A Wake-Up Call

"I don't recommend touching any of them, to be perfectly honest. Most weren't sent with the best of intentions, and several are designed to do serious harm or humiliation to me… or anyone else who opens them, I suppose."

Treowe's words from just the night before replay over and over again in Hella's mind as she stands there in Hogwarts' Hospital Wing, staring down at the unconscious form of her best friend, covered in boils and sores as it currently is. Most of Hermione is hidden beneath the bedsheets that she's swaddled in, but her face is not, and that alone is enough to tell Hella how bad things are.

Not that she's the only one in the Hospital Wing, laid up unconscious in a bed. There have to be at least half a dozen students or so that are all in a similar state to Hermione right now. The outcome is actually rather similar to what Hella witnessed early on in her days at Hogwarts when one of Neville's cauldrons had exploded, before everyone who took Potions with the poor boy had learned to watch for the warning sides and get as far away as they fucking could before it all blew up.

… It could just have easily been Hella in one of these beds too. It was ironic to consider why exactly she'd managed to avoid being caught up in it. In the end, the only reason she wasn't in a hospital bed herself, covered in boils and sores, had actually been because she couldn't quite sit comfortably on the bench at House Gryffindor's Great Hall Table that morning. Her ass had still been sensitive from the night before, and she'd kept willing about, trying to get comfortable.

Remembering WHY she was wiggling around had kept her body heated and her thoughts at a low simmer. This had been what led to her barely picking at her breakfast, feeling somewhat self-conscious and thus studying everyone else around her rather than digging in and focusing on her sustenance, as she probably should have been.

Even still, that lack of focus had been what led to Hella noticing the multiple owls delivering letters to Hermione in one big pile. Hermione, who aside from letters delivered by her parents (which always looked much more 'muggle-like', probably got even less letters than Hella herself. It had hit the young woman a moment before everything went down, what was wrong with the scene.

She'd tried to warn Hermione, even as she drew her wand, but unlike Hella, Hermione was more focused on her own personal pursuits. Namely, that morning it had been a new book she was reading while she ate, and she'd barely paid any attention as she began opening the first letter. Hella's warning had fallen on deaf ears and all the young woman had truly managed to do was draw her wand and shield herself and those directly behind her as the letter Hermione had unthinkingly open exploded in her hands.

Those in the vicinity of the brunette witch, save for Hella and anyone situated at the table in just the right way to be behind her reactive shield spell had been immediately covered in boils and sores, developing the physical affliction within mere moments of the letter exploding. Hermione had let out a bloodcurdling scream, but she wasn't the only one by far, and as she and the others hit by the contaminated letter had begin scratching and tearing their boils and sores open, Hella had had to stand up and stun her own best friend, along with every other witch and wizard in the vicinity.

McGonagall had awarded her points for keeping calm and collected and thinking quickly, but that did very, very little to comfort Hella, who had spent every moment since that fateful morning meal in the Hospital Wing, at Hermione's side.

"Don't you worry now dearie. We'll have them all fixed up in just a few hours, and everything will be right as rain. Professor Snape and his advanced students have been busy making some potions to restock my cabinets!"

Madam Pomfrey's voice cuts through her thoughts, but Hella barely gives the older witch anything more than a nod and a slight, forced smile of understanding. It's all well and good to say that 'everything will be right as rain', but that doesn't change the fact that it'd happened in the first place. Being able to fix up a condition that probably would have been a lifelong affliction among muggles didn't get them any closer to finding out who'd done it, nor did it stop it from potentially happening again.

"Ah! There they are now!"

Hella does look over at that, watching as two Seventh Year Girls, a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw each, hand over the four potion cases filled to the brim with clinking glass vials. While they speak with Pomfrey in low voices, Hella realizes she's probably overstaying her welcome, and honestly, she probably needs to get something to eat. Standing up and stretching, her body reminds her that she hadn't had much to eat even at breakfast, and she's been sitting beside Hermione's bed all this time, waiting for… something or other to happen.

Letting out a low sigh, Hella begins to make her way out of the Hospital Wing, knowing that she's really done all she can, and at this point, with the potions having arrived, Hermione's recovery really is only a few more hours away. No point in harming her own health waiting for the inevitable to come around. Though, as she passes by Madam Pomfrey and the Seventh Year Girls, she is a bit surprised at how they greet her.

