Chapter Text
As the door shut behind the last few Order members who trickled in, Hermione's stomach churned. Today was the first day that she, Harry and Ron were allowed at the table as official members of the Order. For the first time since they'd taken up residence at Grimmauld Place, they'd finally be included instead of falling victim to uncertainty time and time again.
The only person on the other side of the door was Ginny despite her unending protests—but Molly wouldn't budge. Dumbledore had tried his best to persuade her—suggesting that Ginny would be safer if she knew what was coming—but she'd held firm. As bad as Hermione felt for her, Harry was effervescent—excited and anxious in equal measure—and it was rubbing off on her.
She couldn't help it. This was the most responsive and alive Harry had been since Sirius fell through the veil three months ago. That had been the catalyst—Sirius' death had forced Dumbledore to admit that keeping them out of Order business did more harm than good, and he'd had agreed to let them sit in on meetings and take on minor and informational assignments, so long as they were closely monitored.
But they couldn't afford to lose anyone else.
“Welcome, all, especially our newest members" Dumbledore greeted them quietly. “We’ll start by explaining each of your assignments, and give status reports so that they can catch up to our work thus far. Any objections?” Molly huffed loudly, but stayed silent. It had been a point of contention for going on two months—she didn't want them involved, but she'd been overruled. “Harry, Ronald, Hermione, welcome to the Order. I can’t say that I’m happy you’re here but recent events have certainly necessitated your involvement,” he sighed, sounding old beyond his years—which was quite the accomplishment since he was probably the oldest man alive. "It's important that all three of your remember that this work is dangerous. As important as it is for you to understand the moving parts, it is still our job to keep you out of danger. If I think at any point that you're being reckless, I will take measures to protect you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," Hermione said, Harry and Ron nodding along beside her.
“Very well. In the interest of getting you filled in, we’ll start with Kingsley.”
Shacklebolt cleared his throat before addressing the teenagers. “We've been putting the bulk of our efforts within the Ministry towards protecting our new Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour. With the Dark Lord back for the world to see, we need to be ready for escalation and I have no doubt that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has a candidate of his own in mind.”
Tonks continued for him. “Dawlish and I tail him most days, if he’s not with Kingsley himself.”
Fred and George were next. “We’ve opened a joke shop in Diagon Alley. Thanks for the seed fund, Harry,” George threw him a wink. Hermione raised an eyebrow at Harry, who grinned sheepishly. “We’ve been using the profits—”
“The sizable profits,” Fred injected.
“Sizable indeed—we’ve been using them to fund research into defensive and offensive equipment, even some diversions. So far we’ve come up with Shield Hats, Decoy Detonators and Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.”
This time, Hermione raised both eyebrows. “What?”
“Decoy Detonators are little devices you can use to make a distraction. If you need a diversion, you drop them, then they run in the opposite direction and explode. Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder is more of a concealment or ambush tool. Take a palmful and throw it in the air, and the space you’re in will go pitch black,” Fred explained.
“Sometimes I forget how brilliant you two are. Perhaps because most of what you do is so asinine,” Hermione jibed. The twins plastered on identical looks of hurt.
“So cruel.”
“So cold.”
Bill and Fleur explained that they were setting up safe houses around Europe, and Remus recounted his attempts to recruit the werewolf population.
Harry and Ron stayed nearly silent the whole way through, trusting Hermione to make the most pertinent observations and probing questions.
“I have been trying to find out what the Dark Lord has planned for the students who still reside at Hogwarts,” Snape said, voice quiet so they had to strain to hear. Hermione’s brow furrowed. “We know that his greatest desire is to perpetuate his beliefs in the minds of Hogwarts’ students, but we aren’t sure how he plans to infiltrate the castle walls. I will be spending increasingly less time at Headquarters in order to make myself at his disposal and cement his trust in me,” he informed them silkily. “Notably, he’s furious with the Malfoys. Lucius failed to retrieve the prophecy and ended up in Azkaban for his trouble. Narcissa Malfoy has looked frantic and sick all summer. Knowing her, she’s concerned for Draco. And if one Slytherin student has been asked to do something, there’s a strong likelihood that they all have. Nott, Parkinson, Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, and Bulstrode may all have missions that they’ve been set to complete.”
“Like what?” Hermione asked, unfazed by the derisive look he shot in her direction.
“I would be surprised if the Dark Lord trusted such young wizards with much more than recruitment and blackmail. But we must also expect the unexpected.”
Hermione agreed. The possibilities were endless and horrible, and her heart ached to think that students younger than her could be told to carry out war crimes under threat.
“Thank you all," Dumbledore said once Snape This meeting is adjourned. Miss Granger, if you don’t mind staying behind, I’d like a word,” Dumbledore sounded tired to his core. The rest of the Order filed out into the sitting room of Grimmauld Place, where Molly had set up a dining table.
