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Prologue - Torn

I would like to begin this story with the proverbial, Once Upon a Time.....

Or tell you a tall tale of a world where life is a dream and wishes are fulfilled.

But that would be an awful illusion to set at this point in this story, especially when it is one only just beginning. For too many, this was no fairy tale of princesses in towers nor of queen's in castles. There was no Prince Charming nor white Knight coming to save the day. There was no dragons keep and no epic tale of redemption. No, not here. Though one could accurately say that like our beloved fairy-tale this story here has its own healthy dose of good versus evil. A distinction that upon first glance seems startlingly obvious to even the most simplistic of minds. However the truth in such a statement is not for me to decide dear reader.

Me as I sit upon the reading stool, your curious minds feasting upon my every word. Baited breath and sweaty brows glistening as you stare with beaded eyes. Good versus Evil is your proverbial tale as old as time but which is which? I shall let you decide such a thing for yourselves. Where shall you draw the line of good and evil? Is there no hope for a middle ground I hear you ask. Well that again is not for me to decide. My only task is to dutifully bring this story to you...

 And as all tales must, ours too has it's start, and as mundane as it may seem upon first glance ours may very well start here.......

~December 22nd 1981, Wiltshire, London~

She sat up quickly, confusion lingering at the edges of her consciousness. Her mind was foggy and her head felt too heavy for her to hold up without struggle as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The witch felt anxious, unsure as to what had woke her but she was sure something had. Her heart was pounding, her entire body tense. Everything within her knew that something was amiss. It was an awful feeling, something deep within her gut that screamed WRONG!! but she couldn't think through the haze that clung to her mind. Dread had begun sinking into her stomach as she furiously shook her head, clearing it finally, she pushed damp curls behind her ears, as she strained to hear anything through the eerie quiet that surrounded her. She glanced at the old grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the room, opposite the bed. The antique piece was something she had inherited from her father upon his passing the previous year, it was a rather dated piece and she and her wife both hated it but somehow the witch had been unable to part with it. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion as she realised that even the insistent tic...tic...tic.... of the clock hands was strangely absent, despite the clock hands still moving ever round as they had done for many a year. 1 AM: flashing brightly to indicate the new hour.

 With dread tightening in her stomach, she didn't think twice before grabbing her wand and dashing to the door. Cursing Salazar Slytherin himself that she wasn’t as athletically inclined like her wife as she stumbled over unsteady feet in her panic. The Blonde haired witch headed for the one place she needed to be the most with the determination only a mother seeking the safety of her young could possess. She ran along the hall, straight to her children's nursery, where her three little ones should lay in slumber, safely tucked in soft sheets.

As she neared its entrance she was startled by the sudden return of sound. Two piercing cries rung loud and insistent, the sound turning her heart to ice in horror, her feet uncooperative as she tried to reach her babies. The nursery door stood ajar, her children’s tear filled cries reaching out through the darkness of the hallway. The open door along with the heartbroken screams of her girls confirmed to the blonde that her gut had been dreadfully right as she knew that door to be closed earlier, as it was every night after she had tucked her little one's in for the night. With no other in the house except her infant children and their nanny elf the witch knew with certainty that someone or something had penetrated the security of their home.

Her hand tightened on her wand. The other clutching her chest in silent prayer to Morgana that her babies were okay as she rushed forward and through the door. Stopping abruptly in shock as the blood in her body froze in all consuming horror, her usually pale features turning a greying white in all consuming fear as she took in the sight in front of her. The nursery was in disarray, signs of accidental magic littered the walls, flowers and vines climbed every surface and all unsecured items were strung in mid-air in reaction to her children’s distress and lying, in amongst the chaos, dead on the floor, in the middle of the room was her children's Nanny Elf - Liza. Her eyes wide and glassy, blood seeping steadily but slowly from the Elf’s eyes and ears. A permanent expression of anger clung to the little elf’s features. Though devastating in itself to the blonde, this was not the only cause of her sickened horror.

The room held two cots and a third smaller cradle. The cots at either side of the room, one to the left of the door against the wall, one to the right in a similar position, held her two eldest babies. The eldest at three years old, stood in hers, looking up at her with an anguished expression as little fingers clung with an iron clad grip to the bars in front of her. Tears streaming down her flushed face. Her second eldest at almost two years old, also stood, her little arms gripping the cot sides desperately as she stared back, her little face screwed up and agonised cries falling from her lips, short bursts of air escaping in gasps as if she had been screaming for hours. The blonde couldn't help but let out her own agonised scream when her gaze swept frantically over her youngest child's cradle. Where her darling girl of not even two months old should have lay, now stood an empty bed. Both child and blankets gone. As if her little one had not just lay in it hours prior. All that remained was a lilac coloured plush dragon in the centre of the cradle. A cherished favourite bought for her youngest by her baby's godmother. The cradle itself stood abandoned and alone no hint of the little girl that had occupied it mere hours before.

Her eyes filled with tears, her heart breaking on repeat as she summoned the teddy to her. Clutching it to herself in grief. Her own gasping cries harmonising with those of her two eldest babies The reality of what she was seeing, or wasn't seeing rather in the room, destroying her from the inside out. Her baby was gone. Her little one had been stolen from her and their adored nanny Elf had been murdered in front of her other children. Her baby had been snatched from her and she had slept right through it all. She had failed to protect her, she had failed her family and the blonde would never forgive herself.

 She wailed, heartbroken. With no real idea of just what to do or were to start she forced herself up, off her knees. Hands trembling as she summoned her Patronus through her grief in only the way an extremely skilled witch or wizard could. She sent message to her wife to call for the aurors. She gently grabbed hold of her other two babies, the blonde using strength she didn’t know she had lifted them both from their cribs and held them tight to her chest, shielding them from the awful sight of their Nanny Elf, she left the room.

All the witch could do was her best to soothe them, despite her own devastation as she waited for her wife and the aurors to arrive. Though she knew that her eldest daughters broken, whispered words would haunt her forever as the three year old clutched her and sobbed. Head of sleep tousled blonde hair buried against her breast. "my baby Ria gone mama, she gone, a bad man took her" forced out from cracked little lips repeatedly. The broken voice of her eldest daughter, shattering her heart further as the blonde clung as hard as she could to what she needed to do, shushing her heartbroken little girl gently as her own grief threatened to consume her.

As the night wore on, filled with questions, tears, aurors and no success in finding her youngest, the two parents grieved hopelessly. Having exhausted every tracking spell themselves, their families and the ministry knew. Their baby was gone, the only thing they knew for certain was that whoever had taken her had to possess power, the spell that had been cast was a powerful silencing and sleep charm. Placed skilfully on their bedroom as the intruder had entered making it so that the occupants wouldn't wake while their child was so cruelly stolen from them.

No rhyme or reason could they fathom, nor was one ever found. As the days turned into weeks, then months, then years, the hole left behind in their hearts that night, never healed. Their baby being taken had broken something within them that was irrevocably permanent. The little family, once whole and happy beyond all belief now felt the lingering clouds of heartache every day. Their family had fractured and had been unable to heal fully as they tried to keep moving forward for the sake of their other children.

 No spell nor potion could take their pain away and despite throwing all their remaining love at their two eldest girls, they knew that only one thing could ever heal their broken hearts.

 And that was the one thing that was out of their reach.

 Their youngest child.

Chapter Text

Note: Trigger warning: talk of physical child abuse in this chapter. Please read with caution.

Edited 29/12/2024

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~ Sydenham - The Haven Home for Girls ~

~ June 1st 1991 ~

~Hermione Jean Granger's POV ~

The sunlight streamed through the ancient attic window, lighting the small, damp and dust ridden space with beams of light, The light highlighting the dust and grime that clung to every surface as far as the eye could see. The attic had long ago seen better days. With many of the wooden beams riddled with rot and mites from years of London’s harsh weathers and neglect. There were holes dotted around the floor where the wood had given away entirely. The corridor below visible in patches through the rotted wood and whatever space available, that was not at risk of falling down to the rooms below, was filled with box upon box of files and other items that had been left behind by past children of the home. Each box contained a piece of The orphanage’s history, filled with hidden knowledge of the world and the inhabitants of The Haven that had come before her and with her,  ripe for the picking.

The run down storage dump that the attic had become was a sanctuary for the youngster. A place where knowledge and solitude offered her the chance to exist without the constant strain of following Matron’s rules or avoiding the other girls she lived with. She stole herself up here for the majority of her days when she wasn't at meals or classes. Much preferring the rotted wooden planks to the other inhabitants. The fact that none of the other girls would dare follow her up here was an added bonus to her. For Hermione found much more pleasure in books than she did people. People and being around said people was something she absolutely avoided most religiously. Not that she had always been that way. But after 3 failed foster homes and two failed adoptions, not to mention the couple that had actually adopted her at age six only to return her to the orphanage that had become her one constant at age seven and a half because she was too strange. She had soon found herself placing little stock in other people because she had come to learn that trusting in others would only ever lead to her own heartache at the inevitable rejection she would face from them. A reoccurring pattern that the brunette had identified long ago. So she had withdrawn from the social norm of building relationships with actual people and immersed herself in books. Taking comfort in all the knowledge they had to offer, and up here in the attic she had a world of knowledge to explore in those boxes, hidden from the continued disappointment she felt at humanity.

It was long ago, that she had found her own files. Located in a small cardboard box that was covered in dust, relatively close to the empty walkway leading to the attic door. She had been curious to know what knowledge the orphanage had on her, tendrils of hope grasping at the edge of her subconscious as she imagined what her real parents could have been like. Like many of those that stayed within the walls of the haven, Hermione too had allowed herself to wonder what it would have been like to have grown up within her birth family, to have had brothers or sisters she could turn too when she was sad or lonely, it would have been wonderful. She was sure, to have belonged to a family that loved and adored her as much as she did them. But for the little brunette her perfect image of what could have been squashed so very quickly upon opening the box. The box itself was plain and rather worn, years of dust sat upon the murky brown cardboard, with only her name written on the outside. Inside the box didn't hold much she didn't know already about her life, much to her disappointment. The only new information she had found came in the form of the thick baby blankets she had been wrapped in the day she was left at the orphanages door step. Both were thick and soft. A pink one and a lilac one. The lilac one contained three initials that made no sense to her. A.A.D stitched elegantly in the corner. The pink one was plain but both looked expensive despite the dust that clung to them. She had taken them out the box of course. Refusing to put them back in the dusty little box from whence they had been stored to gather even more dust. They were after all the only tangible link she had to her parents. She had to wash them, not much liking the damp musty smell that clung to them from years of poor ventilation and neglect. Hermione made a vow to keep them with her wherever she went, the blankets offering her a strange sense of comfort she was all too willing to cling too.

The small box also contained a letter. Written on thick brown paper in ink rather than pen. As the little brunette read the words of her birth family, she watched silently, tears streaming down her face as all her hopes of having that happy ever after when she reunited with them was ripped cruelly from her with so few words. The letter in which she hoped her birth family described how heartbroken they were to be forced to give their child up read nothing of the sort, merely stated that her name was Hermione. Her birthday was November 19th 1981 and that her parents did not want to be traced by her in the future. As the family she was born into did not want anything to do with her.

When she had first read it, she had barely turned eight and the words had stung deeply. Each syllable sinking into her mind and heart with a venom that promised to linger long after the letter was faded and gone.

 It had.

 Even now the recollection of those words echoed painfully within Hermione’s heart. It seemed that the words written by those that should have loved her fiercely became the cement that hardened Hermione and held her distrust for others firmly in place. She held people at arm’s length now. Particularly after the Granger's had abandoned her back here in this godforsaken place merely a year after they had legally adopted her. The 'strangeness' that had always followed her became too much for them to tolerate. Dr's Graham and Jean Granger were strict, no nonsense individuals who ran their own Dentistry Practice and as such their tolerance to the unexplainable had been almost non-existent.

Hermione however had done all she could to be the perfect well behaved daughter they had wanted her to be. But despite her manners, her studious mind and her warm personality, Hermione had never quite managed to live up to what the Grangers demanded and so they had given her back. The strange incidences that she seemed to cause whenever she had felt any strong emotions about something made them fear her. Which only increased their belief that the brunette Was not a good fit for them as over the year the more she felt them pull further and further away from her the more strange things happened around her. She witnessed them grow more distant and detached with every incident. Each flower vine and floating cup pushing them further from her and there hadn’t been a thing Hermione could do about it. Where once they had been warm, affectionate and tender to her in the beginning. They became distant, emotionally cold and had ensured that they never got within a foot of her if they were in the same vicinity as her, as if they feared she would harm them.

Not that she had ever harmed anyone in her life. Nor would she ever intentionally do so. The brunette had no idea what caused the incidents or how and why they always happened and as such she never had any control as to when the incidents happened. They had all been perfectly harmless incidents. Flowers growing up walls. Grand bouquets of Narcissus or Fleur de Lis in magnificent purples. Electronic devices breaking, sparking uncontrollably or outright dying mid use without any apparent cause. Random items flying in the air without being touched, lamps that suddenly floated or chairs or even the neighbour’s cat once. Hermione had no understanding as to why it always happened but the people around her had quickly deduced that Hermione was the only constant in the incidents and therefore must be at fault. It had meant that the brunette was often isolated, bullied or blatantly despised by others.

However despite Hermione finding the unexplainable floral displays that clung to the walls closest to her to be beautiful and grounding, the Grangers, like her peers, found it "freakish" and “Evil” and as a result all she had left to remember her almost happily ever after was their name. Now permanently attached to her own singular first name that had been given to her by her birth parents. It was a bittersweet thing, a reminder that she had almost been wanted, that she had almost been loved and as such it now stood to torment her, Hermione Granger, the girl that had been abandoned by her parents, not once but twice. A fact that was unheard of and made her a pariah within her home.  

 The deep gruff voice that called her name from the ground floor was enough to shake the little brunette from her inner musings and unfortunately from her book - American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis (because only the literature designed for those with a much more advanced mind than her age was of a calibre that held her and even then it only slightly challenged her intellect.) Matron Eleanor's voice sounded impatient but just as loud as usual. The booming gravely tone startling her whenever she had to hear it. The woman - a plump woman with her hair tied up tightly in a bun was not much taller than Hermione. She was a no nonsense type of person who had little patience for fools who stood merely 4 foot 7 high. But despite her stature the brunette knew not to cross the elder woman or deviate from the behaviours that her Matron deemed as proper or respectable for a young lady. Her punishments were cruel and from first hand experienced had never failed to have anyone regretting their actions almost instantly. Many a time as a younger child Hermione had ended up being met by the harsh end of a leather belt and made to stand for hours on end in dark corners nursing her bruised skin. Though the worst punishment she had ever received without competition she received the day she was abandoned back at the orphanage by the Granger's. Matron had been livid to learn of her displays of Evil and had proceeded to belt the brunette while lecturing her on ruining her only chance of having a family with such disgusting acts as no one would ever want her now. An abandonment after adoption was unheard off and to have one against her name would warn any potential family off before they had even met her. She had then been made to stand in the corner of Matrons office for seven hours. Her back throbbed, raw with pain from the welts and her legs felt as if they had seized afterwards. Though the entire time Hermione couldn’t help but wonder why anyone would divulge that information before meeting her if it was that harmful to her prospects as an adoptee. Surely Matron could just not broadcast that she had been returned right? The following week proceeded with agonising slowness. Hermione feeling every painful second of it as her body, beaten and bruised was only permitted to eat one slice of bread and drink one small cup of water per day. Enough to sustain her but not help her heal. By the end of that week Hermione had been in agony, she had been dehydrated, exhausted, starving and livid with the entire world around her. So much so that the dorm room walls had become over grown with white Narcissus flowers by the end of that night when she was returned to her bed. The flowers labelling her more strange than already deemed by those around her. Though her punishment seemed to soften her dorm mates to her slightly. Where they had once relentlessly bullied her for her strangeness they now steered clear of her, and when they did interact with her she was treated with a weird sense of pity, something she despised more than she did the bullying. But the brunette supposed seeing someone you had known for years bruised and half starved would soften even the most hard hearted of people towards them.

Such was the story of her life though. She was Hermione Jean Granger, the strange girl. She sighed, standing quietly and tucking her book behind a box beside the window out of the way of any prying eyes before climbing down from the attic through the small square hole, closing the latch behind her. She didn’t expect anyone to venture in to her sanctuary but the brunette would much rather keep her things hidden from all those that would aim to take from her. When she reached the bottom of the attic stairs she dusted off her uniform skirt and her blouse, shaking the material free from any dust or wrinkles that would surely attract her matrons ire. Quickly checking that the wild brunette curls she sported at the top of her head were neatly pulled back into a ponytail she set off towards the woman’s voice. Matron hated when she had her hair down or loose and had made it loudly known just how scruffy the brunette looked with her curls loose. Hermione didn't care what she looked like, it wasn’t like she had to be presentable for anyone anyway but she did much prefer avoiding trouble and therefor complied with matrons expectations for her hair as best she could.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs the brunette stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of her Matron and a rather acentric looking older woman. Matron looked flabbergasted her face pulled in to an odd expression that made her look more than a little constipated, She could tell her care giver was wary and more than a little confused as she stood before the eccentric looking stranger, while the stranger looked nothing short of unamused and slightly uncomfortable as her gaze wandered the downtrodden hallway furnishings, tense lips downturned subtly as the woman took in what she was seeing. Hermione tried not to let the woman’s obvious judgement of her home colour her opinion of the woman before they had even spoken. The woman was wearing an emerald green cloak that covered the majority of her body, though from what Hermione could see of what was under it, she had on a matching dress that fell to her feet, her black boots just barely visible below the hem. A large black, pointed hat atop her head and her brunette locks were pulled back tightly in a bun at the base of her neck. It was an odd look, one Hermione hadn't seen before and it filled her inquisitive young mind full of questions. Especially as the woman’s attire made her look a little like she had imagined Merlin to look like from the Arthurian legends she had discovered the summer before.

"Ah, Hermione there you are girl. This woman, Professor McGonagall that is, has come to speak with you regarding your future education. You may take her to the study. You shan't be disturbed in there" her Matron’s gruff voice cuts her off mid thought before she can form the words to voice any of those questions and the youngster supposes that it may have been for the best. She would have been scolded for being so rude as to impose her questions on an elder if she had caved to temptation in front of her Matron. After all her Matron had drilled it in to them all that it was rude to assume any child’s voice should be heard in the presence of guests - no matter what clothes they wore.

The strange looking woman, who had at some point stopped scrutinising the thread bare walls of the Haven and turned deep emerald eyes to Hermione, offered her a warm smile, a much more genuine and gentler expression than that which had adorned the elder woman’s so far and Hermione found herself returning it, instinctively. The little brunette curtsied politely in greeting, acknowledging the woman she had been directed to address by her Matron before offering her Matron a polite nod of thanks and goodbye. She gestured for the stranger to follow her, leading the way. They traipsed the corridor side by side, down to the very end of the dim lit area towards the office. The wooden door that signified Matrons study was half open, the light from inside ominously pouring out into the hallway. Beckoning her to enter, a silent warning or challenge clinging to the shadows that were thrown from the light.

Hermione wasted no time on her hesitation, Her mind telling her that as she was unsure of who this strange woman was and therefore she had to remain stoic, her neutral expression pinned in place as she refused to let her fear of this particular room show. The brunette drew herself up to full height. Her back poker straight like matron taught her, setting her shoulders as she ensured she walked with grace. Like a proper young lady, they had been taught how to walk, how to talk and how to act at every stage of their life so far at the Haven. Matron had said it would be essential and would prepare them for the outside world when they made it that far so she drew upon those skills now. Her training becoming the brunettes armour against the unknown.

"Hermione, it's lovely to meet you, my name is Minerva McGonagall, deputy Headmistress and the Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts school of witchcraft and Wizardry. I've come to discuss you attending in September" the strange woman began as soon as they were both seated. A thick Scottish lilt evident in the woman’s words. Hermione turned from her seat beside the woman to stare at her curiously, an eyebrow raised in question. Her face remaining an impassive mask otherwise, not allowing to let more than that slip through as an obvious sign of her hopeful curiosity before she knew exactly what this strange woman was talking about.

As far as Hermione was concerned the woman may as well have been speaking a different language altogether. Witchcraft and Wizardry? She'd never heard of such a school before, never mind been invited to one. Yet the logical part of her brain dictated that this woman was rather crazy, magic couldn’t exist in a world where science and logic dictated their reality right? However an even bigger part of the little brunette demanded she hear this woman out. Old whispered “what ifs” creeping out of the recesses of her mind like a brain worm, unwilling to be ignored. Hermione went to speak, her mouth opening and closing a few times rather comically as she tried to work out just what to say to the woman in front of her.

As if sensing the war brewing between logic and curiosity in front of her, the older woman smiled subtly before speaking once more "If I may ask dear, have things ever happened around you that you do not understand or have an explanation for? Have things floated or flowers grown without reason or cause when you are particularly upset or happy?" As she spoke the professor let her magic reach out, lifting items gently from the desk and causing the half dead plant in the corner of the room to rebloom as she saw her words sink in to the little brunettes brain. Hermione nodded, hesitantly. Both comprehension and excitement beginning to grow on her face as she watched the woman's display.

"Yes ma'am, it happens fairly often, has done since I was a small child. Matron says it's something I've always done, said there's something strange an Evil within me to cause it, are you saying that's truly magic? That I possess magic?" She exclaimed in a ramble, her mind having added up the school name and this woman's questions. Her mind momentarily forgetting to act like a lady as her excitement shone through. It made sense when she thought of it, that sense of strangeness she always felt, how different she was from her peers. The bubbling sense of something trying to escape whenever she was overwhelmed, angry or upset.

"I am indeed, saying you possess magic. You have been invited to join our incoming first year's in September if that is something you wish for. Your matron has already agreed to let you go."

Hermione's mind exploded with questions and thoughts at that reply, her excitement growing and multiplying, almost palpable in its extreme as that strangeness inside her she now knew to be her magic swelled in response to the knowledge. A rightness settling within at the new knowledge, as if gaining it had made her entire world make sense for the first time in her life. She beamed excitedly. Smiling at this woman who was without her knowledge giving her a new sense of hope and inadvertently saving her from the monotonous teachings of the Haven's daily lessons of proper etiquette for a lady.

"I… I… Yes! I would love to go" Hermione replied as she tripped over her words in her excitement, her voice filled with wonder, coming out as a breathless plea rather than the confident affirmation she had meant it to be. Unaware of the white Nymphaeaceae flowers that had begun to bloom along the walls behind her head in intricate little spirals, climbing behind the little brunette as if her entire being was bursting forth in anticipation.

Professor McGonagall smiled in delight at her reaction and the accidental magic that was taking place in front of her very eyes and Hermione could see the warm twinkle shine within green eyes. Professor McGonagall nodded in response to her, strategically not drawing attention to the child's display of accidental magic in case it embarrassed or worried her, the older woman sensing that the youngster had been met with harshness from the non-magic folk many a time before for such displays. "We will be glad to receive you Hermione, though you are I will admit a little younger than our usual incoming students. Not by much mind you, but you will only be ten while all the other first years will be eleven or twelve. But you strike me as an ambitious witch so I have little doubt that you will be more than able to handle the year"

The professors words caught Hermione’s attention, the little brunette showing her curiosity by cocking her head to the side in confusion, brows furrowing as she thinks over the professors words. "Forgive me my curiosity, Matron says it's a trait most unbecoming for a young lady but is there a reason I am to be allowed entry a year earlier than the other students ma'am?" She questions softly, trying to reel herself in. The news that she was yet again about to be different sitting uncomfortably in her gut. A sense of anxiety bubbling within her limbs restlessly.

"The head master, Professor Dumbledore has informed me it is because upon your birth our records indicated that early admittance would be a necessity for you as our register showed you to be performing high levels of accidental magic from the time you were only a few months of age, something quite uncommon in a muggle-born" at the brunette girls confused look Professor McGonagall smiled softly again. Unable to help herself at just how inquisitive and intellectual this little witch was presenting. It was endearing to the older witch to see such a young mind that was eager to learn in a way that had become increasingly rare in Wizarding Britain, a fact in which all of Hogwarts faculty had identified with Albus. The Headmaster assuring them he was aware, though unfortunately the ministry controlled the educational programme and therefore his hands were tied to a degree. Merlin knew it was frustrating but the professor hoped that in Hermione they would find the studious nature they had sorely missed as of late.

"In our world there is commonly three classes that an individual witch or wizard is believed to fit into. Some of our population put more stock into this belief than others, however, it is unlikely you will not learn of it somehow. A pureblood is the term used to describe a magical individual that has parents who are both magical themselves and can trace their magical lineage back through many generations. A half blood is a witch or wizard born to one pure blood parent and one non-magical individual, hence halfblooded. Muggle-born is the term used in the magical world for a witch or wizard born to non-magical parents or muggles as they are often referred too." The older witch explains, unable to suppress yet another smile from crawling across her usually stern features at the understanding shining in brown attentive eyes. Hermione was definitely a child that was eager to learn, Minerva thought silently.

After talking for another hour, where each class that Hermione would be expected to take was explained briefly and the older witch answered any and all questions the little brunette had, Hermione agreed to accompany the professor, the very next day, into the magical world hidden in central London to pick up the supplies she would need for her year ahead.

When the professor had said her goodbyes to Hermione and Matron with a promise to be back tomorrow Hermione took the opportunity to retreat back up to her little reading space in the attic. Eager to digest her conversation. It felt good to the brunette to know finally why so much had happened around. All the odd incidents that had, until now, been unexplainable now had an explanation. One that didn’t end in someone telling her she was evil for the literal magic she displayed. Even better to know that she wasn't strange or a freak, and she most definitely wasn't the only one to possess magic. She only had a few months left before she would be going off to Hogwarts, where she would get to meet others like her. She would be surrounded by other Witches and Wizards, people that would understand all the strangeness that those here at the Haven had never been able to. It was an exciting thought. To know that there was so much more knowledge to gain waiting for her outside these four dingy walls. That there was a place where she could grow and learn without fear of Matrons punishments, somewhere new and exciting, where no one knew her. Where she wouldn't be the strange one. The girl that caused odd events to happen all around her.

She would just be Hermione. Hermione Granger, Muggle born.

She couldn’t help but think it might just be her second chance for a future where she wouldn't be alone or ostracized, where she wouldn't be the odd one, it made her heart jump with joy. Her hardened exterior cracking slightly and her heart filling with hope and more excitement than she knew what to do with.

She sighed happily as she glanced out the attic window, the sun still high above her, shining brightly through the dirt riddled window pane. September couldn't come quick enough and until then, she would content herself with the knowledge that tomorrow she would get her first real glimpse at her new world.

That night as she lay in bed, she slept peacefully and for the first time since she had been abandoned back at the orphanage by Mr and Mrs Granger she wasn’t plagued by nightmares. Her young heart full for once of the promise of a better tomorrow and a whole new world to explore.

Chapter Text

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~Diagon Alley, London ~

~ June 2nd 1991 ~

~ Hermione's POV ~

Diagon Alley, England’s Wizarding hotspot for all things magic and shopping, was located in the heart of London and stepping into such a place was nothing short of intoxicating in Hermione’s opinion. It was an assault of the best kind on all of her senses, euphoric in the way it encompassed her so wholly. With so many different colours and sounds, vibrant and loud, and scattered in every direction she looked, for as far as her eyes could see. It was as beautiful as it was breath-taking to the muggle-born girl and she had a feeling that this place could very well become one of her most favourite places to be. The feeling she got as soon as she stepped through the brick wall was almost nauseating and overwhelming as she experienced the feel of so much magic for the very first time, it unknowingly reaching out to embrace her magical core, a fact she wouldn’t truly understand for a few years yet. Hermione felt herself lurch forward, her hand clutching Professor McGonagall's as tightly as she could, her senses failing and the world momentarily spinning while she tried to adjust to all that she was experiencing.

The feel of magic buzzing around her at long last made gave the brunette a strange feeling of finally coming home. As if every fibre in her had always meant to be here and she had returned at long last. It pulsed around her with an urgency yet gentleness that Hermione couldn’t quite articulate. The feeling pulling at her magic in ways she had yet to understand. The brunette tried to draw herself up even as she continued to try and adjust to the many different sensations she was experiencing. Each one interacting with her own magic in a way that she could only describe as playfully. Hermione had to tighten her grip on the Scottish witch for a minute just inside the alley forcing her to halt, as the Scots professor tried to hurry forward, unaware of Hermione’s predicament.

"What is wrong with you child?" The brisk question was spoke with a hint of impatience and Hermione glanced up at her new professor apologetically, unable to find the words she needed to voice her response. McGonagall softened a little, a look of understanding flashing in her emerald eyes as she put the pieces together. Her eyes filling with sympathy as she observed the young newly discovered witch adjust to the onslaught of magic she was being bombarded with.

"You will one day be a very powerful witch Ms Granger, only those that possess a great deal of magic can feel it around them as acutely as you appear to." she said, her tone more gentle and instructive than it was before. Decades of honing her own magical core meant that the older woman was quite attuned to the magic of others around her, years of practice and patients had given her a keen sense of her own magical core and the core of others. She had sensed that this muggle-born possessed great power yesterday when they had first met at the girls home. She had felt the girls magic trying to reach out around her as she had descended the stairs at the muggle orphanage and she had witnessed the beautiful display of flowers brought on at her strong emotions. She made a mental note to keep an eye out for the brunette, knowing that power that great couldn't be left untrained and she wasn't entirely convinced the first year training would be much of a challenge. Perhaps it was for this reason that Albus had insisted the girl be admitted to Hogwarts a year earlier than usual. For her to be displaying such potential so young was a rarity and Merlin knew that potential needed to be nurtured  lest they end up wasting the opportunity to nurture such talent. She would check in on Ms Granger during the year and if necessary she would find ways to help the girl control her magic better and to learn all that she needed to succeed. In a world so prejudice to muggle-born witches and wizards like the little brunette it wouldn't do for a pureblood fanatic to realise just how much power miss Granger held or she would become a target to much unpleasantness.

A girl with such potential who possessed such a keen mind was a rare find and the older witch rather selfishly hoped the girl would be sorted into her own house. That way Professor McGonagall could keep an eye on her as she went through her Hogwarts years, she would be able to help guide her as her head of house and  even better was the credit she could imagine the girl bringing them. Maybe it would tilt the tide in their favour for the house cup, it was well beyond time that Slytherin lost to her Gryffindor cub’s. She knew the house rivalries had been escalating year by year and it was maybe a good thing to hope that this would be the year the Slytherin’s were taught a lesson by Gryffindor, which could very well be possible if the little brunette ended up in her house. Professor McGonagall vowed either way though that she would do all she could for the girl in front of her. She wasn’t sure what exactly provoked the internal declaration, only that she knew Hermione deserved all that could be offered to her. It was more than evident she hadn’t had an easy go at life and the older woman wanted to ensure that this could be Hermione’s chance to change that.

When Hermione had adequately adjusted to the magic around her she straightened herself up, sweaty palms smoothing her dress in to place. Smiling up at her guide. "Where are we off to first Professor?" She asked excitedly, unable to tame her excitement even slightly. A mix between the magic and the endless wonder around her made the little brunette giddy, a feeling she hadn’t often experienced and Hermione was content to enjoy every second she felt it. Matron would be less than impressed with her open emotion, if she were here, Hermione knew. A quick glance at her accompanying professor however reassured the brunette that Professor McGonagall was simply amused by her antics, the older witch unable to contain her own amusement at Hermione’s clear excitement. The elder woman smiled slightly at her, before leading them briskly onwards. Towards the many shops, each one unique, tailored to different aspects of magic that Hermione did not yet know off, though she couldn’t wait to explore each one.

"We will begin at Gringotts, the wizarding Bank as I will have to withdraw from the School’s student fund to purchase your supplies child and then we will head to Madame Malkins Robe shop to get your clothing" The professor replied in answer. A long finger pointing Hermione in the direction of a large greyish white building that stood out at the bottom of Diagon Alley.

At the mention of her need to rely on money from the school fund Hermione struggled to conceal her wince of shame, it was a reminder of just how 'other' she had been her entire life. She did not have parents to take her shopping or purchase school supplies for her like other children. A sad fact that left her with little choice but to quietly sit with her shame and except the help that was being offered to her by the school. Wordlessly she nodded, her shoulders squaring as they moved forward. The reminder of her predicament prompting the muggle born girl to draw herself up, slipping a mask of disinterest upon her pale features as best she could as she followed the professor. Hermione wasn’t niave, she had been forced to work for every single morsel she had ever had she had up to now, this would be no different. She would pay the school back by becoming the best student they had ever had, even if she still wished she had some other option available to her. As they moved side by side towards the building, Hermione ensured she walked with a confidence she didn't really feel, though something inside her told her that it was necessary.

She remained quiet as they walked, silently marvelling at the sights around her, resolutely ignoring the shame that lingered. The aging snow white building that they were headed too, towered above all the others around them. It was rather imposing she thought as they approached, though the buildings weathered appearance gave the impression that it had stood for many a year. It was a marvellous piece of architecture and the brunette silently wondered just how long ago the building had been constructed and by who. Whoever it had been had an eye for detail that Hermione could appreciate and she silently added that mystery to the many, many things she wished to learn more about when she got the opportunity.

When they climbed the steps Hermione was startled out of her thoughts by the appearance of a small creature standing by the door. His ears were pointed and he looked quite humanoid in appearance, though he held himself with a stiff spine giving the younger witch the impression that this creature was rather hardened to the world around them.

She smiled politely at him when the creature pulled the door to the bank open and held it for them to pass through. Hermione murmured a quiet "Thank you sir" as she passed him. Completely oblivious to both the creatures and the professors rather startled looks of shock. Unknown to the brunette the creature was wholly unused to witches or wizards, no matter their age, treating him with any hint of respect. The older witch was thinking similarly, if not a little disdainfully. The professor had always found the Goblins that ran the bank to be rather unpleasant creatures. Neither Goblin nor Professor said anything about the polite attitude of the younger witch, though both took note and the Goblin knew he would never forget her for it.

The inside of the bank was just as imposing to the newly discovered witch as its exterior. The front door led directly into an entry room that was lined with large ornate desks that seemed to form a natural path towards what she assumed to be the main reception desk. Behind each desk stood a creature, similar in appearance to the first one that held the door for her. All engrossed in whatever it was that held their attention on the desks in front of them. The goblins worked in a strangely beautiful rhythm, their hands stamping and passing paper effortlessly as they went. Hermione was entranced and a little perturbed when her professor kept them moving forward, a hurrying hand placed on the small of the youngsters back.

"Stick close now child, the Goblins aren't too pleasant to witches and wizards" her Professor murmured in warning, as Hermione felt the older woman hasten their steps. Though the brunette didn't particularly care for the warning administered by the older witch and she struggled to understand the discomfort she felt at her professors obvious bias against the little creatures. Hermoine had never understood those that judged others upon their appearance, she much preferred to come to such conclusions on her own, after all it would be highly hypocritical of her to jump to any sort of conclusion about a person's character based solely on an individual’s opinion, especially when that individual had clear discriminating opinions. The brunette had always resented receiving the same treatment, she too had been judged unfairly her whole life without anyone caring to get to know her beforehand. She refused to do it to another.