"Good day to you, Heiress Potter…"

"Greetings, Heiress Potter!"

It's the Slytherin girl that initiates conversation, the witch quiet and not even making eye contact, but acknowledging Hella's presence all the same, and by title at that. The Ravenclaw almost seems as startled as Hella is, but she's just as quick to follow up and follow the lead of her friend. Taken aback, but only for a moment before Treowe's training kicks in, Hella swallows and turns a bit to face them both, acknowledging the two with a smile and a nod.

"Greetings. Thank you, both of you, for all the hard work you put into producing these needed potions. You must both be very talented."

There are blushes at that, and some murmured 'thank yous' in response, but not seeing anything else forthcoming from the two, Hella leaves the Hospital Wing and them behind at that, letting out a low sigh as she does so, her posture and her shoulders slumping the moment she's away from their eyes. Bathroom first, then it was time to find food, probably from the kitchen.

Finding a restroom isn't difficult, though as always, Hella finds herself thanking Merlin that Moaning Myrtle didn't tend to wander from bathroom to bathroom. To be fair, if the ghost wasn't confined to the bathroom she'd died in, Hella imagined that even Dumbledore would have had to eventually have her removed. Only the fact that Myrtle very rarely left her bathroom allowed the aged Headmaster to get away with leaving her be and ignoring the problem while giving that particular girl's bathroom up for a lost cause.

Of course, one would think that finding out that particular bathroom was in fact the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets in Hella's Second Year would see SOMETHING done about it, but if it was, it happened over the summer or the holidays or something, because Hella had never heard anything about it. As far as she was aware, the Basilisk was still dead down there in Slytherin's Chamber, decaying in mass.

Letting out a sigh as she sits down, Hella leans back and relaxes for a moment. The quietness of the toilets reminds her of some of the better moments when she was younger. Girl's restrooms had been a sanctuary for Hella for a long time, starting all the way back in Primary School. Dudley would never be caught dead entering the girl's restroom, not even to torment his 'freak' cousin.

Of course, in the midst of this moment of nostalgia and comfort, the door to the girl's bathroom slams open hard enough that Hella finds herself instinctively wedding her legs up against the stall door to hide them and her presence in the bathroom from view. The moment that she hears somewhat familiar voices, she finds herself thankful for that instinct.

"Damn know-it-all mudblood!"

Hella flinches, especially because she does in fact recognize the voice. It's the Slytherin Seventh Year from before, though a lot less demure and a lot less quiet than when she'd been speaking to 'Heiress Potter'. The answering gasp to her bitter bigotry tells Hella that the Slytherin isn't alone. In response, the Slytherin witch just scoffs.

"Oh please, we're alone, don't act like you're actually offended. You feel the same way, and you know it."

There's a pause, and Hella bites her lower lip as she presses her hands against the walls of her stall.

"… Fine, you're right. Fucking Granger, I swear to Merlin, I hate that bitch."

Until that moment, when the Ravenclaw's voice also hit Hella's ears along with the words she was speaking, the young witch had almost been able to convince herself that they weren't talking about Hermione. It still would have been horrible of course, knowing that they were bigots, talking about some poor muggleborn… but no, they were most definitely talking about Hermione, ranting about her, from the sound of it.

"She finally got what she deserved, after all these years, but then the stupid cunt has to go and take half a dozen other students down with her, and more importantly, ruin our weekends by forcing us to toil over some stupid cauldrons for hours on end!"

"Ugh, tell me about it. We're going to have to tell Professor Snape that Pomfrey used all of the salves we already made. Just because Granger couldn't keep her legs shut and consider the ramifications of shooting above her station. Honestly, snatching up an International Quidditch Star and daring to go to the Yule Ball as his date? The girl has no sense of tact…"

The Slytherin witch scoffs at that.

"She should have been a Ravenclaw. Then you lot would have taught her how to be a quiet little mudblood bookworm who just might have been able to keep her head down and not make such a mess of everything."

