Chapter Text
The foreboding manor estate loomed large before Hermione, her nail digging into the corner of her thumb anxiously, out of habit as she fought to regulate her heartbeat, her eyes surveying the place. The portkey was efficient, the old rusted bucket she’d used to get from the shadowed park in London to the Melikov Manor nestled deep in the Carpathian Mountains tumbled away down the hill, of no more use to her.
There was no turning back now, or at least this was the last opportunity for it. Hermione worried at her cuticle again, hissing a sharp breath as she dug too hard, drawing pain up and pulling her back to center as she shouldered her unassuming dark oxblood satchel, the contents of her apartment within. The contents of her life entire, truly fit neatly into the enchanted but still rather small satchel.
It had been so easy to leave it all behind, leave them behind. The choice had never been simpler –– still, an ache echoed in her chest as she thought of Harry and Ron, thought of the others, without much of a note to mark her departure.
They wouldn’t care. They’d made that clear in the weeks that passed without an owl, without a note.
Good riddance. She’d tell them where she’d gone eventually, she supposed. If they ever bothered to write and check in on her.
She’d chosen her path now, a different one than first charted, and she needed to keep placing one foot in front of the other before she turned tail and ran as far and fast as she could away from the looming manor ahead.
Swallowing against the thick feeling forming in her throat, Hermione took one step toward the gravel path, another and another, feeling the slim press of her wand at her forearm, her instincts alert.
The instructions had been clear. Take the portkey, follow the path to the house and someone would provide direction from there. Melikov was a woman of few words it seemed, through the scant short missives back and forth that Hermione had received so far about her new assignment. Part of her wondered at the life that led Professor McGonagall to be such close friends with such an infamous cursebreaker - but then again Hermione had learned many small details about her former professor through their private lessons over the past year. McGonagall was nothing if not a witch of mystery and hidden secrets, the patchwork of them becoming more confusing, not less, as Hermione caught more threads about the woman she considered her most cherished mentor.
The crunch of the gravel felt loud, disconcerting as Hermione approached the gothic estate that looked more like a castle from a heinous tale of vampires and maidens than any sort of training facility. The clouded, darkening evening didn’t improve the dramatic look to the place, Hermione’s eyes tipping up to the carved gargoyles at the top of the turrets and buildings, each throwing dark and ominous looks down to any who dared pass through the gates.
McGonagall mentioned that Melikov had a certain disposition, a certain flair that Hermione would get used to. Though if Hermione had to sketch a vision of the place she would have assumed the cursebreaker lived in, it would not have been all this.
A smaller, human sized door swung wide as Hermione approached, set into the large wooden and iron reinforced castle door that looked formidable enough to withstand a yearlong siege. Castle it was, but not with the warmth and familiar touch of Hogwarts. No, this place had seen worse dangers, worse magic, worse tortures than Hogwarts perhaps ever had. She could feel the swirl of magic calling to her in a way, a thick and heady current of great power, clearly laid into the very foundations of the castle itself. Much like Hogwarts was known to have its magic threaded into her very stones of foundation, Hermione assumed this place was also as ancient or more so, the feeling of eons of heavily powerful magic cloaking the place in an addictive swirl of power.
It made Hermione’s gut curl and bubble up and her mouth run dry, that dense, heavy feeling reminding her of dealing with Hufflepuff’s cursed cup many months ago. Not the feeling of the dark magic curling and attacking, but the feeling she’d had after - the feeling of touching her own powerful well and channeling it, finding an outlet for all the magic that so deeply lurked under her skin.
She swallowed again, a soft anxious breath puffing out as she stepped through the doorway, her sense on alert.
“Miss Granger?” a gruff, accented voice emerged from the gatekeeper’s house, a bulging and unnaturally muscled arm pushing open a half door to look down at Hermione as she passed through the gated entryway.
“I…yes. Hermione Granger. And who are you?” Certainly not Melikov herself as Hermione’s eyes adjusted to the dimmer light of the gatehouse, the disfigured, muscled arm looking more in context as she surveyed the gatekeeper. Hermione fought back a reaction as she swallowed against her thickening throat and schooled her face. The gatekeeper looked to be a human, or had been at one time, their muscles all blown to extreme proportions, reminding Hermione of the muggle stories of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as if the being was conjured straight out of a Victorian gothic tale.
“I am the gatekeep, but you may call me Viktor,” he replied gruffly after a long beat, surveying Hermione just as much. His face was cast in shadow, seemingly handsome features twisted and warped by whatever curse had been placed on him to make him this way, though Hermione was at a loss for what could have done such permanent, extensive damage.
“Ah, Viktor. Well. Pleasure to meet you. I am here as a guest of Mila Melikov’s, she is expecting me,” Hermione forced out politely, willing herself to tamp down the curiosity she had for Viktor, or why Melikov would have a gatekeep that would strike such a fearsome look.
Purposeful, Hermione assumed, considering the power that Melikov possessed and the reputation that preceded her. Considering further the powerful wealth of cursed and broken objects that likely were kept in Melikov’s stronghold of an estate. Melikov’s own mythical guardian, she thought, deciding she certainly wouldn’t be getting crossed up with Viktor if she could help it.
“On to the main house, she’ll find you,” he replied gruffly, already moving to close the half door he’d swung open to confirm her identity, his duties done.
