A/N: Rejoice, for my oral exams are over!!! Seriously one of the most terrifying experience of my life to date :O
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:
When Neville thought of Yule, he thought of the harsh scent of chemicals and crisp white sheets and an emptiness inside him he tried to fill with crumpled sweet wrappers.
His Gran had been taking him to St Mungo's to visit his parents for Yule for as long as he could remember. When he was younger, back when there was still hope they could recover, when every week it seemed there was a new Healer with a new idea for a new miracle cure, it felt like they were there nearly every day. By the time he'd left for Hogwarts, however, he only saw them maybe once or twice a month. Gran couldn't bear to watch her once-promising son, so strong and broad and handsome in the portraits hanging about the house, so charismatic and talented and promising to hear everyone talk, wasting away in a hospital bed, blank faced and drooling. Not even a husk of who he had once been.
When he was younger, back before Great Uncle Algie had dropped him out a window and he'd proved he wasn't a squib, Neville used to dream that the Healers would find a cure and his parents would take him away from Gran and her cold disapproval and her even colder anger that he was all that was left of her legacy. He dreamed that they would live together like a real family; that his mum would hold him in her arms and tell him she loved him and his dad would smile down at him and say how proud he was to have a son like Neville.
Except sometimes those dreams would be a nightmare. Sometimes his parents would be cured and they'd be just as disappointed as Gran in their failed squib son. Those nights he'd wake up in tears, secretly grateful that his parents would never be healed and he'd never have to face their disgust in him, the way everyone else in the family was disgusted by him.
The squib Longbottom. The shame of their line.
If Great Uncle Algie had broken his neck when he dropped him headfirst out that window, Neville didn't think anyone would have been anything except relieved.
Or maybe he'd just have been brain-damaged and ended up in the Janus Thickey ward with his parents.
He knew the ward well enough by now that Gran didn't have to come in with him. She usually just took him to the lobby and told him when she expected to be back by and left. Neville didn't actually mind– he preferred it. He got to have what he had left of his parents all to himself.
Healer Maisie Briggs was on duty, a cheerful bit of tinsel wrapped around her pointed witch's hat. Busy with another patient, she barely had time to kiss his cheek and wish him a merry Christmas (Gran would have thrown a fit to hear the muggle celebration thrown about by "proper magical folk") before waving him on through, undoing the spells that kept the residents of the Janus Thickey ward locked inside.
Frank and Alice Longbottom were laid out on beds next to each other. They were always kept together, unless one was ill and had to be kept isolated for their own safety or the safety of the other patients. Healer Maisie said they were calmer and happier when they were together.
She said they were always calmer and happier when he came to visit too.
The ward was festive today. Sparkling snowflakes had been charmed to fall from the ceiling, dissolving into nothing halfway down, colourful tinsel was wrapped around the rails of the beds, wreathes decorated the walls and fat white wax candles in protective bubbles floated about the room.
Even his parents looked festive. Someone had changed their usual white hospital gowns for themed pyjamas– his dad's were red and green checks while his mum's were blue with snowflakes. His dad was staring at the ceiling, his eyes lifeless as glass. A bad day, then. His mum, though, was sitting up and she turned slightly when she saw him, her hands twitching out towards him and Neville reached to grasp her hands in his.
Alice's hands were cold. They were always cold. Her skin felt papery and thin and Neville held them as carefully as he could between his own.
His mum didn't say anything, didn't even look at him, her eyes unable to focus as they rolled about in her skull, but her hands twitched in his, like she was trying to squeeze them, and Neville squeezed back, just as gently.
"Guess what, Mum?" He whispered. "I started Hogwarts– I'm a Gryffindor, just like you and dad. And I have so many friends. It's... it's actually brilliant."
He hadn't been expecting it to be. He'd been expecting to be a joke at Hogwarts, just like he was a joke in the pureblood circles, the Longbottom squib. Showing magic so late was a stain that he just couldn't remove from his name, not in the circles of the upper echelon of magical society, no matter how hard he tried. Every lesson with his governess, he had worked so diligently to excel– calligraphy, ballroom dancing, pureblood etiquette, Latin; it was hard, he wasn't a natural student, and he wasn't naturally graceful or charming, but he persevered, so he wouldn't embarrass his Gran or let her down. So he could make her proud.