"I really don't like that word, you know it's not as… acceptable to say it anymore, right? Still, you're not wrong. If she'd been a Ravenclaw, we would have taught her how the world worked fairly early on. But no, she had to be a Gryffindor. Do you know how insulting it is to have them call her the Smartest Witch of her Generation while she's not even in our House? She's a bloody Gryffindor, Brave and Brainless. The Ravenclaws in her year get so much shit for not properly showing her up. But even worse than that… she somehow got her claws into Heiress Potter."

"Pah! The filthy mudblood isn't smart enough to have done anything of the sort. Potter made that decision herself, taking Granger in, coddling her, befriending her. The cunt should have been dragged into an empty classroom in her first year and taught not to stand out and show up every Pureblood in her year, but by the time anyone realized it was NECESSARY, Potter had already saved her from the troll, and they were thick as thieves. If only that troll had finished the job…"

Hella finds that she's trembling now, but they're not done yet. The Ravenclaw pipes up again, and this time her voice is actually a little chipper. At least at first.

"Well! At least we only have to put up with her for the rest of this year. Everyone in her year is stuck with her for the next four. Can you imagine how that'll be? Hell, can you imagine how it already is for all of those witches and wizards of pureblood who have to go home and explain to their families how a muggleborn with no previous magical education is constantly surpassing them in every subject?"

"Hah, no, I can't imagine that for a moment. Merlin that sounds awful. At least… at least no one will ever have to see her again once she graduates. No one in the wizarding world is going to hire an uppity mudblood like her who doesn't know her place. She'll either figure that out quick and go back to the muggles with her wand snapped and her memory obliviated, where she fucking belongs, or she'll end up turning tricks down some alley in Knockturn Alley until a wizard gets tired of her constant backtalk and finishes it. Either way, she's not going anywhere but down after Hogwarts."

There's a pause, and then the Ravenclaw speaks once more.

"But what about Heiress Potter? What if she hires Granger on or something?"

The Slytherin seems to consider this for a moment before answering.

"… I don't think that's likely. Sure, Potter still has to put on appearances, but look at what happened this morning. Did she stop the mudblood from fucking herself? Nope, she looked after her own self first and foremost. You think if she was capable of shielding herself, she wasn't capable of stopping all of it?"

"Wait, really? You think she LET that happen to Granger?"

"Heh, maybe. All I'm really saying is, now that Heir Morton has his hands on the reins, I do believe Heiress Potter is learning the difference between scum like the know-it-all, and people like us. Did you not hear her, earlier? She recognizes talent and skill in those who are worthy of recognition, namely you and I. So long as Heir Morton continues to guide her along properly, I think she'll end up just fine. Even if she IS a half-blood."

"… I suppose you're right. And I suppose we've procrastinated enough in here. We should probably go talk to Professor Snape now, shouldn't we?"

The Slytherin witch groans.

"We should… but that doesn't mean I'm looking forward to it."

"Heh, what's wrong? He's your Head of House, isn't he? Why, just earlier, you were calling him Severus…"

"I need his recommendation to get an apprenticeship with a good Potions Master, you know that. Just as you know the things, I have to do to GET that recommendation are all sacrifices I make for the betterment of my future. It doesn't mean I'm happy about it."

"Yeah, yeah. I know…"

The conversation trails off as the two Seventh Years leave the girl's bathroom behind. That last bit, some part of Hella does acknowledge and file away in the back of her mind, but truth be told, it's hard for her to focus on that when everything before it has her undivided attention. It's several long moments of silence reigning in the bathroom before Hella slowly lowers her legs back down to the floor and stops pressing into the walls with her palms. Perhaps that isn't for the best though, because her hands immediately curl into white-knuckled fists as a result, and her entire body is trembling with anger.

Still… it was good to know. If they'd known she was here, they would have been all about the respect and trying to cozy up to her. Instead, in what they believed was her absence, they'd instead shown their true colors. Though, all those things they'd said about Hermione's future, about what might happen to her just because of the circumstances of her birth… Hella didn't want to believe them true. Surely, they had to have been embellishing. It was simply the hopes of a pair of petty girls who would never be as intelligent as Hermione… right?

As Hella slowly makes her way out of the bathroom and back towards the Hospital Wing, her thoughts are occupied with anger and worry. She would need to speak with Treowe about all of this, since he continued to be her most reliable source of information and had never stopped trying to fill in the gaps that existed in her education. Though, there was what those girls, particularly the Slytherin, had said about her and him.