Hermione gazed upwards curiously as they approached what she assumed to be the main reception desk. The creature or Goblin as Professor McGonagall had informed her in her warning, leered down at them with impatience and barely concealed disgust as they approached. An impatient eyebrow raised in wait. He looked to be dressed in more expensive clothing than the other Goblins present, which gave Hermione the impression that this creature was probably their leader or held some sort of position of power within the Goblins social structure.

"I would like to withdraw three hundred Galleons from the Hogwarts muggle-born and other emergencies fund, Goblin." the Professor spoke politely but curtly, barely sparing the Goblin a glance as she withdrew her wand from her sleeve. Her tone though polite shocked Hermione, she couldn't understand why the older woman who had been so kind to her the day before was treating another being with such little curtesy and disdain. In response the Goblin sneered, shoving his hand towards them. "Identify yourselves" he demanded and Hermione supposed she couldn't fault him for sounding so insulted and aggressive. She would be affronted too if someone spoke to her the way this Goblin had been spoken too.

"Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts and this is an incoming first year He..." but before she could finish, Hermione did something she had rarely done in her life, the result of years of etiquette lessons at the hands of Matron. She interrupted an adult. She knew Matron would have some choice words if she were to see her do such a thing but Hermione really didn't care for the way the Professor was speaking.

"Hermione Jean Granger sir, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance" she replied, her tone sincere as she curtsied, bowing her head in respect. While offering him her hand. She smiled in understanding when the Goblin in front of her blinked repeatedly, before shaking himself and smiling at her genuinely (if the smile caused the rooms occupants a little fear and shock no one was brave enough to comment). It made Hermione’s heart hurt to see that the Creature in front of her had experienced so little kindness. "Griphook, Head Goblin here at Gringotts. It is a delight to make your acquaintance too, miss Granger." He replied, his tone much less confrontational than it had been. He shook her hand firmly. Before gesturing for them to follow him, seemingly content to ignore Professor McGonagall in favour of the little witch who for the first time in centuries had treated a Goblin with respect.

The odd trio moved into an old looking cart let by Griphook. Hermione gripped the side fretfully as they descended on the uneven tracks, she had to stop herself from being thrown as it twisted and turned without any sort of delicacy, her under fed body being tossed from side to side. The brunette winced, knowing she’d bruise later from the impact of such a contraption. The cart came to an abrupt stop at vault 912 and Hermione held tight to the Professors arm as she got off the cart. Her legs unsteady as she adjusted back to the blessedly solid ground. Though that proved to be a mistake when the older witch slipped slightly, the two witches grasping to remain upright. Griphook grabbed Hermione’s arm as they fell forward, righting her, still a little surprised when the little witch didn’t cringe back from him in disgust at being touched by him and thanked him instead as she, feet firmly back on the ground, steadied her new professor.

The vault they had stopped in was located a few floors below the main reception but Hermione could tell they were most decidedly underground. The walls were damp and dark shadows surrounded them from all angles, kept at bay only by the torch lights littering the walls in various places. Their light adding an eery feel to the place. Though she could feel the magic around her, much more than she did back on the surface, the vaults around her pulsed with it, each vault feeling slightly different because of what she would soon come to know as family Magik. She found it easier to adjust now that she had a feel of being surrounded by magic, her body adapting to the foreign Magiks around her and her own magic greeting that which was rife all around her like an old friend.

Once Professor McGonagall had collected the correct amount of Galleons, they left the way they came. Hermione bidding the Goblin a kind farewell as Minerva didn't even glance at the creature, the older woman merely brushed passed him as they left. The young brunette silently wondered if all wizarding folk treated the creatures as McGonagall did or if there was some personal reason for the animosity between them. Not that she would ask the Scots woman.  

Hermione followed along beside Professor McGonagall without complaint. Madame Malkins, the robe shop, wasn't located that far from Gringotts Bank and as such Hermione found herself standing on a stool being measured by the shops owner quicker than she had imagined. Madame Malkin was an older witch in appearance. Slightly older than professor McGonagall if she had to guess, but she carried herself with less importance than the professor did. Madame Malkin gave off a much gentler feel and the woman's magic felt just as calm as the woman appeared to be as she busied herself with Hermione's measurements. Clothes shopping had never really interested her all that much, not that she ever had much money to spend on clothes, so the young brunette found herself zoning out, only nodding along to suggestions politely when the need for her own opinion was pertinent.

She reflected silently as she stood upon the dressing stool. Her mind silently digesting all she had witnessed so far on her very first trip into the magical world. She had accumulated quite a list of questions within her mind. Things she couldn’t wait to investigate further but she was certain that Magical London was perhaps the most beautiful place she had ever seen. The feel of magic, alongside the many wondrous sights and colours made even the many forests she had visited in her brief time with the Grangers seem altogether pale in comparison.

 Sure she didn't know half as much as she would have liked about her new world but she could correct that in time, though she knew enough to know that she never again wanted to feel the isolating feeling of muggle London when a world so full of life existed on her door step. She wondered just how many chores she would have to do when she got home in order to convince Matron to allow her to come here again on her own or whether it was worth just sneaking back tomorrow regardless of the consequences.

"Come along now child" Professor McGonagall's brisk tone snapped her out of her thoughts and she quickly moved towards the door seeing that Madame Malkin had bagged all her new uniform and was in the process of tidying her workstation. She followed her professor from the shop dutifully, Her mind trying to work out who her professor really was. She had caught glimpses of warmth and genuine care from the woman in the brief time they had spent together but she had also seen more of the brisk, stone faced woman that was with her currently and she could only speculate as to which side of this woman was really her and what side was the mask. She supposed it didn't really matter all that much outside of her own curiosity and need to know everything she could.

They visited Eyelops Owl Emporium/ Magical Menagerie for her familiar next, though she could not find an animal that seemed to call to her in the way Professor McGonagall said it would. "Don't worry child, not everyone finds their familiar so young, some don't find theirs until we'll into adulthood" the older witch had reassured before leading her back out of the shop. Next they stopped by Slug and Jiggers Apothecary. Her professor helping her acquire the correct cauldron and potion supplies for the potions class she would soon be taking.

Much to the Professors amusement, Hermione didn't truly seem to come alive until they entered Flourish and Blotts, Diagon Alley’s biggest book shop. The professor aimed to to get all the texts and writing supplies Hermione would need before leaving but seeing the little brunettes eye light up so brightly, the academic within her decided they’d just have to spend a bit longer within the shop than originally planned to ensure Hermione got the chance to explore.

Upon entering Flourish and Blotts, Hermione felt like she had died and gone to heaven. The shop was larger than any book shop Hermione had ever been inside and the scent of parchment and new books filled the air delightfully. It was comforting to the brunette in a way that was rare and she struggled to hold herself back from running off to explore. She glanced at the professor, an expression akin to pleading plastered on her freckled face. Her soft brown eyes filled with pleas. Professor McGonagall sighed but flashed Hermione an indulgent smile as she gestured towards the rows upon rows of books. "Go on then child, look around. I'll get the required reading and your parchment and quill supplies. You may select five books not on the list to purchase. What type of scholar would I be if I denied one so keen the pleasure of plenty new reading materials to occupy a curious mind"

 Not needing any more of an invitation Hermione shot forward as if she were a tightly coiled spring let loose. Quickly losing herself within the racks of texts and knowledge.

Hermione didn't know how long she had been lost within the shelves, her head buried in book upon book, a slowly growing stack in her arms. She had picked four books so far. "Defensive Magical Theory – by Wilbert Slinkhard." Had been her first find, "Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy" had been second, her insatiable curiosity driving her to discover more about the history of Wizardry in the UK and beyond. "Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charms." had been next.

"Olde versus New, a study on the ways of wizards" was the forth and she was currently debating the pros and cons of "An all encompassed guide to honing the magical core, and mastering your Magic" it was an intriguing book that spoke of both non-verbal and wandless spell casting, It appeared to be something that Hermione could find many positives for buying and the brunette couldn't really find much cons on the matter. Though the predicted

difficulty levels (the book stating that even adult witches and wizards were known to struggle with many of the concepts held within the pages) was somewhat of a stumper for the brunette. She did not know if she would be able to harness her magic in that way. After all she was only ten, a year younger than the youngest students and therefore she predicted having to work harder in order to keep up. Would she really have the time and skill to achieve something that even adults struggled with? She didn't know.

Just as she sighed gently and turned to replace the book upon the shelf, vowing to revisit it once she was more acclimatised to her new world, she was startled by a slightly larger body colliding with hers. The impact of their collision knocking them both backwards and sending Hermione's recently acquired books flying across the floor.  The Brunette blinked hard for a moment, her mind quickly processing the situation she found herself in. She glanced sideways, her peripheral vision catching a glimpse of elegant black heeled boots and men’s dress shoes standing near her left shoulder and a mop of blonde hair lying beside her on the right.

Taking a breath to compose herself, aware of how matron would want her to react in this situation she daintily picked herself up, brushing out the wrinkles on her navy blue summer dress, like the proper young lady she was supposed to embody. She looked towards the mop of blonde hair that was the cause of her unexpected fall. Her face schooled into a polite mask. Hermione met the bright bluey/grey eyes of a boy who appeared to be roughly her age. She would hazard a guess that he too would be starting Hogwarts in September. He wore stylish black robes and his hair flopped onto his face as he struggled to sit up amongst the tangle he had found himself in. Making eye contact she turned towards him fully, offering him her hand to help him up. The boy looked past her, seemingly looking for permission from his adults to accept the offer before his hand reached out for hers. She grasped his hand firmly, easily pulling him back up on to his feet, her muscles flexing on her arms from the constant need to haul herself up and down from the attic at the orphanage.

"I am sorry, I did not see you there miss" the boy spoke quietly but sincerely as he stood. Offering her an apologetic smile. The boy looked calm on the surface but Hermione could tell he was nervous by the moisture on his palms and the way he glanced at the floor subtly, his left foot twitching slightly.

"It's alright mister, accidents happen and I am quite unharmed. Are you alright?" She replied just as sincerely, looking him over for any obvious sign of injury. He nodded his answer, glancing behind her for reassurance to whom she assumed was his parents. Oh how wonderful an idea that was, to have parents to look to for safety and reassurance, to know that when you fell they’d be there to comfort and support you... She quickly tapered those thoughts, she knew it would never do her any good to entertain such wishful thoughts. "Good. I'm glad you're alright. I'm Hermione by the way, Hermione Granger" she replied when she was happily convinced that the boy was in fact unharmed. She couldn’t help but frown slightly when she saw a flash of disgust appear briefly on his face.

"Granger? I don't recognise it. You aren't a mudblood are you?" and try as she might, despite the years of training, Hermione could not hide her wince at his choice of wording. Professor McGonagall and she had discussed wizarding terminology the day prior. The older woman warning her to watch out for those that would treat her as other simply for not being born to magical parents. She had hoped to avoid the word and never in her worst nightmares did she expect to encounter it so soon. The slight at her parentage or lack thereof stung the youngster more than she wished it did and she turned her head away slightly, tilting her head up in defiance at the implication of her having dirty blood.

"I am muggle born" she emphasised "if that is what you mean" She said evenly in reply, her face a mask of indifference. Her eyes narrowing slightly at the obviously prejudiced boy. No hint of the hurt he had caused in her tone.

"Now, now Draco, no need to be rude. She's a child. She doesn't know her place yet" a male voice spoke up from behind her, his tone chastising and bordering on arrogant as he stepped around her. He had long blonde hair that was identical in colour to the boy’s own. He wore expensive looking robes and carried what looked to be a cane with a snake on top in his right hand. With him, unnoticed at first was a woman sporting wild curly shoulder length brown hair, dressed in a long green summer dress and a black robe with green trimmings, that seamed to accentuate her outfit elegantly. It gave hermionie the impression that this woman and the two arrogant fools she was with were from money somehow. Wealth dripped of them like the raindrops on the Haven’s roof when the guttering had overflown.

The unknown man’s words caused anger to flash fiercely in the young brunettes eyes, defiance following shortly behind it as she straightened her posture even more. Unwilling to show even the slightest amount of vulnerability in front of these people as she drew her eyes from the brown curly haired woman to meet his. Hermione was just about to let herself bite back at the man and his son when the unknown woman spoke up, quietening everyone. Her voice commanding a respect Hermione couldn’t understand. Though annoyingly to the brunette youngster, the unknow witches voice was soothing to her internal anger and she quietly reeled at the safety her mind promised resided within the arms of the stranger in front of her.

"Lucius, that is quite enough" the woman reprimanded, her tone was steely and the look she flashed at both blondes before turning to face her, could only be described as a look of warning. Hermione secretly felt pleased when she saw both blondes shrink slightly, their mouths snapping shut and their eyes shifting downward. Chastised for the time being. When the woman turned towards Hermione her expression was much gentler than it had been moments before. She flicked her hand in the direction of Hermione's scattered book pile, levitating them into her own arms neatly. As the young witch stood watching in awe, her mind trying to work out when exactly the woman had withdrawn her wand.

"I am sorry about them young one, I am Andromeda Lestrange and this is my brother in law Lucius Malfoy, his son Draco you've already met I see. I do hope you're alright" The woman – Andromeda Lestrange – Spoke with a gentleness that threw Hermione, as if this woman thought her a fragile bird ready for flying off if cornered or pushed to quickly.

"I am Quite fine, Lady Lestrange. I assure you." Hermione replied, her tone polite but tense, she really hoped not to draw out conversation for long with this woman, intent on getting away from the uncomfortable situation she was currently in. Lady Lestrange hummed quietly in response, Slim fingers picking up the book on top of Hermione’s reassembled pile and examining it before placing it back down.

"Interesting choice of reading material. You are muggle-born yes?" The woman handed the stack of books back over to the little brunette with a polite smile, curiosity in her tone and Hermione could see the book on mastering magic sat on top, almost tauntingly. But the woman’s comment again had the hair at the nape of the little brunette’s neck stand on end, as she tried hard not to scowl at the woman.

"I am. Or at least I think I am. I don't know who my parents are if you must know." she replied carefully, nodding her head in thanks to her reassembled stack of books, her features schooled blank, no hint of her inner seething to be seen. Though secretly, Hermione was quietly impressed by Andromeda Lestrange’s display of wandless and non-verbal magic. From the slight smirk on the curly haired woman’s aristocratic features, the woman knew what she had done was impressive to the younger girl. Later Hermione would learn that Andromeda Lestrange rarely did anything unintentionally and her not so subtle display of power although not aimed at her was not something she had done accidentally. Hermione being impressed had just been an added bonus to the older witch. Not that Hermione was about to express that she was impressed even slightly mind you.

"Intriguing, I must say miss Granger, for a muggle-born girl, you're manners are exemplary. Now we must run, my daughter is waiting on us. Do let me know how you get on with your reading materials. It is not all too often you discover one so young with such…. Ambition. I can send you some more once you’re done, if you need an extra challenge." the woman spoke warmly, seemingly ignoring the disbelieving looks from her two blonde companions and ignoring the fact that her compliment could have been perceived as a nicely phrased insult. The implication of 'despite your blood status' glaringly obvious to the young muggle-born and the two gaping blondes who were privy to the interaction.

Before she could respond she felt a calm reassuring hand grip her shoulder at the same time she sensed the feel of

Professor McGonagall's magic surround her. The Malfoys and Lady Lestrange straightened perceptibly at the older witches presence. Nodding respectfully in deference before hastily retreating from the vicinity. Hermione however, caught the flash of irritation and suspicion on Andromeda Lestrange’s face as she hurried away with her family. Brown eyes cast backwards once more before she completely disappeared from view.

"I hope there was no issue?" The Professor enquired, guiding Hermione to the front of the shop to pay for her books and supplies.

"None Professor, despite my less than savoury blood." Hermione retorted back, a seething sense of resentment building within her. So lost to all the different emotions she had experienced in such a short few hours, The brunette did not mind that the cursed book on mastering ones magic still sat at the top of her pile of reading material as she handed them to her professor. In her anger she decided she would get the book and become proficient at honing her magic, it would show them to judge her based on something as irrelevant to her as her parents. After all she had never met her birth family, they had nothing to do with who she was as a person. Her birth family had no influence on her whatsoever and she would be damned if she let the conceited stuck up opinions of the pureblood supremacists in society stop her from achieving.

 Her whole life had been a battle to prove her worth, why had she ever thought learning about magic would change such a thing?

Chapter Text

Edited 02/01/2025

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~Sydenham,  The Haven Home for Girls ~

~1st of September 1991 ~

                                                                                            ~Hermione's POV~                                                                                            

Hermione Granger had always considered herself a patient girl. Of course she was, she had need of patients her entire life. If she hadn’t been so patient she knows her already difficult upbringing would have been a hundred times worse than it was. However  the young witch found that the wait between discovering she was a witch and September first had gone ever so slowly. She had felt each agonising day pass her by and it had felt like pulling teeth.

Today was the day however and she found her stomach tied in giddy knots at the mere thought of all she was about to experience. She had reached the point in the day that she had started to fret, desperate just to be away from the tedium that was her home. She had even checked and re-checked her possessions frequently in a desperate attempt to pass the time slightly quicker. She sighed quietly as she finished checking through her school trunk for what must have been the twelfth in the past forty minutes. All her supplies were packed neatly, organised with a precision one certainly wouldn't expect from a ten year old. But after years of having to be self-reliant Hermione could fold and organise anything with such tidiness one would guess an adult had been the one to pack it all.

At the very top of her trunk her books held pride of place so as to ensure they weren't squashed in any way. One of the things she despised most was seeing a book of any sort being damaged or mistreated. Knowledge was important and nothing provided more insight into the world around her than that of literature. She truly believed that books held the answers about the world and how history went down that many wouldn’t dare speak aloud. Especially when you had the ability to explore more than one account and side of each chapter. As such she had always been one to devour any and all books. She didn’t think there would ever come a time where books were not her greatest comfort.

In the past eight weeks, weeks that had felt like years if you asked her, she had devoured the books she had got on her first trip to Diagon Alley with Professor McGonagall. Hogwarts: a History along with various others, including "An all encompassed guide to honing the magical core, and mastering your Magic" had been read twice over. Her eyes and mind enraptured by the words on each page. Her mind conjuring vivid images of the world she had only just begun to explore.

Several months ago, she would never have dared hope that she would get to spend any of her time outside of the Haven, let alone be invited to a boarding school all the way in Scotland. Where they would be taught magic and potions and flying. It thrilled her and the books had been wondrous to her. Her mind consuming the words and their meaning like a greedy child at a chocolate stand. She supposed she was a greedy child in a lot of ways, only she could honestly take or leave the chocolate stand. When it came to books and knowledge however, Hermione was always starved. Ready to consume and digest anything she could.

Her need to gain as much of an understanding of her knew world had even led her to sneak out on several occasions over the summer. She had snuck back to Diagon Alley three separate times since her visit with Professor McGonagall. She had managed by some miracle to get in and out of the orphanage without being caught by Matron. Which had been a feat all on its own. To risk Matrons wrath however had been worth it and Hermione couldn’t find it in her to feel bad about it. Especially upon learning that Matron hadn’t even noticed that she wasn’t around. Though with the time Hermione had spent stowed away in the attic over the past few years, she was unsure if she could truly be hurt by her absence going unnoticed.

On her second trip back to magical London she had even found her familiar. When Professor McGonagall had first told Hermione she may have to wait years to find hers she had been sorely disappointed. It was a relief that those worries had proved false for her. She had felt almost compelled to enter Eyelops Owl Emporium and Magical Menagerie as she had walked past on her way to the book shop that second visit. The brunette had been drawn to the back of the store, where a large ginger cat sat atop a stack of beds in the corner furthest from the door. Hermione had gotten the impression that no one ventured this far back very often. The cat was rather scruffy looking and if Hermione was a more conceited person she supposed she probably wouldn’t have stopped to look at the creature. As it was he held an intelligence within his yellowish eyes that Hermione found endearing. The scar atop his right eye and ear, a long thin pink line that looked as if it had been slashed by a claw or a blade gave him character and the young witch though it made him look fierce.  

Cat and girl spent several moments simply staring at one another and Hermione believed he was seizing her up, not nefariously but more out of curiosity. As if he wanted to understand just what the witch in front of him was. After what felt like hours but was in fact three minutes, the cat sniffed the air before jumping off his perch atop the beds. He trotted towards her, his larger than average head rubbing against the bare flesh of her leg. The way he slunk around her affectionately with a fierce purr echoing in his chest certainly contradicted his fierce exterior but Hermione in that moment had fallen in love with the cat. The shop owner had found her hours later, curled up asleep, the cat curled up on her chest and an open book resting on her lap. He had told her that the cat had been in the shop for so long that he was left to wonder on his own. Often venturing into the Alley to entertain himself as he was often aggressive or outright dismissive of anyone who attempted to get near him. The man however had whispered his thoughts on the cat being a wise judge of character and those he had taken a swipe at being rather unsavoury in his eyes. The brunette could see that being true, he was a clever sort and Hermione knew she would always trust her familiars judgement on others. A life lesson she had learned from potential adopter number one (A veterinary nurse) was that animal often knew more of a human beings intentions than anyone in a room. If your pet reacted badly towards someone, it was best to heed the warning for what it was.

The shop owner was awed by the way Hermione seemed to be so tenderly at ease with the usually aggressive cat. This convinced the man that the cat truly belonged to Hermione and no other. In his many years as Eyelops owner he had never witnessed the familiar bond form so securely so quickly and he took pity on the sadness in the student to be’s eyes when she explained she would never be able to afford to pay for the cat or any of the needed supplies. He had offered both cat and supplies, free of charge to her with the view that he would not be a decent man if he were to willingly separate the pair now that they had appeared to have bonded.

It was a little known fact in the wizarding world that the bond between familiar and their witch or wizard was as unbreakable and as life-long as that of the soulmate bond and often a familiar would not survive long past the death of their witch or wizard. It was said to be a gift that Merlin himself had granted 6after seeing a familiar be separated from his wizard when the wizard had died. The cat had spent his remaining several years in sadness, waiting by the floo for his wizard. Marlin, upon seeing the misery being felt by the familiar had according to legend used a spell to grant the cat a wish, that wish being that no familiar had to live a life without their bonded witch or wizard. For the bond between each was rare and sacred to both familiar and human counterpart.

The shop keeper was also secretly glad just to be rid of the feline, he had been worried the cat would spend his days alone and that was something he hadn’t wished to befall the cranky cat.

He had explained to Hermione that the cat was a half Kneazel mix, Kneazel’s were a highly intelligent breed and were not found anywhere outside the magical world. They were naturally attracted to strong magical aura's and lived long lives, The oldest Kneazel had been recorded at 80 years old, her bonded witch had been 23 when they had met and the Kneazel had been barely 4 months old. Hermione had hugged the man tightly without thought when he handed her a bag of supplies that he had magically shrunk to make it easier for her to carry.

She had snuck her new feline friend back into The Haven with her. Wisely choosing to keep him in the attic while Matron was around and true to word, the feline seamed to understand just how important it was for him to remain undetected.

After some debate where Hermione could have sworn her cat was fully understanding her every word, she had decided to name him CrookShanks, a name she found befitting of both his crooked personality and his fierce appearance. Crookshanks had appeared to approve of his name as he got up. His chest puffed out he pranced in a circle and curled up beside the brunettes leg when she asked if he liked that name. He had refused every other suggestion. Simply looking at her before looking away each time she had suggested every other name she could think of. From Rupert to Biscuits to Mr Scratch.

Crookshanks was undoubtably the only name he had reacted positively too and so it was decided.

She had enjoyed her time in Diagon Alley with no chaperone, mainly spending her time browsing the many books in Flourish and Blotts. Though she was rather unsettled by the realisation that Madame Lestrange had seemingly predicted her inability to stay away from the book shop, the owner informing her that the pure-blooded woman had set up and all but demanded that Hermione was not to pay for a single book. All purchases were to be billed to her. The brunette had tried her best to argue with the man that she was uncomfortable with that arrangement and she hadn’t been consulted. Hermione learned that day that with money came privilege and power and as she had the money and power to make the owner unwilling to go against the demand, Hermione, thanks to Lady Lestrange, did not feel completely comfortable with purchasing any books. Instead she took note of all the titles she was interested in, determined to find them elsewhere.

The book keeper, Mrs Kawalski, a quiet elderly woman that sat at the back table in the book shop most days and owned the shop had told Hermione of a shop in France that she could write to arrange for the books she desired to be owled to her. The man who turned out to be her assistant now that she was in her elder years had refused to let Hermione leave without taking at least one book and Hermione had settled on a kids book finally. She figured that buying a book for a galleon This knowledge had been such a gift to the brunette and she had not hesitated at all to use the Owl Post Office to send off a list alongside payment. Hermoine didn’t have a lot of money, but she fully intended on spending the little she did have on as many books as she could possibly buy.

Now the day had come that she finally got to leave this place. She was nervous. More nervous than she ever remembered being for any other singular event in her life, not even meeting new potential adopters had filled her with this much nervous energy. Although moving away to a boarding school in a different country with no real way of contacting the place she had called home almost her entire life could be considered a rather big deal she supposed. Therefore rationally, she knew her nerves to be understandable. Irrationally, they were a hinderance and Hermoine very much cursed herself for the emotion. This place had never been warm or loving to her, she refused to get caught up in silly emotions now that it came time for her to leave for months. She was on to bigger and better things after all.

Finally shutting and securing the lid of her trunk. She made sure her hair was tied back tightly because she knew Matron wouldn't resist the chance to criticise her one last time if the opportunity arose and she picked up her backpack. Crooks settling himself inside her back pack when she prompted him to do so, out of sight of potential prying eyes. Hermione glanced at her shared dorm before dragging her trunk out the room she had stayed in for forever and down the stairs to wait by the door.

Matron was a punctual woman so she knew she would only have to wait exactly five minutes before they would head off towards King's Cross Station for the train. Five precious moments to savour her next steps and thoughts of the world she was about to step in to.

Platform 9 and 3/4 was really not as difficult to find as Hermione had expected it to be. She had expected some signage or some clue as to where she was going to be placed inside the train station somewhere. However all she really had to do was make her way to the platform that housed platforms 9 and 10. Where she quickly deduced that the weirdly placed stand alone brick wall that only ran for a small portion of the track mush have been something to do with where she was headed. For despite not being raised in the magical world, Hermione had discovered over the summer that she did in fact have a unique ability to sense magic. She had been able to do it all her life upon reflection, now that she knew what magic was anyway and the strangely placed wall definitely felt like it was made of magic. Her suspicions where confirmed not moments later when she overheard a large, plump red headed woman talk none too quietly about making sure they stuck together and didn't draw the attention of the muggles around them. The brunette had scoffed internally at hearing that, as if the woman and her motley crew of weirdly dressed red headed children hadn't already drawn a lot of attention from the muggles that bustled about Kings Cross. The fact that they were also pushing two trolleys filled with trunks and a brown owl caged on one of them, they really couldn’t have stood out more. Hermione deemed it safe enough to assume she could simply follow behind them at a respectable distance so she could see exactly how things worked and how she was supposed to use the wall to reach her desired platform.

"Non magical people cannot get through to the platform ma'am so if it is alright with you I will follow that family through?" She asked politely, not daring to look the woman who had both cared for and been the source of her nightmares in the eyes less she anger her at the last moment. The young witch felt strangely sad to be leaving this woman but she refused to acknowledge the uncomfortable revolution even as it clawed at her throat eager to embarrass her.

"Of course girl, now do remember what you have been taught and do not dare forget I expect nothing but the most glowing report from your professor's come the summer. Just because I do not understand the material you shall be learning does not mean I do not still require nothing but the best from you, am I understood?" Matrons’ tone was stern and detached even if she spoke quietly. Her small trunk like fingers reaching out to pick an invisible bit of fluff from Hermione’s dress. Hermione nodded quietly, her heart racing slightly at the implications in Matron’s words. She did not even want to entertain the idea that she would embarrass the elderly woman by failing at anything. She knew better, Matron had never demanded anything less than perfection from her wards and possessing magic or not the brunette did not want to earn her ire. Some how she had a suspicion that being of magic, Hermione was more than likely to be held at an even bigger impossible standard in the future and the best she could hope for was simply avoiding the woman’s ire for as long as humanly possible.

"Of course, I will not disappoint you ma'am" she replied sincerely, bowing her head respectfully as her shoulder was patted in farewell and she was left standing on her own. The plump woman turning abruptly, not waiting for Hermione to move towards her destination before departing of. Nothing new there then, the brunette thought rather dryly, a bitterness that had been a constant of late simmering quietly within. She released a slow breath of relief at the familiar security she felt at being left alone, if she were on her own she couldn't mess up at all. She now had all year free from the awful woman and intended to enjoy it as best she could. It would be wonderful to not worry about sparking the woman’s temper, at least while she was at school. She would worry about not angering her Matron again when she returned back to the Haven for summer.

Right now however, she was best to gather herself quickly before moving her trolley forward, catching up with the red heads rather quickly she managed to follow them through the wall between platforms 9 and 10 easily.

The brunette couldn’t help marvelling at the large steam train that sat in wait for all the new and old students to board it. The train was a beautiful scarlet red colour and it was easily the longest train she had ever seen. Not that she had ever really paid much attention before. So she didn’t really have much to compare it too. Regardless Hermione felt her palms begin to sweat as she gazed around her.

The platform was busier than she had seen any other platform. It was very long too. Almost stretching as far as her eyes could see. There was people everywhere she looked and she could feel herself begin to panic a little at the thought of trying to guide her trolley over to the luggage drop off in the middle of the platform. There was so much potential for things to go drastically wrong and the last thing she wanted was to hit someone with the trolley and earn their anger. Or get lost or turned around. She could feel the coolness of her anxiety creep up her spine as her brain ran a hundred miles ahead trying to figure out the best course of action to achieving her desired task.

"Miss Granger, how lovely it is to see you once more" a familiar lilting voice sounded from behind her, which stopped her mind in its tracks, her heart skipping in fright for a moment before she processed who had approached her. Hermione swivelled, coming face to face with none other than Lady Lestrange in a way that was beginning to feel like Deja vu. The woman was dressed up in an almost silvery grey robe with her hair styled neatly atop her head and Hermione was loathe to admit she looked just as regal as she had the first time they had met.

Hermione felt her face pale and heat up in annoyance all at once.

The book shop assistant’s stuttered admission to this woman's demands filtering through her mind and filling her with a mix of indignation, anger and trepidation as the woman came closer and the brunette was entirely unsure of how to deal with this woman. She could see just how powerful this woman was in the way that those in the book store had reacted to her and Hermione really did not want to offend her.

"Lady Lestrange" she greeted cordially, head inclining respectfully even if the youngster did want to simply roll her eyes and walk away.

"I noticed you dithering dear girl and thought I ought to offer my assistance, the platform can be rather overwhelming for one so tiny" the woman said, stepping forward so they now stood closely face to face. She was so close Hermione could smell her perfume, it smelled like warmth and cinnamon and Hermione could tell by the way the smell clung to the air around it so delicately that it must be something expensive. Matron had perfumes but they all smelt harsh and burned her nose. Jean Granger had told her all about perfume in the beginning of getting to know her. She had taught Hermione how to tell the expensive from the cheap and the brunette had a funny feeling that it was one of those lessons that would stay with her forever.

Lady Lestrange, as if sensing that Hermione was suddenly miles away smiled at the brunette triumphantly. The brunettes momentary distraction being utilised by the older woman, who took Hermione’s lack of immediate response as her chance to turn the young witch by her shoulders and take hold of the trolley Hermione was holing on to. The Lestrange Matriarch placed her hands either side of the young brunettes own hands. Hermione couldn’t help but feel like it must have looked like a strange and awkward imitation of a tender embrace to passers by. Years of living in an orphanage and being suddenly dumped back in to the present moment had the little brunette flinching more visibly than she would have liked at the woman's proximity. She cringed at herself, breath held as she prayed that the older woman had not noticed, though judging by the hand that was placed on top of her own, Hermione thought it safe to assume that Lestrange had in fact noticed. Thankfully for Hermione though the older woman didn't make comment, simply pushing then forward as she began to guide Hermione and the trolley along the platform without a word.

The brunette moved with the elder witch without complaint. Silent in her uncertainty. Every breath she took drew the women’s perfume into her lungs. The warmth and the cinnamon combining in a way that Hermione almost found comforting. Or would have if she didn’t know such an emotion was merely a trap. As it was she really did not know how to react to this woman. A woman who was as powerful as she was intimidating and somehow kind. It put Hermione on edge and had her feeling as if she were tiptoeing on egg shells all over again.

When they reached the luggage drop off, Lady Lestrange wasted no time in waving her hand, Hermione’s trunk levitating onto the stack of luggage already in place. "Now I have placed a feather light charm upon your trunk, it shall make it a lot easier for you to move on your own. Do Owl me when you figure out how to remove the charm and cast it yourself" the woman explained, finally stepping back from Hermione and moving to stand in front of her. The space giving the younger brunette a chance to breathe freely for the first time in several moments. She took the moment to take a deep breath before forcing herself to meet the older woman’s gaze.

"Thank you ma'am" Hermione replied, her tone one of calm and polite gratefulness for the woman's help.  Hermione hoped the polite mask would be enough to get the older witch to leave her be, she really did not want to find herself in any sort of verbal sparring match with a virtual stranger in the middle of the platform. Thoough internally Hermione smirked having already worked out what spell the woman had used. Not that she deem it necessary to inform the woman of that fact. Nor would she inform the elder woman that she was also pretty sure she knew what the counter charm was and once she was allowed to legally use magic she'd be able to cast them pretty quickly. For she had studied as much as she could over the summer and had slowly but surely been feeling her magic more and more.

"You are more than welcome, and please less of the formality young one, it makes me feel old, it's Andromeda or Andy" and fuck  if she wasn’t careful the woman's gentle tone could have convinced Hermione that she was genuine in her care for her. A muggle-born girl.

"I'll let you board now miss Granger but do keep in touch, I'll expect your owl" and just like the last conversation she had been part of with this woman, Andromeda Lestrange was gone before Hermione had a chance to respond, long legs striding off down the platform towards the Malfoy men who had appeared not to long ago. Her curls bouncing out wildly as she disappeared in the crowd without sparing a backwards glance towards her.

Hermione sighed, her rather impressive brain failing to come up with any sort of reasoning as to why Andromeda Lestrange, a pureblood Lady, had taken an interest in her - a ten year old muggle-born girl. There was absolutely no reason she could think of. Especially now she had read more about the first Wizarding War that ended the year she was born. The book she had found was similar in layout to Hogwarts: A History and no less informative in just what Pureblood supremacists, Followers of Lord Voldemort, thought of muggle-born’s like her. She remembered seeing that the Lestrange family had been among those that had supported the Dark Lord, loudly in fact.

The brunette shook her head, refusing to let the encounter dampen her new found freedom and excitement. She wasn’t going to let any of the confusion she was feeling dampen her first full day as an official Hogwarts student and Hermione did her best to force down her nerves as she boarded the Hogwarts express in search of a compartment to find herself a seat.