“How can I help you, Professor?” Hermione asked gently.
“I have an assignment for you. I have been handling this personally, but given recent developments I fear I must pass on some of my outlying interests. I trust and believe in your abilities and discretion far more than most, Miss Granger,” he smiled softly.
“Does this have something to do with your hand, sir?” she asked. He raised an amused eyebrow. “Harry mentioned that there was a story behind it that you wouldn’t tell. When you went to see Mr. Slughorn,” she explained.
“I suppose it has something to do with my hand. I find myself older than I remembered. And far more tired,” he told her. “Of course, I trust everyone in the Order. But few are as open minded and logical as you. You are passionate and loyal, but you are also unfailingly kind. You reach out to people in need, and the people you are going to deal with are certainly in need.”
Hermione eyed him warily. “Alright…”
“Would you be willing to travel with me? I find that showing is often better than telling.”
“Of course, sir.”
With some effort, he rose to his feet. She took his arm when he held it out for her, and then disapparated them away.
When they reappeared they were in front of a modest home, surrounded by forest. Dumbledore drew her closer to the door and said, “Watch closely,” before drawing his wand and tracing a pattern into the door with his wand. The rune and the slender wand glowed delicately, then faded as the door swung open. “Miss Morelle?” he called into the house once they’d stepped inside.
The interior of the home was much larger than the exterior (as was the tradition in wizarding homes, it seemed). He led her into a comfortable living room, fit to seat about thirty people. To her surprise, a television hung from one wall and a piano stood against another. The rest of the walls were lined with shelves that were stacked with books. Upon closer inspection, they seemed to be sorted by subject, author and title—exactly how she would have sorted them. “Oh my god.”
Professor Dumbledore smiled down at her. “I’m glad you like it, Ms. Granger. I curated much of this collection myself, and I’m sure you’ll end up spending quite a lot of time here.”
“Dumbles? Is that you?” a sharp feminine voice called from somewhere overhead. Hermione heard footsteps on the staircase to her right, so she turned to greet the newcomer. “Oh! You brought...a guest,” the woman stated. She sounded apprehensive, eyeing Hermione from head to toe.
“Miss Granger, I’d like for you to meet Peregrine Morelle. She’s a former student of mine, and quite a precocious one at that. Miss Morelle, this is Hermione Granger.” Hermione observed quietly as Peregrine’s eyes widened in recognition.
“You look taller in the papers,” Peregrine informed her after a long moment of silence.
“The Prophet isn’t exactly known for painting an accurate picture of me,” Hermione replied uncomfortably. “Nor a particularly charitable one. It’s nice to meet you Peregrine.”
“Oh please, call me Grin. Or Morelle, I suppose. Whichever you prefer,” Grin smiled tightly.
Hermione smiled back. “Grin it is.”
“Not to be rude, but why is she here?” Grin asked. Intended or not, it did sound rather rude. Hermione's face fell, and she looked to Dumbledore for reassurance.
“Due to some unfortunate developments on my end, Miss Granger will be taking over as handler for the Pit," Dumbledore informed her somberly. Hermione had never seen someone go tense quite as quickly as Grin did in that moment.
“She’s a Gryffindor. D’you honestly expect her to trust any of us?” she asked bitterly. Understanding flickered like a tube light in the back of Hermione's head—comprehension just out of reach but dawning.
“Miss Granger is singularly fair minded. You couldn’t ask for someone more loyal, trustworthy and intelligent to take my place.” Hermione flushed at the headmaster’s praise. “She’s also an excellent option for your recruitment strategies. Brave to a fault and completely unafraid of confrontation. Occasionally a bit ruthless, but always observing from every angle.”
Grin scrutinized her. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she exhaled noisily. “Welcome to the Pit, Miss Granger.”
“You can call me Hermione.”
“Hermione, then. Do you know what the Pit is?” Hermione shook her head slowly. Grin glanced back up at Dumbledore. “Do you want me to explain? Or will you be making the sales pitch?”
“I’ll leave you to it. After all, you two need to get to know each other,” he smiled, eyes twinkling. “I’ll come back for you when you're ready, Miss Granger. I’ll wait for your Patronus.”
Once Dumbledore left, Grin turned her scrutiny back to Hermione. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Firewhiskey?” she offered, still visually dissecting her.
“Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble. I’m knackered,” she replied. As was to be expected. Between staying up late researching advanced offensive magic and defensive charms, and fending off nightmares starring the Department of Mysteries, she’d been running up less than four hours of sleep per night.
“Oh?”
“We did something...stupid a few months ago. We suffered a loss because of it. I got injured. Even when I manage to fall asleep, I don't stay asleep for long. Nightmares,” she offered shortly. "And I'm doing my best to not let it happen again."
