Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Harry Potter and The Power of The Coven
WARNING: Violence and Discussion of Character Death
P.S. can anyone find the mythic reference? Care to point it out? I will give u a cookie if you do…And a one shot cookie if you can answer all of the questions I have asked so far!
P.P.S. I am using the middle name Hermione was given in Book 7, since that is the most recent, but I prefer Jane (I just think Hermione Jane sounds better).
Last Chapter…
“Actually, my mother was a pureblood witch. She was very proud of her Slytherin heritage, as am I. She instilled her heritage into at least one of her children.”
The last comment was said more to himself then to his female companions. The girls had to strain their ears to catch it. Ariadne glanced at Olympia and Aurelia. One of…? They let the subject drop for the time being and set off to meet the rest of the faculty…
As the light streaming in the windows got longer, the group headed back to Dumbledore’s office.
Chapter 6 – Of Interludes
While the Coven met with Dumbledore, Snape, and several others some where in the wilds of Scotland, a thin, black-haired boy stretched out gingerly on his bed in Little Whinging. He tested his tired limbs before standing. With a glance in the mirror to make sure he wouldn’t anger his relatives further, he opened his bedroom door. His tread on the stairs was so light it was very nearly inaudible. When he opened the refrigerator door in the first floor kitchen, he was careful not to let it squeak. He pulled out a banana and a chicken leg: both foods that made no noise. The slightest disturbance and the boy knew he was in for it.
He crept slowly back up stairs and almost made it to the safety of his room before—
“BOY!!!”
The raven-haired teen cringed.
“Yes, Uncle Vernon?”
“GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT.”
The cringing teen stashed his food under the cat flap in his door. It would not do for his uncle to see him with it. The trip back down stairs was slightly less quiet. He entered the living room to be greeted with a large, angry, purple face. His uncle’s corpulent body was stuffed into an armchair that was meant for a man half his size. He looked ready to snarl and spit at the next person with whom he came in contact. And that of course, would be his nephew: Harry Potter.
“BOY! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING, LEAVING YOUR ROOM?!?” the obese man bellowed.
“I…I just…I wasn’t…I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.” The teen stuttered.
“You are damn right it won’t!” Vernon seemed to surge forward from his chair as he stood. “I will not have your twisted freakishness polluting my house. I am locking you into that room. And you better be glad I am not throwing you into your cupboard and boarding up the door! Get up stairs right now!”
“But, Uncle, You—“
“DO NOT PRESUME TO TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CAN’T DO, YOU ABNORMAL, ABERRANT MUTANT!!!”
Vernon’s face took on a new shade of puce and Harry shrunk away from him. The beefy hand came out of nowhere as, for umpteenth time this summer, Vernon’s anger bubbled up out of control. A loud crack resounded through the room as it connected with Harry’s cheekbone. Harry could feel the bone splinter and his face exploded with pain. He dropped to the floor, cradling his head, in an attempt to protect it from further damage. As a booted foot buried itself into his gut, the emerald-eyed boy curled into a ball.
The whale-of-a-man that stood in front of him kicked Harry one last time, for good measure and left him there, with a parting hiss, “Never question me again, boy.”
Harry whimpered. He could feel warm blood dripping down his abdomen, where the steel toe of his uncle’s boot had broken the skin. His back was on fire from the last kick that was aimed at his kidneys. Thank Merlin that Vernon had missed. Harry tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but realized that would be too painful. The sudden shift in angle might cause him to black out. Instead, he lurched to his hands and knees. Crawling to a nearby chair, he managed to, very slowly, pull himself into something that resembled a standing position. Curled in on himself to protect his body from any further abuse, Harry stumbled haltingly to the staircase. As he dragged himself up, he lost the vision in his right eye, as his face began to swell.
The handle of his bedroom door was almost too difficult for him to deal with. Finally he managed to get it opened. As the knob turned, however, Harry could feel the darkness creep along the sides of his mind. Unconsciousness was tugging at him. He felt his body giving out and turned to shut the door. An open door was an invitation for Dudley to come have a go.
Harry James Potter, The Chosen One, The appointed Savior of the Wizarding World, The Boy-Who-Lived, lay on the floor of the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive and slipped into the blackness in his mind as his blood seeped between the wooden slats.
