurse?

Hermione ignored them. This was something that she needed to face on her own.

And besides, she told herself firmly, it's for the greater good.

After her classes ended, and everyone else was either outside enjoying the snow or eating dinner in the Great Hall, she sat on the floor next to the fire in the empty common room, her thumb rubbing over and over across the place where the Dark Mark would soon be branded onto her skin.

The Hogwarts bells tolled seven-thirty. Hermione stared into the fire, her heart beating far too fast, and took several deep, calming breaths. "It's going to be fine, Hermione. Fine. Completely, totally fine. Sure, you lost your childhood fighting against the very group you're about to join, but..."

Hermione learned that she wasn't very good at giving herself pep talks.

When seven-forty hit, she got up slowly, straightened out her uniform and used her wand to smooth out the almost-nonexistent wrinkles, adjusted her tie, and smoothed out her hair. After conjuring a mirror to check her teeth, and ensuring that they were as clean as ever, she took a deep breath, clenched her jaw, and made her way out of the common room.

Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of the stretch of wall that led to the Room of Requirement, her heart filled with new resolve. I need a place to meet with the Death Eaters. Somewhere we won't be detected. The doors revealed themselves just as the bells struck eight, and she stepped inside.

It was a relatively small room. A long table stretched out in the middle, chairs filled with people she had no interest in looking at, and bookshelves covered the walls. A large fire crackled at the back.

"Welcome, Hermione," she heard Tom say, and she turned to see his smile. "We saved you a seat."

" This is the new member?" one of them sneered, a boy she recognized as Macnair from the dinner party. "A girl? "

"Shut up," one of them hissed at him, but Tom had already turned his gaze toward him, his dark eyes flashing.

"Is this a problem?"

Macnair stared at him insolently, then dropped his gaze. "No, my Lord."

"Good. Have a seat, Hermione."

Hermione tilted her head, her eyes boring down on Macnair's. So she was in 1944, a time when women and Muggleborns were discriminated against, and she was both. She gazed down at him, her eyes hard. I'll put him in his place.