The trains hallway was not the widest of Hallways but the oak doors separating each enclosed seating area gave it a cosy feel that had the young witches shoulders relaxing minutely as she went. Hermione searched along the corridor to find herself an empty compartment, a feat that was easier than she thought it would be. As someone with no loving relatives to see her off and therefore no tearful goodbyes or hugs that lasted a little too long, meant that she was one of the first to board. She settled down, closing the door behind her before pulling out her book on mastering ones magic once again. She was determined to prove to herself that she could do it despite her lineage. That she could master her own magic and be as powerful and as accomplished as any other witch or wizard. Though she didn’t plan on showing anyone she could do such a thing when she eventually achieved it. Not for now any way.

She had learned quickly in the orphanage that showing off all the knowledge she held only resulted in her making enemies out of people, she had experienced the harsh truth of that early on, the bullying had been horrible in the beginning despite it having built the brunette a thick skin.

Knowledge was power, but in her eyes it was even more powerful to you when those you faced didn't know you held that power. It meant you could go unnoticed, underestimated and generally left alone. Something she found quite appealing in all reality and as the brunette heard the whistle blow, signalling the trains imminent departure, she smiled softly, soon losing herself within her book.

~~~~~~~~

The sudden loud bang of her compartment door startled Hermione out of her book, as the oak bounced of the wall. Flung open by a force Hermione had not been aware of as it approached her. The noise had her alert and standing quickly, her eyes narrowed, glued to the now open door. Her left hand was clutching her book and her right palm was downward facing. Parallel to the floor instinctively. In front of her appeared two males, who looked to be a few years older than she was. Both boys were holding their wands menacingly in their hands as they sneered at her. Wand tips pointed at the startled ten year old.

"Draco mentioned there was a mud-blood on board, thought we'd come check out the trash ourselves and introduce you to your betters." the first boy said. He was pale in comparison to his companion, brown shaggy hair hanging rather messily down his narrow features.

"Seems Malfoy was right and we do have a mud-blood amongst us. A mud-blood in need of being taught her place." the second agreed, a cruel smirk on his face. His hair was dark, cut short to the point of almost non-existence. His nose looked too large for his face and sat a little squint. They both looked at her with indifference but Hermione could see the flicker of cruelty gleaming in their eyes. She would not show it but the cruelty she could see within them frightened her more than a little.

Their words however sparked that same anger within her that she had felt the day she had been knocked over off her feet by Malfoy in the book shop. The slur, stung just as much as it had before but she refused to let it show. She refused to let bigots see her upset. Hermione straightened her spine and raised her chin, deliberately meeting their prejudice with defiance. Not moving an inch even as they raised their arms slightly in silent threat.  

"Leave." she said calmly, as she stared them both in the eye and she could see her false confidence had confused them a little. Hesitance creeping up on their faces, wands lowering slightly, before it was gone. Replaced by two identical looks of anger.

"You filth, dare command us?" the first boy spat in disbelief.

"It seems you need to learn to respect your betters mud-blood" the second added with hatred before raising his wand again. "Aguamenti"

A stream of ice cold water shot towards her rapidly and acting on nothing more than instinct, Hermione raised her empty hand. Her aim was to protect, at the very least, her face and book from the oncoming spell. Though when she saw the water run off an invisible force field, not touching her in the slightest she looked up in confusion. Eyes searching for the source of what she recognised as a Protego spell from her reading. It was effectively a shield of sorts, that wrapped itself around its castor to protect the individual from most spells, curses and jinx’s.

When Hermione saw that no one else was around, she looked to her still raised hand in confusion. The shocked expression of her almost attackers were enough for her to know it wasn't either of them who had cast it.

Her raised palm, upon inspection, was glowing slightly as the shield around her held. The two unknown boys had begun to cast more spells in her direction, both hoping to get something past her protective barrier to humiliate or hurt her in some way.

The brunette stood there for a few minutes, her mind focused on the way the magic felt in her hands. After a few moments Hermione refocused. Not wanting to risk the shield dropping if she were to grow too distracted by her thoughts. She was growing rather bored and annoyed with their attempted at attacking her as they continued to throw spells at her. She had known this was a possibility, that she would face some sort of conflict regarding her blood status at some point in her magical career. McGonagall and her books had warned her enough of the remaining blood prejudice that still ran deeply in some circles of this new world and she knew if she gave them even an inch to hurt her now, they wouldn't stop. She didn't want her next seven years to be like the ten she had spent in the muggle world and that meant she had to stand her ground. Stand strong and prove everyone around her that they were wrong.

She wasn't weak or inferior, nor did her blood make her dirty. Hermione Jean Granger would not be made to bow and cower again, this was her chance at building something for herself and she was not about to let two teen boys ruin that on the first day. She grit her teeth. Somehow managing to push down on her fear and uncertainty as she narrowed her eyes at them. She took another deep breath to center herself, allowing her to feel her magic clearly, she could feel as it pulsed and curled around her, warming her. She took note of the way her hand felt slightly warmer than the rest of her. Her magic being channelled to that point of her body, evidenced by the slight glow that radiated from her hand.

'To ever have the chance of mastering ones true magical ability one must first learn to feel their magic as instinctively and as naturally as if it were a physical object' the words of the book she had devoured twice now whispered through her mind as she let the feeling of her magic, the warmth, give her the confidence she needed to hold both boys off. Her hand glowing brighter the more sure she became. Every nerve in her body feeling warmer as her resolve to stand her ground strengthened. She pushed her hand out further. Arm straight, keeping her palm flat. Surprising herself at how steady she appeared to be, feet planted shoulder width apart.

"I said leave." she repeated as they finally ran out of steam in their spell casting, their wands lowering to their sides a slight fearful look lingering in their eyes. Yet Hermione could tell that they were enraged by what was happening..

Before they got the chance to retreat, the blonde boy she had knocked over several weeks ago appeared in the door way of her cart. Draco Malfoy looked just as regal as he had the first time they had met, however, Hermione could have sworn he currently looked even more arrogant than he had that day. His robes were perfectly pressed and expensive looking, though the surprised look on his face contradicted the sophisticated arrogance he held himself with as he looked between Hermione, her glowing palm and the two boys.

"Paucey, McNair what is going on?" The blonde boy demanded not sparing her a second glance as he seemingly settled on addressing the two older boys.

"We came to teach the mud-blood a lesson is what is happening but the filth has used some trick to make our spells ineffective." the dark haired boy growled, casting an accusing look her way.

"So you, Paucey, thought you ought to embarrass yourselves further by continuing to throw ineffective spells at a girl several years your junior. Are you both insane? If she went to a professor you would both be expelled." he chastised and Hermione had to fight hard to conceal her mirth. She couldn’t help but find something acutely funny about seeing the much smaller blonde all but dress down two boys much like they were small children, his chastising tone reminding the brunette of the way Lady Lestrange had chastised Draco and his father in the book shop. It made her wonder just how close Draco was to the woman, not that she cared too much for the answer. But she really was the curious sort after all.

"Besides regardless of her unfortunate blood status, my aunt has tasked me with letting the student body know that this mud-blood is off limits. She is under the protection of Lady Lestrange and therefore an attack on her person will be seen as a personal attack on the Lestrange family." His words almost knocked Hermione off her feet as much as it very nearly did the two boys. Though she managed to conceal her shock and horror much better than they did. Her face remaining blank and unimpressed, while the pair grew pale and their brows began to sweat grossly.

“Do you really want to earn the ire of the Lestrange, Black and Malfoy families over a mud-blood?” The blonde continued with faux kindness. His voice bordering sickly sweet.

She watched as the boys stuttered, their heads shaking profusely as they paled further than the brunette thought possible. “out.” Draco replied simply, to their panicked look and the pair left hurriedly not having to be told more than once. Draco scoffed at their retreating backs before turning to offer Hermione a small nod.

“My aunt sends her regards.” He said quietly, his voice emotionless. He wasted no time on waiting on her reply, his footsteps sounding quietly as he followed her two almost attackers. He pulled the door behind him, all the while she remained mute while her mind reeled.

She was under the protection of Lady Lestrange? Andromeda Lestrange? The woman who should despise her for her heritage? whom had done nothing but confuse and frighten her since they had met? That Lady Lestrange had ordered her nephew to make sure she was protected? She could not make sense of that as yet again the mystery and audacity of that woman grew.

And as the train rolled into Hogsmead Station, Hermione could not shake her unease at the revaluation. Internally screaming at the confusing mix of anger, shock, pain and uncertainty this Witch, she had only met a small number of times, was causing her.

Her softly muttered “what the fuck” went unheard by anyone and un criticised herself for her lapse in composure. But the three simple if a little crude words were an adequate response to what she had just learned she supposed. She turned to get changed. Shaking her head to try and quiet her thoughts, a vain attempt at closing off her now busy mind. She needed to focus on simply getting to the castle. One Step at a time.

Chapter Text

~ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry ~

~ September 1st 1991 ~

~ Hermione's POV ~

It didn’t seem all that much of a lengthy journey from Kings Cross to Hogsmead for the muggle-born who had managed to block out the entirety of her journey after her would be attackers and Draco had left her alone. The rest of her journey being as peaceful as the start. It wasn’t until the trains whistle sounded loudly in her ears, alerting her to their whereabouts did she realise just how much of the journey she had apparently missed. She relaxed a little when she realised it was only the first official warning of their approach into the station. It meant she had a few minutes left to get herself situated.

The brunette slowly closed her book and sat up from her position slumped on the train seat and quickly scratched that one spot between Crooks’ ears that he loved as he too woke from his sleeping position, tucked securely in at the brunettes hip. His quiet purring and the peaceful silence that enveloped her carriage allowing her to refocus on what was important and mostly forget the incident and the information that she had just learned. It allowed her to dismiss the worry she felt as something to deal with later, once she was settled into her classes and life at Hogwarts. She stretched her muscles tightly, feeling them creak and pop from years of climbing in and out of an attic as well as the time she had spent reading her books and consuming far too little sustenance on her orphans rations. Just as she tucked her book into her rucksack she felt the train begin to slow down, a clear indication to her that the train was about to pull in to the station.

She had immersed herself back in her book after the incident, Crooks purring contentedly next to her as they quietly enjoyed each other’s company. When she heard the last whistle she finished her page, She glanced at the page number and took note of it for later. She slipped it into her bag and opted to carry Crookshanks with her as she left her carriage. His presence giving her a little comfort through the nerves that she had begun to feel grow within her. She was nervous about where she would be sorted. The four houses all took pride in different attributes and based on what she had seen and heard so far, her sorting would define how she was seen by society for a long time.

She knew Slytherin wasn't an option, there had never been a muggle-born sorted into that house in the history of the school and she knew most of its occupants were pure-blooded with a few half-bloods thrown in. They were said to be the most prejudice of houses and she had no doubt those boys from earlier were members of that particular house. Draco Malfoy would more than likely end up there too she was sure. Especially after she had read of how the Malfoy family had also, like the Lestrange’s, supported Voldemort.

Hufflepuff was also a house she thought to be unlikely suited to her, they were famous for their kindness, their loyalty, patience and gentle nature's. Most Herbology specialists and Healers had come out of Hufflepuff and while Hermione knew she was a kind person and most definitely gentle in nature she had very little patience for people, she didn't like them and didn't particularly want to be seen as approachable. She had always much preferred the company of her books.

Gryffindor, known for their brash nature and bravery, and Ravenclaw, known for their intelligence and wit seemed to be the two main contenders for her and she couldn't figure out which one she would end up in. Ravenclaw seemed to be the most obvious option, she knew she was clever. She had always been more intelligent than anyone in her peer group in the muggle world but she knew herself enough to know that she could also be stupidly brave. Her sneaking out of the orphanage to visit the magical world being a prime example. Had she been caught she knew the consequences would have been rather dire for her but she had done it anyway. But then was it bravery or a selfish desire to learn more that had driven her down the drainpipe on the back outside wall of her home?

She supposed that her sorting could go any which way and she couldn't really dismiss any potential outcome based on her own biased thoughts, to do so would be presumptuous and entirely daft for anyone to do.

Upon stepping on to the platform, her eyes squinting slightly in the dark, Hermione heard an overly large bearded man heralding all the first year's to him. ''Firs' years, firs' years ower hear please." he boomed, his voice gruff but warm and Hermione wondered just who he was. She followed along beside the other first year students. She could sense her new classmates nervous as much as her own and decided it was best if she were to Keep to herself as much as she could until she knew who all surrounded her. She did make sure that she smiled politely at anyone that smiled at her, as the passed her. A quiet hello murmured back to them when she had no other option. It wouldn't do for her to make any sort of enemies this soon into her adventure and the brunette supposed that doing so would be entirely counterproductive in her plan to blend in as much as possible.

The students were led down the platform in a rather unorganised line, the giant man guiding the nervous looking group towards a dock. Hermione felt the air leave her throat in a silent gasp when her eyes clocked the view of Hogwarts in all it’s glory from the Dock side. She could see the castle that was Hogwarts lit up at the other side of the lake. The water between them and the school shimmering gently. It was breath-taking and Hermione found herself mesmerised by the way the torch lights flickered on the water surface and seamed to twinkle as if they were truly stars. The scene, one she was sure would follow her for a life time, reminded the brunette of the many fairy tail stories she had been told by different caretakers from time to time. It was picturesque and it filled Hermione with such a tender sort of surety that she belonged that the young witch almost felt herself tear up.

At the same time it also made her excitement grow as they boarded the small row boats in little groups. Prompted by the giant man to hold on tightly and keep their limbs inside the boat at all times. Hogwarts in all its glory against the clear night sky was enough for her mind not to focus on his strange warning, instead her eyes remained focused on the beauty that was her new home. Not even minding in the slightest when a dark haired girl began to cling to her as they crossed because she was scared of drowning. She simply wrapped an arm around the terrified girl and kept her gaze fixed on the castle and all its splendour. She felt herself fall in love with the castle a little as she looked out at the wondrous place she was to call her home for the next nine months.

As they disembarked and she felt her feet reach solid ground she helped the girl who had clung to her up onto the embankment and straightened the girls robe for her. She quietly inspected her. The girls dark hair hung loosely down to the middle of her back, her dark brown eyes were kind and she smiled shyly at Hermione when she noticed that she was being scrutinised. The brunette breaking her own rules of solitary life, decided to offer the girl her hand in greeting. The girls kind eyes convincing the brunette that maybe this once she could try to make an exception.

"I'm Hermione Granger." she offered quietly, although a little hesitantly. She held out a clammy hand and Hermione found herself smiling gently when her hand was shook firmly. The firmness of the girls handshake pleased her, Matron had taught her from the time she could adequately coordinate hand eye movement how to shake someone's hand properly. The knowledge that even something as simple as a hand shake could tell you a lot about a person was engrained in her head. A weak handshake was, in her Matron’s opinion, a sign of a weak character and therefore such a person was not meant to be offered any form of trust.

"I'm Cho, Cho Chang, it's nice to meet you Hermione." the girl responded with a hint of her own anxiety. Hermione nodded to show she had heard her new tentative friend opting to lapse back into silence. They walked quietly back to the castle, content to walk side by side, neither girl keen to break the silence with meaningless chatter.

The man who had been their guide so far stopped them abruptly at the steps of the castle entrance. His booming voice instructing them to wait for Professor McGonagall to fetch them so they could be led inside for the arrival feast. Upon delivering those instructions the large man turned abruptly striding away.

".....Hand me down robe, you must be a Weasley" a familiar snooty voice grit out from between clenched teeth. The brunette reluctantly felt her attention narrow in on the situation developing in front of her and she knew instinctively that she had tuned in halfway through some sort of confrontation. Draco Malfoy stood at the front of their group, a sneer plastered on his face, aimed in the direction of one of the red headed boys she had followed onto platform 9 3/4 earlier. Beside him stood a dark haired scruffy looking boy with glasses.

"You'll soon find that some wizarding families are better than others Potter, you don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." Malfoy continued and Hermione found herself wanting to curse him. Not because of what he had said but because of how arrogant he sounded. His prejudice she could excuse, after all how could he be blamed for believing in that which he had been taught his whole life. His arrogance however, that infuriated her. There was no need for his arrogance. The brunette strongly believed that an individuals upbringing was not an excuse for poor behaviour. After all she had surely proven that upbringing didn't weigh much in a person's kindness? If anyone had a right to act insufferable it was those who had experienced hardship, trauma and pain yet here she was and here he was. His arrogance shinning while all she wanted was to fade into the scenery.

She hadn't heard Mr Potters response nor did she notice Professor McGonagall arrive on the steps but it was the older woman's voice that drew her out of her head.

".......if you will follow me in to the great hall. The sorting ceremony shall begin promptly." The familiar lilting Scots voice sounded shaking off the thoughts that still lingered in her mind. Hermione let herself be carried along by the thrum of students as they entered the great hall. A room that was just as beautiful as the outside grounds had been. It had four long tables, each sporting their respective house colours. The ceiling was adorned by low hanging chandeliers, candles and the constellations shone above, charmed onto the ceiling. She silently wondered, as they came to a stop at the very front of the hall, how many of her peers had read the passage in Hogwarts: a History that spoke of the charmed ceiling, though she chose to keep such a statement to herself. She didn't want to make a name for herself, and certainly didn't want a repeat of muggle school where she had been known as a know-it-all for simply knowing the answer to every question a teacher had ever asked her.

The bullying had been horrendous and she refused to become a victim of the same treatment once again. Not here. In a world so full of wonder she still wasn't convinced she wasn't actually dreaming it all up, her own vivid imagination creating the wonders that lay before her.

"Abbot, Hannah" Professor McGonagall called, drawing Hermione’s attention from the delightful sight above her, to the front. Taking in the raised dais that was directly in front of them and the large elongated table that sat at the back of the platform. Teachers lining it at one side, Their attention on the student body. Professor McGonagall stood at the front, holding an old tattered wizards hat, the brown leather looked as if it had been around for as long as the school. A dark brown wooden stool stood beside her.

Hermione watched enthralled as Hannah Abbot sat on the stool, a look of nervousness overtaking her features. The hat was placed on her head and Hermione beamed when it came to life suddenly, talking away without sound as it studied the mind within the head it was placed on. It was silent for a few moments more before the hat opened its mouth. "HUFFLEPUFF" it declared before falling still once again. It happened just as her book had described it would and she felt anticipation coil in her stomach as she continued to watch the sorting ceremony.

Slowly each name was called out alphabetically and one by one her peers were placed. Each respective house rejoicing for each new student that joined them. Her new acquaintance Cho Chang was placed in Ravenclaw. Hermione thought it a good choice. Cho's quiet intelligence was definitely clear to anyone that paid attention to the sheen of knowledge that gleamed in her eyes. Once her own name was called the young brunette took a deep breath, centring herself. She made her way up to the wooden stool, calm in appearance just like she had been taught. Professor McGonagall offering her a reassuring smile, squeezing her shoulder in encouragement as she placed the hat on her head. The brunette wiped her sweaty palms on her trouser legs subtly as she sat. Her mind yet again focusing on her earlier dilemma  regarding where she would be placed.

"Hmmmm and what do we have here?” The brash voice of the sorting hat sounded in her head. Interrupting the brunette’s inner monologue and making the girl listen with bated breath as the hat analysed her. “little lost girl, little lost girl not for long, isn't your mind a wonder" The hat was making no sense to the brunette as she listened, her face a picture of confusion as the hat babbled in her mind. She hadn’t the slightest of clues as to what the strange hat meant? It’s phrasing baffled her. Little lost girl? She knew exactly where she was so she wasn't lost was she? "Where to put you.... hmmm difficult choice I see. A mind bright enough for Ravenclaw, brave enough for Gryffindor, loyal as a Hufflepuff and as cunning as a Slytherin. All good choices. You'd fit them all...." the hat continued to ramble, seemingly listing off pros and cons as to where she would be best placed but making no real progress. She zoned the voice out, content to let it rant and ramble to itself all it pleased while she took in the students around her and puzzled over the relics words.

Gryffindor seemed a rowdy bunch, littered with redheads. They were laughing and joking, twin boys seemingly in the centre of it all. They looked rather similar to the student Malfoy had spoke down to and Hermione vaguely recognised them as the red heads she had followed on to the platform in London.

Ravenclaw table sat quietly, all watching her as she watched them. They looked organised and united in a way none if the other tables did. They had left a gap in the middle of the table for the first years. Each new addition to the house had been welcomed and directed to sit in the middle of the table, flanked by the older years. It made her smile to see the way they embraced the new comers.

Hufflepuff table looked to have a similar set up, but she could see the mischief and barely restrained energy contained at the table, barely hidden in the way they all appeared to restrain themselves and it made her cringe slightly. It wasn't a bad thing at all, she just didn't know if she could deal with that energy on a daily basis. There had been a girl of about 12 at the haven when Hermione had been around 5 years old that had contained a similar sort of energy. Hermione had adored the girl greatly and viewed her as the role model she had always dreamt of having, but the girls energy and mischief had gotten her in trouble and she had been sent away to a nunnery. Matron having used her as an example of what happened to wilful girls that didn’t follow her rules. Her loss had devastated Hermione and she knew just looking at this table that she would never feel wholly comfortable with that reminder.

As she moved her analysis to the final table she only spared Slytherin a glance, before turning away from them. She refused to consider a future in that house. Under Mrs Lestrange’s  protection or not, she doubted she'd fit in very well there. Yes she wouldn't be attacked out right thanks to the meddling woman’s instructions but she knew that she would always be a target there for those that saw them self as her betters. She rolled her eyes internally at that thought. Her trained face remaining impassive because even if Matron was not here in person Hermione knew she'd still face a punishment from her if she were caught acting so uncouth in a public place.

The brunette sighed quietly. Her limbs growing a little weary as the sorting hat continued to ramble in her mind. The students grew more and more impatient with the silence as the seconds ticked into minutes. Before she knew it, twelve minutes had already passed and her bottom had grown quite numb from sitting on the hard wood of the stool for so long. Her back protesting the position also.

'Oh for goodness sake pick one please, there's only four houses, one of which we both know I cannot be placed in because of my blood status, another I'd be entirely uncomfortable in so that leaves two. That's a 50/50 chance of picking correctly'  she finally snapped in her mind. The brunette finally losing patience after 15 minutes of indecision with the whole school staring at her. Her outburst stopped the hats rant in its tracks. His voice that of shock when he addressed her once more.

'Oh well then, with that retort there is only one place I'd feel comfortable putting you in despite how unhappy it'll make him. He would prefer you in his house. But very well little lost girl.' the hat replied matter of factly before declaring his choice loudly.

"Ravenclaw!" And the hat was finally lifted from her head. Hermione grit her teeth at the thunderous applause that ruptured all around her. A response she was sure had more to do with the students relief at the sorting finally moving forward than with them being pleased for her personally. Not that she minded. She was just glad to be able to move off of the wooden stool and rejoin the students. The brunette smiled politely as the older students embraced her, when she joined them at the Ravenclaw Table, Their embrace guiding her to an open seat right beside Cho, the other girl beaming at the newest Raven happily.

"Well that took a while, didn't it?" the girl stated, turning back to watch the rest of the students. Hermione didn't feel the need to reply. She could hear the whispered speculation all around her. She could hear the older students talking, voices equally awed and horrified, about how it had never taken so long to sort anyone before. That not even professor McGonagall or Headmaster Dumbledore – the most notable hat stalls in recent history - had taken that long to be sorted. She personally didn't think it mattered very much how long it had taken. It was what it was. She had been sorted and that was that. She was just glad she hadn't been placed in Slytherin. Especially when Draco Malfoy was placed in that house not long after, the entirety of that table erupting at the hats decision.

From then the sorting continued without flaw, students were sorted quickly and the only thing to happen apart from her own hat stall worth noting was Harry Potter, who after a four and a half minute hat stall, was sorted into Gryffindor.

She had read all about Harry Potter in some of the wizarding books she had gotten her hands on over the summer. He was merely two years old when he had apparently killed the darkest wizard in history. Also the most powerful man nest to Albus Dumbledore and the mot sadistic. Although Hermione didn't think the man could have been as powerful as he was made out to be if a mere infant was able to defeat him. Not that all the information available for public consumption had made much sense. It didn't add up to the brunette and she was sure it was something that she would have to look into more in order to understand what had happened better.

After the sorting, Hermione watched in awe as Headmaster Professor Dumbledore snapped his fingers. Food the likes she had never seen appearing on the tables in front of her. It caused her stomach both to lurch in both hunger and protest. Weary about indulging in such rich foods when she had not had much exposure to anything other than the horrific sludge served for every meal at the orphanage. The Haven had always been on a tight budget and Matron rarely splurged on anything more appealing for them to eat. Vying it unnecessary wasting of precious funds. They only ever had other dishes when they had guests coming and even then it was never what you would consider rich. She looked around wearily seeing that everyone, staff and students alike were all tucking in with vigour. All where seemingly not phased by the lavish meal presented to them. There was everything on the table, from golden brown Yorkshire puddings, to well cooked meats, vegetables, soups and stuffing. If that wasn't enough to fill her stomach with apprehension then the cloyingly rich scent that accompanied the many dishes and filled the air would. It was all so... expensive and Hermione didn't know where to start.

With a small pop, Hermione was startled more than she would like to admit when her plate was filled with a small portion of food. A little bit of roast ham, a Yorkshire pudding and some veg. With a small dressing of Gravy for good measure. She glanced up, looking around for the answer to whom had noticed her hesitation and relaxed marginally when she found Professor McGonagall smiling down at her reassuringly. The deputy head offering her a polite nod before turning to engross herself in her own food.

Hermione smiled to herself, a feeling of content settling in her stomach upon feeling her fellow classmate Cho rest a hand on her back gently. The dark haired girl offering Hermione silent reassurance and acknowledgement of support in such a simple gesture. It made her feel warm. Included and as if she truly did have the world at her feet with endless possibilities for the first time in her life. She decided in that moment to simply let whatever was to happen, happen and dismiss all that had come before. Her rocky start on the train and her pure blooded stalker included. She wanted this year and every other year to come to be just as pleasant as the last few seconds of her life had just been.

As she turned to enjoy her own food, Hermione couldn’t help but think that maybe, somehow, she was always meant to have been in this world after all.

Chapter Text

Note:

Edited 04/01/2025

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~ December 21st 1981 ~ Sydenham,  London ~

The rain battered off the dark pavement all around him. Bouncing up to hit his cream coloured dress robes with icy precision. The cold and wet soaking the silk material that had probably cost more galleons than half the muggles around him received as a monthly wage. His steps were brisk and purposeful as he moved along the busy street, fast approaching Sydenham Hill. His eyes darted every which way as he went, his senses on alert to ensure he wasn't followed or seen. This moment was hard fought and he couldn’t risk a mistake. His plans were coming to fruition all around him. Plans that were far too important to risk, ones that had taken months of planning and we wouldn’t tolerate having them spoiled now. Not now when he was so close to securing the future. He knew how important it was for him to get the heavily wrapped bundle he clutched tightly under his robes to where it was needed. The future of the world as he knew it, depended on it. A world that had only just begun to recover from what had been a devastating war. Where countless lives had been lost. Generations decimated, thanks to cold hard prejudice and hatred. It was his duty to ensure those prejudices were righted and the world put back to rights and this was all part of it. He had made sure of it.

He was grateful for the dark, dreary streets that shrouded him. The darkness concealing his very presence from everything around him. The heavy rainfall drowning out his footsteps from potential listening ears. Though the weather wasn't exactly necessary. He was confident in his own power, after all, to hold up the disillusionment he had cast around himself.

He could see his destination now as he turned on to the correct street. The large building he was looking for stood proudly in front of him. This street just as busy as all the others had been. Many unsuspecting muggles milling around him in various moods. Children were dotted all about him. Out unsupervised, at what he would deem a far too late time for youngsters to be out. Left to play and entertain themselves in a way he knew none of his kind ever would again. Not after tonight's news anyway. He knew all wizarding families would hold their children tighter when word broke. Not that he cared in any particular way. Childless and unmarried as he was.

As he drew closer to his destination he tightened his grip on the bundle in his arm. Large pale hands reaching in to his pocket to pull out the fifteen inch wand, made form rare elder wood. The wand settled familiarly, if not a little resistant, in the palm of his hand as he cast a silencing charm on the little bundle in his arms. Not wanting any curious gazes to seek him out as he finally walked through the open gate of The Haven. He didn't hesitate or dawdle as he marched straight up to the heavy brown door.

He placed the bundle down on the doorstep content to leave without further fanfare, only hesitating when the blue grey eyes of the child he had saved caught his attention. Eyes scrunched in upset as the barely two month old screamed silently. The silencing charm he had placed on the baby doing its job wonderfully.

He tucked the blanket around the baby more securely, not particularly worried about the child being concerned but with buying himself a minute as he pondered on what he ought to do. He had thought he had done enough when he had altered the child's magical core. He had bound her core and concealed her family Magik but it was clear he could not leave those eyes as they were, not now that he had gotten a good look at them. They were far too noticeable and would be recognised immediately within the magical community for the family they had come from. The family he had just saved this child from. Once she entered the grounds of Hogwarts looking like that the staff at the very least would know with little difficulty, exactly who spawned her and his plans would crumble. He could not risk such a thing. Their future rode on this child remaining ignorant of her heritage.

He pursed his lips and Focused back on the child's face, he pointed his wand. Softly muttering "Verum abscondere faciem taum" under his breath. Picturing brown eyes, a button nose and freckled cheeks in his mind’s eye. His magic responding with precision as it always did. He watched silently as the little girls face in front of him morphed into the face of a little girl so very different from her mothers. There would be no recognition now upon her entrance of the wizarding world. A final few spells followed his first to block and hide her from ever being found, his spells making her invisible to any attempt to trace her whereabouts. The little blonde tuffs atop her head lengthened, curling and darkening to a shade that matched the brown of her new eye colour. He shivered involuntary, partly due to the wind and partly because he realised he had taken the inspiration for her features from his sister. A girl he had once loved fiercely but had long since been lost to him. He shook the image free as he straightened. His right hand reaching back inside his robes for the small piece of parchment he had already prepared.

After tucking the letter inside the blankets he had left wrapped around the child, he stood. Pushing the doorbell of the door in front of him and moving silently but quickly to the gate. He remained under his glamour. His presence concealed from the middle aged muggle woman that had come to answer the door. The man watched with a smile as the woman's eyes widened comically when she spotted the silently screaming baby. Not that she needed to be concerned, he thought. The child was fine and the silencing spell would ware off eventually. They should be grateful for the few hours peace that he had granted them before she was screaming loudly once more. He wasn't naïve enough to think she would be an easy child. Her parents weren't ones for abiding by the rules. She wouldn't be either. He almost felt pity for these muggles, unequipped as they were to handle a magical child. But they'd do their best and that was all that  really mattered.

"Oh goodness gracious! Eleanor!! Eleanor come quick!! It's a babe! Left outside." the muggle called in alarm, disbelief colouring her tone. He smirked in silent satisfaction as the letter was read and the baby swept up into gentle arms. He had done right in removing her from her parents he was sure. She would have been raised in the wrong way, taught to be ruthless and cruel instead of kind and forgiving. She'd be raised a soldier. A formidable one and despite her young age she already possessed powerful magic, he hated to think just what it could and would be twisted into if she were left with her birth parents.

'Oh good' he thought. The child was much better off here, just as he had thought she would be before taking her. These people would take care of her. They would raise her right and the fact that they were much kinder than her parents (anyone would be) helped greatly.

He nodded once, watching as the child was carried inside, the door firmly pressed shut. Satisfied that this would be the last he saw of the child before she was of Hogwarts age he made a sharp turn. He swished his wand and with a loud echoing crack he disappeared from the street. As if he had never been there at all, All that was left  was a muddy print from soiled shoes that would never be found. The Haven home for girls and the child he had graciously saved left behind without a second thought. Content in the knowledge that for the foreseeable future she was not his problem to deal with. At least for a few years she wasn't. The muggles would have to deal with her. Not that he had any real desire to think much more on the situation. He had more important tasks to oversee now.

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~ December 25th 1981~ Location: Azkaban, North Sea ~

Her scream was piercing as she shook and sobbed. Her chains clanging loudly against rough stone as they pulled at her wrists and ankles tightly, skin pealing as it was rubbed raw by the rusting metal that contained her.

Her eyes, now dull and sunken, screamed agony as they flashed at the guard lingering by her cell in warning. The incompetent bald headed fool, stood just out of reach as he taunted her. Safe behind the bars that caged her, his distance stopping any attempt she may have made to punish him for his continuous slights against her.

The cuffs around her ankles and wrists,  were coupled with the magic suppressing wards that lined the cells. A cruel measure that denied her the use of her magic. All she could do was scream out her anger and pain.

Scream and cry and sob.

The Daily Prophet article he held up, pressed maliciously against the bars, had her heart crumbling as she looked upon the anguished face of her sister in all but blood and her sisters wife. Their two eldest daughters cradled in their arms. Still babes really but their little faces pained with a grief that she felt herself as she learned of her God child’s fate.

It made her feel powerless, her arms straining against her tethers. Every bone in her body demanding that she fix this, that she find her niece. Her panicked bloody hands reaching for the article with a frenzy she felt.

Anguish and heart break coursed through her for the girl that had been as close to her as her sister as the grew.

Devastation For her pseudo nieces.

Desperation. For something.

Anything, that would rid her of the hollow void that seeped within her bones. A hollowness that had nothing to do with the soul sucking Dementors that had so graciously paid her a visit earlier in the day. They had not stayed long. Vile, disgusting creatures that they were fed off ones happiness and she had her entire happiness ripped away from her before she ended up here.

They couldn't feed of off what she did not possess.

She let out a humorous chuckle, unaware that she had gone quiet while her once brilliant mind failed to come up with a way to be of use to her sister and her innocent little nieces.

"Oh no did I upset your feelings?" The disgusting man mock pouted at her. His laughter cruel as he waved the paper. Her families tear stained faces catching in the dim light of the moon outside as it fought its way into her cell through the cracked stone.

"Poor, poor Mrs Malfoy. Oh how I savour seeing you like this. Pitiful little thing you are now, no?" He asked through laughter, tilting his head in faux sympathy. Clearly getting pleasure out of watching her suffer in such a way.

She growled, using the little strength she had to launch herself forward towards the man, despite knowing it was futile. He stepped back in reflexivity. Fear flashing in his leering eyes before he barked a laugh. Realisation dawning on ogre like features that she couldn't get to him as her movement forward caused her to snap backwards, her frail frame being forced into the wall behind her. Shaky legs almost coming out from under her as she hissed in fury. Her anger, red hot.

"Stupid, filthy little creature." she spat back. Doing her best to summon her usual icy indifference but his words had done the damage already. Slithered into and under her skin, her already fragile mind and heart bruising irreparably. His words striking deep, venomously.

His taunting only rubbing salt further into the internal wounds she had already opened herself at her failure. She forced her chin up, years of pureblood training helping her give the illusion of togetherness as she gathered herself as best she could. All emotion eradicated from her face as she turned away from the pathetic man and took a deliberate seat on the grimy, damp covered floor. The weakness in her legs hidden, as they shook with the barely restrained grief she felt.

She had failed. She had failed her sister, her family. She had failed her godchild and her last ditch attempt at gaining information from the only two people she could access had been fouled before she even had a chance to interrogate them. Now she was locked up in this wretched place with no way out. She doubted her spineless husband would be of any use to her family and her baby boy... goodness her baby boy would be left in his father's care. Lucius would teach him all the wrong things.

And Andromeda, her dear sweet sister, watched by the blasted ministry as she was, after the fall of the almighty dark lord, she sneered slightly, would be powerless to interfere. The ministry breathing down her neck at all times, monitoring her every move. More than likely driving her Andy up the wall because Merlin knew her sister had never had any sort of patience. Especially for fools and the ministry were exactly that. Fools that thought with their wallets more often than their brains and it showed.  

Not that she would ever find out any of that.

Trapped here as she was.

She sighed, her mind ignoring the man's continued insults and taunts. She let her mind do what it had done best in her childhood. She let it take her away from reality, lost within her own daydreams. She would let the passing seconds and minutes slip into meaningless entities as she existed outside her body for a while.

Resigning herself. Though she couldn't resist the urge to scare the wretch slightly. She laughed coldly, the sound grating like ice in the ears of all around her. Her dark angry eyes turned to look at the guard one last time.

"I never forget a face, let's hope I never have the chance to darken your doorway." she whispered menacingly, ice and a fiery sort of hatred dripping from every syllable. She turned back around. Her chin held up haughtily as she shut herself off completely from the world around her.

Not bothering to wait for a response.

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~ December 25th 1982 ~ The Haven, Sydenham, London ~

"Eleanor, I do not know what to do with this" the middle aged nanny cried out in alarm. Wide fearful eyes watching thick prickly vines encircle the tiny screaming baby they had taken in mere days before.

Yet again.

It was the fifth time in not so many days it had happened. The thick vines cutting their access off to the child that desperately needed their care. It was all a bit of a contradiction really. They couldn't understand why it kept happening. How could plants grow out of nothing so quickly? Why did they grow around the baby? How did the plant know where the baby was? Because despite moving her crib countless times the plants still grew. Always growing wherever she was and needing to be cut through bit by bit. Kitchen knives weren't very effective tools in cutting through vines.

Eleanor came in and sighed tiredly. Wordlessly gesturing to the knife that lay upon a side table in a silent prompt for the middle aged nanny to get on with it. The child's desperate wailing beginning to grate on the whole house.

The other children had complained countless times in the last few days. The staff too had taken to bemoaning the loud arrival and Matron Eleanor was the worst. In her mid-forties the woman had little patience for screaming infants. They weren't very useful for very much at all and the dour faced woman had no tolerance for that which wasn’t useful to her, she had made it clear on day one the little infant would not be her responsibility and so it had fallen to the only other qualified nanny available to care for her.

The woman dutifully freed the little one from within the confines of her floral prison. Once the vines were cut through, the nanny rushed to the distraught child's side. Her cries of hunger and upset insistent and loud. A stark contrast to a few days ago when the child had screamed her discontent silently.

She picked the child up careful, ever mindful of her head, she began to bounce her gently, in an effort to soothe her. She brought the bottle of warm milk that she had prepared a little while prior to the infants mouth. Tiny lips latching on and sucking greedily. Tears still streaming down dull brown fearful little eyes.

It was a pitiful sight. It tore at the Nanny's heart as she continued to whisper reassurances. She wondered silently what could cause a child so young to act in such a distraught manor. What was so horrifying that it had left a mere two month old child so distraught that sleep was barely existent to the tot and all her waking hours were spent screaming and crying.

She didn't think she had seen the girl smile once yet. Exhausted little cries and pained wailing seamed to be the extent of the girls capabilities and the Nanny had begun to worry about her health. It was perhaps wise to see to it that the little one was checked by a doctor in the coming days.

She paced over to the rocker that sat in the corner of the small make shift nursery. The girl tucked securely against her chest as she fed. Still crying those heart breaking tears. She sat, Matron Eleanor looking on with a scowl.

"I do wish she would stop that awful noise." the other woman sniffed before turning and stalking off now that the child was no longer trapped in a circle of thorns.

The nanny sighed, a deep exhausted sort of breath that had her drawing all the calm she could into weary bones. She began to hum lightly. Though she knew it wouldn't do much to soothe little Hermione but she couldn't just do nothing and she hoped that even if it didn’t do much the soft sounds would begin to ease the infants distress even slightly. God knew she didn’t have much to give the poor thing so rocking the girl, holding her and humming was all she could offer.

She prayed it would be enough.

It had to be.

Chapter Text

Edited: 05/01/2025 – 07/01/2025

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~ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry ~

~ October 31st 1991 ~

~ Hermione's POV~

Life at Hogwarts certainly wasn't what Hermione had expected it to be. She loved the castle, her classes, even many of her professors. She had long found her way around the castle, memorising and mastering the patterns of those pesky moving stairs that had got many of the first years in a bit of a tizzy on the first week and she was able to solve her daily riddles to enter and leave Ravenclaw tower almost subconsciously with zero effort. On a wholly functional, academic point of view Hermione felt as if she were truly flourishing here at Hogwarts and her life had never been more engaging.

She had even, in many ways, grown rather tolerant and excepting of the weekly letters that Mrs Lestrange had taken to sending her. The woman’s intentions continued to be a source of confusion and mystery for the Muggle-born, but she had come to learn that the woman was entirely harmless at arm’s length and had remained polite and respectful in her correspondence. The pure-blooded witch had written to Hermione to congratulate her on her sorting after her first night. She had made comment about it being a shame that Hermoine hadn’t been placed in Slytherin where she would be protected but had ultimately told her that she was proud of her. How the woman had found out where she was sorted so quickly, the brunette didn't know but she hadn't replied. She had decided that despite how harmless the letters appeared she was going to completely ignore the woman in hopes she would simply go away. 

Lady Lestrange, had of course not stopped writing to her weekly, sometimes twice weekly and so they had gotten themselves into a bit of a routine. Mrs Lestrange would write about the weather, her daughter, her new favourite recipe and Hermione would read them. She would devour the contents before placing the letters in a little box she kept hidden under her bed. Andromeda never received a reply. But she didn’t stop writing the brunette either.

Mrs Lestrange had also taken to gifting Hermione books of varying complexity and topic. Every book was about magic, spell craft or the magical world's politics. She had devoured them of course. Silently appreciating the contents in each, often staying up well into the night to scribble her own notes before sending them back to the witch without comment. She hoped the witch thought Hermione wasn't reading them, simply returning them whenever she had the chance. 

Yet it hadn't deterred Lady Lestrange in the slightest. In the grand scheme of things maybe she should try harder to figure out what the woman wanted. Alarm bells continued to ring in her mind at the whole situation, what would an elite member of pureblood society want to gain in trying to befriend a ten year old muggle-born orphan? Hermione refused to believe there was zero motivation behind the women’s actions but she simply hadn't found the time to question it further or investigate. In-between studying the gifted books sent by the woman, her own coursework and trying to master her magic, she had very little time to herself. 

She had found that life at Hogwarts meant that she was constantly learning and she was never bored. There was always something else for her to investigate or occupy herself with, the castle and all its nooks and crevice’s held a wealth of knowledge the likes she had never seen before and Hermione planned to fully enjoy every minute of the opportunity she had been granted. As such she couldn't find all that much to complain about with her new life within the magical world. She felt at home there, a foreign feeling for the orphan and she could feel herself thriving as she immersed herself in the wealth of learning material. 

Despite all that was going well for her, Hermoine reluctantly had to admit that she was beginning to feel quite lonely, her familiar Crookshanks was a fabulous comfort to the muggle born girl but her rather large cat loved exploring the castle and Hermione couldn’t find it in her to ask him not too. Outside of the scruffy looking ginger cat, she had very little in the way of friends and this had started to cause her some distress. Not that she would ever let that show though. She had only made one friend so far – The girl from the boat that first night. Cho was her one sanctuary in the chaos around her. The other girl seemed to sense Hermione's preference for quiet and would often work soundlessly beside her whenever they had spare time together. A quiet source of strength and companionship forming between them quite naturally. They had spent many an evening in the library studying, or secluded in a corner in the tower, ignoring the hustle and bustle of the other students. The few times they did talk Hermione found herself enjoying the conversation because Cho never pushed. She always let Hermione set the pace, always moving on flawlessly from topics the brunette showed discomfort with. Never seeking more from the reserved brunette than the girl was willing to offer and for that Hermione was truly thankful. Cho had learned quickly that the less pressure Hermione felt, the more she was comfortable with her surroundings.

However, Cho couldn't always hang out with Hermione, though just as studious as her, Cho was quite popular. She was a pureblood, from a well-respected family and had grown up with a lot of their peers. The Chang’s were well off and ate with the elite in the wizarding. They were part of the Sacred 28, not that Hermione thought that was impressive, and her family very much followed the societal etiquette required from someone of Pureblood status. Again Hermione didn’t understand much about it all but she could see by the way her friend had sheepishly told her of this that it was important to her and the brunette would never stop her friend from doing that which was important to her. Even if It meant that the brunette often found herself alone at meal times and a few evenings during the week. 

But therein lay the problem. Slytherin house avoided her, they glared fiercely at her and never spoke to her when they could help it. Every word they did exchange with her was tinged with disgust and yet they had never hexed her or tormented her and the young witch guessed that they were far to scared of angering Lady Lestrange to go against her wishes. They moved around her with hesitance and fear, keeping distance whenever possible. It made her feel like a pariah in the place where she should be focused on learning and thriving. Hufflepuff avoided her too, mainly because they never got any sort of conversation out of her, not that they hadn’t tried. Hermione found them overwhelming and often found herself shutting down without intending to whenever a Hufflepuff approached. By nature Hufflepuff were so very respectful of others, and it was because of this no one ever prompted Hermione into any sort of friendship with them. She was quiet and focused so they gave her space but were polite whenever they interacted. Though that interaction only happened on the rare occasion. 

The Hufflepuff’s polite distance was far better however than the way her own house and Gryffindor  had began to approached her. 

Her own house seemed to despise her for her cleverness despite their initial warmth towards her when she was first sorted. When reading about the House system she had never imagined that a house that prided itself on knowledge would be so inherently competitive. So much so that despite her best efforts not to come off as overly clever, she had failed. As a result she had quickly learned that her desire to excel had outweighed her desire to fit in. It came with the disappointing, albeit not unexpected acceptance that those around her were truly too arrogant to ever fully accept her. Even when Hermione was actively trying not to show how much of a grasp she had of the syllabus her professors had begun commenting on how studious and clever she was. They praised her openly and it had sown seeds of resentment with her peers. She was top of all their classes, in every subject the school offered and in many circumstances far surpassed her peers with the level of detail and information she provided in her work. Her marks far surpassing all those of pureblood also. It made interactions with her housemates tense, their glares and jealousy making her uncomfortable despite Cho's comfort. Though the brunette couldn’t understand why they had chosen to alienate her.

Gryffindor were all-together different. They were too loud and brash for her and apparently she was too different for them. Too bookish and smart. Naturally that meant she had become their main target for teasing and bullying whenever they could. Particularly for Ronald Weasley and his little group of neanderthals. They took every opportunity they got to tease her for whatever reason they deemed appropriate. 

Her hair, thick wild brown ringlets…. Was far too wild that they wondered if anyone had ever introduced her to a hair brush.

Her robes, picked by Professor McGonagall and identical to every other girls uniform within the walls of the castle….. were too girly. 

Her cleverness, expressed silently and with hesitance to make others feel more comfortable….. was too much. 

Her lack of friends. How quiet she was. Her plain looks and buttoned nose. 

There truly wasn't an aspect of her that they had left unpicked. Their cruelty targeting every single insecurity she had. At first it hadn't bothered her, she was made of stronger stuff than that. She had survived the muggle orphanages her whole life for Merlin's sake! She wouldn't let little boys bring her down surely, even if they were strategically picking her entire sense of self to pieces. 

But then it continued. On and on it went. Each and every day. 

Eventually it had gotten too much and she had cracked, silent tears dripping down her petite face as she fled for some sense of sanctuary. It was why she had decided to come here, to the girls prefect bathroom near the Dungeons. No one ever came down here during the day so it was the perfect place to escape and hide for a little while when things became too overwhelming for her. Today was one of those days when she had overheard the ginger boy - Ronald Weasley, ring leader - bad mouthing her in front of his little friends. Simply because she could cast a darn spell correctly and he couldn't. 

Even now she could hear his darn mocking in her mind, his ghastly boyish imitation of her wrung uncomfortably in her ears. 

"It's Wingardium LeviOsa not Wingardium LevioSA" he had sneered, elbow jostling Harry Potter, who sniggered in mirth. Admittedly it wasn't anything all too different from his usual cruelty and despite his whiny voice being the single most annoying sound she had ever heard in her life, she didn't usually let his mocking get to her. 

Today however it had been the last straw in her overly emotional state, weeks of torment and feelings of loneliness colliding in a hurricane within her, the uncomfortable mass of emotion making her feel as if she were completely drowning. 

She had dashed past them, head down and unwilling to let them see her cry. She had all but ran to her favourite place of seclusion, locking herself in the closest dimly lit stall before she had sobbed. Loudly and for what felt like a long time. Her emotions brimming and boiling out of her. She had spent far too many weeks simply getting on with things and powering through all the torment and teasing. Now that the lid had been lifted on those emotions the brunette found it all bubbling out of her all at once. Ugly and uncontrollable in its ferocity. It had been a long time coming, she supposed. No one could truly endure the amount of ridicule she had without crumbling just a little. Not even her. At least she, unlike many, had the sense to do so in private, away from prying eyes. She wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her stoic demeanour crack any more than it already had. She was stronger than that. She always had been and always would be. 

Hermione sighed tiredly as she moved to right herself. It was dinner time and she ought to make an appearance lest anyone get the wrong idea. She would so loathe to let them think that they had successfully succeeded in driving her away from Hogwarts. She brought her shaking thumbs to her face, gently wiping at her tear filled eyes. Drying them as she stood up from her place on the toilet lid (sanitised by herself before she had sat down of course). 

Her hands, now thankfully steady, smoothed any wrinkles out of her robes as she made for the door. She felt much calmer now that she had finally let herself fall apart. It was time now to put herself back together and get on with things. Like she had done so many times before, in both the distant and not so distant past. With a flick of her wand and a soft murmur the door unlocked, swinging open slowly to allow her exit of the stall she had chosen as her safe place for a few hours.

She winced sharply as the bright toilet lights flooded her stinging eyes. Her sight struggling to adjust after so much time spent in such a poorly lit space. She blinked several times as her vision returned to her.

When the bathroom finally came in to focus again the brunette found herself inhaling a sharp breath, shocked as she glanced up. 

Of all the things she had experienced in life, to end up face to face with the overly large troll in front of her was perhaps the most bizarre of them all. She shivered in disgust when the stench of the creature reached her nose. It stank of sewage, the pungent aroma coiling in her nose and throat, forcing the brunette to clamp a hand over her mouth as she willed herself not to retch. It grunted strangely, an awful sound that sent shivers down her spine. She watched a little horror struck as it seemed to sense her. Its large grime covered body twisting round to face her, its head vaguely humanoid, if human heads had features so pinched together and ill proportioned. Yellow stained teeth and a large mouth that dripped drool, disgustingly mixing with the slime that appeared to be streaming thickly from its deformed nostrils. 

It was a horrid looking creature. An abomination really but who was she to judge so harshly? 

"Hello there sir." she spoke, raising her voice to be heard over the trolls' continued grunting. She got the sense it was trying to size her up, its head canted slightly to the side at the sound of her voice. Beady little eyes focused intently on her. It seemed almost curious to her and Hermione found herself mirroring its movement, it’s strange actions reminding her of a curious puppy. All be it a horribly unkempt one. Hermione tilted her head to the side as if she too was trying to work out the trolls intentions. She had bit back her fear the second it had turned to her. She remembered reading somewhere that creatures often reacted to emotion: fear, anger, maliciousness often provoking violence. She opted to remain calm, if she could convince it she meant no harm and was unafraid maybe it wouldn't try to pulverise her with that massive dirty wooden club it grasped tightly in its right hand? 

As if by instinct, Hermoine felt her heart slow, her palms, initially shaking upon sight of the overly large creature, stilled and she found herself taking a centring breath in.