“Ah. The Department of Mysteries.”
Hermione blinked, surprised. “Professor Dumbledore told you?” Grin nodded. She pulled out her wand and flicked it casually towards the kitchen.
“We had family down there. Some of us on both sides,” she murmured as the coffee pot floated out of the kitchen, full and steaming. “Sirius was a terrible loss for the Order. And, due to the rather inbred nature of Pureblood families, a terrible loss to many of our families.” If Hermione hadn't been watching her, the words would have sounded clinical and detached. Her face, however, bore an undercurrent of sorrow.
“He was quite important to me. And to my friends,” Hermione agreed. Grin nodded mutely. “Are you going to tell me what the Pit is?”
“Of course,” she said as she conjured a coffee mug. Hermione chuckled—emblazoned in silver across the side of the mug were the words ‘Espresso Patronum’. “Glad you like it.” Grin grinned.
Hermione was sure she’d never seen anything quite as transformative and beautiful as Grin’s smile. The woman before her was all angles—sharp features from head to toe, and slender. Her inky hair was pin straight, and hung to the center of her back in a tight ponytail. Her eyes were thickly rimmed with eyeliner. When she was scrutinizing or frowning, she looked downright menacing. When she smiled, she looked otherworldly.
Hermione accepted the coffee mug from her gratefully. “When the war ends, you should market these. Clever novelty mugs make a mint in the muggle world.”
“Not a bad idea,” Grin chuckled. “Now, to business,” she took a quick sip from her own mug. “This house is nicknamed the Snake Pit, but we all call it the Pit because we’re lazy sods. It houses a secret faction of the Order. We're all Slytherins from high-ranking Death Eater families or families with close affiliations, who have forsaken ties to Lord Voldemort for a variety of reasons. For the most part, we work as an invisible assassination and clean up force.” Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Yeah. Not the most pleasant work, but most of us were taught to kill from a fairly young age. We figured it would be better to use that knowledge to prevent genocide than to promote it.”
“That seems reasonable…” Hermione said slowly, wrapping her head around the notion presented to her. “Who else is in this faction?”
“In a moment,” Grin promised. “First, I’d like to formally introduce myself. I’m Peregrine Morelle.” Hermione’s eyebrow twitched. She didn’t know of any purebloods by that name, but she supposed that relative strangers were entitled to their secrets. Particularly if Dumbledore trusted them. “I’m the founder and leader of the Pit. That’s a co-leader position. From here on out, you’re my other half,” she winked. Hermione flushed. “There are twelve members at the moment, and we’re trying to capture more of the younger Slytherins before they can be recruited by Old No-Nose. Usually Dumbledore—now you—would identify potential candidates, then pass on names to us so that we can reach out to them to let them know they have options other than becoming a Death Eater. Except for Flint. We kidnapped Flint. Bloody hard to get ahold of that bugger. Once they agree to work with us, they can participate in four facets of the group: research, espionage, strike or cleanup. We officially have three members in each group so far, but we also fill in where needed. For example, I am partial to research, but swing into strike when needed.”
Hermione spluttered. “Hang on. How am I supposed to get close enough to Slytherins to know if they’re viable candidates?”
“It won’t be easy. You’re the most notorious muggleborn in Europe,” Grin admitted. “Splattered on the papers, constantly hanging around Harry Potter. Big red target painted on your back for all to see.” As though she could physically see Hermione bristling, Grin held her hands up in surrender. “I’m not criticizing you. Just stating a fact,” she promised. “It might actually work out in your favor. Nobody will question your loyalty. Besides, I hear you’re notorious for lurking in libraries. Where better to uncover faltering Slytherins than sanctuaries of silence and solitude?”
Hermione considered that point. “You’re not wrong. I overhear an absurd amount of gossip in that library.”
“The students you’ll be recruiting will be older, and will know better than to gossip in the library,” Grin warned her. “Kids like Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott.”
Hermione snorted. “Malfoy’s not going to turn coat against the Death Eaters. He would lick the ground Lucius Malfoy walked on if it weren’t for the indignity.”
Grin’s lips pursed and her eyes flashed. “If we're going to be working together, I'm going to need you to abandon your biases," she she said sharply. "Outward appearances in Slytherin are often carefully crafted for our own self-preservation. You’re touted as the brightest witch of your age, so it would do you well to look beyond the veneer that we’re required to maintain.”
Hermione had the good grace to look ashamed when that revelation washed over her. “You’re saying Malfoy...pretends to be a bigot because it’s safer than appearing to be compassionate?”