It never worked, of course. Everything he did, everything he accomplished, his father had done better, had mastered earlier.
Neville had never been good enough. Eventually, he had just accepted that. He hadn't expected Hogwarts to be any different. Who would want to be friends with the squib Longbottom?
That wasn't what happened though– and Neville knew exactly why.
Hermione Granger.
He wasn't sure how to describe her, except that she brought out a side of him that Neville hadn't realised existed. Someone who was brave, who held terrifying spiders and faced a cerberus and got into wizarding duels. Someone who was a Gryffindor and was passing all his classes and had brilliant friends who sent him presents for Yule.
"Look what Hermione got me," he said, tugging the sleeve of his robe up to show his mum.
The braided leather was so buttery soft that Neville spent nearly five minutes just running his fingers over it. And then the tiny flowers! He thought some boys might be offended at being given a flower as a present, but even turned bronze, he recognised shrunken sweet williams– and he knew how much Hermione liked using floriography.
Sweet williams represented gallantry.
Hermione thought he was gallant. Someone who was brave and heroic and chivalrous.
Gran had had nothing kind to say about Hermione Granger. She'd said that Hermione must be so rotten that even as a muggleborn the Sorting Hat had had no choice but to put her in Slytherin. She'd said that Neville had better not keep associating with her, or else.
Neville's hands still stung in reminder of what 'or else' entailed.
But it was really no choice at all, in the end. He'd known Hermione, and Millie too, for such a short time, and yet he already knew that they weren't rotten, that being Slytherins didn't mean they were future Dark witches. Even Ron, who had been so against Slytherins at the start of the year, liked Hermione and Millie.
Neville had never defied his Gran before. He'd always been too frightened and too desperate to earn her approval, her love.
He was still frightened of disobeying her– but now, Neville knew he could be brave too.
Hermione was his friend, and so was Millie, and he wasn't going to stop associating with them, no matter what Gran might do to him.
::
The morning after their celebration, Hermione woke up still tingling from the rush of ritual magic. It sparked in her veins, tasting of blood and storms on the back of her tongue, her whole body shivery with aftershocks. She felt almost heady from the powerful magic she had channelled, though less so than she had the night before.
She had never made it to bed– she vaguely remembered falling asleep in the protective embrace of her god's arms, and now she was curled around a wolf the size of a horse, able to feel each steady rise and fall of their flanks as Hati breathed. Burrowing deeper into the thick, warm fur, Hermione was more than happy to fall back to sleep. Under her, Hati made an amused, rumbling sound, turning their head slightly to press their nose against the curve of Hermione's neck, nuzzling and breathing out a small huff of air that tickled against her skin.
It was hard to remember how Hati had once scared her, for how wild and fierce and animalistic they were. Not when Hermione now trusted them so implicitly that she barely stirred at having their dagger-like wolf-teeth so close to her fragile neck, not at all afraid of what Hati might do, of what they were capable of doing, if they so chose.
Hati's sudden shift back into human-shape had Hermione yelping in surprise as she abruptly found herself sprawled out over Hati's stomach, the pagan god propping themself up on one elbow to grin down at her, all sharp teeth and amused golden eyes.
"Good morning, little sister," they crooned, and Hermione grumbled, letting her head fall back down, her cheek resting against Hati's firm stomach. Hati made a soft, laughing sound, reaching with one hand to tangle their fingers in Hermione's riotous curls, just as Loki was so fond of doing.
"Morning," Hermione mumbled through a yawn, still determined to keep sleeping with Hati as her pillow.
"Have you been keeping up your practice, cub?" Hati asked, tugging on her hair slightly to get Hermione's attention.
"The best I can without anyone to practice with," Hermione told them, sadly acknowledging that her hopes of further sleep were tragically dwindling.
"Hmm," Hati murmured, golden eyes gleaming. "Then we had better give you a chance to fight against a proper opponent, to make sure your skills aren't deteriorating."