… No! She would not let some petty bitches poison her love for Treowe. They thought what they wanted to think, what he wanted them to think. His feelings for her were real, and he did not have the same values, the same beliefs that those hateful pureblood bigots did. Treowe was different, and she loved him for it. She wouldn't allow that to change, just because of a couple of older witches being awful.

Still, Hella is quite surprised when she walks back into the Hospital Wing, only to find that Viktor Krum has shown up in her absence and taken her place at Hermione's bedside. When he looks up and sees her, Krum pales slightly, no doubt remembering how she'd expressed concerns for Hermione's safety and their relationship together. And now here Hermione was, afflicted with boils and sores, laid up in a hospital bed… and it was at least partially because of him, because of her ties to him.

Standing, Viktor walks over to her, his head held high and his back straight despite his clear nervousness as he greets Hella.

"Heiress Potter…"

For a moment, Hella pauses. But in the end, she really already knows how she intends to respond.

"Heir Krum. You being here in my absence says far more about the true depths of your feelings for Hermione, for my best friend, than mere words ever could. Alas, I find myself rather famished with the day's events weighing so heavily, and tired from the stress of this morning. I am happy to know that someone I can trust will keep watch over her in my absence and be there for her when she wakes up. I shall take my leave."

Viktor seems caught off guard by her approval, no doubt expecting her to say or do something in regard to carrying out her previous warnings on what would happen if he hurt Hermione. But that was the thing, he hadn't truly hurt Hermione, and she knew she couldn't let her bubbling anger get the better of her here and cause her to lash out at the wrong person.

"… Of course, Heiress Potter. I was shocked when I heard the news, and ashamed that I was not here sooner. I will keep her company until she is released from the Madam's care, or until you return."

As Viktor returns to Hermione's bedside, Hella's feet carry her out of the Hospital Wing once more, and off towards the Seventh Floor and the Room of Requirement. Treowe would be able to help her get her head on straight and figure out what was going on here. And he'd be able to give her a more accurate picture of what life in the wizarding world would be like after Hogwarts.

As far as Hella had known before today, from how Hermione had always previously spoken about it, there should have been no limit to the job openings that someone with the muggleborn's grades could seek after graduating from Hogwarts. And yet, the more Hella thought about it, the more she could believe those witches were being honest. Brutally and bluntly honest, but honest, nonetheless. Every year she spent in the wizarding world, it felt like she unearthed more dark secrets hidden beneath the wonders and brilliance of magic…

-x-X-x-

She knows the instant she asks that this isn't the kind of conversation she'll enjoy the punchline to one bit. This discussion with Treowe was going to be one that would likely alter her view of the magical world yet again. Given the way he immediately called a stop to what he'd been doing, which had been dueling with one of the castle's suits of armors using swords in mock combat, Hella could tell that she wasn't going to like this, not one bit.

"… Have you had lunch yet?"

Hella's stomach had chosen that moment to gurgle and growl and protest the fact that no, she had not had lunch yet. Food had followed, good, hearty food that had made up for missing out on most of breakfast and also all of lunch. Hella and Treowe had eaten in silence, as this wasn't the type of conversation to be had on either an empty stomach or during a meal.

In the end, she finds herself sat snugly in a high back chair in front of the Room of Requirement's conjured fireplace, comfortably full of food and drink as Treowe sits across from her in a similar chair, dressed only in loose robes. Hella recognizes when her beloved is gathering his thoughts quite well, so she remains quiet and waits as he stares into the fire, sipping from his goblet.

"… To understand the situation as it currently is, one needs some background to explain why things are the way they are, and how they got here. This country has suffered through three wars in the last hundred years… well, two wars and a terror campaign. Regardless, the magical world has taken casualties. Various Ancient and Noble Houses have been wiped out entirely, if not entirely reduced in power, members, and thus status in their efforts to protect this country."

Hella finds herself listening on with rapt attention, not only because of Treowe's chocolatey deep voice, but also because this sounded like the first history lesson, she'd ever gotten that might actually be INTERESTING.