"I mean you no harm Mr Troll. I was just in the bathroom. I was about to leave to have some dinner, I didn't mean to disturb you." she explained, gently but firmly when she was ready to speak. She would be lying if she said she wasn't internally feeling a little foolish at standing there trying to hold a conversation with a creature that didn't appear to have the ability to speak her language let alone understand her. Yet she could try, couldn't she? She doubted many had. Especially seeing as her initial reaction had been fear and the urge to reach for her wand to hex the intimidating thing. Hermione knew she was a little bit of a bleeding heart, she had never had it in her to harm anything around her and this troll would be no different. She wouldn't harm it if she could get away with it but she would certainly defend herself if she needed to. 

When the troll merely looked at her in confusion Hermione internally rejoiced a little. Her logical mind forming the assumption that maybe just maybe the troll could understand her after all. She sat down slowly, crossing her legs in a rather unladylike fashion. Matron be damned, life or death situations were no time to be worrying over proper seating etiquette among ladies. She doubted the troll really cared if it could see a flash of her bare leg. The brunette stifled the urge to flinch backwards and the squeak of surprise that tried to slither up her throat. Her honey brown eyes glued to the creature's movement as it began to lower itself down to the ground. Almost imitating her in the way it sat down on the cold tiles below them. 

Once it was settled, its club laid to rest beside its right knee, Hermione smiled knowingly. Her eyes met the creatures yet again, a spark of mirth echoed back at her in the Trolls murky green eyes. 

"You can understand me." She stated, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge. The troll seemed to mull her words over in its mind. Dense eyebrows furrowed in thought, large hands coming to rest on the trolls knees. 

"I can." It finally stated in perfect English. Hermione felt both of her eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline in surprise. Not expecting the deep gravely English tone to come from such a large seemingly unintelligent being. 

"You can." She repeated instead. Her head nodding in acknowledgement, wiping the surprise from her face as she settled into a more neutral facade. "Hermione Jean Granger." She offered after a beat. Not wanting the silence to linger just in case the creature decided to clam up and return to its fear inducing grunts. 

"Garth." The creature replied, a slightly creepy looking smile adorning his face. "You are a strange witch, your kind don't ever engage with us unless they are trying to harm us." Garth observed matter of factly, his eyes continuing to study her.

Hermione rolled her own eyes. Unsurprised at the statement.

She had gathered very quickly that wizarding kind, human kind in general if she were truly honest, seemed to have somewhat of a superiority complex. All but refusing to consider that creatures held the potential to be just as, if not more than, capable of engaging on equal ground. 

"I'd apologise but I cannot be the one to do so for it is not my mistake rendering my attempt to do so futile and meaningless. I can say however I am sorry that has been your experience. Us humans can be a little oblivious at times to what is so obviously in front of our very noses." The brunette offered in reply to his obvious curiosity.

"That I know, but the fault as you say is not yours as you seat yourself to talk rather than throw your magic at me." Garth responded, his voice sounding a little confused still over her actions. 

"I will not lie, my first reaction was fear and the urge to lash out. Years of self-control however has taught me that thinking outside of the box is often better than trying to remain within it. I do wonder however how it was you came to traverse the halls of a protected magical establishment?" She canted her head, praying that he would enlighten her. Curiosity rearing its head within her as she sat there calmly in front of the large creature. 

"I am thankful you have a mind that allows such radical thinking. As for how I got here, I am unsure. The last thing I remember is a man in black robes storming towards me and then…." He paused as if thinking hard about his next words. Hermione thought she saw a brief flicker of irritation cross his marred face before it was gone and he was shrugging. "…and then, I woke up within these strange walls and have been looking for a way out ever since. Though if I recall the man ha-" his sentence cut off abruptly. 

"Wingardium Leviosa!" The spell rang out in a fearful enraged voice and Hermione had no time to react as Garth's club rose quickly from its place on the floor, abruptly falling when the spell was cut. The sturdy wooden weapon connected with the troll's skull loudly. The sound reverberating all around the bathroom with a sudden thunk, bouncing off and shattering through two of the sinks behind Garth. She yelped in alarm, jumping up and away as Garth's large form toppled forward towards her. 

His full weight hitting the floor in a way that the brunette knew would be painful to him. His head and upper torso ripping through the flimsy wooden stall doors she had sat in front of seconds before hand. The wood flattened under the troll's weight. The brown eyed girl cursed silently, furious eyes turning up to lock eyes with her potential new friends' attackers. She growled quietly when she met the piercing green eyes of Harry Potter, flicking from his to lock with furious blue eyes. Ronald Weasley! her mind supplied in annoyance. Of course the ginger headed brat had to be the one to ruin something for her. 

"Oh thank merlin Hermione! We thought for sure the troll was going to eat you." Harry almost seemed genuinely concerned, his eyes glinting with an emotion she couldn't quite understand as Ron Weasley nodded beside him. 

"I was fine, I had the situation perfectly under control thank you very much!" She replied indignantly, much more than a little offended at their apparent doubt in her own ability to protect herself. Though she supposed that maybe they had a right to be concerned? What other ten year old could face a mountain troll and say she lived to have a conversation with the creature? It was extremely bizarre, wholly unlikely and the more she thought about it the more she realised the truth would not be believed. "Oh please Hermione, it would have squashed you alive and you know it. We saved your life, the very least you could do is show a little gratitude." The ginger headed boy spat, glaring at her in challenge. His face turning a deep shade of red, Hermione would say he was attempting to camouflage himself to match the Gryffindor colours but she had her suspicions that the two lion cubs in front of her wouldn't be as appreciative of her humour as she herself was. 

She narrowed her eyes in defiance, his tone irritating her further. Though any retort she could think of was cut short with the arrival of professors McGonagall, Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell. The three entered the bathroom with wands drawn. Obviously prepared for an altercation with the troll. The troll that Hermione was sure was now knocked out cold, lying amongst the destruction of what was once a perfectly working bathroom.

An expression of horror and confusion on all three of the professor's faces had Hermione yet again rolling her eyes internally. An action she seemed to be doing ever increasingly at this school. Especially surrounded by the ridiculousness of her fellow students. 

"Wha- what?-" 

"How on earth-" 

"Explain yourselves this instant!" All three spoke at once, Professor McGonagall's stern tone drowning out the other two as she stepped forward, further into the utter pandemonium around them. Worried and angry eyes scanning all three students in front of her and Hermione could see that the stern elderly woman was battling her need to chastise them with her need to make sure they were alright.

"Well you see professor, Harry and I came looking for Hermione when we realised she had foolishly gone off to try and deal with this troll on her own. We managed to knock it out just in time to stop it flattening her." Ron lied with such an innocently concerned tone that Hermione would have believed him if she had not been there to witness what had actually occurred. It shouldn't surprise her that someone who had grown up with as many older siblings as he had would know how to lie and act the innocent party so effectively. She seethed quietly as the older witch nodded her head in acceptance, apparently believing the buffoon of a boy easily, the Professor taking his false words at face value as she turned a disappointed expression towards Hermione. 

"Is this the truth Miss Granger?" It was Professor Snape who spoke up, asking the question she knew McGonagall had wanted too. She was happy to hear the scepticism in the potions professor's tone, glad that at least someone on the school’s faculty could sense the deception around them. 

Hermione glanced up, keen eyes spotting the smug look on Ron's face and the almost blank one on Harry's. She would quite like to wipe those smug smiles off of their faces. She looked up at professor Snape, allowing her anger to seep through into her expression a little, subtly letting him see she was displeased before she constructed her face back into her routine neutral expression. She nodded minutely, blank eyes meeting Professor McGonagall’s searching gaze with her own defiant brown. 

"It's true." She said simply, her voice completely void of all emotion. She knew a losing battle when she saw one. There was very little point to her arguing with the dunder head and his minion in front of their professors. McGonagall would believe Ron and Harry simply because they were in her House. Quirrell had proven time and time again that he was too much of a pushover to offer much of anything and Professor Snape was seen as a bit of a villain amongst those in the castle. Rumours were rife amongst the students regarding his participation in the last blood war, even now nine years later. He was cold and indifferent to everyone around him regardless of who they were. He also didn't have many friends and she knew he would not stick his neck out to defend her, especially with little to no proof of what had actually occurred in the now ruined bathroom. 

Best she suck it up and remains quiet lest she incur more punishment than what she knew she was about to receive. 

"Mr Potter, Mr Weasley. Although rather foolish to come yourselves I commend you for acting so quickly, it would be a tragedy to us all here at Hogwarts if you had not got here in time. Ten points each to Gryffindor for showing bravery in the face of a classmate's foolishness." The older witch spoke warmly, a small proud smile pulling up the corners of her lips. "As for you Miss Granger, minus fifty points to Ravenclaw for utter recklessness and disregard for your own and others safety." Professor McGonagall continued, her tone dripping with disappointment. Her previous warmth was gone, replaced by stern features and pursed lips as she turned to leave the room, pausing in the doorway to glance back at her. 

"And a month's detention every evening with me." She stated as she departed, without a backwards glance. 

Hermione didn't get a chance to respond, the bitter taste of copper filling he mouth as she bit her tongue to stop the urge to retort angrily at the dismissive woman. It would be pointless. Hermione knew that arguing with Professor McGonagall had never got anyone, anywhere. The older witch was as stubborn as they came, especially when it came to defending her cubs. Despite the fact Hermione secretly craved to be defended by someone in such a way, she really had little patience to engage. Her heart hammering wildly in response to the utter disappointment Professor McGonagall had addressed her with. It made her feel insignificant. Unworthy of the warmth the older woman had given so freely to the boys, despite her lack of wrongdoing. Her mind raced, aching for an ounce of comfort and warmth in ways she knew she would never receive. It was moments like this one that truly reminded her that she was little more than an orphan. Cast aside by her parents when she was a mere baby and abandoned repeatedly ever since. 

She clenched her fists against the pain of such thoughts, she used every ounce of strength she could to lock her emotions down tightly. It wouldn't do for her to crumble again so soon after she had just barely collected herself. She forced her chin up indignantly, refusing to show just how annoyed and hurt she was as Harry and Ron shot smug looks towards her and whispered their thanks as they passed. Thanks for what she did not know. Nor did she care, the fiery defiance she had felt at the beginning of this whole ordeal abandoning her in the face of harsh reality.

A warm hand rested on her shoulder briefly, startling her and forcing the brunette to look up. Professor Snape looked down at her with a look akin to approval and sympathy, as he awkwardly patted the shoulder he had placed his hand upon. 

"Eighty points to Ravenclaw for having the intelligence to know when to fight and when to back down. Not many adults could hold their tongue when faced with such insufferable fools." The dark man murmured. An expression of sympathy flashing across his narrow features before he abruptly turned away. His robes billowed out behind him as he too left the bathroom, levitating the unconscious troll behind him with a silent flick of his wand. 

Now alone Hermione felt exhaustion settle in her weary bones. It had been an ever so long day and she couldn't wait to bury herself under her blankets back in her dorm room. Far from the reality she found herself in. Things would feel better once she had slept. 

Or at least she hoped to Morgana that they would. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------

~ June 4th & 5th 1991 ~

~ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, hospital Wing ~

~ Hermione's POV ~

Hermione groaned audibly as she woke, pain flaring to life all over her body. The little hairs on her arms standing on end in the chill that surrounded her. She was cold. Her mind felt sluggish and foggy, as if something was wrong but she couldn’t think clearly to work it out. Though a strange feeling of forced calm lingered in her stomach, foreign and uncomfortable and the brunette was certain she shouldn't be calm right now. But she really couldn’t think, her body shivering and recoiling. Why was she so cold? Her eyes blinked bleakley before clenching tight against the first ray of light that seeped through her eyelids, even as her confusion urged her to make sense of her surroundings. The bright intensity of those lights however felt as if it were burning holes in her retinas, painfully. It made her head throb and she could feel the sharp ache of what she assumed to be fresh bruises lining the right side of her body. Her injuries were pulsing in time with the throbbing in her skull. A strange tingling sensation at the top of her forehead let her know she had also cut her head in some way. Though she supposed the tingling would merely be a lingering sensation from whatever healing spell or salve had been used upon her. 

After a few seconds of wincing as she recovered her sensitive eyes she slowly peeled her eyes open. Much slower this time as Hermione let herself adjust to the bright clinical lights that shone overhead illuminating the room around her in artificial light. The brunette sighed, her eyes roaming the room in which she was currently residing, internally scoffing at just how similarly set up the muggle and magical hospitals were. Purebloods would surely hate to realise it, but they modelled their places of healing in a similar fashion to those they considered filth. Both wizard and muggle using cream and white colour schemes with some blues and yellow to ‘lighten’ the place up. It was rather comical or it would have been if she had the energy to laugh at her own observations.

As it was every muscle within her protested and she moved her head gingerly, her bleary eyes looking to her left and out across the empty expanse of the room. Several beds lined each side. A walkway lay down the centre of the hospital ward with plenty space between each bed for the schools healer to manoeuvre around and still allow each bed occupant their privacy. The curtains that hung around each bed in place to offer such a thing when required were an off white colour and Hermione wondered if they were cleaned with magic or the muggle way? What was the difference between muggle washing machines and a scourgify spell in terms of the finished cleanliness and hygiene?

The youngster paused, not willing to let her mind, dulled as it was, to wonder too far off topic. She could see that the room was nearly empty. With only two other bodies resting in beds a little ways away from her. She could make out a mop of messy black curls on the second closest bed to her, the one between them thankfully empty, peeking from within the blankets that draped over the prone form. On the bed at the other side of the dark hair lay the unmistakable face of Ronald Weasley. If Ron was here then that meant Harry was the dark curls, she rightly guessed. She wasn’t entirely sure that it was a relief to see them both, she supposed it was good that they had made it out of the chamber alive. But whether or not they were successful was another thing altogether and the circumstances in which they had ended up here in the first place was entirely their fault. Despite them already being pretty low on her tolerance list, their antics had pushed them even lower. Such was the ire she felt at them at that moment.

Hermione hissed in pain as she tried to sit up, weak arms trying to find purchase on the hospital blankets as she tried to push herself into a seated position, desperate to get out of the hospital ward and back to her own dorm. She was already tired of the sterile scent that lingered around her and the obnoxiously clinical white walls that stared from there pews around her. From the time she was three years old and had fallen down the orphanage steps, breaking her wrist she had despised hospitals. The medical ward here at Hogwarts was not a place she found herself liking much more either and she was really craving the comfort of her own bed. The action of trying to force her beaten body upright however, was enough to send her bleary vision tunnelling and her head spinning. 

Darkness consuming her once more, her body, bruised and battered as it was, falling limp upon the bed once more. 

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The second time Hermione woke up her mind crept to consciousness slowly. Far more alert than it had been mere hours previously. The brunette's body still ached terribly but her head was no longer throbbing and her forehead had stopped tingling thankfully, a soft ache now the only reminder that her head had ever been injured.

Idly she wondered just how long she had been out for. It felt much later, or earlier than it had been when she had woken the first time. Not that it mattered all that much, as soon  as she could get her body to cooperate with her she would be out of this Merlin awful place. 

Before opening her eyes, the muggle-born paused. Her mind registering the presence of another person, their magical signature lingering close by to where she lay. She kept her breathing even, not wanting to give away her state of consciousness until she figured out who was by her bedside. It would be a shame for her to give herself away and be forced to engage in conversation with anyone she would rather not see. Which in reality was near enough every person she had ever known except maybe Cho. No matter how hard she had tried to convince herself over the past few months that people were tolerable, she couldn't. 

They weren’t and the brunette would really rather not have to interact with anyone if she did not need to.

The words of her biological parents' letter was still very much lodged in her mind. All but ensuring she had failed in her endeavour to be more people friendly. If her parents couldn't stick around, if they did not want her, what was stopping anyone else she got attached to doing the same? It was a terrifying thought and it caused the young witch to guard herself heavily. Now was no different.

The only people she had managed to let into her life to some degree was Cho and Professor McGonagall. The elder woman, who despite showing nothing but disappointment all those months ago with the troll incident, had proven herself to be the sort of individual Hermione could really lean on. After making it seem like she was in trouble, she had been terrified to face her first detention with the venerable Scot. Her fingers picking at the skin around her nails and nervously chewing at the inside of her lips in a way she had not done since matron had beat the habit out of her at age eight. Her heart raced as she neared the office and she could feel the sheer dread that raced through her veins. By the time she had made it up to McGonagall's, hands shaking in terror she had all but planned her own funeral at the hands of Matron when the elderly woman inevitably found out she had gotten herself into such trouble. Professor McGonagall had taken one look at her pale, clammy features and strode across the room wordlessly. Strong thin arms wrapping her up in a hug, lifting a rigid Hermione, who had frozen at the completely unfamiliar feeling of being held, off her feet and moving her towards the fireplace where the older witch had seated them. Hermione tucked under her arm. 

It made her fight the urge to smile, even now, at the memory of that night. Her fear completely abated when it had been explained to her that the older woman knew exactly what had happened that night and knew Hermione had not in fact gone off looking for the troll in a foolish attempt at dealing with the large creature. But being the rather clever and forward thinking witch that she was, McGonagall had seen scope to capitalise on the situation, having watched Hermione thrive in classes yet struggle to fit in amongst her peers. So had sparked many 'tutoring' lessons, where upon arrival every night after dinner her Professor helped her practice utilising, exercising and controlling her magical core. All the while discussing classes and classmates. 

It strangely reminded Hermione of one of those afternoon soaps Matron watched upon occasion on the television, where the older ladies sat around the table gossiping about the local people, sipping tea and enjoying a few biscuits. 

Or tea and Ginger Newts in Hermione and McGonagall's case. 

Cho had also been a steadfast presence. She was warm and kind. Patient always with Hermione and the brunette knew there was not a thing in this world that would ever take the place of her first proper friend. They still spent any free time together. They ate together every day now, making it a point when the coursework started piling up, making their usual evening hangouts more like a study group than anything. It had become their own little tradition now. Whenever they sat to eat Cho would ask Hermione about her day. The brunette would divulge whatever she was willing to and Cho would listen. Once the brunette was finished and it was clear she wasn't about to continue Cho would not push but simply launch into whatever it was she wanted to talk about. From the latest school rumour to grace the halls, to funny moments from their day and it never failed to make Hermione feel better. No matter the kind of day she had experienced. 

To many she was sure their friendship was strange, but to her it wasn't. It was comfortable and Cho was the only one who had ever come close to experiencing the real unguarded girl beneath the brunettes hardened exterior. She got the sense that maybe Cho had figured out way more about Hermione's home life than she had meant to let on. If she had however, the raven haired girl had never let on. A kindness Hermione was grateful for. 

At Christmas Cho had gone home, though not without hugging her tightly and promising to write every day. She had kept that promise, even spoiling Hermione on Christmas day with a small muggle Christmas cake and a few new books to add to her ever growing collection of coveted works. The books were originals, gifted to the brunette from the Chang’s family library and Hermione knew she would cherish them for the rest of her life. 

McGonagall had even come up to the empty common room and spent a few hours with her, both witches reading by the warm fire. It had been the best Christmas she had experienced. 

Boxing day however was when that happy little bubble she had managed to fall into was broken. 

Breakfast had seen her seated alone at the far end of the Ravenclaw table. Oblivious to the two boys that approached her with near identical looks of confusion and frustration on their faces. Without meaning to Hermione grimaced visibly at the memory of all that had happened after that fateful meeting. The action alerting the unknown person by her bedside to the fact that the brunette was now awake. 

"Glad you could join me back in the land of the living Miss Granger." A voice dripping in amusement spoke up, though quiet it wrung loud in the brunettes ears. So loudly in fact she would almost swear that the woman had shouted them directly into her eardrum. She cursed silently under her breath, chastising herself for being so reckless with her expressions. 

'What happened to sussing out who it was first, you idiot?' She thought snidely to herself. This was exactly the reason she had planned on doing so. Now she was going to be forced into interacting with her own personal stalker. A sound that was neither a sigh nor a groan but something in between slipped from her chapped lips as she turned towards the voice. Weary brown eyes opening to meet the dark brown of the one and only Lady Andromeda Lestrange. 

"If I were not who I am then your reaction to my presence would be more than a little insulting to me little one. Do you intentionally do all you can to displease me?" Lestrange queried. Her tone was soft and warm, maybe even a little humorous but Hermione could sense the undercurrent of disapproval and irritation behind the woman’s words. 

"Why are you here? Shouldn't the hundreds of unanswered letters and returned books have told you well enough by now that I am not interested in whatever sordid plan you have concocted for me Lady Lestrange?" She asked bluntly, her current state of confusion, pain and exhaustion addling her ingrained need to be polite to her elders. Matron would have smacked her sore for such a thing. 

Andromeda simply tsk'd, a displeased sound that clattered off of perfectly white teeth. The woman leaned forward and Hermione watched her with trepidation. Her brash words suddenly came back to her, making her feel more weary than before at the woman’s proximity. The brunette flinched when a well-manicured hand came up to grip her chin between Andromeda’s thumb and forefinger, a firm grip forcing her to look the witch in the eyes. Her own filled with fear and uncertainty while she couldn't quite decipher the look in Mrs Lestrange’s own. 

Instead of the belittling, harsh words of reprimand she had expected, the muggle-born was startled when the woman in front of her stood from her chair, maintaining her grip on Hermione's chin as she came to rest on the side of the medical bed the younger witch lay upon. Her face was neutral, entirely devoid of emotion and the brunette could only wish to imitate the same level of indifference and control. 

"Oh little one!" The witch above her finally sighed out, appearing rather deflated all of a sudden. As if she were slipping off a mask. "I understand your uncertainty. I do not take your insolence personally, nor do I blame you for protecting your heart so fiercely." The words were spoken with an earnestness that Hermione had not encountered much in her life, it spoke of the older witch’s knowledge stemming from personal experience. The little witch couldn’t help but make a sad sound at the back of her throat in reaction to Andromeda’s words. The woman’s hand on her chin moved in response, cupping her cheek soothingly in a gentle caress. 

Hermione wanted to move away! She knew she should move away! Away from this woman who was invading her space with a tenderness that was foreign and comforting and strange all at once. But Merlin knew she couldn't. The traitorous little girl inside of her that she had always kept hidden craved it, needed it, longed for it and would not allow her to do as she should do. Her body was entirely uncooperative as her mind raged with itself. 

She huffed a breath in frustration and fear, cursing herself for showing such a sign of weakness. Even as she remained rigid. Not moving away nor pressing closer to the warm hand still cupped around her cheek. She blinked furiously up at Andromeda, moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes in another display of her body's betrayal. 

"Oh darling girl!" The woman whispered, running her thumbs under Hermione's eyes, catching the moisture there before it had a chance to fall. Andromeda could feel how warm the girl had gotten, the rapid pace of the girl's heart beating wildly and the girl's breathing was strained. Her body radiating distress in waves. The older witch could even feel the anguish in the girl's magic as it moved restlessly around them. It felt uncertain and wary. As if it could not quite decide how best to protect its wielder. 

No doubt as confused as the girl that possessed it. 

"I shall not ever harm you Hermione. I only wish to help, there is no ulterior motive nor nefarious plan. One so young should not know the heartache you carry like a shield child." Hermione stared, wide eyed and disbelieving. Her mind racing to process the woman's seemingly honest words. She could sense no deception. Genuine intent and warmth radiating off of every word the older woman spoke. But it couldn't be true. No one had ever cared for her without wanting something in return before. No one, not even McGonagall had ever looked at her the way Andromeda was. As if she were loved, cherished in the ways she had always craved. 

But it was a lie!

This woman was lying. What could she possibly want otherwise with a mud-blood, except to play some fort of cruel trick. She would no doubt lure Hermione into her clutches. Use her and her magic for something. She would throw her away when she was done. Brush her off when she got tired of her. Because Hermoine knew she would.

Everyone got tired of her. Andromeda Lestrange would be no different. 

"Why?" She finally managed to whisper, her voice strained and uncertain, clouded with disbelief. Her fists had clenched in the starch sheets around her.  Her bottom lip trembling softly, unused to feeling so much. She could feel her heart beating in her limbs. The erratic pulsing sensation only adding to the internal panic she felt. 

"I do not know the truth of why little one. But from the moment I saw you in the bookstore I knew I could not do nothing. I felt.." the older witch took a breath, a thoughtful look crossing elegant features. Hermione felt like the woman was pondering her words, seemingly unsure of how to say something or unsure as to how Hermione would take whatever she felt she needed to say. As if to prove her point, Andromeda dropped her hands from the brunettes face to take Hermione's shaking hands into her own larger ones. Her warm strong hands prying Hermione's grip off of the starch sheets tucked around her. The hands that gripped her own engulfed hers and Hermione wished she had the strength to push her away. The longer she was offered such comfort the louder that little voice in her mind got. 

Aching. 

Craving. 

Calling out for more. 

It was a dangerous voice. One that could only lead to her own heartbreak. Her own hurt and she did not have it in her to feel that overwhelming pain of abandonment once more. It would destroy her. Her whole life had been filled with it. She had accepted that. Dealt with that. She didn't want to open herself to the possibility of being hurt again. 

She liked her solace. It was safe. It was known. 

This? This comfort? This seemingly genuine care? Was not safe and every sane part of her rebelled at the notion of being vulnerable to anyone once more. Let alone a pure-blooded woman who was affiliated with the very people that would rejoice in her suffering. 

"I still feel drawn to you darling. I do not understand it, I cannot find any explanation for the way I feel about you. As if you are one of my own children. But that is the reality and I cannot ignore it, even if I wanted to. I cannot watch you suffer so much." The older witches voice was firm, resolute as she spoke. Her hands squeezing Hermione's as if pleading that the girl accepted her, accepted the comfort and help being offered. Hermione closed her eyes. Her breathing almost came to a stop as she ground her teeth against the urge to cry. Those words re-breaking parts of her that she had long since patched back together. Roughened and weak as that reparation had been. 

Or at least she had thought she had repaired herself, way back when her muggle adopters had abandoned her back at the orphanage. Now though, she doubted just how well she had in fact healed herself, lying here in a hospital bed facing this discussion. Her heart shattered at the mere notion someone would care for her, even if that someone did not understand themselves why they wished to do so. 

She felt helpless, tears slipping past her tightly shut eyelids. Her body trembled. Her mind screaming in terror. 

Unable to process a single thing that was happening around her, the muggle-born clutched onto Andromeda when the older woman brought her up and into a secure embrace. Her head was tucked close into a soothingly scented neck as she was shifted and in that moment she crumbled.

Shen would later claim a momentary lapse in judgement brought on from her injuries and the potions she had been plied with, however for now her heart shattered over and over again as her sobs escalated. 

Wordlessly Andromeda settled them down on the bed, holding the tiny frame of the eleven year old muggle-born girl to her chest as the girl continued to cry. Her sobs were painful to hear for the mother within the hardened pure-blood. Her instincts urged her to protect and soothe in the way only her own daughter had ever brought to light. 

"That's it, I've got you darling. I've got you." She cooed gently. Hands rubbing soft circles on the girl's back and through her curls as she rocked them gently side to side. They lay there. Hermione completely oblivious to the pain radiating from the woman that held her as Andromeda bore silent witness to the absolute devastation held tightly within the youngster. All the while the older woman wondered how anyone could have ever willingly given this child up. For Andromeda would never have.

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Once she was calmer, her sobs tapering off into quiet sniffles and hiccups. Hermione took note of the position she was in. The unfamiliar feeling of safety that had settled within her bones and the reassuring heartbeat that she could hear from the woman who held her. Its beating soft and predictable in her ears. She didn't speak, didn't move. Merely focused her exhausted mind on the steady rise and fall of Mrs Lestrange’s chest beneath her head. Silently bringing her own breathing to match, calming her more with every passing second. 

"Do you want to tell me how you ended up in the infirmary in the first place, little one?" The older brunette asked, breaking the quiet that had enveloped them. Though she still kept up the soothing motions of her hands, unwilling to disrupt the calm she had seemingly lulled the muggle-born into, even as the girl flinched at her voice. 

Andromeda could feel Hermione sigh above her. Small hands fisting in her robe lapels. 

"I suppose." she whispered, moving to pull away. Not fighting in the slightest when the older witches arms tightened around her. A silent command to stay where she was. Hermione obliged, finding that she did enjoy being held in such a way no matter how much her mind was still convinced this was entirely too dangerous. 

"We foiled Voldemort's plans to return tonight." She continued wearily, not wanting to upset the woman who had been so kind to her by being too enthusiastic about foiling the dark man that Andromeda’s family apparently worshipped, plans. Visibly shivering in disgust at the mention of his name but resolutely refusing to let her fear consume her. 

Fear of a name, increases fear of the thing itself after all and Hermione wouldn’t let anyone have that power in her life. Dark Lord or not.

"You may need to be a little more specific, Hermione. Who is this we you speak of? How did you learn of such plans?" The older brunette questioned and if Hermione had looked up she would have seen how the woman fought not to show how angry she was growing. Infuriated at Albus Dumbledore’s apparent lack of surveillance within the castle and his inherent lack of action in stopping whatever it was that Hermoine and the two Gryffindor’s had got themselves caught up in.

"Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and myself. They approached me the day after Christmas…" she began, forgetting her hesitance as she began to recount her story. Her weary mind focusing on the facts of what had happened to give her hear some respite from the emotion she was experiencing. She told Andromeda about the heated conversation the boys had with her over breakfast. Both boys demanded her help in figuring out what was going on with a "suspicious Snape, a three headed dog and a stone made by a man named Nicholas." It had been all they could tell her. Neither offering much more of anything in terms of help and information, for lack of know how or lack of information Hermione hadn’t known at the time. But the more she learned about the two, the more she learned just how lazy they appeared to be, which shouldn’t have been a surprise to the youngster. If anyone was going to demand her help and not do any of the work it would be Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley.

So had started Hermione's deep dive into just what they could possibly be talking about. It took her a few weeks of researching to find the information they needed on Nicholas Flamel and the Philosopher's Stone, a stone that according to the literature granted the owner of the stone some form of immortality. It took longer to work out that the stone was here at the castle, guarded by a three headed dog named Fluffy. That information had come from Hagrid the groundskeeper. A man that Harry had apparently befriended but Hermione could see that Harry was merely keeping Hagrid close for information. She could tell by the way he spoke to the half giant, the way Ron snickered at him when he wasn’t looking and the way both boys cringed at the half giants proximity. It set Hermione’s instincts on fire, every part of her demanding that she punish the pair for their lack of respect of the man. Though she knew there was no point Hagrid was happy, thinking he had some friends and to speak up would only cause more issues for her and the real issue was in fact Fluffy and the mystery that surrounded the philosophers stone. Hermione had laughed a little too hard at learning about the three headed dogs  and what it guarded, for multiple reasons. 

Firstly, who named a dog with three heads that is about as big as an entire room and as aggressive as a racoon, Fluffy? 

Secondly, who would bring such an invaluable stone to a school full of children? 

And thirdly, who would then be so careless as to allow multiple people to learn its location? 

It was completely bizarre. 

More than bizarre really, it was about as ludicrous as anyone believing she had held an actual conversation with a mountain troll all those months ago. A topic she was still sore about, both boys had deprived her of the chance to gain more knowledge. Knowledge that was possibly unavailable to anyone else and they hadn't even apologised! 

Then had come her and Harry running into the deformed waif-like manifestation of the very man rumoured to have been defeated by a two year old in the Forbidden forest while the three of them plus Draco Malfoy served detention with Hagrid. Voldemort’s form had been bent over a severely wounded unicorn, clearly sustaining his energy to cling to life by feasting on the blood of the sacred animal. That had been terrifying, but no less terrifying than facing her Matron on a bad day and so Hermione had done the only thing she could think of, she had flung a stunner at the form, while shouting for help. The form had startled and quickly fled when one of the centaurs had shown up. The centaur – Firenze, had thanked Hermione’s defence of the animal, quietly informing her that the centaur tribe would forever be in her and her clans debt, not that she told Andromeda that bit, somehow knowing that the words Firenze had spoken were only for her ears. Though the sentence had confused Hermione greatly yet she had no time to linger on his parting words as Hagrid, Draco and Harry had arrived with Fang, Hagrid’s Dog.

The half giant had called a halt to their detention and ushered all of them back to the castle and the entire incident was never spoken of again. The brunette felt as if the professors around them were in denial, unwilling to admit that anything had happened and she had a feeling to fuss would only alienate her further.

The final piece of the puzzle to help her work it all out came two days prior to now, when Harry's scar had started to burn viciously. He had told her over the past few months about what he remembered of the night his parents had died and how all that was left was the scar when all was said and done. Hermione secretly thought his survival had something to do with one, if not both, of his parents as opposed to the common belief that it was Harry himself that had defeated the man. 

Not that she would voice that opinion of course. 

Especially not when, despite all of her help, she wasn't exactly friends with the pair. She found them overbearing. Far too brash and single minded for her. Not to mention entirely selfish and self-centred. The brunette simply tolerated them for necessities sake and she was sure they felt the same about her. Ron especially had let slip more than once that he found her unbearable. Not that she cared what he thought.

Then came the final dash to the third floor, down into the hidden floor after who they had assumed was Professor Snape. Hermione was not entirely convinced it was him that was working with Voldemort. The man though harsh and unkind had done nothing to warrant such an accusation but with no alternative individual to blame she had not been successful in pointing Harry and Ron’s hatred elsewhere. 

When they entered the forbidden room they found the large three headed animal asleep, a harp playing quietly in the background. Hermione had without thinking cast a spell on the harp to keep it playing, her gut telling her that the harp was the reason the large creature was sleeping so peacefully. When they reached the first obstacle - landing in Devil's Snare when they had launched themselves through the trapdoor - The brunette had to roll her eyes and hope that their esteemed headmaster had come up with something far more difficult to thwart than a plant that hated sunlight. 

A quickly cast ‘Lumos Maxima’ had the plant release them all from its thorns, Tendrils releasing them hurriedly as they fled the sunlight, causing them to fall to the ground below. Even finding the correct flying key to open the rather old looking door at the end of the room was far too easy to get past.

She simply froze the room.

Which allowed them to spot the correct key and she had summoned it directly into her hand. The three youngsters had crossed the room unharmed and unlocked the door quickly and again the brunette had found herself cringing at how simple the headmaster’s ‘deterrents’ were.

The large game of Wizarding Chess was a little more difficult to get past, she would admit. She was forced to play the wretched game with both boys. Hermione had decided to simply stand and follow along with Ron's strategy because although she understood the game and its rules she had little interest in the barbaric act of chess pieces smashing each other and therefore had never become adept at strategy. Unlike Ron who seemingly played the game religiously, recalling the vigour in which he had launched himself into playing. When she realised that Ron was about to sacrifice her for the sake of them getting through she had quickly interfered. The muggle-born had called upon one of the more complex spells she had learned from the books gifted to her by the very witch she was now explaining this all too. 

It was rather annoying in how obvious her solution had been. She had cursed then and she cursed now, remembering that she could have easily blown up the chess pieces at the very start. But no matter how irritating they got through it in the end. All three scraped and bruised from the granite shrapnel she had sent flying around the room but very much alive. 

The hardest part of the whole thing came in the form of a series of potions and a riddle that had to be solved in order to allow them to pass through the black flames that had surrounded them the moment they had entered the room the potions were located in. It had taken a bit of work on her part because Merlin and Morgana both knew that there was absolutely no chance of her ever entrusting her life to the two dunderheads with her. Not in this world or the next. When she had finally figured out what potion they needed she had carefully split the potion between the three of them. Once they had drunk the potion it allowed them to pass through and enter a large room. It looked like it had been a ball room once upon a time. Large stone archways and stone steps led down into the main part of the room which consisted of a large open space. The walls had faded from the once magnolia colour and there were several holes and crumbling bits of stone in the infrastructure, indicating to the brunette that this room had not been used in some time.

Once there they were met by a sight none of them had guessed. Not even she had any sort of inclination. Professor Quirrell, their spineless Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor stood facing a large mirror. His face had cracked into a rather creepy looking smile as they had approached. His words were taunting, spoken – surprisingly - without his usual stutter. 

"Oh look, you all made it alive and here I was with the impression that only our dearest Harry, the boy who lived would be strong enough to make it this far." He had turned to them. His face paler than Hermione had ever seen it and his eyes burning with a cruelty that disturbed her greatly. 

The brunette had clutched her wand tightly, moving in closer to the two boys. She knew that they wouldn't have the skills needed to defend themselves. She didn't have the skill to defend them either but she could at least try too. It would involve utilising the knowledge she had learned so far but at least it was something right? At the very least it was better than doing nothing.

"The mud-blood thinks she has a chance of facing me!?" The man laughed coldly. A smirk that Hermione could only describe as deadly adorning his face. His whole personality was a complete one eighty from what they had come to know him as in their lessons and it truthfully unnerved her. Gone was the stuttering, terrified mouse of a man that had needed to try ever so hard to teach them about shield charms.

"Enough hilarity, take out the mud-blood and blood traitor. This is between Mr Potter and myself." A weak voice hissed from Quirrell’s location but before she had the chance to react, Quirrell did. A spell barrelling in her direction before the brunette could even blink. 

"That's all I remember, I know Harry and Ron both made it out." She finished, throwing a glance towards the now vacant beds. The boys had been allowed to leave at somepoint between the first time she had woken and now. She glanced up wearily, Her hesitant gaze meeting the older woman's eyes for the first time since she had begun to recount her story. She gasped, seeing the furry bubbling within dark brown. Hermione felt herself tense in response. Her body moving automatically to distance herself from the potential threat. 

Her movement however seemed to snap Mrs Lestrange out of whatever she was lost too, her arms tightening once more to keep Hermione in place as the younger brunette saw the woman begin to take deep, slow breaths. 

"I'm sorry little darling, I'm furious. Not at you before you get the wrong idea. I'm furious at Albus for allowing the three of you to get hurt and I'm furious at Quirrell and The…" she paused an internal battle obviously happening as the older woman stumbled over what to call the evil man Hermione had just faced. 

"I'm furious at Voldemort." Andromeda finally settled on. An unspoken part of Hermione released the breath she had not realised she was holding. Her heart obviously already banking too hard on this woman proving to be genuine in her care of her. She was not entirely sure how she would have reacted if Andromeda had referred to the vile man as 'the Dark Lord'. She wasn't convinced she would have remained level headed enough in the slightest. 

As it was she also wasn't entirely sure how to react to someone being furious on her behalf so she chose instead to answer with a hesitant nod. Her heart calmed a little as Andromeda appeared to fully relax back in the bed they lay upon. 

"Poppy said if you are still doing as well in the morning you can rejoin your classes then. Once she has performed whatever tests she deems necessary. But for now Hermione, get some rest. I'll be here when you wake." Hermione nodded hesitantly at the words, tiredness dictating that she chose to settle herself back into Andromeda. Her eyes closed with little difficulty as she felt herself relax. The exhaustion from her ordeal and so much emotion catching up with her quickly. The scent of the woman's expensive Sandalwood and vanilla perfume filling her lungs. A steady heartbeat lulling her to sleep. Safe in the arms of a woman she barely knew yet a woman whose very presence offered her comfort and warmth despite her weary guarded heart.

Chapter Text

Edited 08/01/2025

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~ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry ~

~ November 19th 1992 ~

~ Hermione's POV ~

Hermione kept her eyes focused on the gentle flicker of the candle light as its reflection, filtering through the cracks in her curtains, danced on the top of her bed posts. It was late, later than she had been awake for a while. The school had long ago settled down for the night and she had the suspicion that even Filch, their miserable caretaker had retired for the evening and he loved staying up late to try and catch students out of bed. He was the type of man everyone avoided, unkempt, bitter and entirely too full of his own sense of importance. The brunette almost felt sorry for him in a way. She could see that his ill temper and rough appearance were to mask his hurt and loneliness. He had lost his wife – a half blood witch who had been the victim of a maledictus curse – was now permanently stuck as a cat who he referred to as Mrs Norris. He himself had been born to a pureblood family but no one knew which one, he had been cast out at eleven when it was obvious the little magic he possessed would never be strong enough to carry a simple spell of any kind making him a squib (a child born from magical parent that possesses little or no magic). His family had removed their names from his memory, and their association to him had been wiped from anyone’s mind that knew them before his eleventh birthday, such was the shame they felt for their squib child. From there he grew up a ward of the ministry, allowed to attend Hogwarts only as an aid to the professors.

It was a sin in the brunette’s eyes, to know that the man he had become had been shaped by the treatment he received from others. It made her worry about what that truly meant for her, unwanted and abandoned as she was. Hermione yawned tiredly, her muscles stretching and aching in protest of her lack of rest. Yet she lay awake, despite the darkness that had surely settled beneath her eyes and the way her eyes stung from exhaustion. It was very obviously beyond time she too slept, but such a thing had evaded her so far. 

Her mind was preoccupied. As it had been since she had come back to school this year. It had been arduous in the summer to cope with mundane muggle life after spending so long immersed in the magical world.  The feel of a world where magic wasn’t rife all around her was almost painful in its uncomfortableness to her and as a result she had been beyond excited to get back to Hogwarts. Back to the place that despite its difficulties had begun to feel more like home to her than she had ever known. 

The welcome back feast had gone just as expected. The first year sorting saw no drama and the muggle born was even quietly hopeful that this year she wouldn't be as much of an outcast in her own house seeing as none of the usual glaring had occurred. It still hadn't, her housemates had apparently decided over the summer months that she wasn't the pariah they had made her out to be the previous year and had collectively decided to leave off making their dislike for her known. 

Ravenclaw had also gained a few new students and Hermione had been overjoyed to see Cho again. After a summer of loneliness and matrons incessant nagging over every little thing, the brunette had all but flung herself into her best friend's arms on the train. Cho had simply held her tightly before asking her about how her summer had gone. In brief her summer was insignificant and she had told Cho exactly that. The dark haired witch had again accepted her answer at face value as she always had. A relief to the brunette considering she didn't think her friend would appreciate the knowledge regarding the locking up of all things magical as soon as she had stepped foot through the orphanage doors. 

The second week into the school term is where all the chaos started. Of all the things she had ever dreamt of, not once had she imagined that one day her school would be stalked by an unknown threat that was intent on killing her simply because she was born to two non-magical parents. Apparently though she should have imagined such a scenario for then it wouldn't have come as such a surprise to her when that is the exact predicament Hogwarts now found itself in. 

The chilling words - 'The Chamber of Secrets has been opened……. Enemies of the heir …. Beware…' - appearing on the wall, in blood, in the dungeon corridor had been their first warning that something was very wrong and even now Hermione wished she hadn't ever questioned what it all meant. Now she was left understanding too much and entirely not enough all at once. Hence her mind's refusal to surrender to the sleep her body craved. 

Harry bloody Potter and Ronald bloody Weasley were of course at the centre of it all again. Of that she was certain. Particularly if she takes into consideration their recent request for her to brew a batch of Polyjuice potion. An idea she had overheard them admitting to stealing from Ronald's older twin brothers; Fred and George. 

If she had rolled her eyes, because of course the boy who didn't die and his sidekick weren't in the slightest bit intelligent enough to come up with the idea themselves, then Matron would never have to know. Lest she be on the receiving end of a less than gentle reminder regarding etiquette and politeness. 

However, her current predicament was one that truly stumped her. The dunderheaded boys had asked her to participate in their scheme to find out if Draco Malfoy was truly the heir of Slytherin like they had foolishly predicted. Of course she knew he wasn't, the boys would too if they shared even half a brain cell between them - she was sure. Anyone with the slightest bit of intelligence would be able to access the library and view the Malfoy and Black Family bloodlines. There wasn't a hint of Salazar Slytherin in their lines and she would know. She had checked - personally. Her research had indicated that the heir had to lie within the House of Scamander or Gaunt, both of which had very few family members this side of the mortal realm and none that she could find that still resided within the UK.

Not that Harry or Ronald had listened to her when she had meticulously tried to explain such things. 

So here she was, awake and alert when she really should be sleeping. She wasn't even sure why her stupid, over productive and over active mind had decided the boys conundrum was her own. She didn't even like them, for Merlin's sake!!!! They had been nothing but rude and demanding since the very start. Yet she had provided the help whenever they had foolishly needed it. Despite their propensity for irrational thought and downright disregard for her as an individual. Or her safety.

She felt like they had latched on to her and she knew they were using her really, but wasn't it better to keep them sweet for now while she was still finding her way? Morally she didn't know how good of a person it made her to be using them as they used her, but with her current lack of sleep and the danger that she seemed to attract she couldn't find it within herself to truly care. It was an issue she could debate later. 

Much later. 

She was also torn over who they were suspicious of. Draco Malfoy was an arrogant little fool but he had kept the Slytherin bullies away from her so far. Granted it was under his aunt's orders but he had still done so. He was protecting her in a world where she knew she would be a target for no other reason than the blood she was born with. Was it truly wise to help Draco's rivals investigate him?

Not that she was going to ever outright tell the blonde haired Slytherin boy that she was helping Harry bloody Potter in any way. The brunette groaned loudly, pulling the covers up over her head in frustration. It amazed her that this was her daily life, but sometimes, if she let her mind wander unregulated, she wished she was born into another life. One where her parents had wanted her, had kept her and cherished her the way she had always dreamed to be. The way her peers were by their parents. 

If she imagined it hard enough, she could picture it. A large house, two doting parents, a cat like her CrookShanks, maybe a sibling or two. Days like today would be celebrated and she would be happy. She would be care free. There would be no need for the guarded girl she had become, nor would she ever feel the resentment that bubbled below the surface of her heart every time she saw her peers embrace their parents. She would know that type of unconditional love. 

She wished she had the ability to shut off her mind. It would be helpful right about now. She groaned again, forcing back the moisture that came to her eyes. She refused to cry. Refused to acknowledge their absence any more than she already had. Today wasn’t any different from every other day she had survived on her own. She didn’t need them.

"Happy Birthday, Hermione." She whispered into the darkness. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry ~

~ February 2nd 1993 ~

~ Hermione's POV ~

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed quietly when she heard her best friend approach from behind. She had been hiding in the library for days now. Mainly to avoid interacting with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumber, as she had taken to calling the two Gryffindor boys. Not to their faces of course., though she just might if they were to continue their constant urging of her to figure this all out.

The library was her safe place, where she was almost certain to be left alone to read at her leisure. It was her escape from the anxiety and fear that had taken over the entire school as of late. Professors and students alike seamed to walk the halls with terror lacing their steps. Every one of them, anxiously waiting to become the next target of the Slytherin heir. Several students had already fallen victim. Filtch’s, Mrs Norris too, had been found petrified in the corridors, their faces shrouded in sheer horror. Alive but unmoving as their bodies were frozen in the exact moment they had come face to face with whatever monster lurked in the shadows of Hogwarts. 

For months the school had been tormented, an unknown beast stalking the halls, unseen to all except those that had become its prey. Though how none of the professor's had found this beast's lair was beyond her. If she was them then she wouldn't have rested until she had found this Chamber of Secrets that had supposedly been opened to release the dastardly thing. How hard could finding a room in a castle be, when you had inhabited it for years and possessed magic? Professor Dumbledore was meant to be the greatest wizard alive wasn't he? So why hadn't he found it? Or why had the school not been closed temporarily? The students guarded better?

But those weren’t the current problem the brunette had to deal with. For now, the priority was figuring out what the beast was and how to stop it before she or any other of the remaining muggle born students became the next victim. 

How she was supposed to do that with little to no knowledge of where to start evaded her. She had searched half the library by now. Though how she was supposed to find the answer when her hiding spot kept being invaded was beyond her. If it wasn't the dunderheads pestering her on her progress or classwork, it was Cho. Not that she would ever grudge any time spent with Cho, especially when they spent so little time together as of late but Merlin knew she just needed to find the answers she sought, because apparently nobody else in this blasted place was bothered to do so. 

"Hermione, hey!! I've been looking for you." her friend's soft voice sang as the dark haired girl moved to stand in front of her. Hermione paused in reading the paragraph she was on, glancing up, she shot Cho a sheepish smile. A flash of guilt hitting her in the gut when her eyes met the concerned brown of her fellow Ravenclaw. 

"I've been here." She replied simply. Not at all willing to look too deeply into just how much she had seemingly come to care for the other girl. One would think she would have learned by now that forming attachments to others would only ever get her hurt, yet here she sat, guilty and contrite at her lack of availability to spend time with another. Cho nodded, accepting Hermione's brief retort for what it was. The brunette moved over slightly, a silent invitation for the other girl to join her. One that was accepted immediately. 

One that with Cho, Hermione hoped would always be accepted. 

Once the dark haired girl had seated herself, arranging her Herbology textbooks and parchment, just so, in the way that she always did, the pair lapsed back into a relaxed silence. Both diligently working on their respective parchments. On Hermione's was a varied list of possibilities. She had every animal she could think of written down. Well every animal vicious enough she could think of written down. From giant spiders, werewolves and centaurs. To three headed snakes. So far however, none of them appeared remotely responsible for the recent muggle-born attacks, for none of them had ever been known to leave their victims frozen solid in terror yet alive and unresponsive. It was a peculiar bafflement for the young brunette, frustrating and incredibly intriguing. Her mind loved difficult puzzles and solving them had always filled her with a sense of pride. She didn't think there was a better feeling than the sense of accomplishment she always got after a task well done. However, solving this particular puzzle was proving far more difficult to accomplish. Yet she knew she couldn't give up until she had her answer. Such was the way her brain worked. 

So lost in her own thoughts Hermione had all but forgotten her friend's presence when the dark haired girl spoke up, breaking Hermione from her work. 

"So…." Cho started, grinning at Hermione when the brunette jumped slightly. "Are you any further forward?"

"You know I would have told you if I was." She sighed, forcing her hands through her untameable mane of hair, bony fingers pulling it back to the top of her head. She wished she had stuck to Matron's preferred ponytail. At least then it may have been slightly more manageable. Less irritating for sure. 

"Do you maybe think you should stop?" Cho asked, her question blunt but Hermione could already see the resigned look forming on her friend's face. Apparently she knew her too well already. The brunette merely shook her head as answer, unsure what to say to appease the worried frown Cho wore more often around her than the brunet liked to admit. 

"Then when Hermione? You're always researching or studying. When do you stop? When do you rest? You weren't at breakfast today nor dinner last night." The raven haired girl asked, her words laced with a desperation one reserved for a stubborn loved one. Hermione remained quiet. A slight flush warmed her cheeks at the concern she could hear lacing her friends' words. She knew her friend was right. She hadn't been eating or sleeping very much. Not that she had much of an appetite right now. Not when every moment that ticked by with no answers her mind worried about coming face to face with whatever creature stalked the halls. Not when she felt like everything was resting on her to find the answer. Not when stopping for any length of time would allow the loneliness to creep in. Or the fear that Cho would be harmed by the creature. Or the little first year – Luna Lovegood – that had joined Ravenclaw this year, the girl was as ethereal as she was flamboyant and despite the girls kindness she had become a target of every practical joke imaginable. Hermione had secretly become fond of the girl and had taken to foiling the pranks her house mates planned regularly. So stopping wasn't an option. 

Not now. 

"I'll leave you to study Hermione but eat that will you? and don't think you're gonna get away with silence forever." Her friend declared, eventually. A cheese sandwich being placed on the parchment in front of her. When it was clear that Hermione had no intention of responding in any way to the dark haired girl, Cho sighed quietly, gentle hands squeezing the brunette’s shoulder in silent sympathy before gathering her things. 

The brunette stared blankly at the sandwich in front of her as she listened to Cho leave. Her heart hammering and moisture pooling in her eyes. Unsurprised that her friend had walked away but entirely lost on how to stop her without making herself more vulnerable than she already was. She knew Cho was right. She was overworking herself. Exhaustion clung to her but it was a darn sight better than the alternative. Merlin only knew how she would cope with how she felt if she didn't have so many distractions occupying her mind. 

But Cho's concern was a dangerous thought to entertain. It made her yearn for the connections she had been denied her entire life. It made her yearn to feel like she belonged with the people around her and most painfully it made her yearn for the parents that had abandoned her all those years ago. 

