Chapter Text
Book I Rift in Time — Fragmentation of the soul
April 04th, 1998
Hermione’s drawn-out scream was echoed through the bare room. Her back was pressed against the cold black floor, slick with sweat and blood. Above her stood Bellatrix Lestrange. Her wild black curls shimmered slightly in the dim light, framing her face alight with cruel delight. A twisted smile curled her lips as she looked down at the small, fragile body trembling beneath her.
"I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?“
"We found it - we found it - PLEASE!“
"Crucio“
Hermione screamed again, a high broken sound. Her heart slammed against her ribcage, wild and uneven. It felt as every bone in her body was slowly, methodically cracking. Bellatrix still stood above her, unmoved, her wand steady, her smile deepening with each scream that ripped from Hermione’s throat. To her, the sound was nothing less than music.
With a lazy flick of her wand, the pain vanished. Hermione gasped, her whole body trembling, her limbs twitching from phantom torment. Slowly, she opened her eyes.
"Where did you get this sword, Mudblood?“, Bellatrix shrill voice rang out again, echoing from the stone walls.
"We found…“
Another wave of unbearable pain tore through her. Her sentence was cut short, her back arching violently as the Cruciatus Curse took hold once more. But this time it felt different — worse. Her body wasn’t just breaking; it was burning. Deep inside, her magic — normally silent, a steady hum beneath her skin — began to stir and twist. She had no strength left to resist. No defense against the curse that hollowed her out from within.
"You’re lying, filithy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!“
Hermione was barely holding on. Her spine arched off the floor, and her fingernails dragged across the cold stone floor, leaving faint bloody trails behind. Her vision blurred, black dots blooming at the corners of her eyes, growing wider, darker with every second.
"What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth, or I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!“
A breath. A pause. Hermione gasped, struggling to drag air into her lungs. She tried to calm herself, tried to think about an answer — any answer — that might make Bellatrix stop. But her mind was blank. No solution. No lie that might save her. No path out.
"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME!“
Bellatrix raised the knife, her movements erratic. Her Body was touring, above Hermione’s shaking body. Bellatrix grabbed her arm and sliced open one of her sleeves. Slowly, she pressed the blade against Hermione’s skin, dragging it down with cruel precision. Tears shot into Hermione’s eyes. For a breathless moment, she wished for the Cruciatus again — anything but this slow violation. She could feel Bellatrix carving something on her skin. But the pain blurred the shapes. The letters were meaningless. Only agony remained.
Hermione’s eyes met Bellatrix’s, and what she saw there made her stomach turn — pleasure and hatred woven together in a single expression. On Bellatrix’s Lips were a sadistic smile as she looked at her handiwork. But she wasn’t done. There was one rune — one she had seen long ago in an ancient Black family grimoire. A rune, she thought, that would never false, never heal. A rune that would tie Hermione to her … and ensure she suffered every time it pulsed.
Bellatrix slowly lifted Hermione’s shirt, revealing the flawless skin of her stomach and hips. A sharp, smile curled on her lips — brighter, hungrier. The girls’ skin was perfect. No scars. No stretch marks. Nothing but soft, untouched flesh. And she could ruin it. She could mark the Mudblood, claim her. Mark her as one of hers.
With her left Hand, Bellatrix traced slow and gentle circles across Hermione’s stomach. To an onlooker, the gesture might’ve looked like affection and fondness. But it wasn’t. She was simply admiring the blank canva before her. The flawless, unmarked flesh that begged to be rewritten.
Hermione’s screams echoed off the stone walls and filled the room as the blade cut into her flesh again. Her senses of self was slipping — min unraveling, body numb. She couldn’t feel her legs, couldn’t feel her fingers clawing at the floor. It was as if the knife wasn’t just carving into her skin, but striking something deeper. Older. Her magical core— something she’d only ever read about in theory. Something most witches and wizards never truly touched.
A heat burst from deep within – not in her skin, not even in her bones. Deeper. Older. As if something ancient had woken in her chest and was clawing its way through her ribs.
Hermione’s screams changed — no longer just cries of pain, but raw, wild outbursts laced with magic. The room was shaking, every sound that tore from her throat. She felt las thought her body was tearing itself apart from the inside, unraveling. And at the heart of it all pulsed her magical core — ancient, and burning. With each stroke of the blade, with every new line added to the rune carved into her flesh, the core responded screaming back.
Another scream burst from Hermione’s lips as Bellatrix carved the next line into her skin. A sadistic laugh escaped Bellatrix throat as she looked down at her work. Watching the once flawless skin stirred something dark and inexplicable within her. She savored the sight of blood, the way it trickled and bloomed across the surface—but there was more to it. A flicker of something deeper. It wasn’t just the cruelty that satisfied her. It was the act of marking Hermione. Of inscribing that ancient rune into her flesh. As if she wasn’t just hurting her — but claiming her.