"Such casualties are expected in war, of course. And given time, most of these families very well might have recovered, and perhaps even grown stronger for it, if the benefits for what they gave up could have come to fruition. But that's just it. There wasn't enough time between the Great War, World War Two, or the Dark Lord's Campaign for those families that were more inclined to stand up and fight to recover. And you better bet that when Voldemort first rose to power, he targeted those families who had distinguished themselves in conflict, who had proven themselves strong. They were either recruited… or destroyed."

Treowe pauses again for another breath, and to take a drink as he stares off into the distance.

"What this left behind were those that were unwilling to take part. Our government, our Ministry of Magic… it became filled with those who were incapable and unwilling of standing up for anything at all. There were entire families, ancient bloodlines, magical knowledge and talents, as well as priceless artifacts during all of these conflicts, but especially during Voldemort's first rise. And those who had seized power while certain families were off to war stood by and let it happen, because it solidified their own power, and removed their enemies."

A macabre smile spreads across Treowe's face and his eyes flicker to Hella's forehead.

"Historians teach that we managed to save our way of life after one miraculous event that saw the Dark Lord laid low."

She shivers and resists the urge to reach up and touch her scar, even as Treowe continues on a moment later without truly diving into the subject that had left her an orphan.

"On the surface, we did win. But at the same time, before Voldemort's defeat, we lost a great many moral and upstanding member of our society. Meanwhile, the corrupt and treacherous cowards continued to weasel their way into positions of power, as they have been for over a decade now. History is written by the victors, Hella, and certain things are always lost to the annals of time. Wizards and witches alike tend to prefer to gloss over the details of events that they would prefer not to think about."

Treowe's smile widens slightly.

"You won't find any account in the 'modern' history books of what there was before we were reduced to Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. The larger network of magical alleys, with a much wider marketplace is gone now, never to return, and because they don't want to be reminded of that, the wizards and witches don't tell their children what they lost. And yet, Diagon and Knockturn are all that remain of our community, after the bombs fell during the London Blitz. Such explosive devices have never cared about Notice-Me-Not Charms or Muggle-Repelling Wards, after all."

Hella's eyes widen at that tidbit of knowledge, and Treowe tips his head in acknowledgment of her shocked realization that the magical world simply wasn't as protected as they liked to claim.

"So… yes, the old Pureblood Families have reason to fear and hate muggles for the atrocities that have taken place this last century. Of course, their ignorance of the threat and their constant poking of the sleeping dragon is unconscionable. Regardless, this prejudice leaks over from the muggles to muggleborn witches and wizards, who come into our world and bring with them their ideas, their morals, their ethics, their culture. Purebloods don't like this, by and large. They never have, and they never will."

Treowe lets out a sigh.

"Miss Granger in particular is both the best and the worst of what muggleborns can offer to our society. I know from my expanded self-education that she is easily of a genius-level intellect, and likely in the top percentile for not just the magical world, but the entire world's population. She truly is the brightest and best witch of our generation."

Hella's memory flashes back to her Godfather saying pretty much the same thing last year, and she finds herself smiling slightly on her best friend' behalf and nodding along with what Treowe is saying. However, the young man is not done.

"Unfortunately, bigotry is alive and well in the wizarding world, and those in power, those in charge, have been conditioned over the decades to view anyone who tries to stand up and take charge as a threat to them. So, when a muggleborn like Hermione graduates from Hogwarts full of hope and excitement, they quickly and harshly learn that their education and achievements don't matter. They learn that all that truly matters, at least when it comes to them, is their blood status."

Treowe spreads his hands wide, his face now solemn.

"The Pureblood bigots are in control, and their sons and daughters, their nieces and nephews, their cousins… they come first."

Hearing it straight from Treowe's mouth, Hella can't help but stand up, snarling.

"That's ridiculous! They can't possibly get away with that sort of nepotism! Surely there would be laws against it… s-surely someone like Dumbledore wouldn't allow such a thing to happen, r-right?"

Treowe allows her to run herself out of steam, sitting calmly until she's quiet again. Then, he speaks.

"Look to the Weasleys, Hella, and you need look no further. Arthur Weasley is the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department at the Ministry of Magic. How many muggleborns do you think sit as Heads of Ministry Departments over there? How many half-bloods?"

She has a sinking feeling she knows what the answer to that is.

"A-A few, I'm sure. Perhaps not as many there should be for equal representation, but there's a handful at least, right?"

