enchantement - SOULBOUND I̲̅ || SS/HG ✔️

62. Obliviate

Step by step, Hermione cautiously hurried through the corridors, trying not to alert anyone of her distress. Left to right her hips swinging rapidly, her eyes scanning her surroundings in search of secret passages. From tapestries to doors concealed behind paintings leading to a new hallway, Hermione retraced in her mind the Marauders Map, remembering every turn and directions towards Hogwart's headmaster's office.

She stopped dead in her track when she remembered the isolated cupboard on the seventh floor, which with the right spell and flick lead directly to Dumbeldore's personal chambers. It had been used by the Order during the war when many students used the room of requirements as a protective chamber against the death eaters roaming through the castle's ground, like shadows. Turning on her heal she bolted up the stairs, skipping two to three steps, her breathing becoming furiously agitated, taking her by surprise. Leaning against the edge of the moving stairs, Hermione closed her eyes and tried, in vain, to steady her heartbeat. Coughing repeatedly, she gripped the wooden edge harder and, with the help of her arm muscles, continued her walk up the stairs towards the seventh floor.

Her jaw clenched in frustration, overwhelmed by her body's tiredness. She wondered if her older soul had affected the vessel, weakening it. Although the idea wasn't completely improbable, Hermione would have felt her soul growing stronger as it fed on her new 'home'. A small cry of pain ripped out of her lips as her heart pounded against her ribcage, causing her to topple forward, her hand gripping her chest as her knees touched the ground with a loud thud.

Eyes brutally shut, the feeling of a dagger striking her lungs constricted her airway, her breathing becoming irregular. The taste of blood quickly followed in her mouth, her tongue retreated to the back of her throat as far as it could, an urge to retch twisting her stomach. Fiddling in her skirt's pocket, she cried in relief when her fingers stocked the wooden object, before taking it out and casting a few pain relief spells on her upper body, praying it would help smooth the uncontrollable ache.

Comfort glided through her quivering body as her magic tickled her chest, numbing the burning sensation and leaving her gasping for air. It was finally over.

Searching for the nearest support, Hermione fought to stand on her wobbly legs, satisfied. "It must have been one of the effects of the vow," she mused, knowing that the clock was now ticking. Yet did it ever stop?

Determined, she continued her walk into the various corridors on the seventh floor, trying to remember was hid the cupboard. Recalling George's words, before the war no charm was place upon the secret passageway - masking it's appearance to others - it was a simple broom closet.

Focused on listing what she needed to inform Dumbledore she hadn't noticed the tall figure walking in the opposite direction, towards her. As if her eyes looked without seeing, the man had become nearly invisible to her detection, causing him to smirk.

Within seconds she felt a presence, someone's eyes scanning her, yet before she could see the man, he was standing next to her, so close she had elbowed him. "I'm so sorry!" Hermione yelped, turning around to apologize, but the man was nowhere to be seen, vanished.

Crossing her arms and with a raised eyebrow, Hermione looked around, knowing it couldn't have been a ghost as she had physically touched him. A stinging sensation tickled under her skin right where she had come into contact with the unknown figure, making her scratch the area frenziedly as she gave up and walked to the broom closet.

Ensuring she was alone, she opens the door and stepped in.

"Lumos," she lifted her wand, pointing upwards.

Once everything around was lit, she noticed an old broom at her left and, as Fred had told her, Hermione lifted the broom and turned it upside down, the wooden end facing the ground.

"One," she counted, hitting it with the broom, "two, three, rats gninrom."

Grinning at her work, Hermione repositioned the broom at its original position and pointed her wand at the silver dot that appeared in front of her. "Son of the morning, O how are thou fallen from heaven's star," she spoke while twisting her wand counter clockwise.

The wall opened, the stones moving around and disappearing, reminding her of the Leaky Cauldron's hidden passage to Diagon Alley. Taking a deep breath, the hair at the back of her neck rising, she entered the secret passageway, torches lighting up, detecting her presences.

Hermione sighed in satisfaction when she reached the golden handle to Dumbledore's office. Deciding not to invade his privacy she knocked on the door three times before entering, hoping he would have caught her presence from a back door.

"Professor Dumbledore?" She called after as she reached his office, pulling one of the chairs out to sit down on.

Walking down from his living room from upstairs, Dumbledore raised a concerned eyebrow yet nodded at her politely as he reached the last stair. "Ms Granger, what a pleasant surprise, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Moving uncomfortably in her chair, she waited for him to sit on his before answering, "I come to talk about the war, did you -"

"- lemon drops?" He offered, interrupting her. Once she had refused them, he placed the silver platter down and smiled, "I understand your worry Ms Granger, after all, Mr Potter must have informed you of my doubt on Professor Slughorn's honesty regarding a matter that occurred while Tom Riddle was at Hogwarts."

"Other than that, I came to ask you if you managed to talk with the Minister regarding Gaunt's ring, it must be worn in order to be destroyed and I'm afraid we don't have much time."

Looking up at her through his round spectacles, his bushy white eyebrows meeting in the centre of his wrinkled face in puzzlement, Dumbledore grabbed a lemon drop at the centre of the tray and ate it thoughtfully. "Either it is my age that has finally caught up to me or we have never spoken of any agreement Ms Granger. Hard times affect both of physical and mental state, clouding our minds from our dreams and reality. Do not take it offensively Ms Granger, but I believe this discussion you are invoking occurred in your mind, and in yours only."

It took a few seconds for Hermione to find her voice, startled by his obliviousness. While he spoke calmly and reassuringly, as if he had detected in her an anxiety regarding the upcoming war, she desperately searched for an indication he was mocking her, yet got none. He was impassive, his eyes glazed as if the zeal in them had been removed.

"Professor," she decided to try a different tactic, unsure if those were the sign of a fatal spell, "when was the last time I came to our office to talk? I have to admit I've been quite stressed out lately and well, my memory seems to falter at times."

"It has been quite a while, Ms Granger," he smiled at her, standing up and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, "last time we spoke was at the Ministry last year when we lost our dear Sirius Black."

Trying to hide her bewilderment, Hermione thanked him and left his office, giving one last glance at the portrait that hid a few of the Horcruxes, who nodded at her, as if to say they were still there.

Closing the door behind her, she let her body lean against it and allowed her weight to drag her down to the floor. Her only solution to get back to her husband had been vanished, possibly forever. The Ministry was already infested by death eaters - who used their blood status and purity to control the higher ranking functions - leading whatever activities happening inside and outside of the wizarding community, which meant contacting an obliviator would alert Voldemort and whoever had cast the spell. Tears fell down like a rainfall, droplets of her sorrow falling on the marble floor, acceptance becoming her only salvation.

Dumbledore had been obliviated, any memory of their discussion from the war extirpated from his sage mind. Hermione's fist hit the floor repeatedly as her thoughts travelled to her husband, suffering, alone, waiting for her. She had abandoned him, failed the mission he had sacrificed his whole, and now both were going to die, their love and memories the only strings to hold onto.

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