-------------------------------------------
As Harry Potter lay bleeding, a bushy, brown haired girl lay curled up on her bed, her face to the wall. Her room, like her personality, was practical. The wall were a buttery cream-color, the desk and shelves that lined the walls were covered in books of all kinds. Her rug and bedding were bright yellow. The only sign of startling color in the entire room was the trunk that sat at the end of her bed. It was large and made of scarlet leather. Stamped on the top was a crest with a roaring medieval lion. Across the bottom of the crest, a banner reading Gryffindor seemed to wave in an unseen wind.
Hermione Granger was draped, once again, in her school robes. There were tears in her large brown eyes. She couldn’t seem to get out of her head the image of Ginny Weasley disappearing into the veiled archway, a look of shock and pain on her face. She brushed angrily at the dampness on her face and pushed thoughts of what Ron must be going through away. Thoughts of Harry threatened to intrude as well. She knew he must be blaming himself for Ginny’s death. She gritted her teeth. The only person responsible for this tragedy was Bellatrix Lestrange.
With her mind dwelling on the battle in the Department of Mysteries, Hermione fell into a fitful sleep.
Once again she was walking down that corridor in the basement of the Ministry of Magic. She could feel Luna to her left and Ginny to her right. Neville was bringing up the rear and making sure they were not followed. She could see Ron and Harry outlined in front of her by the light coming from the opened doorway at the end of the hall. She shivered in a cold gust that came whipping down the corridor…No, that wasn’t right. The door should not be opened. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
She opened her mouth to say so and a hand was clamped over it. She turned to see who was there and Bellatrix seized her round the waist. Ginny and Neville were nowhere in sight. Luna was unconscious and slung over the shoulder of the man who had flung that curse at her, Antonin Dolohov. She tried to scream, to warn Harry and Ron that they were under attack, but couldn’t. She turned her eyes back to her best friends, but realized that they were no longer the figures of two teenaged boys. Ron’s shadow had grown huge and disproportioned. He appeared to be a whale with arms and legs instead of flippers and a tail. The other figure had lengthened and become impossibly thin. Swirling robes cloaked the shadow in inky-blackness.
Hermione felts herself being dragged along. She and her assailant reached the doorway and stepped through. She was released and dropped to the floor.
Before her eyes, Voldemort and Harry duel. Jets of rainbow light streak through the air, but none strike their intended target. Several moments pass and Hermione cannot breath. Then a long bolt of green lightening hits Harry in the chest and he drops. She stumbles to her feet and runs to him. But the world around her tilts and spins. They are no longer in the Entrance Room of the Department of Mysteries. Her eyes catch a brief glimpse of the Atrium with its destroyed golden fountain; she sees a graveyard filled with cloaked figures in white masks, bowing to a snake-man: Voldemort; her vision shifts again and she is looking at the inside of a muggle manor house, three figures slumped dead at a dining table and an middle-aged man falls to the floor. Finally, the tilting, spinning room settles. Colors stops flicking in and out of existence and before her lays a small, shabby, dark bedroom. Curled into a ball at her feet, a teenage boy twitches. She kneels and turns his face to her.
When Hermione looked into the battered and disfigured face of her best friend, she let the tears in her eyes fall. She fell over Harry and wept into his skin, murmuring over and over words of comfort and promises of a better tomorrow. A bellow of rage echoed off the walls of the small room and she looked up to see the whale-Ron-shadow from the Department of Mysteries. Ron’s shock of ginger hair ran as wild as Harry’s did, but the face is that of Harry’s uncle, Vernon Dursley and it’s purple with rage. He reared back as if to charge. Hermione screamed.
The door of her bedroom burst open and Hermione’s mother was at her side in an instant.
“Darling, are you alright? What is the matter? Why did you scream?”
The brown-haired girl shook her head and rubbed at her eyes, trying to get those images out of her mind, to no avail. She muttered something about nightmares and the concerned parent left her alone. The finality of the click of the closing door made her shudder.
What if some part of the dream was true? What if Harry was really in trouble? Could she ignore it? What would the consequences be if she did? Normally she simply did not hold with nonsense like Sight, but she had a nasty crawling feeling that that dream was not normal.