~~~~~~~

Later that evening Hermione still sat in her hiding spot in the library. Though this time as she stared down at the pages in front of her it wasn't with frustration nor puzzlement but with accomplishment and horror. For she had found the answer to what and how the previously unknown creature was stalking the hall. 

At first glance she had dismissed the creature because the article mentioned nothing regarding petrification. Only a deadly stare and venom that was so poisonous it could paralyse and kill within minutes. So of course she hadn't paid the Basilisk mind. She could feel her chest constricting as she hurried to gather her belongings, intent to take her findings to professor Snape. She knew she should take it to Dumbledore or even Lockhart really but Dumbledore didn't seem to be actively searching for the beast and Lockhart was a fraud. The man had run from pixies for Morgana's sake! She doubted he'd willingly try to find and slay a giant snake that was as deadly as it was large. So Snape was her next logical choice. McGonagall would dismiss her. Tell her she shouldn't be involving herself in something so dangerous. Snape however, Snape seemed to understand her better than most. He'd not question why she was researching. He would take her seriously as he always seemed to. She was sure he was the only safe choice to see something done. 

The brunette made for the Dungeons, hoping Snape had not left his classroom yet. She pulled her pocket mirror out as she exited the library, it had been a gift from Cho last year on her birthday and it was something she cherished. The ornate design was gorgeous and it was most likely the most expensive possession she owned but she didn't want to take the risk of accidentally turning a corridor and starring the beast directly in the eye. 

~ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  Infirmary ~

~ June 23rd 1993 ~

~ Hermione's POV ~

Hermione woke up slowly, her mind registering the voice of Madame Pomfrey as she slowly awoke. Her body hurt. Every muscle screaming at her as she lay on the infirmary bed. She had been here a while. So long in fact that Hermione had lost count of the days and hours that had passed. She was still grateful she had possessed the foresight to use her hand mirror on that trip to the Dungeons so many months ago but she really wishes she hadn’t ended up in this position. If she hadn't used the mirror however, she knew she would be dead right now. Instead of alive but trapped inside her own mind. Able to hear those around her but unable to respond. Hermione hearing Cho, the first time the Raven haired girl had seen her in the infirmary, had been the worst. Her friend had screamed and cried and sobbed for hours in the beginning, begging the professor's to do something, anything to bring Hermione round. To wake her up and bring her friend back to her. 