“You’re becoming one of us.”
The words left Bellatrix’s mouth, but it wasn’t her voice that reached Hermione. This voice was calmer. Colder. Timeless. Like a ghost — or a soul speaking through time. Bellatrix’s entire posture shifted. The hatred vanished from her eyes. The twisted grin faded. And when the blade moved again, it no longer felt cruel. It was precise, almost careful. As if Bellatrix wasn’t trying to harm her more than necessary.
“Your fate will change. Your life will change. We are waiting for you.”
As the blade lifted from Hermione’s skin, her body lifted from the ground. Her magic reacted instantly, spiraling outward in a circle around of light that shimmered around her like a shield. From the carved rune, a stream of white light poured out — pure, ancient, and blinding. It wrapped around her like a cloak woven from stars.
A triumphant smile curled back onto Bellatrix’s lips. She believed she had claimed the most wanted Mudblood to herself. It was no act of domination. This was the awakening of something far older and far more dangerous. A ritual had been triggered — on she had neither designed nor could control.
When Hermione collapsed back onto the cold stone floor, Bellatrix was on her instantly — crouching low, eyes gleaming with morbid hunger. She needed to see it. Needed to admire her work. The blood smeared across Hermione’s abdomen had already soaked her skin and robes, to obscure the rune beneath a mess of crimson. But Bellatrix didn’t care. The very thought that something sacred, something irreversible, now marked the girl — it thrilled her.
To the unknowing eye, the lines would be meaningless. Just blood and ruin. But Bellatrix knew what she had carved. And part of her, the part that had quieted when that strange voice had spoken through her, now trembled with something not unlike awe.
"How did you get into my vault?“ Bellatrix shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria. „Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?“
“We only met him tonight!” Hermione’s reply was barely more than a whimper. Her voice trembled, raw and broken. “We’ve never been inside your vault… it’s not the real sword—it’s a copy, just a copy.”
For the briefest moment, something shimmered in her mind—a path, distant but warm, leading away from this room, away from the pain. A lie she clung to like a lifeline.
“A copy?” Bellatrix screeched, her voice high and sharp with disbelief. “Oh, what a convenient little tale!”
Her wild eyes locked onto Hermione’s, searching, devouring. Hermione blinked, and a fresh tear slipped down her cheek, carving a path through the grime and blood.
Bellatrix raised her wand—
“But we can settle this quickly,” came a calm, drawling voice that sliced through the tension like a knife. “Draco,” Lucius said sharply, “fetch the goblin. He’ll tell us if the sword is real.”
The path Hermione had clung to — that narrow thread of hope — vanished in an instant. She knew the goblin would speak the truth. Knew he’d expose her lie, reveal the sword as real. And she couldn’t even blame him. He was just trying to survive, same as her, just trying to escape the nightmare that was Malfoy Manor.
“Well?” Bellatrix hissed, turning to the goblin with ravenous intensity. “Is it the true sword?”
Hermione held her breath. Her chest ached. Her throat burned. She fought the sob clawing its way up.
“No,” Griphook said evenly. “It is a fake.”
Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. “Are you certain?” she panted. “Completely certain?”
“Yes.” Relief crashed over Hermione like a wave. The pressure behind her eyes eased, and her whole body sagged, trembling as if the strings holding her up had been cut.
“Good. And now,” Bellatrix declared, her voice trembling with triumph, “we summon the Dark Lord!” She yanked up her sleeve and pressed a crooked finger to the mark seared into her skin — the summoning already pulsing, dark and alive, beneath her touch.
“And as for the Mudblood…” Her eyes slid back to Hermione, who was barely conscious, coated in blood and shaking. “Greyback, she’s yours if you want her.”
The words pierced Hermione’s fogged mind like glass. Her eyes flew open, wide with horror. The faint color that had begun to return to her face vanished again in an instant. Across the room, Greyback grinned — a sick, hungry smile that made her stomach lurch.
“NOOOOOOO!”
The drawing room doors burst open. Ron stormed in, his face flushed with rage and panic. Bellatrix whirled around, caught off guard.
“Expelliarmus!” he shouted, raising Wormtail’s wand in a shaking hand.
Bellatrix’s wand flew from her grasp in a blur of silver. Before it even hit the ground, Harry—hot on Ron’s heels—leapt forward and caught it mid-air. Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, and Greyback turned, startled and scrambling.
“Stupefy!” Harry bellowed. The curse hit Lucius squarely in the chest and sent him crashing to the hearth in a heap of fine robes and limp limbs.
Spells exploded through the air. Scarlet, green, and gold light shot from Draco’s, Narcissa’s, and Greyback’s wands. Harry dove behind the nearest sofa, rolling and shielding his head as hexes cracked the air around him.