“I’m saying that you shouldn’t judge him for not living by your values. It’s not how he was raised. He may actually believe that muggleborns are filthy but if he doesn’t, he’d play everything close to the vest, either to protect himself or someone he loves. Lord Voldemort is hardly above holding the people we love against us as ransom,” she said darkly.
“You sound like you have personal experience,” Hermione prodded. Grin stared at her coolly. “I trust you. You don’t have to say anything. But if you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”
“I can’t tell you everything,” Grin sighed after a long moment. “I’m still not sure what curses were placed on me when I was disowned. But I came from a prestigious pureblood family, and was sorted into Slytherin as expected. For a while, I was my father’s pride and joy. Then, I was partnered with a Ravenclaw girl for a month-long Potions project. She was brilliant and gifted, and very kind. She helped me and tutored me when I struggled. She was also a muggleborn. One of my housemates told my father that I was befriending her, and he shattered half of my arm with a blasting hex when I came home for hols before warning me to stay away from her. I was confused and unsure, so I reached out to another black sheep in the family. He told me in no uncertain terms that I should do what I felt made me a better person. That there would be fallout, but the relief for my soul would be miraculous. So I didn’t abandon my friend, and my father disowned me. When my younger brother was old enough to potentially start thinking for himself, I started owling him with Amalia Rosier’s owl. My father caught on after almost a year, and recruited Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange to have me killed. I changed my name and appearance to hide from them. For those of us who have been disowned, our younger siblings have been forbidden to talk about us. Damnatio Memoriae is still a rather fond practice in the upper Pureblood rungs.”
“The condemnation of memory?”
“To strike the memory of the people we’re ashamed of out of existence. Forget their names, erase their existence. Preserve the faith and the bloodlines. A taboo is legally registered with the Ministry and any disowned child going by their last name by birth has their location reported to the patriarch so they may mete out punishment. In my case, the punishment would be death and my body would never be found to prove I’d been murdered,” Grin shrugged. Hermione’s jaw dropped in horror. “So once the taboo was put in place, the few friends I still had in Slytherin helped to conceal me. When I went to Dumbledore to start this faction, I dragged them with me. Two of them are acting as spies, and one is acting as a striker.”
“What’s a striker?”
“Essentially an assassin. But I suppose the muggle terminology would be a Black-Operations soldier,” Grin shrugged.
Hermione nodded absently, compiling the information in her overflowing mind as though she were stacking an already-full library shelf. Hermione started when she heard the front door slam.
“Looks like someone is home," Grin said, head turning back toward the doorway.
“Anyone here?” an unsettlingly familiar voice called from the hallway.
“Oh god,” Hermione uttered, going pale.
“What?”
“Um...we don’t exactly have the best history…” Hermione squeaked. She did her best to fade into the couch when Marcus Flint rounded the corner into the living room. He saw Grin first.
“Evening boss,” he smiled.
“Marcus,” she greeted him steadily. “Are you acquainted with our guest?”
“Guest? What…” he turned to look at Hermione. “Guest. Oh. Granger,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Hullo.”
“Hi,” she squeaked again. “How have you been, Flint?”
“Could be better. Could be worse. You?”
“About the same.”
“I heard about Black. I’m sorry for your loss,” he said sincerely. Had Hermione been watching Grin, she would have noticed the woman shift uncomfortably and avert her eyes. “He was really good to us.”
“You knew him?” Hermione asked tightly. Sorrow gripped at her chest like a vice.
“He was going insane cooped up in that house with all of his terrible memories. As a last ditch effort to keep him out of trouble, Dumbledore had him come here every now and then to help us with research and skills practice. He was brilliant.” Marcus confirmed. “He actually helped me become half decent at Transfiguration.”
“Thank you,” she said, more choked up than she'd anticipated. She felt tears stinging at the corner of her eyes and willed them back. She was supposed to be helping Slytherins—how were they supposed to trust her if she was a wreck?
Marcus’ face twisted in confusion. “What on earth for? I should be thanking you for saving him in the first place.”
“For giving him a purpose. He was so miserable there, especially when Harry wasn’t around. I wrote him sometimes, just to check in, and he was crawling out of his skin. He hated hearing his mother’s voice every time Tonks tripped in the hallway. He hated Kreacher. The only person he loved in that house left him behind and died for it. Sometimes, when he thought he was sitting alone, it was like watching a ghost.”
Grin studied her. “Do you like Ancient Runes, Hermione?” she inquired.
Hermione's eyes snapped to her new acquaintance. “What?”
“Ancient Runes. Are you any good at translation? I’m working on translating something, and I think I’d like your help, if you think you’re up for it,” Grin offered, deliberately vague.
Hermione glanced between them, trying to understand how the two topics were connected. Marcus’ face twisted into something resembling amusement. "Oh, Granger," he chuckled. "You've no idea what you've gotten yourself into."