Of course without fully matured Mandrake Root it was impossible to wake her up because the restorative potion that was required to reverse the effects of petrification couldn't be made without it. Cho had visited regularly. Hermione would like to say the dark haired girl had visited daily but she couldn't tell one day from the next with her body frozen solid. Madame Pomfrey had also sat by her side a few times but Hermione had hated every moment if the woman's sympathy filled promises that she would have Hermione right as rain real quick. There really was only so much of the well meaning woman’s empathetic words she could take and the brunette was sure she would have left or silenced the woman long ago if she could move. The waking world felt like a cruel brand of torture. Each second as painful as it was uncomfortable to the brunette and if she were honest, it only made her feel more alone, left for hours, unmoving, forgotten and alone. Stuck on a bed with no one to care for her except Madame Pomfrey on her rounds or Cho when her friend could get away from her every day life. There wasn’t anyone else in this world that was sad for her, concerned for her ow there helping her ride out the endless moments of agonising nothing that she was stuck in.

Hermione hated it, her mind and heart screamed in protest as the isolation she felt spread slowly in her veins like a poison, the only real peace she ever got was when her exhausted mind finally slipped into unconsciousness.

Not that sleeping was great either, she could still see the gleaming eyes of the Basilisk every time she slept. Its bright yellow eyes filled with a danger she had only ever heard of. The thing had been massive. A lot bigger than the book had declared it to be. How on earth it had fit in the school pipes she had no idea but it had. Just the thought of it caused her to shudder involuntarily. Her body protested the movement as it did so. 

The brunette could have gasped in relief when she realised that her body had moved on its own accord, for the first time in what felt like forever. Though the ache in her muscles were apparently taking a little longer to abate. 

"Miss Granger, if you are awake dear try blinking your eyes for me" Madame Pomfrey asked gently, as she felt a cool hand brush the hair back from her face. The feeling was foreign, making her flinch hard as she tried to follow the midi-witches instructions. 

The cold hand retreated as quickly as it appeared, alongside muttered apologies from the witch attending to her. Hermione lifted her hand shakily, waving the woman's apologies off. 

"What's today's date?" She asked, her voice rough and cracking from dissuse. She forced herself upright, ignoring the disapproving huff from Madame Pomfrey who still stood close. The brunette opened her left eye slightly spotting Madame Pomfrey hovering beside her, arms outstretched but restrained as if the woman wished to help her but knew better now than to touch Hermione if there was any other option. 

"June 23rd." The woman replied, her tone soft as if she were talking to something fragile. Hermione hated that. Hated knowing this woman felt pity towards her. As if getting petrified by a giant snake intent on killing her for her blood status was the worst thing to ever have happen to anyone. Instead of replying verbally, Hermione merely nodded, taking a deep breath in to centre herself as she processed just how long she had been stuck in the infirmary. 

It was a shock, she knew she had been here a while but hadn't realised she had been stuck in the hospital ward for so long. She had missed months of classes, not that she was particularly worried about missing lessons. She was years ahead of her peers in her academic knowledge after all. However the thought of having to catch up on the homework was more than a little off putting. She had time though, she could get it all done if she just got up and concentrated. It would be fine. She was good at meeting deadlines after all, she just had to apply herself.

"Can I go?" She asked, forcing her eyes open to look at the woman, her voice a little more eager than she felt. 

"Well I suppose you can dear, just, just rest for a few days please. No classes until Monday and if you experience any pain, dizziness or sickness come back here immediately." The woman instructed decisively, taking a step back from the bed to grab a few potions she had sitting on the side table. 

"Take these also, before you go. It's a pain potion and a nutrient potion. Both should help your body recover from the immobility and months of petrification." Hermione took the two flasks without complaint, downing them one after another, it was wise, she decided to take the potions considering all her body had endured. Unknown to Madame Pomfrey, Hermione knew exactly what was in each potions bottle and did not need the explanation. Not that she would inform the woman of that when she was merely trying to help her. 

"Thank you." The brunette stated after she had swallowed the last one. She looked at the healer and let a small grateful smile slip onto her freckled face as the last of the pain faded from her body. Madame Pomfrey nodded in acknowledgement, smiling gently at her as she gathered herself and made to stand from the bed. Hermione let herself adjust to being on her feet once more, her legs a little wobbly from months of being bedbound. She was looking forward to a hot shower when she made it back to her dorm. She felt disgusting and wanted nothing more than to wash the feeling of the infirmary off of her skin. 

She had just about reached the large Oak doors that would open up into the corridor beyond when the older woman's voice reached her ears again. Ice washing through her veins as she took in what the medi-witch was telling her. 

"Lady Lestrange wished me to tell you she stopped by to see you, however she couldn't stay as she had to get home to attend to some urgent family business." Madame Pomfrey called before Hermione heard her footsteps retreating towards her office in the back of the infirmary. It hurt to hear that Lady Lestrange had left her and not returned. More than Hermione thought it ought to. Lady Lestrange was not much more than a stranger despite how much the woman pestered her and claimed to care through letters each week. 

She had barely spent any amount of time with the woman and more often than not ignored the letters the woman sent her. But it hurt. 

Rejected, again. Betrayed, again. 

Abandoned, again. 

The woman had told her she was family, had promised Hermione that she cared. Yet had come and gone while Hermione was stuck, petrified by a monster. Not that she would have been there very long, Hermione hadn’t felt the woman’s magic, hadn’t sensed the sandalwood perfume that the woman wore. Which meant that even while ‘visiting’ her the woman had not come near her bedside. She had left her, abandoned her. Helpless on an infirmary bed. She had left. She had left her and not come back and yes Hermione knew she was being irrational, over sensitive and emotional but it hurt. It hurt and she hated it. 

She hated her. 

"I don't care." Hermione whispered to no one, furiously wiping the lone tear of her cheek that had fallen without permission. 

"I don't care." She repeated just as quietly, Unsteady hands pushing the doors to the hallway open. Intent on showering and moving forward. She refused to think any more on it. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Azkaban Prison, Somewhere in the North Sea ~

~ June 30th 1993 ~

~ Unknown POV ~

The cold was biting at her skin more than usual and the smell of damp and decay seemed to be more prominent than it had ever been. Her stomach growled and groaned in upset and her skin had paled more than it ever had. Not that she had ever not been pale. She had been deemed the Black Family Ice queen as she grew. No matter how much sun she had gotten she never had been anything other than pale. 

Yet despite the decay that surrounded her, she was in quite a jovial mood. She had just received a letter from her dearest sister regarding her husband and their house elf Dobby. Or should she say ex house elf? Was that a thing? She didn't know. 

Nor did she care. 

Lucius was a vile excuse for a man, pure-blooded or not. It was rotten luck she had been cornered into marrying the man all those years ago. Her son was doomed. Of that she was sure. Her Dragon had been forced to grow up without her because of Lucius' selfish choices and now all her boy had was her vile husband as an example of what a true wizard was. Merlin knew the boy had little hope now. He'd be thirteen now. In his second year at Hogwarts, about to go into his third. It broke her heart if she let herself think about it. But here, where the dementors were watching and waiting she tended to keep all thoughts of her boy buried. She didn't want to risk the dastardly things taking any of those memories and twisting them. 

But Lucius, thinking of him was her favourite pass time. Specifically thinking of all the ways she could get her revenge on him. He had set her up for his crimes after all. Painted her out to be a vile cruel woman. 

A criminal. 

Convinced the world she was Mad. 

So hearing from her Andy that a twelve year old girl had tricked him into freeing his slave was welcome news. She knew fine well how much Lucius had liked tormenting the elf’s. No matter how many times she had told him not too. After all the elf’s new everything there was about the families they worked for. So to keep an elf happy was a wise investment wasn't it? Yet her thick headed husband couldn't or wouldn't grasp such a concept. 

And to be tricked by a little girl of all things!!! 

She was ecstatic to say the least. When she got out of here, because she would, she would find this girl and shake her hand. Maybe even gift her a property or two because the girl deserved it. Her husband was many things but his cunning was something he prided himself on. Yet he had been bested by a child. 

It was the best news she had heard in years and it brought a genuine smile to her hollow cheeks that made her look as mad as Lucius had claimed her to be. She cared little about that though. Not when she could focus on the furious embarrassment she was sure had plastered itself upon his face. 

Oh it was a wonderful thing. 

Yes her sister had spoken of this twelve year old oddly. That was something she had to investigate further. But Lucius' torment was just too good not to revel in. 

Her sister had said the girl was an enigma. A muggle born who apparently possessed great magical ability, even at 12. A girl Andy was drawn too and had ordered be protected. Of course it was rather funny to think of her little sister chasing after this twelve year olds attention because apparently the girl refused most of Andromeda’s letters. It frustrated her sister who had come to see the girl as her child. Of course she could relate to Andy’s plight but for now, until she could actually be of some help to her sister, the witch chose to focus on her poor excuse of a husband. 

His face must have been a picture she would have paid good galleons to see. The witch shivered, the wind sneaking in through the cracks in the stone wall to lash at her cracked skin, though her grin grew. Until eventually she laughed. She laughed for the first time in many a year, her laugh one that was loud and manic in the eery prison, echoing off the walls and bouncing around her as she did so. 

She would have to remember to thank her darling sister, as soon as she got out of this damned place. For she had given her a gift that she could not truly replay. Her laughter bubbled and sored and the woman felt genuine warmth grow on her cheeks for the first time since her wrongful incarceration all those years ago. Despite the chorus of the many that surrounded her laughing and shouting as she cackled, the witch rejoiced in the moment. Treasuring the victory over her disgrace of a husband and forgetting momentarily about the ice cold shackles and damp rot that surrounded her.

As she quietened she smiled again and settled herself down to dream of the many, many ways she would devastate Lucius when she finally got free of this Morgana forsaken place.

Chapter Text

Edited – 08/01/2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Sydenham, The Haven Home for Girls ~

~July 20th 1994~

~ Hermione's POV ~

Hermione groaned quietly as she burrowed her head deeper beneath the tattered pile of blankets she had been hiding under for the past week. The sound of the usual daily chatter of the orphanage had begun to grate at her this summer. Each day had become more and more intolerable as she sunk lower into herself. She hated this Merlin awful place. Hated having to return here each summer. Back to the same old monotony of life as an orphan. It had always been a particularly hard adjustment for the young witch whenever she was forced to return to Sydenham from Hogwarts. The magic that pulsed through her veins protested the absence of magic in the air, It was an uncomfortable feeling for the brunette and made her feel far more isolated than she ever had. She could feel her own magic reaching and searching for any hint of the magic it craved in the world around her and she could feel the restlessness that creeped into her bones the longer her magical core sought what wasn’t there.

Though perhaps what was most difficult of all this time around was Matron. The usually sour woman seemed to lose any sense of decency around Hermione the older the brunette got. The woman had been unable to leave Hermione alone for a second without criticising her and losing her temper with the muggle-born. Hermione could practically feel the anger radiating off the elderly woman whenever she was in her proximity. It had meant that Hermione really couldn’t do anything except do her best to avoid the awful woman. Not only did Matron apparently decide that Hermione was the worst child she had ever known but the brunette’s usual ability to tolerate the incessant voices of her fellow orphans had also apparently fled with Matron’s sense of decency.

She felt like she was balancing on a knife’s edge, caught between matron’s reign of terror against her and each whisper and cough from her fellow orphans that sounded like leaky pipes. Loud and irritating to her ears. Even now she could hear them whispering, a floor below where she lay. She could hear the way they giggled and wheezed in hilarity at something or other, while she lay up in the attic, on her makeshift bed of blankets Matron had tossed up here for Hermione’s use. 

Matron, had removed Hermione’s wand and books from her as soon as she had stepped through the doors at the beginning of the summer. This in itself wasn’t out with the norm, she had removed everything magical from Hermione every summer since her first year. Though this year Matron had lacked any of her usual sorrowful self. The woman had sneered at Hermione as she stood open palmed, silently waiting on her wand, grimacing as Hermione's hand brushed hers. As if she carried some sort of disease that she was loathe to catch. Her temperament had been short and snide whenever she spoke to Hermione, the woman finding fault in Hermione’s every move. After last week's incident the woman had snapped completely, segregating the brunette to the attic. 

Though Hermione still believed the incident truly was not her fault. 

Merlin knew she hadn't meant to do what she had done. 

It was a mistake, she lost control. As she seemed to be doing more often the past few weeks. It had been her second day home and between Matron’s tyranny and all the inexplicable changes she had been experiencing the past few weeks and the girl's targeting her for no particular reason that day; a smashed window, broken kitchen appliances and a new flower garden in the middle of the stairway was the best that could have happened. No one had been hurt and Matron now had an excuse to apply for a bigger budget, so Hermione thought it was a complete over reaction when the woman banished her from the main living area. The woman had made a point of telling every one that Hermione was a waste of energy and they were to forget about her. The other girls seamed to have no problem doing exactly that.

Which left Hermione on her own once again, surrounded by her loss of control and the bitter sense that every thing was wrong.

Even now the attic sported the evidence of her accidental magic. Each of the walls were filled with fleur-de-lis from floor to ceiling. There yellows reflecting the sun in such startling vibrancy that it actually hurt Hermione's eyes to look at. Not that she knew how to make them disappear. Nor could she think straight enough to make them disappear with the awful noise that surrounded her. It was driving her demented, being forced to sit alone in this dusty old attic, listening to her peers laugh and play while she struggled to simply breath. This attic used to be her sanctuary, had been for many a year, now however it felt like a prison. One that was filled with dust, grime and suffocating loneliness.

The brunette groaned again quietly, twisting in the threadbare blankets, a futile attempt to get comfy. She could feel that something was wrong. There was a horrible anxious gurning in her stomach and her whole body had started aching 5 days ago. It was painful and she was clammy. Morgana herself only knew what was happening and Hermione was torn between letting whatever was happening consume her and the ever increasing panic and sense that she needed help, needed not to be alone. Needed something that wasn’t this aching pain and all-consuming loneliness that had engulfed her as of late.

The smallest little thing around her had begun to feel too much, as if all her senses had been turned up to a thousand without warning and all at once. Her ears were overly sensitive. Even her sense of smell had changed to, how she could smell matron's perfume even from up here, two floors above the woman's most frequented halls, was beyond her. The smell was haunting her, she could swear it. A reminder of where she was and who in fact she had to answer to for the time being. 

Her magic also had been wildly out of control, each time she got worked up it felt as if her magic – amplified like all her other senses – was no longer controllable in a way it hadn’t been since before first year. Flowers grew everywhere around her. They clung to every surface they could touch. Even forming a cocoon around her. Almost imitating a nest. At least her flowers dulled the stench of Matron's perfume, lessening Hermione’s urge to tear of her own skin just to be rid of the suffocating reminder that Matron had cut her off from her magic and banished her as if she were some sort of vermin.

Hermione stifled a sob, desperately trying to remember that each day that passed was another day closer to the day in which she could return to the magical world. Which meant she only had a further year before she could legally not return to this awful place.  It was the only thing she could think of that let her cling to a shred of her sanity. Without her sanity she feared what would happen if she lost all control. She had heard and read stories at Hogwarts about witches and wizards who had ended up going mad when isolated from the very magic that was rooted in their very DNA. So in some ways the flowers that climbed her walls provided a little peace as they filled the air with hints of magic. Even if it was only her own magic.

Yet it didn't feel nearly enough, not when like the rest of her, her magic was restless. Unsettled and unsteady as it buzzed through her like electricity, searching for an outlet that she couldn't allow herself. She'd be expelled from Hogwarts if she did and then she would be stuck here in this miserable hovel, surrounded by muggles who cared not for her existence. Her wand would be snapped and her memory erased of the world she had come to call her own. 

Despite that knowledge, Hermione had slowly become more and more terrified over the last few days that she wouldn’t be able to maintain control. All the changes that she was experiencing had become more and more difficult to deal with. Her emotions were wildly out of her grasp in a way they hadn't been in years. She could feel the tears that dripped down her pale cheeks, even as she fought for control of herself. Loathe to let them all win in their bid to bring her down. 

Hermione didn't know how much more she could take of this. It was endless and she felt more alone than she ever had. Every day that passed grew more difficult to function on the most basic of levels. Her very being rebelling against the lack of magic around her. At least that's how it felt. Why else would her body be suffering so greatly? Changing so rapidly? There was no explanation that she could find in any of her books, for she had lost access to them at the start of the summer and there was no one she knew that she could turn to for help. 

Hermione cringed, an image of the Lady Andromeda Lestrange flashing through her mind as she thought of the very few options she did have. Lady Lestrange was a sore topic for her. Even now.

At the end of first year the woman had made Hermione feel as if she finally had someone who cared about her and for her, in her corner. By the end of second year however, it was clear that whatever Lady Lestrange felt for her paled and would always pale in comparison to the woman's own family. Hermione was nothing more than charity. She had been fooling herself into thinking anyone could care for her in any way. It was ridiculous that it had come to this. That at her lowest moment the only person in this world that would possibly care about what was going on for her, was a woman who would never make Hermione her priority. 

Hermione didn't fail to see the irony in her situation. She had always striven to find her place in the world. She had held out so much hope for Hogwarts, that it would be the place she found that belonging. Yet here she was back where she started wasn't she? Alone at an orphanage, with no one that cared if she lived or died. 

Abandoned by her birth parents. 

Abandoned by her adopters. 

Abandoned by everyone. 

It would be infuriating if she could muster up the strength to feel any one, singular thing. It really showed how little she was worth didn't it? Used and discarded. Time and time again. Set to repeat the same cycle for the rest of her life. Her only other option was Cho, and she couldn't bother her only friend with this. Cho who had been so kind and patient with Hermione. Who had never pushed or acted in anger towards her. Somehow even knowing Cho would absolutely want Hermione to reach out, it wasn't enough to convince Hermione to put pen to paper and send a message. She didn't feel as if she deserved Cho, not when she had always kept her friend at arm’s length. Never fully allowing her to see through her walls and always keeping herself shrouded in mystery. 

She had tried to let the dark haired girl in but at this point Hermione had no faith that she would ever outgrow her ingrained need to keep herself to herself. Her stomach hurt, a heavy sense of unease sat within her torso like a lead balloon. A warning or a threat though she hadn't quite worked out what one it was yet. 

Hermione stood up, emerging from her blankets with a shaky form. Her skin paler than usual, her forehead shining with sweat and her heart racing. She was going mad. It was official. Or she was dying. She didn’t know which. However what she did know was that she needed this to stop. For things to make sense. She needed her magic. Needed her school and Cho and she needed out of here. Now. 

Yet stuck as she was she couldn't have any of those things. Yet she needed it. Still needed and craved the things she couldn't have and it made her feel as if she was about to burst. Turmoil bubbled within her. A deep acidic pit forming, all consuming. It was a restless energy with no outlet and no direction. A little like the brunette herself. Restless, forgotten. Alone. 

So Hermione did the only thing she could do in the moment. She picked up pen and paper and wrote. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Lestrange Manor, Wiltshire, England ~

~ July 20th 1994 ~

~ Andromeda's POV ~

"Nymphadora, be a dear and let your father know that I've headed out would you?" Andromeda called as she strode down the pale grey hallway briskly. Long strides taking her past her eldest and only child's room. Her steps were hurried as she approached the stairs. Her expression was one of worry and if anyone had seen her in that moment they would see the way fierce brown eyes were set in determination as she moved.

"Of course mother" met her ears as her left foot hit the first step of the main staircase. The lazy drawl let her know that her daughter was in fact half asleep, which meant her daughter probably wouldn’t tell her father anything. Not that she really cared and if she had any spare time on her hands the brunette would have returned to her daughter's room, if only to get a rare glimpse of her darling girl at ease for once. What possessed Nymphadora to join the auror department within the Ministry was beyond Andromeda’s understanding. They were all a bunch of corrupt fools if you asked her, which of course no one did. Merlin knew Nymphadora didn't need to work, she had seen to that in marrying her girl's father, the Lestrange heir. A prominent match her father had taken delight in agreeing too. Especially after he had found out about her and the muggle-born Teddy Tonks. 

Teddy had been a lovely distraction during her sixth year at Hogwarts, however her blood meant that upon finding out Andromeda had dared to entertain the woman, her Father, Cygnus had about lost his mind in fury. Teddy hadn't come back to seventh year and Andromeda knew her father had been responsible for that. Nevertheless she had to make some sort of plan when the man started talking about speeding up her betrothal. 

So she had done what her darling big sister had done. 

Found the richest but densest Pure-blooded wizard in her year and talked him into fancying her for a bride. Not that Rudolphus Lestrange had any particularly good qualities about him but his inability to use his brain meant that Andromeda could very well do as she pleased. Nymphadora had been the only thing he had given her that ever meant anything and once she had given him his heir she made him move to his own wing of their home. Far from her eye line. 

Otherwise she may have been forced to join her sister in Azkaban and then who would be here holding down the family Fort? Lucky for Lady Lestrange, her dearest husband had never been the brightest tool in anyone's cauldron. A pity really, that all the talent he could have possessed, had been utterly wasted upon a cause that Andromeda found nigh impossible to truly back. Despite her upbringing. It would be so easy, she supposed to let herself fall into the pure-blood mania her parents and their parents and so on had fallen into. Yet she could see the many faults in their beliefs. It was obvious to any who stopped a moment to ponder the reality of concepts such as inbreeding that to create an entirely ‘pure’ world would only create so many children with increasingly complex mental and physical health complications. She was almost positive that was truly the cause of her idiotic husband's flaws after all. 

Andromeda didn't stop longer than the time it took to grab her healer's bag and her wand as she made for the door. She apparated on the spot, an image of Hermione Granger held strongly within her mind. Trusting her magic and whatever bond it was that they shared to get her there safely without knowing the exact destination. An instinctual pull guiding her wordlessly to the young with whom had owled for assistance.

She landed in a dimly lit room, if she were to hazard a guess she would say it was an attic of some sort that needed some serious work. There was dust covering every surface that met the eye and the one small window present was covered by a thinning black blanket. A poor attempt to block out the light that tried to stream through the grime coated window pane. The floorboards beneath her feet creaked and groaned under her and the older witch wondered just how safe they truly were up here. A small part of her mind cautioning her against the potential of her falling through the ceiling in to the rooms below.

She frowned, her eyes studying the room in front of her for the young witch she had come to see. The older witch was puzzled when she found her lying underneath the covered window on what appeared to be a make shift bed? Her frown deepened, confused to see the girl up here alone when she could clearly hear various young voices on the floor below them. Surely this wasn’t where the child lived?

But the woman’s analysis and worry was soon pushed to the back of her mind when she spotted the girls pale sweaty face peeking out from among the pile of tattered looking blankets. Andromeda could see looking at her that the girl was shivering violently, an indication of fever. Her hair looked wild and unruly, dripping with sweat. But that wasn't all that had Andromeda on alert. The musty air of the attic was saturated in magic.

The girl's magic to be precise.

To most the feeling of being so thoroughly surrounded by another's magic would be uncomfortable at best. To Andromeda it felt like family. A fact she filed away for later examination. Though her main concern was the reason the air was saturated in the girls magic. It was unusual for a student of Hermione’s age to be having incidences of accidental magic like the girl so obviously was. Her walls were covered in flowers. Fleur-des-lis lined the walls and ceiling, covering every inch of surface the older witch could see. Yet despite her concern, Andromeda was awed by the display. As it showed an immense power. Power in which not many fully grown heavily trained witches or wizards would ever possess,  let alone one muggle-born girl who was so young and still a year away from coming into her power fully. 

"Lady Lestrange?" the young witches voice called out in a whisper.  Her tone questioning yet Andromeda could hear the exhaustion and pain lacing her words. "Miss Granger." She acknowledged, waving her wand to conjure an actual bed, mattress and warm duvet. She levitated the girl. Settling Hermione down gently as she strode over to the girls side. "I got your letter". She answered the unasked question. Her eyes studied the young girl's face. She watched the emotion play out on tired features. She could see the relief war with the girl's stubborn nature. She reminded Andromeda of herself that way. Too proud to ask for help and reluctant to accept the help even when she knew it was necessary. 

"I'm glad you reached out, even if I am a little perturbed at the time it took you to do so. Two years my letters have gone unanswered. Yet I can't figure out what it was I did to cause you to shut me out again young one." She continued talking, all the while casting diagnosis after diagnosis on the teen to determine what exactly was going on with the girl in front of her. Everything she cast came back fine. Every known magical and muggle illness, undetected by her magic. The girl closed her eyes shut tight at her words and Andromeda could tell she wasn't going to get an answer. At least not today. It admittedly hurt, the older witch truly didn't know why the brunette had shut her out after her second year. She had felt like they were growing closer. Hermione had been in regular contact and then it all stopped. Her letters were returned unopened. Though she kept trying and would continue to keep trying for as long as she had too. Merlin knew the need to protect this girl was so overwhelming that she couldn't and wouldn't ignore it. After all, what sort of pure-blood would she be to ignore what her magic demanded for her to do so insistently. 

Andromeda frowned, her last magical diagnosis test was one that detected any unfamiliar magical signature attached to a person. She hadn't expected anything to come back but had run it out of habit. The several years as a healer she had done meant she had become quite habitual and methodical in the way she worked. Yet despite the test only being cast as part of her usual practice she was more than mildly alarmed to see her charts flash red. A sign that there was another magic signature attached to the girl. A magical signature much stronger than even she was capable of breaking through. It made no sense but the Pure-blood was unwilling to alert the semi-conscious teen girl to her findings just yet. It wouldn't do to stress the girl out over something that she couldn't actually provide any form of suitable answer to just yet. 

Though Andromeda fully intended to find out. 

"I think you just have a fever, possibly one brought on from stress. Some bed rest and some pain potions should have you right as rain in no time. I'll also give you a dreamless sleep. It will hopefully allow your body to relax enough to combat the exhaustion and the fever."  She explained quietly once she was done examining her many observations. The girls heart rate was a little fast and she definitely had a temperature but everything else appeared fine except the unknown magical presence attached to her. 

Hermione still hadn't said another word. Her eyes tracked Andromeda’s every movement as she worked. It pained the woman to see the distrust in those weary brown eyes. Eyes that at one point had looked at her with such hope it had melted the pure-bloods heart. Gone was that glimpse of a girl less lost and in her place lay a girl who had clearly seen too much and clearly felt too much. Such was the pain the older woman could see clouding the girls features. 

Andromeda took her time removing the potions she had prescribed. Needing a moment to gather herself as she accepted the fact that despite reaching out for help Hermione clearly wasn't willing to converse with her in the slightest. She hoped that in proceeding slowly, it would buy her a little more time to work out what she needed to say to try and repair whatever damage she had unwittingly done to the very tentative relationship they had begun to form. The older woman sighed. Unstopping the pain potion and gently lifting the brunette's head to help her sip it down. 

"For what it's worth, child, no matter how long you shut me out for, I will always be around. I care, whether or not you believe me truthful." Andromeda whispered, uncorking the dreamless sleep and repeating the same process of helping Hermione sip it down. She knew it wouldn't be long before the potion took effect. She rubbed her eyes tiredly and conjured up a small sofa at Hermione's bedside. She sat down quietly after tucking the duvet around the girls slim frame tightly. Her mind made up to stay by the young witches side until she had healed. 

Though she wished she had left when Hermione spoke next. Her voice rough with sleep she was clearly losing the fight against. Andromeda’s breath froze and her heart sank, as the little witches voice reached her ears. The reality of what she was speaking of slapping the older woman in the face in perfect clarity. 

"I looked for you, searched for you while I lay there, you never came."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry ~

~ September 5th 1994 ~

~ Hermione's POV ~

Hermione shivered from her perch up on the astronomy tower, absentmindedly watching the butterflies she had conjured hover above her open palm. The cold autumn air was chilling her overheated skin. It was a welcome relief from the ever present fever she had experienced since the summer. Even with the help of Lady Lestrange the brunette's symptoms hadn't abated. Only lessened slightly, she had become pretty used to it by this point. Her body learning to function through the fever and discomfort she constantly felt. However, the cold air was welcome. It helped that Hermione also had a front row seat to watch the foreign schools arrive for the foolish Tri-wizard tournament, a seat that kept her far away from the rest of the Hogwarts students who all amassed  below her on the entrance lawn. Each house swarming as they tried to get the better standing positions around the entrance lawn.

In truth, she was hiding from it all. 

Since her senses had heightened over the summer months they hadn’t lessened. Nor had they become easier to manage, she became far more easily overwhelmed by all the noise that came with being around so many other people. It took her an age to unwind and relax after every interaction. She had managed to keep it together for the last five days, since she had come back to Hogwarts. Just barely not losing control of her magic or her temper at the incessant voices that surrounded her. Though keeping it together or not, she wasn't about to pass up on the opportunity to enjoy some peace and quiet. She wanted to take this chance to recharge a little, lest she completely lose it. Cho had given her a disappointed look when she had failed to convince the brunette to join her in the courtyard. Hermione was glad she hadn't pushed for her to tag along. 

Lady Lestrange had also amped up her attempts to win Hermione's attention once again. The woman had apparently taken Hermione's letter requesting her medical help as an invitation back into her life. It absolutely wasn't. The only reason she had let the woman anywhere near her was because Matron had locked up all things magical, including Hermione's personal stash of various potions. But Lady Lestrange however, did not seem to understand that. The woman had taken to sending Hermione care packages, one had arrived for her each day she had been back at the school. Each basket contained some pain potions, some form of chocolate and some form of a gift. An enchanted brown teddy bear in the first one. A blanket in the next, a new pair of slippers, a new pair of warm pyjamas. Today's gift was a book on wizarding culture. A gift meant with humour she was sure and timed with the foreign schools arrival coincidentally she was assured by the older woman’s letter.

All the gifts were ones that if Hermione wasn't still so incredibly hurt by the woman, she would have found them utterly adorable. She hadn't sent them back however, a small part of her unwilling to return the items. That part of her she was loath to acknowledge. If she did, it would leave too much room for her to second guess herself and her choice to keep the woman out. 

A sudden uproar from the ground below had Hermione refocus on the scene in front of her. The entirety of the school that had piled out into the courtyard below, teachers included, were all gasping and cheering as a ship emerged from underneath the surface of the Black lake. The ship was large, its mast sporting the rather intimidating red flag of Durmstrang Institute. Its bulk caused the lake to ripple and roll rather aggressively. It made Hermione frown, entirely unsure as to how their giant squid and the Mer folk would appreciate the intrusion. There was no way that the disturbance caused by the ship in the water wouldn't be affecting those that lived below the surface. Hermione also doubted anyone had spoken to the lake inhabitants to even warn them of the potential disturbance from the ships arrival. 

The ship rolled to a stop, a large group of muscular boys, all dressed in burgundy, splashing down into the shallow water below them. The display was rather pathetic to Hermione. It was an obvious display of the school's perceived strength. Toxic masculinity at its finest. It was a sickening sight to see and the brunette cringed when she saw the similarities between these boys and the boys of Hogwarts. Who had, for the majority, begun to walk around the school grounds challenging one another over who was stronger. Male ego’s posturing and fighting amongst themselves in a sick display of their own ‘masculinity’ leading up to today. 

Once Professor Dumbledore had announced that there would be two schools joining them for the Triwizard Tournament it was like a switch had gone off in all the students. The boys walked with their chests puffed out, their tones matching stupidity with arrogance. Even the Gryffindor boys were acting like idiots. More so than before. Particularly Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. 

Those two had taken to hanging around Hermione the past few days, making small talk and trying to coax the Brunette into pointless conversations all the while continuing their pathetic attempts at belittling her. Ron had even had the audacity to demand she become their study partner. Apparently his mother had "promised to make him regret it if he didn't pass every one of his classes this year because she knew he could do better if he just applied himself." Hermione thought Mrs Weasley was just setting herself up to be disappointed. 

She detested it however. She could tell Ron was cruel at heart, he hadn't ever hidden how little he thought of her. Harry Potter was just as bad, though she doubted he was truly cruel. He still did nothing to counter Ron's actions. Both were cowards in her opinion. 

The only benefit she had found in having them hang around her is that all the other Gryffindors had apparently grown bored of tormenting her. There taunting growing sparse as they saw the association between her and the golden boy of Gryffindor. So she had tolerated the idiotic pair. If they were leaving her alone it was one less thing for her to worry about. 

Hermione had to suppress a giggle at the sight of the Durmstrang boys falling into line. They all looked identical. From their boy scout haircuts to their burgundy dress robes. The only thing identifying that they were in fact different people were their heights. If she had to guess, the tallest stood at about 6 foot 5, the smallest at about 5 foot. She sat watching, as who she assumed was the Durmstrang headmaster, marched up past the students to shake Dumbledore's hand. Both wizards exchanging a few apparently heated words before he moved to stand at Hogwarts Headmasters side. An uneasy sort of tension lingering in the Durmstrang headmaster’s posture.

The brunette frowned as a sudden lurching feeling in her magic caused her to topple forward, as what she assumed to be the Beauxbatons Academy carriage came into view in the sky in front of her. The feeling almost causing her to fall had she not cast a sticking charm when she first sat down on the ledge. The feeling rolled through her, causing her heart to jump as it begun to beat wildly. The normal uneasiness of her magic had increased tenfold in the past several seconds, taking on a sudden urgency that settled in the pit of her stomach. Lurching over and over again, a futile attempt to….. do something……

She didn’t know what. Confusion and fear filling her veins as her magic continued to swarm within her. It caused her stomach to flip uncomfortably. Her temperature spiking and a wave of dizziness tore through her with a suddenness that left her gasping for breath. Her lunch almost making a reappearance as her stomach flipped violently once more. She forced herself to take as deep a breathe as she could. Her mind having to fight the urge to curl up into herself even as that urgent feeling within her gut increased. She watched, silent tears of discomfort trailing down her now ashen cheeks as the carriage drew closer, her breathing picked up the closer the Beauxbatons students grew to her with no explanation.

Hermione clenched her fists tightly, entirely confused as to what was happening. She knew she had to calm down. Knew she couldn't lose control, if she did her magic would rush out into the air around her. It would draw attention to her hiding spot, not to mention she doubted the students would be kind to a fourth year student displaying such feats of accidental magic. They’d call her a child or worse and it would only reinforce the Slytherin’s beliefs that ‘her kind’ didn’t belong here, even if they hadn’t said those words to her directly.

The brunette groaned quietly, wishing she had brought a calming draught from her own personal collection along with her or one of Lady Lestrange’s care package’s at the very least. Not that she had or could have anticipated this happening.

As the carriage landed Hermione forced herself to stand. The muggle-born witch taking an unsteady step down from the ledge she had been sat upon, on to the top floor of the astronomy tower. Her gaze still fixed to the happenings down below. Her magic surged almost in anticipation as the Beauxbatons students glided elegantly down the steps of their elegant carriage. They all wore a baby blue dress robe with matching beret atop their heads. 

And Hermione realised she was hyperventilating now. Her magic rolling and coiling wildly as if urging her to do something, anything. Tears began to stream down her face faster now as she fought herself. Pain radiating from tense muscles as she desperately clung to some sort of self-control. She wanted to leave, to run away from whatever this feeling was. But her feet were stuck to the spot where she stood. Her eyes fixed to the Beauxbatons students as they filed out onto the entrance lawn with an elegance that Hermione was sure caused an envy amongst the Hogwarts female population. 