For a fleeting second, his eyes locked with Draco’s. The younger Malfoy stood frozen, wand raised but uncertain. His lips moved without sound. Expelliarmus, he mouthed—almost as if trying to convince himself it was still enough.
"STOP OR SHE DIES!“
Bellatrix had Hermione in her grasp again, the young witch’s body limp, head lolling. A glint of silver flashed—Bellatrix’s blade was pressed to Hermione’s throat, just below the line of her jaw.
“Drop your wands,” Bellatrix whispered, her voice like the hiss of a snake. “Drop them... or we’ll see just how dirty that blood of hers really is.” Ron froze mid-step, knuckles white around Wormtail’s wand. Harry slowly rose from behind the sofa, still holding Bellatrix’s wand.
“I said drop them,” Bellatrix repeated, her tone chillingly soft now, as she pressed the tip deeper into Hermione’s skin. A single bead of blood bloomed, bright against pale flesh.
“All right!” Harry barked, and let the wand fall at his feet. Ron followed, his wand clattering to the floor. Both raised their hands, surrender etched into their faces.
"Good. Draco, pick them up! The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches!“
As Draco bent to retrieve the fallen wands, he leaned close to Harry and hissed under his breath, “Dobby should be back any second. When he is, he’ll bring you a wand. After that—get out. Especially Granger. Or she’s dead. Understand me, Potter?”
Harry’s eyes widened in disbelief, but he gave a quick, sharp nod. Bellatrix’s voice floated back into the room, deceptively calm, almost sing-song.
“Now, Cissy, I think it’s time we tie these little heroes up again,” she said as Draco returned with the wands. “Greyback, darling, Miss Mudblood is yours. I’m sure the Dark Lord won’t mind you having her after all you’ve done tonight.”
A strange, low grinding sound echoed from above. Every head snapped upward just in time to see the great crystal chandelier begin to tremble, its chain groaning under sudden strain. With a screech and a cascade of warning chimes, the massive fixture gave way. Bellatrix, standing directly beneath it, let out a shrill cry and hurled herself to the side — just in time.
The chandelier plummeted with a deafening crash, shards of crystal and twisted iron raining down as it smashed into the floor, burying Hermione and the goblin beneath it. The Sword of Gryffindor gleamed for a split second before vanishing under the wreckage.Ron was already moving, darting forward to pull Hermione free from the debris. Harry didn’t hesitate—he vaulted over an overturned armchair, seized the moment, and tore the three wands from Draco’s loosened grip.
"Thank you!“
“Dobby has no master!” the elf squealed, his voice full of defiance. “Dobby is a free elf—and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!”
“Ron, catch—and GO!” Harry shouted, hurling one of the wands toward him. He dropped to his knees, yanking Griphook from beneath the shattered chandelier. The goblin groaned but wouldn’t release the sword, his hands clenched tight around the hilt. Harry didn’t wait. He hefted Griphook over his shoulder, grabbed Dobby’s hand—and spun.
As the world collapsed into darkness, he saw one final flash of the drawing room: Narcissa and Draco frozen like marble statues; Ron, a blur of red hair; and a glint of silver slicing through the air— Bellatrix’s knife, thrown with deadly precision, aimed at the place where he vanished.
Bill and Fleur’s … Shell Cottage… Bill and Flur’s…
The name was a mantra in his mind as the world stretched and snapped around him. He was spiraling through nothingness, through a void that pressed against his ribs and lungs and skull.
He didn’t know if they’d make it—if it was enough—but it was the only place he could think of, the only sanctuary that came to mind.
Please, he thought. Let this be enough.
And then, with a lurch and a crack, the world began to rebuild itself around them.
______________________________
”Somebody needs to get Sirius.“
The first thing Hermione heard again was Fleur’s thick French accent, trembling with urgency.
Her body hurt like hell. Not in a sharp, immediate way — but in a deep, gnawing ache that crawled beneath her skin, through her bones, like fire licking its way through dry wood. She had the eerie feeling that she had somehow slipped through time and landed in the dark, merciless days of the witch trials. As if someone had tied her to a stake, and the flames were still eating at her flesh.
Her breath came in shallow, rattling gasps. Each one burned its way into her chest.
”I can’t help her without him. I fear he may be the only one who can?“ Fleur’s voice cracked on the last word, the question fragile, desperate.
Hermione wanted to move, to speak — to see what Fleur saw, what made her voice quake. But her eyelids felt like iron gates. She tried, but there was no strength. Her body betrayed her. It was as though all energy, all magic, had drained from her, leaving her in a heavy, hollow shell.
She could still feel the gash on her stomach — raw and angry — and the deep, splitting pain in her arm. The blood was warm, wet, and slow as it soaked through whatever remnants of clothing clung to her. She was dying. And she knew it.
