Prometheus Broken

I own none of the places, characters, or ideas created by JK Rowling that appear in this story. I take credit for everything else.

A big thanks to Southern Witch, my beta, who read through this several times and did lots of hand holding so that this could be posted. Thanks to musedepandora, too.

Chapter 3- Prometheus Broken

Of all the transformations that had occurred after Voldemort's downfall, Hermione was most contented with the improvements made inside number twelve, Grimmauld Place. After two months of extensive magical and physical labor, including a lengthy consult in the Hogwarts library, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had at last been forced into submission. Even the infamous picture of Mrs. Black had been conquered, a process that had left Hermione as irritable as the portrait and had blasted a permanent scar on the wall.

Despite the difficulties, Grimmauld Place now utilized the best of wizard and Muggle conveniences. Electricity and magic worked side-by-side to the delight of Harry, Hermione, and an enthusiastic Mr. Weasley. It was also evident from the cozy atmosphere that pervaded each room that Harry had been thinking of the Burrow when directing the house renovations. Brightly colored window hangings had been paired with deep rugs, squashy chairs, and a collection of mythical-creature paintings that Luna had given Harry as a house warming present.

Hermione was currently established on the de-Puffskeined sofa in the first floor drawing room. A daunting pile of books, parchment, and two innocuous-looking folders were stacked haphazardly around her, but it was the determined expression on her face, in addition to the quill she had shoved hastily into her hair, that kept the other occupants in the room from disturbing her.

Crookshanks was purring contentedly by the fire in a wicker basket, watching George and Ron huddled around a table in one corner. The brothers were busy perfecting their latest line of products, which George had declared to Hermione would be more popular than Skiving Snackboxes.

"I think I'd rather not know," Hermione had replied succinctly.

Ron and George both seemed pleased to be working together, and that pleased Hermione, especially after the bout of prolonged gloominess that had descended on the Weasley family, particularly George, after Fred's death. So she wasn't going to quibble with either of them, no matter what suspicious noises came from the corner of the room. As long as they weren't experimenting on Hogwarts' first years again, it was better if she pretended that they were thoroughly engrossed in a game of wizard Chess instead of inventing the newest way to wreak maximum havoc on the world.

Whatever they were creating had Crookshanks supremely enthralled. Hermione had tried to tempt him away from the fire with a bit of tuna off her plate, but he kept his yellow eyes fixed steadily on Ron's and George's backs. She had given up on her ginger cat and had returned to the folder she was reading until Harry came into the room. Shoulders slumped and hair mussed, he sprawled in a chair next to Hermione. He threw a hand over his eyes and succumbed to a frustrated laugh that was the culmination of a thoroughly trying day.

"Alright, Harry?" Hermione asked. She closed her folder and set it next to her, giving Harry her entire attention.

Harry groaned. "Who knew the git would be as difficult dead as he was alive?"

Over the noise of a spirited tussle and flapping of wings in the corner, Ron asked breathlessly, "They still haven't figured out that portrait yet?"

"No," Harry replied in an uncharacteristically cross tone.

"I don't see why you would want him hanging up there anyway," George shouted over the din. "He'd only make everyone miserable." There was another desperate scuffle and whatever else George had said was lost to Harry and Hermione. A wooden chair fell over with a loud thud, and Crookshanks bolted from the room with an angry hiss, his bottlebrush tail bushier than ever. Identical shouts of victory came from George and Ron.

Harry lifted a brow in question, but shrugged and turned expectantly to Hermione. "Professor McGonagall said it was because he had abandoned his post as Headmaster when the school was under attack."

Hermione could feel her cheeks grow instantly warm and busied herself with the tea tray that Kreacher had brought in just before Harry's arrival. "I don't know, Harry," she mused. "Are they sure the problem isn't with the painting itself? Lots of things can go wrong when you're making a magical portrait." Once she felt confident enough to meet Harry's eyes, she looked up to hand him a cup of tea with a teasing smile. "I suppose I shouldn't bother telling you that if you had read Hogwarts, A History you would already know that other Headmasters have been dismissed before."