Her breath caught in her throat as the last two students emerged. One slightly shorter than the other. Their bright blonde hair hung loosely around their shoulders. Who she assumed was the older girl fussed with the shorter girl's dress and hair. Soothing out the ruffles of her dress and fixing the slightly shorter girls loose curls just so. 

Hermione's magic surged again, soaring in an excitement she didn’t understand. Slipping past her ironclad control as if seeking the girls below her. Her chest restricted, her breath catching all together the moment her magic touched the two girls' magics below her. They turned, the last thing Hermione saw as her vision faded, and her legs gave away from beneath her was their bright golden eyes landing directly on the open window Hermione stood in as if both girls could sense that she was in fact there. 

Chapter Text

Note: So, I’ve finally been able to get through all 9 previous chapters. Which means as of now 13/01/2025 this story is completely up to date. All chapters have been reworked slightly and edited extensively without taking anything from the mystery or content of the story so far. (Hopefully this edit has actually added to the mystery and enhanced the story for you all). As always, I cannot thank you all enough for the sheer support you always offer me. You all honestly blow me away with the love, feedback and strength you offer. So many of you have reached out in similar situations to myself with such empathy and encouragement and I truly feel blessed. I want you all to know that you are a blessing and no matter what this crazy little world throws at us, please, please keep going. Keep fighting and keep spreading the love you show me out in the wider world.

I will forever be in each and every one of your debts.

All my Love – Nell xoxo

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~ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry ~

~ September 5th 1994 ~

~ Hermione's POV ~

The young brunette woke up slowly, an intense pounding in her head, her eyes also stung, and her temples throbbed horribly. It took her more than a long minute to figure out where precisely she was. The cold stone of the astronomy tower, at first glimpse, was completely foreign to her. It wasn’t until she spotted the stairs that surrounded her that a little clarity snuck into her mind as to her whereabouts. She had woken in the same place she had fallen, inches from the window she had been staring out of. Her entire body feeling just as feverish as it had before, and that same sense of urgency was racing through her veins once more. This time with a sense of desperation that only added to her distress. It felt as if every fibre of her being was urging her to hurry. As if magic herself was stressing the importance of this thing that lingered in her bones. Whatever it was, Hermione felt clueless, a sense of foreboding sitting in her stomach as her feverish bones ached familiarly. A reminder to the brunette that there must be something abstractly wrong with her that she wasn't seeing.

Her symptoms made no sense, but she had the disturbing suspicion that it all had something to do with those Beauxbatons girls that had emerged last from their carriage. Not that the link was clear at all. The brunette was only certain of one thing and that was that her magic had reacted to them. The whole time it surged and coiled and searched. It had been searching for them, and she didn’t know what to make of that in the slightest.

It had to be linked. Her mysterious illness, the way her magic had been wildly out of control, the heightened senses. It had to be linked.

The first thing she had done upon arrival at Hogwarts after the summer had ended was go to the library to check out every book, she could think of that might contain the answers she sought. Though no amount of research had resulted in any sort of tangible reason. The fever, the heightened senses, the irritability and bouts of accidental magic, all the things that ailed her, had garnered no explanation in her books and that had upset the brunette greatly. Lady Lestrange had been stumped too as to what was causing her to feel so awful. But the fever was yet to abate, and Hermione was even more confused than she ever had been. Especially now after seeing the way her magic reacted to those two unknown girls.

She couldn’t lie and say it hadn’t unsettled her. For it had, but Hermione really couldn’t work out just what part of this entire mess she found herself in to focus on. Everything was so confusing and so very overwhelming for the usually together brunette. The fact that she was feeling so out of control with no explanation wasn't something that she was willing to take lightly. It was something she detested, and she'd always striven to remain at least hyper aware of her surroundings as she grew. This feeling made her feel like she was blind, the more she searched for answers, finding none, the more anxious she became, and the more confusing things got. Hermione groaned silently, sniffling and whipping at her eyes as she realised, she was crying. Her entire body felt like it was on fire and her magic felt wild. The brunette picked herself up. She Forced stiff joints to cooperate as she snuck back to her dorm, answering the Riddle at the entrance and making her way up to her room without conscious thought as she focused everything she had on simply getting there without being seen.

She did not want to risk anyone seeing her like this, her peers were like wolves, and she was already an outcast. She really couldn’t give them any ammunition to use to torment her further with.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ The sky above Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry ~

~ September 6th 1994 ~

~ Fleur’s POV ~

Fleur Narcissa Delacour was a proper lady, or at least she tried to be. She was after all the heir to the Delacour Clan. A responsibility and an honour that would be passed down to her from her Grandmother, through her Mother. When the time came. It was a role she had been training for her whole life, her grandmother having drilled it into her from the minute she could form conscious thought. The Clan of Vela would be her responsibility. Hers to guide, to govern, to care for. Though most importantly they would be hers to protect.

It was an honour that had resided within the Delacour family for many a Century. A pact that had been formed amongst the Vela world-wide long, before even her grandparents, grandparents were on this earth. The pact meant that Clan Delacour would always be The Vela’s leaders. Passed from matriarch to matriarch. They were after all the fairest and strongest Vela to have ever existed. Each Delacour Child born to a Vela Elder was predicted to hold immense power and each child would have their own aspect of the Magiks that they excelled in. For Fleur, the future leader, she had always excelled at Healing and upon her sixteenth birthday when her inner Vela had awoken this ability had been magnified tenfold. Her Grandmother had been exceptionally proud of her. As had the rest of her Family. For it was only fitting that the future head would be skilled at caring for anyone sick or injured, able to heal and treat their flock to exceptional standards. Such was the privilege that had been bestowed upon her.

It was a heavy crown to bear but one that Fleur would never resent. She loved her family and her flock dearly and would always strive for the best for them. After years of training under her Grandmother, she knew one day she would flourish as their leader. She had been taught to hold their secrets close and her family closer. She had learned the hard way just how quickly those you loved could be ripped away from you. Her family had lost someone dear to them and they had never recovered. Even now Fleur could feel the pang of heartbreak that clung to her and her sister, The tear in their magic that they carried each day, a reminder of the girl ripped from them. A part of them missing, an ache that they knew as Vela would never go away.

Her sister’s disappearance had destroyed her Clans trust in Wizarding Britain, they had little faith in the British ministry and even littler faith in their auror department. After all they still hadn't solved her sister’s disappearance. After all this time, they still had no hint of a clue as to where her baby sister was or what had happened to her. Fleur secretly doubted they ever would. If her family were to gain answers it would not come from the incompetent fools at the ministry that had searched for 14 years with no avail.

No, Fleur knew if her family were to get closure for her little sister’s disappearance it would be granted by her. It was why she had agreed to represent her school in this Morgana awful sham of a tournament. She had promised her mother’s that she would find answers. Neither dared believe her but Fleur had never not fulfilled a task she had set her heart too and she wouldn’t start now. As future clan leader she had to do this, not just for her parents or Gabby, not even just for her missing sister but for the clan too. They all deserved answers, they all needed those answers, and they all needed justice. She knew the risk and the danger she and Gabby were in, something that her dear sister Gabrielle had pointed out on numerous occasions even as she too packed for this trip. Intent on accompanying her eldest sister to their birthplace. To return to Britain invited all sorts of awful possibilities in her mother’s opinion but the Vela in her wouldn’t back down. This was something she knew she had to do.

So, with determination and nerves of steel she didn’t know she possessed Fleur had volunteered to represent their school. An honour even if it were a dangerous one.

Her family had relocated to France, back to her Mere’s home. To the Clan’s sacred grounds where they were safe. France was their sanctuary and the clan’s young flourished there. The decision to bring Gabby and her there had been a painful one for her parent’s but Fleur was grateful for the safety the clan lands offered her and her sister. That said her mama and her Mere still searched for their missing sister often. They had never given up on trying to find Adharia. Both refusing to accept that she was gone, though they had tried to hide their heart break and desperate attempts at searching from Fleur and Gabby as they grew. But Fleur had seen, and it had broken her heart to see the pain that her parents carried with them every second of every day.

She and Gabrielle had lost a sister, and they felt her loss profoundly. The three sharing a sacred bond that was truly unbreakable. A little-known fact about Vela was that all children born of Vela descent were linked to their siblings by magical bonds that were as powerful as any known bond in the wizarding world. It meant that Fleur and Gabrielle physically felt the absence of their little sister in their magic. Adharia having been far too little for their Magiks to bond properly. She had been ripped away before the three had ever gotten the chance to fully form their bond and it left a permanent hole in Gabrielle and Fleurs own Magiks. It was a constant aching absence that haunted them. It always would. But they had learned to adapt their magic and their heart. They missed her, yes. Terribly so and they would always long for her, search for her and miss her fiercely but they had lived more of their lives without her than with. They heartbreakingly knew how to survive in her absence.

For Fleurs parent’s however, she knew the loss of their sister had slowly but surely broken them down piece by piece. Her mama blamed herself, having been the one at home with them the night Adi had been taken. Fleur had watched her mama withdraw into herself, she would smile and laugh and love with Gabby and Her and even Mere on occasion but the minute her mama thought no one was looking all sign of light left her pale blue eyes. Her Mere also blamed herself, for she had been at work the night it happened, and it devastated her Mere’s inner Vela. She had been at the ministry, working as the international liaison officer between France and the united kingdoms. They were planning a new creature treaty that would have shown more compassion to the magical creatures that had so often been mistreated. The treaty never passed. The British ministry claiming the disappearance of a magical child to be the responsibility of the house elf that had been murdered. It was twisted to the media that the elf had secretly helped the intruder in their kidnapping of the young witch and the treaty had lost substantial support and had been disbanded, swept inside a desk drawer beside twenty other creature treaties that had never made it past a rough draft, coincidentally.

Vela by nature were the protective kind, they were territorial and caring and nothing was more important to the Vela than her family. The Vela would without question burn the world to stop harm befalling their young and Fleur knew that her Mere struggled every day to stop her Vela from slipping into the darkness at her own perceived failure to protect her family.

Fleur knew she and her sister were all that held their mothers together and she was determined to change that. Determined to find out what happened to their baby sister and if she could Fleur would make sure that whoever had harmed Adi, would pay dearly for their crime.

“Fleur we are landing”. Gabrielle’s angelic voice spoke quietly, the slightly younger girl placing a gentle hand on her sister’s tense forearm. “Thank you, Gabrielle. Give me a minute to collect myself oui?” The taller blonde answered back. Her voice just as soft and angelic as her sisters was. Fleur quietly summoned her hairbrush, running it through already pristine locks methodically. Strategically working on her “public face” as her mere liked to tease.

“You are thinking of her again, aren’t you?” the ever-astute sea blue eyes of her baby sister studied her face carefully and Fleur knew Gabrielle knew her far too well. Neither of them needed to clarify her they were talking about. They had always been inseparable, especially after their sister had been snatched. Their broken hearts clinging to one another for survival as they had grown. But the older blonde also knew as much as Gabrielle missed their sister, she didn’t remember the tiny infant, not truly. Nor did she remember the night their baby sister had been snatched. Not the way Fleur did.

Without responding out loud, she nodded once. Confirmation that wasn’t strictly necessary. She felt rather than saw her sister move closer, blonde curls tickling the older witch’s bare arm as Gabrielle rested her head against her. A gentle sort of soothing support that Fleur only ever found in moments like these with Gabby. “I don’t know how or when sister. But we will find the truth” The younger blonde whispered. A promise as much as it was a prayer. One both witches begged Morganna and all the gods to answer as they took the moment to simply be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mademoiselle’s Delacour, Vous êtes tous les deux requis. Veuillez-vous ranger en ligne, vous êtes après tout notre champion’’. The stern tone of their Headmistress Madame Maxime startled the teens from their solace as they had stood watching the grounds of their host school come upon them. The last part of her sentence was directed at Fleur, but she felt her sister preen beside her. Her inner Vela proud of her sister in a way that only the Vela could truly grasp.

“Nous vous prions de nous excuser, madame la directrice, nous ne voulions pas donner l'impression d'être en défaut.” Fleur replied instinctively, ushering her sister forward. The older witch had to try a little too hard to address their headmistress without sneering at the poor woman. Madame Maxime always meant well and truly cared for her student’s, but the woman’s own anxieties often slipped in to her mannerism’s. An unfortunate consequence was that the woman often came across brash or ill tempered. Though intentional or not, the slight was enough to have Fleur’s inner Vela sneering at the woman’s indirect disrespect. The headmistress smiled, accepting the easy apology as she ushered the girls forward. Towards the carriage doors.

“Nous débarquons par deux, mesdames. Juste comme nous l'avons répété.” The Beauxbatons head mistress commanded as they came to a halt on the gravel path on the entrance lawn. “Rappelez-vous qui vous êtes les filles. Quoi qu’il arrive, nous sommes Beauxbatons. Fier. Affectueux. Féroce.” The woman continued and she met each of their eyes. Critically inspecting their robes and hair one last time. First impressions were key after all, and Fleur could see that their head mistress was determined to make a good one at the very least. Their school after all had never won this tournament in the entire time it had run all those years ago. It’s return meant that France finally had a chance to even the scores slightly and redeem their ancestors. The blonde could see why the school’s though it such a big deal, but she would never be at peace with the idea of reckless competition meant to feed ego instead of growth.

When the carriage door opened Fleur felt her magik jump in her veins, Gabrielle stumbling beside her let her know that her sister felt it too. It was a strange urgent sort of feeling that made both blondes feel as if their very being was calling them forward. Demanding that they move and seek. What they were to seek however was a mystery and they really weren’t in any position to follow the magik that insisted they move. They were after all standing at the back of their peers waiting to descend the stairs officially starting their stay at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“Fleur.” Gabby whispered, hand on her arm tightening imperceptibly at the strange sensation. “I know Gab, Calm” she instructed back. Knowing that there was little they could do without drawing negative attention to them and therefore the school. The curly hair blonde nodded minutely, accepting her sister’s instruction easily. She would never doubt Fleur, trust lived and breathed between the two implicitly. It always had and this although frightening to the younger blonde, was no different.

Fleur breathed deeply as an afterthought hoping her sister would follow her lead. It wouldn’t do for them to lose control of their magic or their vela’s so she needed her sister as grounded as she possibly could be in their current predicament. As for the Magik that pulsed within her Fleur was at a loss. She could feel it. The insistent tugging and pulling in the direction of the large tower 200 meters away in the distant. It’s ancient grey stone rising proudly above them. The blonde looked around with her eyes as she descended the carriage steps, briefly taking in the other two schools already lining the grass. The boys, and many of the female student’s already reacting unfavourably to the Vela allure that she and many of her classmates were blessed with. For the vela were an intimate people. Known for their prowess, insatiability and need in the bedroom. Part of that was what was known as their ‘thrall’ a chemical pheromone that their bodies produced, a well-trained vela could control it’s intensity, but the Thrall was designed to entice and lure willing bed partners to Vela. It was said it was a gift passed on to the Vela from their relatives – Sirens. Only the Vela as people were kindly and loving. They taught peace and only ever harmed another if in defence of their family or all other options were ineffective.

The thrall now was only ever used with a Vela’s mate or in severe situations when a vela’s life was at risk. That’s not to say the Vela thrall wasn’t always there. Because it was, however, vela learned to control its intensity. Muting their thrall around others to ensure minimum effect on others. However, unfortunately those not accustomed to the Thrall were often ensnared by it if receptive, regardless of how muted it was. If anything, the Thrall was often a nuisance to them attracting unwanted attention to them at inopportune times.

Once they had all filed out of their carriage, heads held high, cloaks wrapped around themselves tightly to fight the Scottish September chill, Fleur continued her surveillance of their surroundings. Her Magik still insisting she move, toward the tower. Away from the crowds around them.

“The tower Fi” her sister whispered, and Fleur found herself squeezing her sister’s arm imperceptibly in agreement. Both turning their eyes towards the tower in question. A strange feeling of being watched began to couple with the urgency and both blondes clenched their fists, fighting the urge to listen to their Magik. Their Vela were awake also, pacing within as they grew anxious at the way their Magiks coiled and spiked.

Two sets of shimmering blue turned their eyes in sync up to the tower in question. Both searching for the source of their urgency as they were stuck in place on the middle of the entrance courtyard. Fleur almost sighed in frustration, catching the slip between perfect teeth. Her frustration mounting the longer the source of their unsettledness remained elusive to them. As soon as they were free to move around uninspected by students and faculty alike, they would find whatever it was.

“Speak with Mama first” the little uncertain voice within her whispered as she remained glued to the tower. It wasn’t a bad idea really. But fleur didn’t know if she had the ability not to go towards that feeling for very long. Nor did Gabby. She could tell by the way the younger blondes pristine nails dug into Fleurs forearm. As if that grip was all that tethered her in place.

“Welcome, Welcome to all. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang alike it is a pleasure to have you here with us.” A booming voice rang out across the grounds. The voice commanding the attention of all three schools’ inhabitants in its volume. Fleur too snapped her eyes towards the voice and found herself gasping quietly. A mix between, recognition, confusion and fear colouring her vision as her eyes took in the elderly wizard in front of her.  For a moment Fleur could have sworn she was three years old again, her mind suddenly flung back fourteen years into the past.

Her eyes were raw, and her face was clammy and wrought with emotion. Tears streamed down her face as she stared helplessly at the tall, robed figure. Cream coloured robes loomed in their doorway. Green eyes starkly unsettling in the dim light of the night. Malice and determination shinning within in a way that just looked mean to the three-year-old. Adharia was screaming, Gabrielle was crying in fright too and Fleur, Fleur screamed for their mama as loud as she could. The man grinned, a bony finger rising to his lips as if they would follow his direction as he moved further into the room. His eyes focused on their little sisters screaming form.

“I’ll leave you two be, I’m only here for her.” He whispered, a gentleness to his tone that Fleur knew not to be genuine. His tall form not even pausing once to look at them.

“NO! Leave her! Leave her! MAMA MAMA MAMA!!!!!” She screamed,

“MAAAA!!!!” Gabrielle’s emotion torn voice joined hers. Their voices hoarse and cracked as the stood, unable to do anything in their beds as the man lifted their baby sister. His pale features up turned in a sinister sneer as he turned. Adharia clutched to him. Her little fists hitting out, grasping at the air as she searched for some form of comfort.

“Fleur, Fleur, what is wrong?” This time Gabrielle sounded much older when she shook her, and Fleur blinked rapidly. A futile attempt to rid herself of that night and of the memory that had never ceased it’s haunting of her. But how could she now when the man that had haunted her dreams since she was three years old, the evil man that had stolen their sister, now stood in front of her wearing the disguise of a headmaster. Her heartbeat wildly and her inner Vela recoiled, it too feeling the brunt of her fear as she recalled that night with perfect clarity.

“ C'est lui Gabby. Il l'a prise.’’ She whispered, automatically switching to French in her panic, praying that her little sister picked up on the importance of what she was saying. Subtly turning her face away from the man in question. Not only so she didn’t have to look at him but also because she was sure he was most likely a skilled legilemens and the elder girl could not risk him seeing what she had seen. Unsure as to if he would recognise her. She didn’t want him to know she knew who he was either. She needed to speak with her parents and her Grand’Mere.

“Vous êtes sûr, sœur?”  The curly haired blonde whispered back. Her sea blue eyes locating the man her sister had indicated. A shadow of anger flashing in her usually kind eyes as she took stock of the man’s kindly facade. He looked like a grandfather. A startlingly dissimilar image to the one she had created in her mind of the man who had stolen their sister all those years ago.

“Je suis sûr, Gabrielle, que c'est lui.” Fleur responded just as quietly as before, grasping her sisters’ arm in restraint. Although she was unsure whom she was holding still at that moment. Her or Gabrielle. Every ounce over her being urged her to demand answers. To confront the evil that stood before her, but she knew it would do no good. She was in his school, on his grounds. Thousands of miles away from Dordogne and she and Gabrielle were almost entirely without backup. Despite their headmistress being there she knew the woman couldn’t do anything to help them.

Yet again the Vela girl knew that whatever happened next, it would be down to her. To her family and her family alone to put the pieces of their puzzle together.

“Nous devons parler à maman et à mère Fleur. À grand-mère aussi. Avant de faire quoi que ce soit.” And Fleur smiled slightly at her sisters’ words. Simply nodding her agreement. There really wasn’t anything else they could say in their current circumstances. Surrounded by students and teachers. Unable to react or leave. They would have to bide their time before they could do anything. Both Fleur and Gabrielle clung to one another drawing their strength from their bond. Strength they would surely need in the agonising hours between now and when they could floo their mothers. The older Delacour sister had a feeling that she and Gabrielle would need all the strength they could get in the coming weeks.

~Hermione’s POV ~

~ Same day, somewhere around midnight ~

Hermione groaned loudly when she was woken suddenly by a body landing on top of hers. Orange fur and the smell of catnip filling her nostrils. Tickling her skin in a way that would have made her giggle if she weren’t so perturbed by her feline’s sudden appearance on top of her. “Ugh Crooks, why?” the brunette groaned, small clammy hands struggling to push the cat away from her face lest she suffocate.

Whatever flu or illness that had taken a hold of her hadn’t abated in her sleep like she had hoped. Not that it ever had since it began in the summer, but Hermione could swear that despite the daily potions of pain potions and dreamless sleep she only ever woke feeling worse than she did before she had given in to Morpheus. It was frustrating and she really didn’t understand what was happening to her. Her magic still felt wild. It was still swirling and jumping, demanding she move in the same way it had been earlier. Though now Hermione had begun to adapt to the feeling. Her mind doing it’s best not to acknowledge the demand. Not that it lessened its hold, just allowed her to think around it for the most part.

“He came to find me you know.” Her friends soft voice startled her causing the brunette-haired witch to sit up suddenly. Crookshanks being flung from her rather harshly. The giant of a cat hissed at his witch from the place he had landed at the bottom of the bed before laying down to sleep where he was.

“Cho?” Hermione asked when she got over the initial fright, her bleary eyes squinting to see her friend stood at the right-hand side of the bottom of her bed. She kept her reply short and simple. Fearful to the reason her friend stood at the end of her bed. Usually, Cho wouldn’t invade her space like this. Aware of the importance Hermione held in her own space. Having lived so long needing to share a dorm with several other girls, Hermione had always treasured the fact that Ravenclaw students all had their own individual little rooms with a communal shower for each year. She wasn’t a fan of the showers, preferring the prefect’s bathroom that was always empty when she used it over the shared facilities. However, this was her room, and Cho had never invaded her space before without specific permission from her.

“You haven’t been well since you arrived six days ago. You’re more distant than before. Your familiar is anxious and is constantly watching you. Your magik is jumping. Something is wrong Hermione, and I am not going to sit by anymore while you wither. We have known each other for years and I have never pushed you. I have always respected you, supported you and trusted you. You are my best friend, and I tell you everything and still I accept the secrets you have kept. But that stops now Hermione. I won’t let you keep doing this. Holding me at arm’s length while you suffer the unknown on your own. You come back from the summer every year as if you’ve been held prisoner and starved. Now you return half the weight you were, with the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen and looking as if you are about to faint even after sleeping for the past ten hours, including right through the welcome feast. I respected your wishes not to be there, I even kept myself at bay this evening hoping you would come to me, only for your CAT to come meowing at my door in the middle of the night, insistent that I follow him. To You. What is going on?” The raven-haired girl replied, a look of determination in her eyes that filled Hermione further with dread. She had always known this day would come. That one day her friend would no longer except her avoidance and distance, and she had told herself it would be then that she told her friend goodbye. Never really letting herself entertain the idea of truly letting the witch in, but in that moment, Hermione knew her plan wouldn’t work. Her own tormented eyes betraying her as a lone tear slipped down her sweaty face. Her racing heart jumping like her magik was.

“I don’t know, Cho.” The brunette began, hiccupping as she tried to withhold the emotion she could feel welling up within. Her mind trying to work out how to word all that she had to say in a way that wouldn’t alarm her friend. She didn’t know how to say any of what she wanted to say, not really but she knew she had to try, for somehow, somewhere along the lines Cho had started meaning the world to her and seeing the pain on her friends facing, the knowledge that the pain was their because of her? Devastated the brunette and Hermione knew she could no longer pretend that Cho hadn’t become her family. The single most important person to her in this world.

“Don’t give me that Hermione, I can take whatever it is. I’m your best friend for Merlin’s sake.” Her fellow Ravenclaw cut her off. Her tone far more demanding than it had been and Hermione found herself deflating. Unable to force the energy it took to mask how she felt anymore. Cho came closer, arms folded purposefully across her chest as she sat directly in front of Hermione. A clear message that she really wasn’t going anywhere.

“ok, ok” she whispered, fearful eyes meeting her friends, unfiltered for the first time and Hermione knew by the way that Cho’s eyes widened slightly in response that the raven haired girl really hadn’t expected her to cave so easily, nor was she expecting the intensity of the pain Hermione truly felt. “You know I’m an orphan but I’m also an orphan that was returned to the orphanage I was adopted from, a year after I was adopted.” Because the beginning was the only place Hermione could think of to start. Knowing that for once she needed someone, Cho, to know her truly.

Cho nodded, though she remained quiet. A gentle hand coming to lay on the brunette’s own sweat soaked one and for the first time, Hermione found herself truly opening up to the girl in front of her. Cho sitting at her side. A steady gentle support encouraging her to continue. Hermione did, the words spilling from her in a cacophony that was as heart breaking as one could imagine.

Hermione didn’t know how long it took to get through everything she felt she had to say to her friend, there was so much she needed to know but by the time she stopped speaking they both lay side by side. Hermione curled up with Cho surrounding her. Both girls had laughed, cried and raged through each aspect of her story and the brunette by the end of it felt as if a huge burden had been lifted from her shoulders for once. There was a comfort in the slightly taller girls’ arms as they lay together. Though Hermione knew she would feel raw in the morning.  

“Hermione?” Cho’s voice interrupted the peaceful silence they had fallen in to. Her voice was soft, almost hesitant and Hermione could sense that her friend didn’t really want to interrupt their peace but what kind of Ravenclaw would she be if she didn’t seek the answer to all of her questions when the opportunity presented itself. “Hmm?” she hummed, turning to face her friend.

“Do you think we should maybe get you checked over by Madame Pomfrey or even St Mungo’s?” The ‘just in case’ was left off the end but the brunette heard it and couldn’t help but giggle at the raven-haired girls’ implications. “What, just in case the charitable Lady Lestrange has been secretly poisoning me this whole time hmm?” she asked, laughter erupting at the other girl’s sheepish look.

“No to answer your question however, I can’t explain it for I really don’t have the answer, but despite the WHO of who she is my gut tells me I can trust her. But if it reassures you, come with me to meet her at the next Hogsmead visit?” Hermione continued sobering slightly as she took in the genuine concern in her friends’ dark eyes.

“Okay, I trust your judgement Hermione.” Was her friend’s simple response, the easy-going girl of first year slipping back in to Cho’s sleepy features having been reassured of the Pure-blooded witches intent. “Now sleep, hopefully things feel a little better in the morning” Her friend continued, sleepily summoning a blanket to drape over them both and for the first time in forever, Hermione felt herself smile gently when she felt Cho cuddle closer, Crookshanks also moving up the bed to lay against her neck.

Both witches and cat alike slept peacefully that evening, exhausted by emotion and comforted by the others presence.

Chapter Text

~ September 5^th 1994 ~

~ Fleur’s POV ~

~Beauxbatons Carriage – Hogwarts  outer Courtyard ~

"Throughout the next several months, our schools have been given a unique opportunity—one that has not graced our world in quite some time. We will each have the chance to grow: in character, in knowledge, and in friendships, creating memories and bonds that could very well last a lifetime."

His words echoed in Fleur’s ears as she forced herself to remain seated. It took every ounce of her self-control not to scream. The welcome feast felt as though it would never end, stretching on endlessly while she sat, trapped. Merlin knew how close she had come to grabbing Gabrielle’s hand and fleeing the hall the moment he began to speak. She felt cornered, her Veela instincts raging against the invisible cage that held her. Surrounded. Forced to sit still while the very monster who had stolen their sister lurked in plain sight. Gold-trimmed robes, twinkling eyes, and a gentle smile—such a carefully constructed disguise, one meant to disarm and reassure. To make him seem harmless.

But Fleur knew better.

She knew exactly what he was. As surely as she knew her own name.

His image had been seared into her memory since she was three years old—etched there alongside Gabby’s agonized screams and the fearful, hiccupped cries of their baby sister, Adharia. She knew what he was, and yet, she had never felt more terrified than she did now, trapped in the Great Hall under his watchful, ever-alert gaze. Every time his eyes flickered in her direction, she felt it. A crawling sensation across her skin, an instinctive urge to run. And yet, her magik still whispered of something unknown—an urgency, just as strong as the pull she had felt in the entrance courtyard earlier.

Was that it?

Was her magik warning her? Urging her and Gabrielle to get as far away from this vile man as possible? Could it somehow recognize him—the man who had shattered their lives?

He had addressed the hall once everyone was seated, placing Beauxbatons with the Ravenclaws and Durmstrang among the Slytherins. His voice had been warm, inspiring even, and it made Fleur’s blood curdle. Every hair on her body stood on end as she watched the room—students and professors alike—hanging onto his every word, enthralled by his message of hope and unity.

Fleur, however, felt nothing but revulsion.

Beside her, Gabrielle trembled, her delicate hands clutching Fleur’s arm in a bruising grip. Fleur knew that if she looked down, she would see crescent-shaped nail marks embedded in her skin. She could feel the simmering fury in her sister’s magik, a barely contained storm of rage. Gabrielle had always been the more volatile of the two—freer, unburdened by the weight of the clan’s responsibilities, unshackled in a way Fleur had never been. And Fleur loved her for it.

Gabrielle was light and laughter, always unafraid to speak her mind, always open with her emotions. But now, Fleur prayed that her sister would keep her anger in check. Not here. Not under his watchful eyes.

There was no doubt in Fleur’s mind that he knew who she was.

But she could only hope—pray—that he did not yet realize she had recognized him.

Not before she could speak to her family. Not before she could seek their guidance.

Once the feast had ended, they were instructed to retire for the evening. Tomorrow was Tuesday, and they would be expected to attend classes alongside the students from the other schools. Fleur doubted the lessons would present much of a challenge, but she understood the importance of appearances. Beauxbatons needed to be seen cooperating, adhering to the expectations set by the ministries. Her mother had mentioned that the French Minister for Magic was watching the event closely, and Britain’s conduct during this exchange would significantly impact future diplomatic relations.

The bond between France and Britain had been fragile for decades—fractured first during the First Wizarding War and then further shattered by Adharia’s kidnapping. The French Ministry had taken the disappearance of the International Liaison Officer’s child as not just an affront to the Delacour Clan, but to France itself.

Even now, Fleur could see the differences between their two countries. In France, magical beings were valued as equals. In Britain, they were not.

She had heard the whispers in the Great Hall during dinner—speculative murmurs of Veela and creatures, spoken as though her people were something other. Something less.

It had sickened her. If she hadn’t been so on edge—so intent on avoiding Albus Dumbledore’s gaze—she might have called out the few Ravenclaws she had overheard speaking so snidely of the Veela. But tonight, she had held her tongue. For now. Though she silently took note of the faces whom had uttered her people’s names in hate. For a time in which all her energy was not solely focused on simply surviving in the hear and now.

As it was, Fleur could do little more than cling tightly to the fragile control she had over her own magik. So, like her peers, she endured the whispers in silence, even as their inner Veela bristled against the restraint. The other Beauxbatons students were taking their cues from her. She was their leader—had been since they were children—and that only made Fleur feel guiltier. In any other situation, she would have encouraged her girls to stand up for themselves, to challenge anyone who dared to speak of them with such ignorance. But this was bigger than school pride. There was far too much at stake, and she couldn’t risk either herself or her flock losing their composure. Despite the tension, the Ravenclaw table—their assigned seat for the year—had been, for the most part, welcoming. There had been kind faces among them: Chang’s daughter, the Lovegood heir, Edgecombe, and Crouch, to name a few. Both Cho Chang and Luna Lovegood had gone out of their way to make the Beauxbatons students feel at ease, engaging them in conversation. They had even shared an interesting discussion on Transfiguration Theory, and Fleur had made a genuine effort to be polite and participate.

But the longer she sat beneath Albus Dumbledore’s gaze, the harder it became to maintain her patience. And the less tolerance she had for those around her.

"Miss Delacour doesn’t seem to wish to speak to us anymore. She’s just being polite. We should perhaps move on to other topics before those pesky Nargles come for us too." The Lovegood heir’s voice had been light and airy, her hands moving in a gentle batting motion as if fending off some unseen force. Fleur had been taken aback but secretly grateful. She flashed the younger girl an apologetic smile as Luna and Cho shifted their attention to others at the table, giving Fleur the moment of respite she so desperately needed.

She took a slow, measured breath, exaggerating the motion as subtly as she could. Beside her, Gabrielle caught on immediately, mimicking her movements in an effort to regain control of her own spiralling emotions. When the dismissal came promptly at 8 p.m., it took every ounce of restraint Fleur possessed not to seize Gabrielle’s hand and flee. Instead, they forced themselves to move with dignity—leading their peers from the Great Hall with their heads held high, shoulders squared with the practiced elegance expected of them as Delacour’s.

The walk from the Great Hall to the courtyard had never felt longer. Every step was agonizing, the weight of the evening pressing down on them, their tempers fraying at the edges. By the time they reached the sanctuary of the Beauxbatons carriage, both sisters were ready to scream.

“Directrice, nous devons parler à nos mères immédiatement!” (“Headmistress? we must speak with our mothers immediately.”) Fleur’s voice was sharp with urgency, the demand spilling from her lips the moment their peers had cleared the hallway. In her haste, she nearly collided with the headmistress, barely stopping herself in time.

“Pour quelle raison, Fleur ? Vous avez seulement dit au revoir à vos mères ce matin, n'est-ce pas ?” (“Whatever for Fleur? You only said goodbye to your mothers this morning, correct?”) Madame Maxime’s tone was light hearted, almost amused, and Fleur had to swallow back the hiss that threatened to escape at the woman’s dismissive wave. Instead of addressing Fleur’s urgency, the headmistress merely continued ushering them toward their rooms. “Il se fait tard, mon enfant. Tu bénéficierais sûrement de quelque repos, et tu pourras écrire à tes mères demain matin.” (“It is getting late child, surely you would benefit from some rest and you can write your mothers in the morning.”) The Headmistress spoke gently but firmly, utterly unaware of the anxiety twisting within her students.