Hermione sat straight up in her bed, torn by indecision. After a moment, she swung her legs over the side and stood purposefully. The worst that could happen if she owl'd the headmaster was that nothing would be wrong and she would look like a fool. Well, she knew she wasn’t a fool, so that really didn’t matter to her. Scribbling a note on a piece of parchment, she opened the window and sent her new eagle owl, Hensibal, into the night carrying a warning on her leg.
For the first time in her life, Hermione Jean Granger prayed to God, Merlin, and anyone else who was listening that she totally and completely wrong.
-------------------------------------------
While Hermione Granger prayed, the ginger haired boy, she had dreamt about sat weeping on his sister’s floor. In the middle of room, Ron Weasley sat, staring with blood-shot blue eyes around at the things she had collected in her short life. Walls and carpet and bedding in Sea-foam, the only color that actually complimented her hair, Unicorns and Horses and Griffons sitting on selves along those walls. She was only 14 years old. Much too young to die. The same thoughts were looping in his mind. Too young. Mother’s baby girl. It should have been me. Why couldn’t I protect her? Why did we let her come with us? How could Harry have asked her to come? Too young. Too Much danger. Mom’s baby girl…
He rocked back and forth; each new object upon which his eyes lit caused a fresh wave of tears to fall. He buried his face in his hands. Guilt sat on his shoulders like a dumbbell, too much to bear. He would never see his baby sister again, her smiling face and bouncing step. She would never come bounding down the stairs in her bathrobe looking for her jumper. He would never pass her in the hallways at Hogwarts, never be able to intimidate possible boyfriends, never see her graduate or get married. She would never get to do so many things. She had been robbed of those opportunities by the situation they had put her in. That he put her in. that Harry! Had put her in. Why had Harry asked for her help? She was only a fourth year, too young to be fighting evil. Harry should never have gotten her involved.
Curled in a ball on the floor of Ginny’s room, his tears soaking into the carpet, Ronald Bilius Weasley vowed
WARNING: Violence and Discussion of Character Death
[*P.S. can anyone find the mythic reference? Care to point it out? I will give u a cookie if you do
P.S. can anyone find the mythic reference? Care to point it out? I will give u a cookie if you do…And a one shot cookie if you can answer all of the questions I have asked so far!
P.P.S. I am using the middle name Hermione was given in Book 7, since that is the most recent, but I prefer Jane (I just think Hermione Jane sounds better).
Last Chapter…
“Actually, my mother was a pureblood witch. She was very proud of her Slytherin heritage, as am I. She instilled her heritage into at least one of her children.”
The last comment was said more to himself then to his female companions. The girls had to strain their ears to catch it. Ariadne glanced at Olympia and Aurelia. One of…? They let the subject drop for the time being and set off to meet the rest of the faculty…
As the light streaming in the windows got longer, the group headed back to Dumbledore’s office.
Chapter 6 – Of Interludes
While the Coven met with Dumbledore, Snape, and several others some where in the wilds of Scotland, a thin, black-haired boy stretched out gingerly on his bed in Little Whinging. He tested his tired limbs before standing. With a glance in the mirror to make sure he wouldn’t anger his relatives further, he opened his bedroom door. His tread on the stairs was so light it was very nearly inaudible. When he opened the refrigerator door in the first floor kitchen, he was careful not to let it squeak. He pulled out a banana and a chicken leg: both foods that made no noise. The slightest disturbance and the boy knew he was in for it.
He crept slowly back up stairs and almost made it to the safety of his room before—
“BOY!!!”
The raven-haired teen cringed.
“Yes, Uncle Vernon?”
“GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT.”
The cringing teen stashed his food under the cat flap in his door. It would not do for his uncle to see him with it. The trip back down stairs was slightly less quiet. He entered the living room to be greeted with a large, angry, purple face. His uncle’s corpulent body was stuffed into an armchair that was meant for a man half his size. He looked ready to snarl and spit at the next person with whom he came in contact. And that of course, would be his nephew: Harry Potter.
“BOY! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING, LEAVING YOUR ROOM?!?” the obese man bellowed.
“I…I just…I wasn’t…I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.” The teen stuttered.