The tension melted from Harry's face, and he took the offered tea with a lopsided grin. "You barely got Ron and me to sit our N.E.W.T.s early, Hermione. Besides, why should I read the book when you've already memorized it?"

"Exactly what I have been trying to tell her, Harry," George declared as he jumped over the back off the sofa to make a bouncy landing beside Hermione. He threw an arm over her shoulder. "You've got to convince her that she's destined to do research for the shop. Think of all the new products we could make with the books she's read."

"Loads," Harry agreed, a smile now fixed on his face.

"Not helping," Hermione countered in a sing-song voice.

George turned to Hermione with a grave expression, almost more disquieting than when he wore a look of mischief, but it was belied by the amusement shining clear in his eyes. "All that information is wasting away, unused, in your brain. Doesn't that bother you, Hermione?" He ruffled her hair zealously, and Hermione let out an exasperated huff that made Harry laugh from the safety of his chair.

"Shove off," Ron demanded, coming around to Hermione's other side. Once he had rescued Hermione from his brother and salvaged the quill hanging crookedly from behind her ear, Ron sat down and pressed a kiss to Hermione's cheek.

"Thank you, Ron," said Hermione in a dignified voice. She tried to tame her snarled hair even as she glowered at George, who grinned back unabashedly.

"Although, he does have a point," Ron announced. He pulled Hermione's folder out from underneath him and waved it in front of her. "What have you been looking at all night anyway? There's nothing you need to study for anymore."

"It's just something from the Ministry," Hermione replied hastily. She snatched the file from Ron and clutched it to her chest, but the gleam in George's eyes warned her that she had been too apparent. "I saw Kingsley today," she told Harry in a great rush. "He told me that you had owled him with your acceptance into the Auror Department."

"You didn't tell me you decided," Ron protested. All focus swiveled instantly to Harry.

There was an upset expression burgeoning across Ron's face, which Harry averted with a quick response. "You knew I was going to accept. I thought about waiting a bit longer to start training, but yesterday it felt like it was the right time. You and George are at the shop every day now, and Hermione was going to the Ministry to find out more about the Magical Creatures Department." Harry gave a helpless shrug. "I can't hide from the world forever."

The statement was morose, but Hermione could see contentment reflected in Harry's calm demeanor and lazy smile. She thought it was about time, too. With each passing year at Hogwarts, Hermione had watched Harry struggle with his increasing role in the war. He had sacrificed a carefree childhood to defeat Voldemort, and Hermione's greatest wish for Harry was that the coming years would give him the considerable happiness he deserved.

"I think it's brilliant," she said decisively. She bounded off the sofa to give Harry a warm hug that he returned.

"Thanks, Hermione."

"You're welcome," she told him, infusing her voice with all the sincerity she felt.

Harry startled when Hermione suddenly straightened up and spun on her heel to face the sofa in a swirl of robes and brown hair, wand drawn. Half out of his chair and reaching for his own wand, it wasn't until he saw the direction of Hermione's gaze that he slowly sank back down with a relieved huff.

The book George was thumbing through flew out of his hands to land neatly on top of the wobbling pile of Hermione's research material that she had summoned into her arms.

"What are you reading Holidays with Hags for?" asked George, who seemed genuinely puzzled instead of teasing.

"You kept that rubbish?" Ron demanded, incredulous.

"Just because he didn't actually do any of the things he claimed to do doesn't mean it's rubbish, Ronald. The information is still useful."

The haughty look on her face silenced any further objections that Harry was about to add. He leaned in to read the spines of the other books she was shifting in her arms. "One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi? Magical Theory? Magical Drafts and Potions? Hermione, those are first- and second-year books." When it became apparent that she wasn't going to offer an explanation, he clarified, "The Ministry wants you to read those? For the Magical Creatures job?"