"There's one half-blood, Hella. No muggleborns. The only half-blood working as a Department Head in the Ministry of Magic is the Head of Goblin Liaison. Do you know why? It's because every previous Head of Goblin Liaison, all of them Purebloods, has ended up dead, because the Head of that Department just so happens to be one of the only wizards or witches beholden to the archaic laws that those money-grubbing little bastards hold to. Part of their last treaty with us. Every few years, they kill the Head of Goblin Liaison on some minor technicality, mostly just for fun and to remind us that we can't do jack shit about it, because they have our fucking gold."

Hella's mouth opens and closes a few times like a goldfish, and Treowe just offers her a sad smile.

"They gave him that position because they wanted to get rid of him, and that was the easiest way. But, let's go back to Arthur Weasley really quickly. He's the Head of a Department based around the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, yes? Now, here's a very simple question for you. How much more than him does a young muggleborn like Miss Granger know about muggle devices? How much more do YOU know, compared to what you've seen of Arthur Weasley?"

Hella sits back in her chair with a whump of air, her eyes wide as she stares at Treowe, her mind immediately taken back to her second year. From the car that Arthur Weasley had been illegally enchanting, to him asking her what the purpose of a fucking rubber duck was. There's several moments of silence between her and Treowe as Hella is forced to acknowledge the ridiculousness inherent in the system. If she and Hermione could easily trump Arthur at his job, how much could an adult muggleborn or half-blood do, with a foot in both worlds and a full Hogwarts Education behind them?

"It's good that you've taken steps to keep Miss Granger close to your side when things don't work out with Krum. If you don't intend to hire her yourself in some role, she will need the support of the Potter name just to get anywhere in our society."

Still quiet, Hella finds herself processing everything, even as Treowe drinks from his goblet before speaking again.

"Hermione isn't the first to be proclaimed the brightest and best witch of her generation, you know. Do you know who the last was?"

Hella blinks, wondering where he's going with this, even as she shakes her head in the negative.

"Lily Potter nee Evans, your mother."

Green eyes widen, and Hella's heart soars with pride… for all of a moment.

"Do you know what the history books have to say about her, Hella? Do you know how they describe the last 'brightest and best witch of her generation'?"

She opens her mouth, but no words come. Treowe looks altogether apologetic, even as he shakes his head.

"I believe that she had far more to do with Voldemort's defeat then you did, dear Hella, I'll say that now. So, I apologize when I repeat what it is that our histories label your mother as, the titles they give her, the accolades they lay upon her… or, as the case may be, the lack thereof."

Straightening up, Treowe gathers himself and speaks in a monotone as he recites knowledge he almost certainly read from a book.

"Lily Potter nee Evans. Wife of Lord James Potter. Mother of the Girl-Who-Lived, Hella Potter."

He falls silent after that, and for a moment Hella doesn't understand. But then, as the silence continues to drag on, as he simply remains quiet and stares at her meaningfully… she does. She gets it, and the tears begin to stream down her face as she tries and fails to hold in the sobs. Treowe pulls her into a hug, and then sits back down in the chair holding her in his lap.

She cries and cries and cries some more, until eventually, Treowe summons a bath in the Room of Requirement and moves them towards it. Her crying settles down as he strips them both nude, and by the time he's drawing her into the bath with him, Hella lunges forward, kissing her lover ferociously, their lips smashing together and their tongues intertwining as she gets increasingly handsy.

She needs it though. She needs the intimacy, she needs the contact, she needs the affection. It doesn't take long to reach down between them and fit him at her entrance. Hella impales herself on Treowe's cock, and from the very beginning, rides him raw. She needs something more than just lovemaking, she needs something more than just gentle sex. She needs to get these emotions out of her system, all of this anger, all of this rage.

What follows is definitely rougher sex than Treowe intended, but he never once pulls away from her. Instead, he accepts her for who she is, holding her close as she slams herself down onto his cock again and again, as if forcing herself to take every last inch of his member up into her cunt will let her think about that, rather than about what's happening around her right now, about how fucked up the world is, this world that she finds herself wading through without any sort of knowledge.

But she has Treowe, at least. She has Treowe, and as Hella clings to him and he holds her close and she rides him as best she can, she knows one thing. She's never letting go.

-x-X-x-

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