Hermione took a few more steps through to the courtyard, looking up at the dark grey stone of the finely appointed manor, looking more mythical than just a “house” as the gatekeep described. The dark, pointed roofs, the gargoyles continuing their vigil along the roofline, it all unsettled the nerves, Hermione’s gaze drifting upward as the moon peeked out from the clouds, illuminating the estate in an even eerier glow.
Had she bitten off more than she could chew here? She was a fine duelist, but maybe Harry and Ron were right, maybe she didn’t have what it took for this kind of life. Still, the swirl of power in her kept tugging her forward, as though her very bones were called to such a place, even as her brain kept turning over all the many reasons she should turn around and run as far and fast away as she could.
The door turned before Hermione could get the nerve to reach and turn it herself, the figure on the other side here at least a normal-sized human this time.
“Hi, I…I’m Hermione Granger. A guest of Mila Melikov’s,” Hermione found herself saying somewhat automatically, shifting her posture a little straighter, attempting to quell the rampant curiosity and anxiety building in her veins.
The other woman looked Hermione up and down, dressed not in wix robes, but a plain dark turtle neck and dark trousers, well-worn but rich looking dark boots to match. Her dark hair was short, striking against her angular pale face and swept back in a masculine cut that displayed her proud features most severely.
“A fact I’m well aware of, Granger,” the woman said smoothly in a heavily accented tone, tilting her head ever so slightly, raising a brow a little at her. “You are smaller than I expected.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed and her mind turned quickly over the woman’s words, her look and attitude, and suspending all she thought she knew of pureblood wix of Melikov’s station. She’d expected another servant, perhaps another even after that, taking her through the labyrinthine castle manor to the mysterious cursebreaker Melikov.
Though Hermione half expected a small army of house elves, a modestly dressed wix or muggle servant was equally as expected. What wasn’t expected was such finely dressed, casual arrogance teeming from the woman before her.
This was none other than Mila Melikov herself, she realized, tipping her chin down a little, calculating her next words rapidly.
“Ah, well. I am quite nimble in combat, as Professor McGonagall will attest,” she answered smoothly, smoother than she felt, her heart pounding as Hermione felt she was failing a test she didn’t know she needed to pass.
Melikov took another look at Hermione and turned without a word, walking back into the house and leaving the door ajar for Hermione to walk through. She followed after a short beat, the door swinging closed heavily on its own behind her as she passed through.
The inside of the manor was no less foreboding than the outside, the dim night and cool moonlight filtering through spotty clouds throwing sharp lines and shadows in the darkly opulent foyer.
“So I have heard. Formidable aptitude for runes, arithmancy, and defense against the dark arts as well,” Melikov listed off in a matter-of-fact tone, as clipped and certain as Hermione had imagined from her owls about Hermione taking the position. “Tomorrow you’ll begin some tests to assess where you are at and where you will need more training.”
“Of course. I assume I will meet the other recruits then as well?”
Melikov nodded, stroking her chin some as she surveyed Hermione in an exposing way, her cool grey-blue eyes piercing as they assessed her. “You are the last to arrive, my latest addition. You’ll meet the others and we begin our training regimen tomorrow.”
Hermione fought the nonsensical pang to her pride that she was the last to arrive - as though that once again set her behind in some aspect. She’d fought with her muggleborn heritage so long, she should have been used to being the odd man out, but still it stung as it always had. Odd man out as a muggleborn, odd man out with Harry and Ron. Last to arrive, behind before she began. Here was no different.
A competitive streak in her spine flared though and she nodded, quietly swallowing down the feelings as quickly as they had bubbled up.
“Of course. Thank you for the opportunity to…to be a part of this,” Hermione found herself saying a little meekly, Melikov bringing her measuring gaze back up to Hermione’s eyes and narrowing slightly.
“The offer was not made as a favor, you should stop treating it as such,” Melikov snapped a little tightly in her accented English. “I do not care to know your background, your sob story, your reasons for choosing such a path. Your ability to do magic is what concerns me and in that score you are formidable. This is anything but a charitable placement, Granger.”
Her lungs felt like they would cave in at the sharp reply, needling in on her doubts and drawing her eyes to narrow a little against Melikov’s. “I didn’t think it was. I just mean that I will ensure I keep up with the others.”
Behind, always behind. Hadn’t she read through every text she could get her hands on before she started at Hogwarts? She knew then what she knew now - she’d need the leg up if she were to ever be considered on part with her peers.
Melikov seemed nonplussed by the assurances, the smallest, coldest smirk curling at the edge of her lips as she shrugged, slipping her hands into her pockets. “If you are always focused on others, what do you learn of yourself, Granger?”
A beat of silence hung there, Hermione paused stock still, unsure if the question in Melikov’s voice was real or rhetorical. If it were real, she certainly didn’t have an answer for it.
Melikov saved her from whatever floundering words she’d come up with, nodding to the hallway to the left of where they came in.
“Your room is that way, down the east wing hallway and up the stairs. The room name is on your key. Training begins at nine in the morning sharp, there will be breakfast in the knights hall beginning at eight,” she said, releasing a key and floating it over to Hermione wordlessly and wandlessly as Hermione caught it from the air. She ran her fingers over the cool iron of the old key, the scrawling script labeled “The Gryffin” hanging from it as well.
When Hermione looked up again, Melikov was gone.