"Oh alright," Hermione grumbled, resigning herself to getting soundly beaten in a spar.
She was right– Hati was just as fast and vicious and strong as she remembered, and it took every bit of skill and cunning that Hermione had to keep Hati from overwhelming her. Even then, she knew that Hati wasn't fighting her with their full strength– they were still so far beyond her level of skill that Hermione wasn't offended, just determined that one day she would be able to match Hati.
"Not bad," Hati said approvingly, when they had Hermione once again pinned to the ground, their foot pressed against her throat as she heaved for breath, shivering slightly at the chill of the snow seeping through her clothes, to her skin. "You've gotten a little sloppy without someone to practice against, but you've kept your speed and endurance," Hati told her, "well done."
"Thank you," Hermione wheezed, grateful when Hati bent down and lifted her into their arms, snickering quietly as they carried her exhausted form back into the house.
Loki was waiting inside with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, snapping his fingers to rid her clothes from the damp of the snow. Hermione noticed that the aches in her body from the spar also seemed to disappear and she smiled gratefully at her god. Hati put her down and Hermione gladly accepted the mug offered. The rich, creamy hot chocolate felt as if it warmed through her entire body.
"Merry Christmas, Hermione," Loki said warmly. Hati made a slightly rude sound at the Christian holiday name, but Hermione just beamed up at her god, who was clearly unbothered by calling the holiday by its Christian name.
"Merry Christmas!" she said happily.
"While you were rolling around outside in the snow, Sköll and Astrid prepared breakfast for us," Loki told them.
"Fuck yes," Hati grinned, wrapping one of their arms around Hermione's shoulder and steering her towards the dining room, "Sköll's the best at cooking out of all of us," they explained, "afi is too lazy to do anything except mess with reality to snap food into existence, I mostly eat raw meat I've hunted down myself, faðir could burn water, and don't even get me started on the rest."
Hermione giggled, leaning into Hati as they pulled her along.
Breakfast was good– the table had been heaped with stacks of pancakes so tall they wobbled precariously whenever somebody knocked against the table, and dishes filled with jams, cream, butter, honey, ice-cream, chocolate sauce, lemon slices, icing sugar and more provided her with all the options for toppings that she could possibly dream of.
It was truly a wonderful Christmas. She got to spend her time with her god and his family, curling up between Váli and Eris to watch all her favourite Christmas movies, while Loki and his kin got into playful arguments. Váli even let her try his eggnog, which was actually pretty gross but made her feel so grown up, even as her god laughed at the face she pulled.
She decided that she liked mead much better.
She also decided that this was the best Christmas of her life.
::
The remainder of the holidays passed far too quickly for Hermione's liking, no matter how much she really did love Hogwarts. She spent nearly all her time in the company of her god, and on occasion with Váli and Eris, or Hati.
Hati seemed determined to ensure that Hermione's sparring skills weren't rusty, while Váli and Eris stole her away to Greece for the day, to Eris' personal tailor. "Just to make sure all those Slytherins aren't fool enough to think a high priestess lesser," Eris practically purred, her bright eyes glittering with wicked mischief as she draped Hermione in the favour of the gods. After, Váli had helped her practice the transformation magic Merlin had taught her, turning her fingernails into sharp claws– because according to him, kittens should have claws. Hermione had resigned herself to never getting rid of that awful nickname, by this point.
Her favourite part of the holidays though (of course) was the time she got to spend with her god. It still stunned her, took her breath away and made her heart speed up in her chest, as she thought of how lucky she was to have earned the blessing of her god, to have him treat her as he did– not just as a devoted follower, or a favoured high priestess, but as a treasured companion who he had drawn into his own family, honouring her beyond what mere words could express.
There were times she could almost forget just who he was, when he teased her and snapped up piles of sweets and tugged on her curls, something that seemed to provide him with endless amusement. But then she would feel the weight of his presence, like the heavy warning of a storm in the air, and how the ground would shudder when he was annoyed, and all the times he moved awkwardly in his own skin, as if it was too small to contain the enormity of his being, the air behind him blurred and wavering, as if something massive was hovering just out of sight.