“You are damn right it won’t!” Vernon seemed to surge forward from his chair as he stood. “I will not have your twisted freakishness polluting my house. I am locking you into that room. And you better be glad I am not throwing you into your cupboard and boarding up the door! Get up stairs right now!”
“But, Uncle, You—“
“DO NOT PRESUME TO TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CAN’T DO, YOU ABNORMAL, ABERRANT MUTANT!!!”
Vernon’s face took on a new shade of puce and Harry shrunk away from him. The beefy hand came out of nowhere as, for umpteenth time this summer, Vernon’s anger bubbled up out of control. A loud crack resounded through the room as it connected with Harry’s cheekbone. Harry could feel the bone splinter and his face exploded with pain. He dropped to the floor, cradling his head, in an attempt to protect it from further damage. As a booted foot buried itself into his gut, the emerald-eyed boy curled into a ball.
The whale-of-a-man that stood in front of him kicked Harry one last time, for good measure and left him there, with a parting hiss, “Never question me again, boy.”
Harry whimpered. He could feel warm blood dripping down his abdomen, where the steel toe of his uncle’s boot had broken the skin. His back was on fire from the last kick that was aimed at his kidneys. Thank Merlin that Vernon had missed. Harry tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but realized that would be too painful. The sudden shift in angle might cause him to black out. Instead, he lurched to his hands and knees. Crawling to a nearby chair, he managed to, very slowly, pull himself into something that resembled a standing position. Curled in on himself to protect his body from any further abuse, Harry stumbled haltingly to the staircase. As he dragged himself up, he lost the vision in his right eye, as his face began to swell.
The handle of his bedroom door was almost too difficult for him to deal with. Finally he managed to get it opened. As the knob turned, however, Harry could feel the darkness creep along the sides of his mind. Unconsciousness was tugging at him. He felt his body giving out and turned to shut the door. An open door was an invitation for Dudley to come have a go.
Harry James Potter, The Chosen One, The appointed Savior of the Wizarding World, The Boy-Who-Lived, lay on the floor of the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive and slipped into the blackness in his mind as his blood seeped between the wooden slats.
-------------------------------------------
As Harry Potter lay bleeding, a bushy, brown haired girl lay curled up on her bed, her face to the wall. Her room, like her personality, was practical. The wall were a buttery cream-color, the desk and shelves that lined the walls were covered in books of all kinds. Her rug and bedding were bright yellow. The only sign of startling color in the entire room was the trunk that sat at the end of her bed. It was large and made of scarlet leather. Stamped on the top was a crest with a roaring medieval lion. Across the bottom of the crest, a banner reading Gryffindor seemed to wave in an unseen wind.
Hermione Granger was draped, once again, in her school robes. There were tears in her large brown eyes. She couldn’t seem to get out of her head the image of Ginny Weasley disappearing into the veiled archway, a look of shock and pain on her face. She brushed angrily at the dampness on her face and pushed thoughts of what Ron must be going through away. Thoughts of Harry threatened to intrude as well. She knew he must be blaming himself for Ginny’s death. She gritted her teeth. The only person responsible for this tragedy was Bellatrix Lestrange.
With her mind dwelling on the battle in the Department of Mysteries, Hermione fell into a fitful sleep.
Once again she was walking down that corridor in the basement of the Ministry of Magic. She could feel Luna to her left and Ginny to her right. Neville was bringing up the rear and making sure they were not followed. She could see Ron and Harry outlined in front of her by the light coming from the opened doorway at the end of the hall. She shivered in a cold gust that came whipping down the corridor…No, that wasn’t right. The door should not be opened. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
She opened her mouth to say so and a hand was clamped over it. She turned to see who was there and Bellatrix seized her round the waist. Ginny and Neville were nowhere in sight. Luna was unconscious and slung over the shoulder of the man who had flung that curse at her, Antonin Dolohov. She tried to scream, to warn Harry and Ron that they were under attack, but couldn’t. She turned her eyes back to her best friends, but realized that they were no longer the figures of two teenaged boys. Ron’s shadow had grown huge and disproportioned. He appeared to be a whale with arms and legs instead of flippers and a tail. The other figure had lengthened and become impossibly thin. Swirling robes cloaked the shadow in inky-blackness.