"Yes, it's for the Ministry," Hermione said. She was rather pleased with her airy reply and let it show as she moved toward the door with a smug expression on her face. "I'm off to bed. See you all in the morning?"

"A bit early for bed, isn't it?" Harry said.

"It's been a long day, and I have more reading to do." She offered Harry an impish grin from just outside the doorway. "Besides, I don't want to be around when George and Ron start recruiting test subjects for their latest invention." She darted down the hallway as fast as her teetering pile of books would allow, followed by a chorus of protests.

Several hours later, amidst a cover of boisterous laughter from the drawing room, Hermione crept unseen to the ground floor and gave a thick message to Pigwidgeon for delivery.

A letter from Nestor Nettlebot was waiting on Hermione's bedside table when she woke up the next morning. It was heavy with a strangely shaped object wrapped inside, and Hermione tore it open eagerly. A solid, metal key fell into her lap, followed by a sealed note. She rested the key and note on top of her leg, the cold of the metal seeping through her thin nightgown, and read the brief letter from Nettlebot.

After a rushed shower and breakfast, Hermione shouted a goodbye up the stairs, gave Crookshanks a passing pat on the head, and Flooed to Diagon Alley.

The main street was extraordinarily busy for the early hour. A few stores were still closed, although candlelight winked in all of the windows with the notable exception of Ollivander's. The shop had been boarded shut since the Ministry confiscated all his remaining wands after his death. Hermione had faithfully scanned the newspapers each morning for more information, but for once, even the Daily Prophet offered no rumors about the closed store.

Harry's picture waved at her from many windows as stores tried to make a profit off Harry's phenomenal popularity. Signs accompanied many of the photos, declaring, "Shop Where Harry Potter Shops." The pictures would have made Hermione smile...Harry had not been to many of the stores in several years, and he refused to go anywhere near Diagon Alley until he didn't have to see his face staring back at him...except that small placards in bold, black letters were posted next to each of Harry's pictures. The official looking signs announced, "No Death Eaters Served Here."

The shops meant it too.

Hermione had been appalled to read in The Quibbler of Stan Shunpike's ejection from Flourish & Blotts over a month ago. There had been a bit of a fray at the front door of the bookshop, and Aurors had arrived just in time to stop the swelling crowd from turning violent.

"But the Ministry cleared him," Hermione had whispered disapprovingly to Harry at breakfast. She looked at the picture of Stan Shunpike, head bandaged, walking out of St. Mungo's.

"Doesn't matter," Harry had muttered around a piece of toast. "People don't care that he was Imperiused. They care that he fought for Voldemort."

Gringotts Wizarding Bank remained the only establishment in Diagon Alley without any signs posted. The goblins paid little attention to what sort of wizard or witch you were so long as you gave them your gold.

Perhaps it was because she had no gold that the goblin Hermione handed her key and note to scowled so suspiciously at her. He made Hermione wait on a hard, wooden bench for half an hour while he consulted with several other goblins. Without apology, and with a great deal of hesitance, he at last handed Hermione a heavy bag that clinked and jingled when Hermione tucked it into her purse.

"We will owl you the rest," he told her gruffly.

Hermione's polite thank you was lost on the goblin as he took her through an imposing door and into a dimly lit hallway lined on both sides with doors. It was utterly silent apart from the clicking of Hermione's shoes on the marble floor. He stopped abruptly halfway down the corridor and used the key Hermione had given him to open one of the doors. The hinges creaked, and Hermione shivered at the eerie echo that reverberated through the gloomy hallway.

The goblin stayed outside the door as Hermione first peered into the shadows before moving just inside. The door led to a spacious room made too small by the numerous possessions crammed inside. Soaring stacks of boxes cast deep shadows, and whirls and clicking sounds came from several directions.

"You can take what you want, but you will have to leave a record at the front before you go." The goblin pushed the key into her hand, a grimace twisting his features. He hovered in the doorway, watching Hermione stare at the jumble of possessions, before he turned reluctantly and left Hermione alone in the room.