Her god was magnificent and he was terrifying and she was never felt safer than when she was with him.
He helped her and Vashti practice travelling together, through Vashti's fire. It was an odd sensation; it didn't feel anything at all like when Loki teleported her. Rather, it felt as if she was being cocooned in feathers, except the feathers were burning, and there were flames under her skin, but it didn't hurt– it was difficult to describe, and strange to experience, slipping between reality like smoke and light. She could feel Vashti's flames crackling around her and the first three times they tried it, the ends of her hair ended up singed and she lost part of her eyebrows, which made Loki laugh until she tried to tackle him in revenge, Vashti screeching her offence as she joined Hermione's efforts by swooping at her god.
At least Loki grew her eyebrows back for her, after he'd let her knock him to the ground, still cackling with laughter on his way down.
By the time the end of the holidays had arrived, Hermione and Vashti had managed to travel a grand total of five and a half feet by flame– definitely not far enough to get her past the Hogwarts wards.
"I might still be winning our little bet," Loki teased her. Hermione shuddered, thinking how pleased Marcus would be if she tried out for the Quidditch team.
"We're going to keep practicing," she vowed. Loki frowned slightly.
"Be careful," he warned. "And if something goes wrong, fuck the consequences, you get a teacher. Understood?"
"I understand," Hermione assured him. He reached down to tousle her hair.
"Good," he smiled and Hermione leaned into his touch, her heart aching, already feeling like she missed him. As if sensing the maudlin dip of her thoughts, Loki tugged her closer and she leaned into him, pressing her face against his chest. Vashti landed on his shoulder and crooned, nibbling affectionately at his ear.
"Aw, pigeon, have you decided you like me after all?" Loki teased and Vashti gave an offended screech, her affectionate nibbles turning to a sharp nip which made Hermione laugh.
The last night of the holidays before she had to catch the train back, Váli, Eris and Hati came over for dinner, Eris tutting over the singed ends of her curls and helping to fix them up, much to Hermione's relief.
She was also relieved to see Loki's kin for another reason– one that wouldn't leave her alone. During the small farewell dinner, she managed to pull Váli aside for a moment, wanting to settle the anxiety gnawing away at her.
"Loki told you about Veles, right?" She asked, hushed. Váli's face darkened, his golden eyes flaring bright.
"Yes he did," he said grimly.
"Loki said– he said he wasn't going to be in danger because of me. Is that true?" She blurted out.
It had been her greatest fear, pushed down and hidden away from her god since Loki had explained why Veles had torn through her mind. She remembered the awful ordeal with Odin only too well, and the thought of her existence forcing her god into another terrible confrontation that could even risk his life was too terrible to even contemplate.
"Oh kitten," Váli murmured, his expression softening as he looked down at her. "You sweet, pious little thing. I promise you, none of the pagan gods sniffing after you are a threat to my faðir. And if one even tries to lay their unworthy hands on you again, we'll rip them apart."
Hermione thought she really ought to be more disturbed by such a threat, but the memory of Veles' invasion into the very core of who she was just had her relieved by the protective rumble in Váli's voice.
"Thank you," she sighed, a weight lifting off her shoulders. She belieed that she could trust Váli had told her the truth, and she was relieved to hear that her god wouldn't be facing the other pagan gods alone– she knew Váli had used the word "we" quite intentionally.
"Oh kitty cat," Váli said fondly. "Thank you."
As Hermione drifted off to sleep that night, Vashti carefully preening her hair from where she had nestled on Hermione's pillow, she made a vow to herself. She would keep learning and practicing and training until the day where her god and his kin wouldn't be forced to protect her, because she could stand up for herself– she knew she could never be an equal to her god, to any of the gods, but that didn't mean she couldn't be powerful enough in her own right that she wouldn't be putting those she loved in danger because of her vulnerability.
/We will grow strong/ Vashti agreed, with a soft warble, conviction burning across their bond. /We will make them fear our claws and our flame, and nobody will dare make us prey again./