Hermione felts herself being dragged along. She and her assailant reached the doorway and stepped through. She was released and dropped to the floor.
Before her eyes, Voldemort and Harry duel. Jets of rainbow light streak through the air, but none strike their intended target. Several moments pass and Hermione cannot breath. Then a long bolt of green lightening hits Harry in the chest and he drops. She stumbles to her feet and runs to him. But the world around her tilts and spins. They are no longer in the Entrance Room of the Department of Mysteries. Her eyes catch a brief glimpse of the Atrium with its destroyed golden fountain; she sees a graveyard filled with cloaked figures in white masks, bowing to a snake-man: Voldemort; her vision shifts again and she is looking at the inside of a muggle manor house, three figures slumped dead at a dining table and an middle-aged man falls to the floor. Finally, the tilting, spinning room settles. Colors stops flicking in and out of existence and before her lays a small, shabby, dark bedroom. Curled into a ball at her feet, a teenage boy twitches. She kneels and turns his face to her.
When Hermione looked into the battered and disfigured face of her best friend, she let the tears in her eyes fall. She fell over Harry and wept into his skin, murmuring over and over words of comfort and promises of a better tomorrow. A bellow of rage echoed off the walls of the small room and she looked up to see the whale-Ron-shadow from the Department of Mysteries. Ron’s shock of ginger hair ran as wild as Harry’s did, but the face is that of Harry’s uncle, Vernon Dursley and it’s purple with rage. He reared back as if to charge. Hermione screamed.
The door of her bedroom burst open and Hermione’s mother was at her side in an instant.
“Darling, are you alright? What is the matter? Why did you scream?”
The brown-haired girl shook her head and rubbed at her eyes, trying to get those images out of her mind, to no avail. She muttered something about nightmares and the concerned parent left her alone. The finality of the click of the closing door made her shudder.
What if some part of the dream was true? What if Harry was really in trouble? Could she ignore it? What would the consequences be if she did? Normally she simply did not hold with nonsense like Sight, but she had a nasty crawling feeling that that dream was not normal.
Hermione sat straight up in her bed, torn by indecision. After a moment, she swung her legs over the side and stood purposefully. The worst that could happen if she owl'd the headmaster was that nothing would be wrong and she would look like a fool. Well, she knew she wasn’t a fool, so that really didn’t matter to her. Scribbling a note on a piece of parchment, she opened the window and sent her new eagle owl, Hensibal, into the night carrying a warning on her leg.
For the first time in her life, Hermione Jean Granger prayed to God, Merlin, and anyone else who was listening that she totally and completely wrong.
-------------------------------------------
While Hermione Granger prayed, the ginger haired boy, she had dreamt about sat weeping on his sister’s floor. In the middle of room, Ron Weasley sat, staring with blood-shot blue eyes around at the things she had collected in her short life. Walls and carpet and bedding in Sea-foam, the only color that actually complimented her hair, Unicorns and Horses and Griffons sitting on selves along those walls. She was only 14 years old. Much too young to die. The same thoughts were looping in his mind. Too young. Mother’s baby girl. It should have been me. Why couldn’t I protect her? Why did we let her come with us? How could Harry have asked her to come? Too young. Too Much danger. Mom’s baby girl…
He rocked back and forth; each new object upon which his eyes lit caused a fresh wave of tears to fall. He buried his face in his hands. Guilt sat on his shoulders like a dumbbell, too much to bear. He would never see his baby sister again, her smiling face and bouncing step. She would never come bounding down the stairs in her bathrobe looking for her jumper. He would never pass her in the hallways at Hogwarts, never be able to intimidate possible boyfriends, never see her graduate or get married. She would never get to do so many things. She had been robbed of those opportunities by the situation they had put her in. That he put her in. that Harry! Had put her in. Why had Harry asked for her help? She was only a fourth year, too young to be fighting evil. Harry should never have gotten her involved.
Curled in a ball on the floor of Ginny’s room, his tears soaking into the carpet, Ronald Bilius Weasley vowed
WARNING: Violence and Discussion of Character Death
[*P.S. can anyone find the mythic reference? Care to point it out? I will give u a cookie if you do
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