Dusty trunks were heaped in a towering pile one atop the other at the back of the room. Delicate, revolving objects were left in a disorderly mess outside of boxes, crowded between piles of broken books, rolled rugs, cauldrons, and ancient paintings.

Hermione bent to look at a collection of glass vials twinkling from an open box, but her eyes were caught by silver portrait frame lying face down on the floor. The protective glass had shattered on the ground, but the picture inside was unharmed. A younger Albus Dumbledore was staring up at her with a cheery smile. One arm was slung around the shoulders of a tall man who radiated tremendous self-assurance and ruthlessness. Hermione had never seen a picture of Grindelwald from before the years he had been a threat worthy of coverage in the Daily Prophet, but Harry's descriptions matched the wizard gazing at her from the photo. There was a mesmerizing quality to the man that overshadowed even Dumbledore.

A tremor twisted down Hermione's spine, and she carefully set the photo face down on a table.

She took a deep, steadying breath before pulling a stack of badly damaged books towards her.

***

He was standing in a field of tall grass at the bottom of a gently slopping hill. Indigo flowers, nearly black, dotted the meadow, and he ran his fingers over the large, velvety petals. A warm wind was blowing from the south, rippling the grass and teasing strands of fine, black hair across his face. Severus wended upward in an unhurried, nearly carefree, pace. The sun was warm on his skin and turned the landscape a rich golden color, including the beckoning figure standing at the very top of the hill.

"Albus," Severus greeted. The older wizard wore bright yellow robes that dazzled Severus' eyes as they caught and billowed in the wind.

"Please," Dumbledore pleaded, holding out a flask of frothing, black liquid to Severus. The potion was a dreadful, ominous discord to the idyllic surrounding and cast a sharp line of shadow down Dumbledore's robes.

Severus stepped back, a wild, gyrating panic growing in his chest, but Albus only followed his retreat, straining forward. "You must take it. You must," he insisted.

The portentous oblivion radiating for the clear flask attracted and repulsed Severus, who retreated another half step while also leaning forward. And despite the violent terror that gripped him, he reached out and clasped the potion in his hand.

It turned dark.

He shivered in the cold while the potion bubbled and burned in his palm. Albus was in front of him, a beseeching expression still fixed on his face, but he was now slumped against a stone rampart. Fenrir Greyback was snarling on Severus' left, and to his right, Draco was stiff and pale, his wand trembling in his clenched hand.

"Please, Severus," Albus begged. Greyback gave a horrible, gruff laugh, and somewhere nearby, invisible in the darkness, Severus heard Harry Potter scream, "No!"

Lightning cut a hot, blinding tear through the black sky, and a taut stillness descended on the tower. Severus could hear the potion simmering in the flask and Albus' labored, raspy pants.

Everyone turned to stare at Severus.

"Please," Dumbledore implored, and although his tone was beseeching, there was an inflexible command behind the words. A quaver shook the old wizard, and the heavy, golden ring that he wore on his hand fell to the ground, clinking across the stones.

A brutal hatred flamed inside Severus. He brought the flask to his lips with a jerk and met Albus' unyielding blue eyes. He swallowed the potion. There was a flash of brilliant green as the bubbling liquid scorched and blistered his throat.

Fenrir howled victoriously as Albus fell motionless to the floor, but Severus paid little heed to the body prone on the flagstones. A sharp, fiery pain was ripping through his throat, and a sinuous form coiled tight around his body. He tried to scream but a tepid, metallic fluid was choking his mouth and pouring from his neck as everything around him shattered into a black, piercing nothing.

A serene stillness greeted him when he opened his eyes. Chest heaving, he looked and saw dingy bed hangings illuminated by yellow moonlight. He was in his bed, his nightshirt soaked with sweat. A breeze puffed through the open window and chilled his skin.

He shuddered and pulled a thin blanket up to his neck, but it did little to fend off the cold. A sigh parted his lips as he pressed a shaking hand to his throbbing throat, eyes squeezed shut against the darkness of the room.