Chapter Text
Now more than ever, Hermione regretted owing someone.
The girls' bathroom on the fifth floor was among the least used places in the castle, making it perfect for their current business.
Across from the steaming cauldron Hermione was stirring, Bellatrix sat cross-legged reading the potion recipe for the hundredth time.
Hermione had already memorized it.
“I’m surprised you haven’t memorized it by now.”
“I have.”
“Then why are you still looking at the instructions?”
Bellatrix lowered the paper just enough to glare at Hermione over it.
“To make sure you’re doing it right.”
Hermione snorted.
“Hard to make sure of that when you’re not watching--or helping.”
Really, it was the lack of assistance that grated on Hermione’s nerves.
So far, all Bellatrix had done was sit two feet away from the bubbling pot and occasionally inform Hermione to not ‘muck it up’.
“Are you saying the potions too difficult for you Granger?” Bellatrix teased.
Hermione still wasn’t used to that.
Bellatrix teasing her.
Making jokes more often with Hermione than at her expense.
Things in general hadn’t been quite the same since their little chat at the top of the observatory tower during family weekend.
Before, Bellatrix had been all wicked smiles, biting remarks, and glares.
Now—Bellatrix was still wicked smiles, but the biting remarks had less bite to them and the glares less intensity.
Hermione huffed.
“It’s not hard—I’m just saying some assistance would be appreciated.”
“I read the instructions—what more do you want?”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re letting the potion bubble too much again—stir.”
Indeed, the silvery shimmering surface of the potion was beginning to turn from a simmer to a rolling boil. Hermione stirred at the thin liquid several times until the surface calmed.
“Where did you even get this recipe from?”
Silence.
“What does it do?”
An irritated inhale.
“Black—”
“Hush!” Bellatrix snapped.
Now Hermione glared.
“Well if you would answer maybe I would stop talking.”
“If I tell you where I found it will you shut your mouth.”
“Yes.” Hermione stated.
Bellatrix sighed.
Then leaned back onto her hands. For a moment she only stared at Hermione. Dark eyes, curly hair falling to the side. Head tilted. Green and black robes, impeccably pressed.
Impossibly beautiful. Impossibly intimidating.
Hermione clenched her jaw, and turned back to stubbornly staring at the cauldron.
“The seventh floor.”
“Where on the—”
“Granger!”
Hermione fell silent. A small smile at the corner of her lips.
In a show of good faith, Hermione stayed silent for the next three minutes as the potion turned from a shiny silver to a dull matte grey. The previous sheen only showed through when she broke the dull surface with the ladle.
“It should be ready now.”
Bellatrix eyed the potion.
“Perfect. You first then.”
“No way! This is your potion—you drink it.”
An arched eyebrow.
“Scared of your handiwork Granger.”
Hermione crossed her arms.
“My brewing is spot on.”
“Then drink up.” Bellatrix sneered.
“No! I don’t want to.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
This time there was bite to the words. The familiar edge to them that told Hermione--do as I say or suffer the consequences.
Hermione wasn’t in the mood to find out what those consequences would be.
Especially since Bellatrix had been on edge since they had arrived in the damp, smelly, mildew bathroom.
Probably force it down her throat anyway.
Reluctantly, Hermione scooped out a portion of the liquid into a small mug.
The instructions hadn’t mentioned how much they should drink. The instructions hadn’t mentioned much at all outside of the strange ingredients, how to brew it and the name: Elixir of Proclivis.
The name alone was mysterious. It could mean anything.
And Bellatrix clearly had no intentions of explaining.
“Don’t forget to say a possibility that hasn’t happened yet.” Bellatrix reminded.
Hermione didn’t need it. She knew. She had it memorized after all.
It was the strangest part of the instructions.
Step 9. Say a possibility that hasn’t occurred, and then consume the liquid.
Hermione thought for a second, then stated, as if blowing out a candle on a birthday cake.
“I was born in the next generation.”
She swallowed the liquid in one go.
It was awful.
The taste alone made her gag.
Bellatrix watched with amusement.
A pause.
Nothing.
Another.
Still nothing.
Hermione felt no different.
She looked at Bellatrix.
“See, it’s fine.”
Satisfied, Bellatrix followed suit.
A scoop into her own mug.
“I’m the most feared witch alive.”
Then chugged down the mug.
Several minutes went by.
Nothing.
“You must have messed it up.”
“Me!”
“It should have done something!”
“How am I supposed to know if you won’t—”
Then—
Pain. Excruciating pain.
More than Hermione had ever felt in her life.
Her knees buckled. Her stomach clenched. Bile lingered at the back of her throat.
She looked up to ask Bellatrix for help but—but Bellatrix was faring no better.
Hunched over. Dark curls disheveled. A hand pressed to her stomach. Vomit spattering across the tile.
Merlin, they had mucked up.
Bad.
Then a lightning-piercing headache. Hermione had to shut her eyes to endure it.
The darkness only intensified the spinning feeling.
Something was moving. Twirling. The world? Her? Both?
She vomited again.
Then, voices next to her—a boy—two boys.
“—last chance!—Hand over the prophecy Potter!” a man.
She knew that voice. She knew that voice.
“—‘moine!” Ron.
Why did she know a Ron. A Harry. A Ginny
A NevilleLunaDracoPansyHannahFredGeorgeDeanPadmaSeamusParvatiJustinLavenderFleur.
All the memories came flooding in.
Memories she knew.
Memories she’d never had before.
Memories she knew she’d had.
Overlapping. Sorting. Reorganizing.
Everything. It was too much.
She vomited again.
The ground is different.
Not Hogwarts.
Not the bathroom.
Not 1964.
She felt the difference in the air. Like how she could feel the difference when she stepped into her parents’ house.
“—Lestrange get it together.” Malfoy.
Older. Colder.
Hermione looked up across the room toward Bellatrix. To where she had last seen her.
There was none. There was one.
Not 13. 44.
Not in Hogwarts robes. In a corset and heels.
Snaring at her. Definitely still snaring at her.
Dark curls disheveled. Hunched over, vomiting. A hand pressed to her stomach.
Wild dark eyes stared back at her.
Disbelief. Confused. Pained.
They both vomited again.
“—Lestrange!”
“ ‘mione!”
“—Granger!”
“—Black!”
Then flashes. The Order.
Why was there an Order?
Blackness.