”Why Sirius? Fleur, you need to help her! We can’t lose her!“ Ron’s voice broke, full of panic and rising hysteria.
”What do you think I am trying, you idiot?“ Fleur snapped, but there was no real anger in her voice — just fear. It clung to her every word like smoke.
Hermione felt hands — soft, warm, trembling — on her face. Fingers brushing hair back from her forehead, cupping her cheeks.
”Hermione! Come on, sweetheart, you need to wake up.“ Fleur’s voice was barely more than a whisper now, close to breaking. A light slap on her cheek. Gentle. Then another, a little firmer. Hermione wanted to scream — I'm here! I hear you! — but her mouth wouldn’t move. Her lips were cracked and cold. Her throat was dry as ash. She could feel herself slipping further and further away.
Fleur’s hands began to tremble. Her voice broke with something like a sob. ”Don’t you dare… don’t you dare go where I can’t follow.“
Somewhere deep inside, Hermione clung to that voice. That warmth. That desperation.
There was a flicker of light behind her eyes, like the spark of a wand tip in the darkness. With immense effort, Hermione forced her eyes to flutter open — just a sliver. The world exploded in brightness. Pain stabbed through her skull. She shut them again with a whimper that barely passed her lips.
But then… slowly… she tried again.
The light was softer now. Warm. Gold. Flickering like candlelight, not like the harsh, cold spells that had seared her skin before.
She blinked, and a face swam into view — blurry at first, then clearer: Fleur. Her silvery-blonde hair hung loose around her shoulders, her face streaked with soot and blood and something almost like tears.
”You are here... Ma belle...“ Fleur’s voice cracked as she leaned closer, brushing her fingers along Hermione’s temple. ”Mon dieu, you are alive. You stayed with me...“
Hermione tried to speak, but her throat was too dry. Only a rasp came out. Her lips parted painfully. „Hurts...“
”I know, I know... shhh,“ Fleur whispered. Her fingers were already moving, her wand gliding gently above Hermione’s torn skin. The warmth of minor healing charms pulsed against her wounds — not enough to fix them, but enough to hold her together. Hermione gasped as Fleur pressed a cloth to the wound on her side. The pressure was sharp, but grounding. Real.
”You lost so much blood,“ Fleur said quietly, her hands stained red. She wasn’t crying, but her voice trembled like glass on the edge of shattering. ”I don’t know if I can stop it. Not fully. I need Sirius. He... he knows how to handle this kind of curse damage.“
Hermione winced as another wave of pain crashed through her body. Her voice was barely audible. ”I am doing… fine…“
Fleur gave a short, broken laugh. ”Liar.“
But then Hermione’s eyes went wide. She froze. A sound—soft, barely a whisper—curled around the edges of her awareness.
”Come back... You know where you belong. We’re not finished, little girl.“
Her breath hitched. The air grew colder, as if the light in the room dimmed for just a moment. Her skin, already torn and bruised, crawled with invisible fingers.
”Did you... hear that?“ she whispered, eyes darting past Fleur’s shoulder.
Fleur stilled. ”Hear what?“ Hermione’s fingers curled weakly into the blood-soaked blanket beneath her.
”Hermione.“
”So much potential... you tasted it, didn’t you? The power... the truth.“
Her body tensed. Her vision blurred again. The ceiling above her rippled like water — shadows danced in the corners, curling into forms that reminded her too much of her — the woman with wild eyes and a voice like cracked porcelain. Bellatrix.
”They’re calling me,“ Hermione murmured, voice shaking. „They want me back.“
Fleur leaned closer, brushing sweaty curls from Hermione’s forehead. „Non. No one is taking you. You are safe now. You are with me.“
”They’re in my head, Fleur,“ Hermione whispered. Tears filled her eyes, burning hot and fast. ”She’s still in there.“ Fleur cupped her face with both hands. ”Look at me. Look at me, Hermione.“ Hermione tried. Tried so hard. But the voices grew louder.
”You screamed so beautifully. Come play again...“
”Make them stop,“ Hermione whimpered, clutching at Fleur’s wrist. „Please, make it stop.“
Fleur didn’t hesitate. She pressed her forehead to Hermione’s and whispered fiercely in French, an incantation layered with old veela magic. Warmth bloomed between them — not just from the spell, but from something older, deeper, maternal and fierce.
The whispers hissed and recoiled.
Just a little.
Hermione began to sob — small, broken sobs that tore at her already frayed body. Fleur held her like a sister, like a mother, like someone anchoring her to the world.
”You are here. You are not alone. You are not theirs. You are mine to protect,“ Fleur whispered. Her accent thickened, her voice like steel wrapped in silk.
And for the first time since the pain began, Hermione believed her.