“Non! Nous ne pouvons pas attendre, Madame Maxime. S'il vous plaît, nous devons leur parler immédiatement!" (“No! We cannot wait Madame Maxime, We must speak with them immediately!”) Gabrielle’s voice rang out beside her, her frustration spilling over at last. A sharp hiss followed—her inner Veela breaking through slightly, adding a rasp to her words. It was a clear sign of just how deeply upset she was, and Fleur found herself feeling a spark of pride for her little sister. Gabrielle had managed to hold herself together until now, and that was no small feat. Especially for her usually un contained sister. “Contactez mes mères d'urgence! Ce n'est pas un débat. Je vous en prie, faites ce que je demande. Je n'insisterais pas s'il y avait une autre solution.” (“Get a hold of my mothers urgently!. This is not a debate. I beg of you to do what I ask. I would not insist if there was another way.”) Fleur’s voice was firm as she spoke again, placing a reassuring hand on Gabrielle’s shoulder—a silent message of comfort and restraint. But she too allowed her Veela nature to seep into her words. Her usually captivating ocean-blue eyes flashed deep red for just a moment as she locked gazes with Madame Maxime, letting the storm of emotions raging inside her show on her face. Desperation, fear, and anguish battled within her, raw and unguarded.

“S’il vous plaît Madame Maxime” (“Please Madame Maxime”) Her voice was softer now, vulnerable, as she held her headmistress’s gaze. And when recognition flickered in the older woman’s eyes—when understanding finally dawned—Fleur let out the smallest sigh of relief.

“Très bien, mes filles.” (“Very well, girls.”) Madame Maxime sighed, the weight of the moment settling on her broad shoulders. Fleur could see the concern creeping into her pale features—subtle, but unmistakable. The half-giant witch was not one to wear her emotions openly, yet Fleur had spent years training herself to read the unspoken language of those around her. She could tell that Madame Maxime was both curious and troubled, but propriety dictated restraint. As headmistress, she would never openly pry into the affairs of a future Veela leader, no matter how unusual the request.

And for that, in this moment, Fleur was grateful.

She had no idea how she could possibly explain this—to put her emotions into words, to justify the desperation that had driven her and Gabrielle to such urgency. And even if she managed, she wasn’t sure she could hold herself together long enough to repeat it all to her mothers.

“Je dois contacter les ministères pour connecter le Réseau de Poudre de Cheminette. Attendez dans votre chambre jusqu'à ce que je parvienne à les joindre, si cela vous convient?” (“I need to contact the ministries to connect the Floo network, wait in your room until I can reach them if that agrees with you.”) Madame Maxime continued, her deep voice laced with exhaustion as she ran a large hand through her short brown hair. Fleur remained silent, though she found herself wishing the woman would let her hair grow out. The severe bob she wore was far too reminiscent of that dreadful Muggle woman who had been the UK’s Prime Minister in the eighties. Her grandmother had made sure she was well-versed in the world’s leaders—both magical and non-magical—throughout her upbringing. A necessary, if unfortunate, part of preparing for her future role within the clan.

“Oui, merci, Madame la directrice.” (“Yes, Thank you, Headmistress.”) Fleur murmured her response, allowing her tense posture to ease just slightly. Yet guilt still simmered beneath the surface as she watched their headmistress deflate, exhaustion weighing heavy on her frame. Madame Maxime had always had their best interests at heart. Fleur knew that. And demanding to speak with their mothers—while not the gravest transgression a student could commit—still felt wrong. She valued kindness, respected her elders, and having to force her will upon someone she held in high regard unsettled her deeply. She would have to apologize to her later.

For now, though, the words simply wouldn’t come. Instead, she extended her hand to Gabrielle, fingers curling gently around her sister’s as she led her up the grand staircase toward their rooms.

They could change into more comfortable attire while they waited, and perhaps Fleur could even convince Gabby to sleep a little. The thought lingered as they ascended the stairs slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last. Fleur knew her sister was doing her best to hold herself together, but the way Gabrielle’s hands clung to her like a lifeline spoke volumes. She could feel the younger blonde’s magic tightly wound around her, as if anchoring herself to Fleur was the only thing keeping her steady.

In response, Fleur tightened her own grip, a silent reassurance that she was there—that she always would be.

Neither of them spoke. Not here, not now, not beyond the privacy of their dorm. There was too much to say, and yet so little they could do.

The older blonde Veela paced back and forth in front of her bed. As soon as they had arrived in the dorms, they had changed out of their formal school attire, seeking comfort in their softer clothing. Gabrielle had insisted on staying up with Fleur to wait for their family, both having so much to say but so little words available to express them. Though the weight of the day's emotions and sheer exhaustion had quickly caught up with Gabby. Within an hour of settling into Fleur’s room, the younger blonde had drifted off into a deep sleep, leaving Fleur alone with her restless thoughts.

At first, Gabrielle had demanded answers from her older sister, but Fleur couldn’t bring herself to dwell on it—not yet. She needed their family with them first. Her inner Veela made it painfully clear that she felt unsafe, and the only way to ease that unease was to be surrounded by older, more powerful Veela, like their mother and grandmother. Judging by Gabrielle’s expression, Fleur could see that her sister felt the same. Once Gabrielle realized Fleur wasn’t ready to talk, she had settled on the older witch’s bed, quietly recounting everything they had seen at dinner in an attempt to keep their minds off the proverbial elephant in the room. It had amused Fleur slightly to see how taken Gabrielle was with Luna Lovegood—just as she had been every time they’d crossed paths while growing up. Fleur was beginning to think their mothers were right: Luna would likely be her sister’s Mate when the young Ravenclaw came of age. Luna was two years below Gabrielle, but despite the age difference, the two had always shared a bond no one else could match.

It was sweet, and Fleur hoped their mothers were right. After everything their family had endured, it would be a blessing for something in Gabrielle’s life to be simple, peaceful, and easy—at least for once.

Once her sister had finished her rambling, she had accidentally dozed off on Fleur’s bed. The older blonde knew Gabrielle would be disappointed she hadn’t been woken, but after such an exhausting day, Fleur didn’t have the heart to disturb her. Merlin knew they would need all the rest they could get in the coming months, and for now, there was nothing they could do but wait for their family. Letting her sleep wasn’t doing any harm. In fact, the quiet was a welcome relief to the Delacour heir’s fragile state. It gave her a rare moment of solitude to silently process the day's events without worrying about who was watching. Fleur seldom craved isolation, much preferring the warmth of her family and her Flock over being alone. This moment was no different—she could barely wait for the reassurance of her loved ones. She longed for their presence just as much as she burned to confront Albus Dumbledore.

It was close to midnight when Fleur heard the soft knock at her door that indicated there was news for them from Madame Maxime. Amélie, one of the younger flock members, stood there, her expression uncertain as she relayed the message from their headmistress: she wished to see them in her office. The message was short and succinct but did nothing to reassure Fleur that the elder woman had been able to make contact with her mothers. Fleur turned back toward the bed, unwilling to allow her thoughts the opportunity to spiral once more, her voice gentle as she called, “Gabrielle.” She brushed a few stray curls from her sister’s face. The older blonde was unable to suppress the fond smile as sleepy sea-blue eyes fluttered open to meet her own.

“I fell asleep, didn’t I?” Gabrielle mumbled, stretching stiff limbs. But as wakefulness settled in, so did the unease. Fleur could see the way her delicate features tightened with anxiety as memories of the day’s events resurfaced in her little sisters mind.

“You did,” Fleur confirmed, smoothing a hand over her sister’s arm in reassurance. “But don’t worry, you haven’t missed anything. But we need to go to the headmistress’ office just now, Madame Maxime sent Amélie to fetch us.” At that, Gabrielle sat up straighter, her lips pressed together in thought. She bit down lightly, a nervous habit she had developed as a toddler, her wide eyes seeking Fleur’s for reassurance even as she pushed aside the remnants of sleep and carefully composed herself, smoothing out her rumpled clothing and assembling the mask of the Delacour heir with practiced precision. Fleur noticed the shift, filing it away for later—when things weren’t so uncertain, when fear didn’t cling to them so tightly, she would tease Gabrielle about knowing exactly how to conduct herself like a proper lady of society.

They moved swiftly, their steps precise and fluid—a testament to years of rigorous training at the hands of their pure blooded mother. Yet beneath that practiced grace, unease simmered unpleasantly, an undercurrent of turmoil threading through their magic. that any trained witch or wizard could sense a mile away Fleur could feel her inner Veela stirring restlessly, pacing like a caged predator. The distance between them and their family stretched unbearably, a sensation so foreign and disorienting for the family orientated Veela girl. It wasn’t a sensation she ever wanted to become accustomed to. As Veela, they were strong, magically gifted beyond that of their non Veela peers, bound tightly to their family by unbreakable ties of love and protection,  their family magik fierce in its devotion.. To feel exposed, vulnerable—adrift—sent both Fleur and her instincts reeling. Anxiety gnawed at her resolve, sharp and relentless, and worst of all, she had no idea how to shield Gabrielle from any of it. Nor could she, there wasn’t a world in which she would willingly conceal the truth from her sister. Gabrielle would always be her little sister but Fleur knew she would never be okay with being left out of the loop by anyone. Let alone by Fleur and especially not in regards to something that had shaped them and their family so profoundly. Though Morgana knew the more information they both had about that man the safer they would both be.

They both quickened their pace, the looming presence of their headmistress’ quarters both a relief and a burden to their anxiety ridden minds. The conversation that lay ahead would be an unpleasant one, they knew, but it didn’t matter their sense of urgency remained despite the unpleasantness. Safety, family, protection—that was all that mattered in this moment to both Veela girls.

Gabrielle reached the heavy oak door first, seconds before Fleur did. Her small fist rapping briskly against it. Her other hand hovered over the brass handle, poised, ready to let them in to the office the moment Madame Maxime permitted it.

~ Amilie Delacour’s POV ~

~ 5^th September 1995 ~

~ Madame Maxime’s office -  Beauxbatons Carriage, Hogwarts ~

Amilie Delacour was a patient, kind-hearted woman—one who had lived long enough to witness the vast spectrum of humanity, in all its beauty and cruelty. Her life had been a full one, woven with love and laughter, duty and success. She had raised two extraordinary daughters – daughters who were as strong as they were kind, everything Amilie could ever wish them to be - and she had led her people with wisdom and grace for most of her adult years. But her greatest joy, the very light of her sea-blue eyes, was undoubtedly her grandchildren.

Her mate, Adharia, often teased her for being too much of a soft heart when it came to Fleur and Gabrielle, and Amilie—though proud and resolute—knew it was true. She simply couldn’t help herself. Her granddaughters had endured so much in their young lives. Their entire family had. But after losing her youngest grandchild—her mate’s namesake, baby Adharia—Amilie’s protectiveness over Fleur and Gabrielle had sharpened into something fierce and unyielding. She would not—could not—allow them to suffer such heartbreak again. And she would not rest until she brought her missing grandchild home.

Because Amilie knew Adharia was alive.

Her daughters had long since abandoned any sense of hope that they would get Adharia back, unable to bear the torment of false promises any longer, but Amilie could feel Adharia as surely as she knew her own name. She sensed her in her own magic, in the magic of Fleur and Gabrielle—a faint, flickering presence, like a candle barely clinging to its flame. If Adharia were truly lost, that connection would have vanished. But it hadn’t. And that was how she knew.

Yet despite all her resources, skill, and power, Amilie had failed to find her daughter’s youngest child. They had searched high and low and tried every spell that they knew, several times over the years to no avail. Not that she would ever stop trying. In the meantime, she would do what she did best—protect the family she had.

So when the urgent Floo call came from Madame Maxime, her granddaughters’ headmistress, looking unusually flustered, Amilie felt her heart lurch into her throat. Her inner Veela roared to life, her magik bristling with sudden, razor-sharp urgency at the potential threat to her darling girls.

Something was wrong.

Amilie had wasted little time in calling for her wife and both had gone through the Floo into the headmistress’ office without second thought. Their Daughters were non contactable for the night. Apolline having taken her own mate away for the night, a feeble but necessary attempt to distract her wife from their daughters absences. This was the first time Fleur and Gabrielle had ever been apart from their family overnight. After Adharia went missing, they had vowed never to risk the other two girls in such a way and therefore both Fleur and Gabrielle had been kept within the safe confines of their home in the beautiful Rhone-Alpes. The school trip and the knowledge that both girls would be away from home for several months had been a difficult pill for all of them to swallow, but this was especially true for their mothers. Amilie knew her daughter-in-law had suffered terribly in the days leading up to their departure. Apolline’s decision to whisk her wife off to a Muggle spa in Europe had been an attempt to ease that anguish, leaving Amilie and Adharia in charge of the manor in their absence.

Now, standing before Madame Maxime, Amilie was grateful her daughters were elsewhere rather than at home. Seeing the headmistress in such a state would have sent them into a horrific panic. Better she and her wife learn the truth first—then she would decide whether to call their daughters home because Amilie refused to panic them if there was an alternative.

The half-giantess stood before them, a sheen of sweat on her forehead, fidgeting in a way that was utterly unlike her. Her fingers drummed against her long cloak, her weight - shifting from foot to foot in visible discomfort. “Eh bien, qu’est-ce que c’est, Olympe?” (Well, what is it Olympe?) Amelie’s wife demanded immediately, her tone sharp as she addressed the half giantess before her. Her wife had never been one for hesitation when it came to tense situations or the safety of her own flesh and blood.

Madame Maxime gulped subtly under the force of their combined intensity before hastening to reassure them. “Les filles sont indemnes, Mesdames” (The girls are unharmed, Mesdames.) she said quickly, though the tension in her voice only made them stiffen further. Seeing their expressions darken, she rushed on. “Elles ont exigé que je contacte leurs mères immédiatement, elles semblaient toutes deux très bouleversées et étaient absolument catégoriques. Elles étaient insistantes, vous voyez, et j’ai craint qu’il ne se soit passé quelque chose de terrible, mais elles ne m’ont pas dit quoi. Juste que c’était urgent et, eh bien, il a fallu plus de temps que prévu pour convaincre les ministères d’accepter de connecter le réseau de la poudre de cheminette à votre domicile, et encore plus de temps pour obtenir la permission d’un lien actif plutôt qu’un usage unique du réseau et…” (They demanded I contact their mothers immediately, they both appeared quite upset and were absolutely adamant. They were insistent you see and I worried something terrible had gone wrong but they didn’t tell me what. Just that it was urgent and well It took longer than desired to get the ministries to agree to connect the floo network to your home and longer still to get them to permit an active link rather than a onetime usage of the network and..) the giantess rambled.

“Assez!” (Enough!) Amilie cut in, losing patience with Madame Maxime’s rambling explanation. “Je me fiche de connecter le réseau de la poudre de cheminette et de toute cette politique, Olympe. Où sont les filles maintenant ? Est-ce qu’elles vont bien?” (I don’t care about connecting the floo network and the politics of it all Olympe. Where are the girls now? Are they alright?) She knew the woman was nervous – an unfortunate side effect of being faced by a clearly agitated powerful Veela. Coupled with the knowledge that she and Adharia cut quite an impressive image when they stood side by side ready for war. Both of them slender in appearance, though Adharia had angular, aristocratic features and jet black straight hair that she always wore in a tight bun at the base of her neck. Amilie herself had softer, more angelic features and soft golden locks – a gift from her Veela ancestry – that she currently had pinned half up, half down at the back of her head. But intimidating presence or not she really did not have the time to console the anxiety in the headmistress, her sole focus, like her wife who stood rigid beside her, was on her grandchildren’s whereabouts and their wellbeing. The British Ministry were incompetent at best, an outright nuisance at its worst. None of that mattered however, the older Veela saw no benefit to engaging in the British Floo network policies. All that mattered was finding out what was going on and why her precious grandbabies were so distraught.

“Elles sont en chemin ici, Amile, elles sont en sécurité comme je l’ai dit. Simplement bouleversées, je vous assure” (They are on their way here Amile, they are safe as I said. Merely upset I assure you.) The headmistress continued, finally shaking off her momentary lapse in courage as she brought her worried brown eyes up to meet the blonde’s gaze in front of her. The Veela matriarch felt herself relax, if only slightly. The reassurance that her granddaughters were unharmed and on their way to her eased some of the tension coiling in her chest. Clarity would come soon enough.

She took a breath to centre herself, turning towards her wife she slowly guided Adharia to sit upon one of the high-backed chairs that had been positioned in front of the headmistress’s desk. Subtly gesturing for Madame Maxime to follow suit, an invite that the woman excepted without complaint, only mildly irritated at having been offered a seat in her own office as opposed to her being the one offering the Delacour women a seat.

“Puis-je vous intéresser à une tasse de thé?” (May I interest you in a pot of tea?) The headmistress offered quietly as all three women settled into their seats comfortably. “Non merci, Olympe.” (No thank you Olympe) Adharia replied dismissively and without much contemplation, barely sparing the other woman a glance as she surveyed the contest of the headmistress’s office. Amilie on the other hand nodded, recognising the headmistress was merely trying to be helpful. She offered the woman a warm smile, tacking on a “Ce serait merveilleux.” (that would be lovely.) to soften her wife’s harsher tone. Anyone that knew Adharia knew the woman meant no harm to anyone, however she often came across abruptly and quite harsh when she was worried over anything. Especially when that worry was for her family.

Just as Madame Maxime dismissed her personal house elf Tyra who had quickly brought them a Tea tray when instructed, their wait was ended by a rather firm knock at the office door. Amilie’s lips twitched into a subtle grin. She knew that knock—impatient and forceful. It was her youngest grandchild. That same sound had echoed through their manor countless times as the girls had grown whenever Gabrielle was upset or growing restless.

“Entrez, les filles.” (Come in, girls.) Madame Maxime called, her voice once again the perfectly composed tone of a headmistress.

All three adults turned towards the door as it creaked open, first Gabrielle’s mop of blonde curls so like her own appeared, closely followed by the pin straight blonde of her eldest grandchild Fleur. It had always amused Amilie how wildly different the girls hair was, yet somehow both girls suited their hair in a way the other wouldn’t. Gabrielle’s hair could be wild and untameable, as her spirit had always been. Fleur on the other hand had always had a sensibility and wiseness about her that shone as she grew.

Amilie’s first instinct was to greet both girls with a warm smile—but the moment their magic touched hers, her inner Veela growled in protest. Their magic was coiled tight, thrumming with distress. Fear. Anxiety. It clung to them, foreign and unnatural. Fleur, especially, radiated an unease that sent Amilie’s instincts into overdrive. Before she had even fully processed it, she was on her feet, closing the distance in an instant. Her hands and eyes flitted over both girls, searching frantically for any sign of harm, her panic overriding everything else.

They were here. They were whole. But something had shaken them in a way the elder Veela had never seen before.

Fleur was the first to speak, her slender hands gripping her grandmothers in desperation as both girl flung themselves in to Amilie’s arms. “The man that took Adharia is here!” Fleur blurted out all in one breath, her voice a frenzy of emotion. Amilie went rigid. Her breath caught as she met her wife’s gaze over the tops of their grandchildren’s heads. In that instant, she saw it—the exact moment Fleur’s words registered. Adharia too froze. All colour draining from her already pale features, her earlier worry swallowed by raw, unfiltered horror.

“What did you just say?” Amilie hissed after a beat, her Veela instincts flaring further at the perceived threat to her family. Her once-blue eyes darkened to a startling deep crimson, and her usually gentle grip became ironclad as she took Fleur’s chin in a pale hand, guiding her to meet her gaze. Though she was careful not to hurt her granddaughter, the message was clear—this was no longer just Amilie speaking. The Veela Matriarch had taken control and was demanding clarity.

 “The Headmaster, Grandmama. Albus Dumbledore.” Fleur confirmed, her own Veela instincts surging forward at the sight of their leader. Beside her, Gabrielle’s eyes turned crimson as well, both younger Veela drawn out instinctively, seeking the safety and protection that their Clan leader offered freely.

“It’s him, Grandmama. He’s the man who has haunted me all these years… and I don’t understand why I’m only recognizing him now.” Amilie felt a flicker of relief when Fleur abruptly stopped speaking, as if sensing her own impending spiral. The younger girls eyes were wide, scared and did nothing to alleviate the anger of Amilie’s Veela. Before panic could take hold, a gentle, grounding hand landed on her eldest grandchild’s shoulder.

Adharia.

 “It is alright my flower.” Adharia soothed, her voice a balm against the tension crackling in the air. Amilie’s Veela cooed at the tenderness on her mate’s face—tenderness directed at their grandchildren. “We will look into why you only recognized him in person, darling. But first, I need you to be absolutely certain you have the right man.” There was a quiet, lethal edge to Adharia’s tone, one that made pride swell in Amilie’s chest. It was moments like this that Amilie saw the fierce Lestrange blood in her normally sweet wife, not that she would ever admit that out loud. Even as she observed the interaction in silence, she knew her mate wasn’t just stepping in to reassure the girls. Adharia was also giving Amilie a moment to process the revelation, to rein in the storm of her Veela instincts and regain control of the anger that coursed through her in waves at anyone daring to scare her babies in any way. It was a balance they had perfected over a lifetime of loving one another—an unspoken system honed through years of partnership.

“Why don’t we sit, hmm?” Adharia continued recognising all three Veela’s needed a moment, gentle but firm hands leading all three towards Madame Maxime’s desk where the headmistress still sat, her face a picture of shock and uncertainty. Again Adharia was reminded at just how truly special her wife was, to face three Veela lost to their emotions without blinking was no small feat. Yet somehow Adharia made it look like simple work. The Veela woman followed of course, allowing herself to be led and seated as she worked on her control. “Now my Flower, Albus dumbledore?” Amilie could almost taste the venom in which Adharia spat the man’s name with, but she too looked at her eldest grandchild, waiting patiently for the clarity she sought.

Surely the man that had helped them search Britain, who had turned over every rock and crevice in his attempt at helping them track their Grandchild, was not the man responsible for her disappearance in the first place? She desperately hoped she had misheard. Though by the grimace on Fleurs face at mere mention of him had already confirmed her fear without Fleur’s verbal confirmation. “I am certain Grand Mother. It is him. Gabby and I felt weird approaching Hogwarts, when we landed our magic reacted strangely. It was pulling us away from the courtyard towards the Tower. We thought it strange and decided to investigate after we were settled. That’s when he called for our attention. When I saw him… when I saw him, that night came flooding back. Suddenly I could see him clearly and I knew.” Fleur confessed, her voice filled with pain. A hint of her Veela still glimmering from within her tormented eyes. Amilie frowned deeply, unwilling to show the girls how deeply betrayed she felt at the news. Albus Dumbledore had wrote her consistently from the moment Adharia was abducted. She thought he was her friend. He had been a confidant to her when she had been in Brittian on Clan business and he had been present in the days following Adharia’s abduction, offering her and her family all the support he could. Yet what hurt most, was not just the betrayal, but the fact that his presence was causing so much distress to her girls now. Even after all these years he had somehow found more ways in which he could harm her family and it was something she vowed never to forgive.

“We must contact our daughters, Addi.” Amilie murmured quietly, regret etched on tense, upset features. She hated knowing that this was about to rip her family apart once more. There wasn’t a world in which it wouldn’t but maybe – just maybe - this was the opportunity needed for them to learn the truth once and for all? The older woman sighed wearily, running slender fingers through her hair. Amilie only waited long enough to see Adharia nod in agreement before she retrieved her wand from her left pocket, casting a patronus and sending it off to her daughters with strict instructions for them to come straight here. She knew it might take a few minutes, but hopefully it wouldn’t be long before they could discuss this further.

“Excuse me, Amilie, Adharia. I hate to feel as if I am intruding, but something in Fleur’s statement struck me as curious,” Madame Maxime interrupted softly, her voice gentle as if aware of the fragile tension in the room. Amilie raised an eyebrow, silently urging the woman to continue. “Fleur you said your magic was pulling you toward the tower. What do you mean?” The headmistress queried turning to address her student directly. Fleur frowned, her expression pensive as she considered the question. Amilie was just about to prompt her for an answer, eager to understand herself, when a sudden green flare lit the room. The panicked voices of her daughters immediately drew everyone’s attention away from the matter.

“Maman, we came at once—the girls!” Apolline’s melodic voice rang through the office, breathless and filled with alarm.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” Their daughter-in-law’s voice joined Apolline’s, high-pitched and trembling with worry. Both women looked frantic, their wide eyes scanning the room until they found Fleur and Gabrielle. The two girls, though visibly calmer than before, still bore the marks of their distress in their expressions and the volatile flicker of their magic. Amilie said nothing at first, allowing the new arrivals to fuss over their daughters, reassuring themselves that they were physically unharmed. She couldn’t help but smile softly at the sight of the girls clinging to their mothers, finding comfort in their arms, as they had their whole lives. Despite the turmoil, the bond between them warmed her heart. But the thought that not all of her family was present soured her brief solace, and her frown returned. Her whole family wasn’t here and she now knew the man responsible.

“Maman?” Apolline asked hesitantly, her gaze catching the sombre expression on Amilie’s face. Amilie grimaced in response and gestured for them to take a seat. Once everyone was settled, she began explaining what Fleur and Gabrielle had revealed. The anguish on their faces as they listened felt like a dagger twisting in her chest. Apolline and her wife clung tightly to each other and the girls, tears streaking down the blonde’s face while Apolline’s protective grip only tightened. Amilie could see the telltale flash of the Veela in her daughter’s eyes and knew Apolline was close to losing control.

“Calm yourself, Apolline,” Amilie murmured, reaching over to place a steadying hand on her daughter’s arm. “Fleur and Gabrielle are safe, and now we have a chance to understand what happened. We must remain calm.” She continued, flashing a small smile at her daughter when she began to take in deep breaths, her face buried in her wife’s hair.

“What do we do, Ami?” her daughter-in-law whispered, her voice trembling. “This is a man who taught me as a child—who became a friend, a confidant. How do we navigate this?” Her voice was quiet but laden with emotion. Amilie’s own feelings mirrored hers. She had known Albus Dumbledore for over fourteen years, and for Apolline’s wife, he had been a steady if not central fixture for most of her life.

He had taught at Hogwarts for more years than anyone and had been Headmaster for years. He was a trusted man, revered across the nation over and had been looked to many a time for guidance, and support. It unsettled her greatly that such a man had and continued to hold a position of such power and prestige over so many. If they were to confront him about Adharia directly, would he admit to wrong doing? Or would they find themselves accused of lying? She didn’t have the answer but she knew in order to protect those she loved, she had to ensure she knew the answers before moving forward. They had to ensure they covered every base, and left no stone unturned if they wanted to snare him in his own deceit.

“We need to find evidence of his wrong doing.” Appoline said, her voice taut with both  apprehension and fury. “We cannot accuse the head of the British Wazengamot and esteemed Hogwarts headmaster of committing such an atrocious crime, no one would believe it without proof.” Amilie nodded, glad that her daughter was thinking clearly. She hummed in agreement, reaching out to fiddle with the hem of her wife’s sleeve as she thought, a habit she had done for years when she needed to concentrate.

“The question is, how do we get that evidence?” Adharia added, catching on to their thoughts. “We must be as discreet as possible. He thinks we know nothing. He believes himself above suspicion. We cannot risk him catching on to our knowledge and acting rashly to cover his tracks.” Her voice was calm and firm but Amilie could see the undercurrent of anger and heartbreak in her wife’s eyes, simmering just below the surface. She could see it on all of her family, Her grandchildren wore their emotions most visibly, their magics curling protectively around their family, seeking comfort and reassurance from their kin. Appoline and her wife held themselves rigid, appearing composed and calm on the outside as they strategized. But their magik too was tense and brimming with barely contained fury. Amilie herself fared no better. But for the sake of her family, she had to remain grounded. She had to resist the pull of her Veela instincts—the raw, primal urge demanding that she hunt Albus Dumbledore down and eviscerate him for his crimes. It would be so easy, her Veela whispered in vengeful excitement. Albus Dumbledore may have been powerful, but even he could not stand against an entire clan set on his destruction. She doubted he would survive a night faced with the fury she herself felt, without adding in her Grandchildren’s mothers, their aunts and cousins and the wider Clan. They out numbered him vastly.

Amilie shook her head, allowing herself to entertain such dangerous thoughts, though satisfying to her Veela, served no purpose in their current circumstance. Out the corner of her eye, Amilie could see her eldest grandchild’s face turn pensive and curious. “We could use that to our advantage. Fleur, do you think he suspected you?” she asked, hoping that drawing Fleur directly in to the conversation would help rid her of the anxiety etched all over her face.

"I don’t think so, Grandma," Fleur replied after a moment’s thought. "I believe he was too preoccupied with everything happening around him. I agree with Grandmother—he thinks himself above suspicion." Her voice wavered slightly, but Amilie felt a surge of pride as her granddaughter lifted her gaze to meet hers. Fleur’s normally luminous blue eyes remained free of the crimson red that signified her Veela’s rage. —a testament not only to her ability to fight for control but to her victory over her Veela. An impressive feat for a seventeen-year-old who had only gained full access to her Veela nature a little over a year ago.

Nearby, Gabrielle, still cradled in her mother’s arms, struggled valiantly to suppress her own instincts. She had only recently come into her Veela heritage, and Amilie could see the effort it took to resist its fiery pull. Yet, beyond the sheer force of will it required, something else stood out—awareness. Gabrielle knew she had to regain control, and she was actively fighting to do so. Such self-possession was rare in young Veela, typically taking years to develop—never before graduation. Amilie had always known her granddaughters would be strong, blessed by their Delacour ancestry, but their resilience was incredible.

It made the matriarch wonder of what they could have been, had all three of them—Fleur, Gabrielle, and little Adharia—grown up together as they should have. She had no doubt they would have been formidable. They would have caused so much mischief, Adharia the balancing force between Gabrielle’s wild spirit and Fleur’s sensibilities. She would have been…

“Hush Ami, hush now.” Her wife’s voice cut in, tender and soothing. Interrupting her escalating thoughts.

Amilie glanced up, meeting the concerned gazes of her family. Her mate hovered nearby, eyes filled with quiet worry, and guilt twisted in her chest. She hadn’t meant to alarm them. But the delicate narcissus vines that had begun creeping over the ancient oak seat she sat upon betrayed just how deeply she had failed in keeping her emotions contained. “I apologise my heart.” she murmured sheepishly, sitting up straighter in her chair and banishing the telltale vines with a casual flick of her wrist.

“I know you are fond of me Ami, but I would really rather you kept growing my name sake flowers in more appropriate places!” Her daughter’s wife quipped, humour lacing her voice and Amilie smiled gratefully at the petite blonde. “Apologies ma’am.” She teased back effortlessly, relieved that her family were willing to move on so quickly from her momentary slip in control. It had been fourteen years since she had last lost such control over her magic. Back then, it had been Adharia’s disappearance that had unravelled her. Perhaps, given the recent revelations, her slip was inevitable. But that didn’t mean she would forgive herself for being so openly frayed in front of the girls, who’s wide eyes watched her with worry. She smiled at them in reassurance, warmth filling her chest when they both smiled back immediately, both girls glancing at one another before launching themselves in to her arms in a manor so unprofessional but so like them that she couldn’t help the laughter that slipped past her lips.

“If eet elp’s any, I ‘eard at ze dinner zat some of ze staff here are beginning to question ze ‘eadmaster.” Amile had momentarily forgotten that Madame Maxime was in the room, but the woman’s statement immediately drew all the Delacour women’s attention to her once more. Amilie made a mental note: Madame Maxime would have to choose between keeping the knowledge she had gained and taking an unbreakable oath not to discuss it in any way with anyone outside of this room or being obliviated of the knowledge. Though she was a family friend of Apolline, Olympe was now privy to parts of their lives that Amilie would have preferred she wasn’t. It was best to eliminate even the slightest chance that anyone could extract information from the half-giantess. The safety of her family was not something she was willing to gamble with—especially when magic provided such a simple solution.

“That is….. interesting.” Apolline replied before Amilie had the chance to say exactly that, again causing her to smile slightly at just how similar her daughter was to her. Not only in looks but in thoughts as well. Merlin knew Adharia had been driven half mad when Apolline and her sister – Camille had been young. Their daughter’s had been a handful, but both had grown to be two very strong and capable witches.

“Which professors are questioning him, Olympe?” Her daughter continued, turning toward the headmistress. Beside her, Apolline's wife also turned to face the half-giantess, curiosity evident in her aristocratic features.

“Ze dark ‘aired man who ‘as ze greasy ‘air, ze older woman zat turns into ze cat, ze grey ‘aired woman wiv ze short spikey ‘air and ze plump lady who ‘ad ze plants in zer ‘air.” Olympe informed them, pausing for a moment to recall their appearances as she hadn’t caught their names. Truth be told, she had not at all been at ease while sitting at the professors' table. There had been an unpleasant atmosphere all around her, and to make matters worse, the half-giant Hagrid had taken a fancy to her. He had spent the majority of the feast attempting to awkwardly flirt with her. She didn’t mind a bit of harmless flirting, and Hagrid seemed sweet, but she had been deeply unsettled by how unaware he seemed of the professors' attitudes toward him. Their tones were equal parts patronizing, dismissive, and annoyed whenever they addressed him. Especially the headmaster Albus Dumbledore. By the end of the meal, she had been relieved to return to her students, having grown increasingly uncomfortable and frustrated not only on her own behalf but for poor Hagrid also. He had a sweet disposition and was adorably shy, but Olympe had the unsettling suspicion that the other professors despicably took advantage of that kindness.

“Professors Snape, McGonagall, Sprout, and Madame Hooch—all the Heads of Houses,” Apolline's mate clarified, recognizing the individuals Olympe had described. “What were they questioning him about? Did you hear?” she continued, and Amilie nodded in support of the petite blonde’s query.

“Zey did not like ze way ze ‘eadmaster ‘ad put ze students at risk by agreezing to ‘ost ze tournament. Zey ‘ad been upzet zat ‘e ‘ad not fought ‘arder to protect ze children, zat ‘e vas being – ‘ow you say il est inconsient des risques?” the brunette headmistress replied, her English hesitant and patchy having never really being required to use what she did know all to often. She had never truly needed to master the English language, always either having translators or simply being in environments where French had been the majority. Amilie knew Olympe understood enough to follow conversations but struggled with translating between French and English.

 “Reckless about the risks?” Amilie clarified, looking thoughtful. When the headmistress nodded in agreement, she continued. “The houses? This is the schools silly way of differentiating children based on their traits?” The older Veela’s question was directed at her daughter-in-law, who had attended Hogwarts and experienced the house system firsthand for years as a teenager.

The younger woman nodded, grimacing slightly. Amilie smirked, suddenly recalling the numerous rants she had overheard between Apolline and her wife about the absurdity of segregating children based on their most apparent juvenile traits. The idea of forcing them to wear the label of their assigned house for the rest of their lives had always struck them as archaic and foolish. Amilie wholeheartedly agreed. In her opinion, the system was both outdated and barbaric—designed to encourage division among the masses. It was little wonder that Britain had struggled so greatly with bigotry and classism—after all, they taught it in their schools, for Morgana’s sake. She was relieved her daughters had returned to France; the thought of her granddaughters growing up in such a warped system was far more than just unsettling.

“So, we have at least four Hogwarts staff members dissatisfied with the Headmaster, the girls’ magik behaving uncharacteristically, and Albus Dumbledore is unequivocally responsible for Adharia’s disappearance—correct?” she summarized, scanning the room as if ensuring they were all on the same page.

“Wait a minute!” her daughter-in-law cut in, her voice sharp with alarm. “What do you mean the girls’ magik is behaving uncharacteristically?” Her tone pitched, laced with fury as she turned a lethal glare on Amilie. Beside her, Apolline’s expression darkened—a mix of worry, anger, and exasperation written across her pale face, no doubt directed at her mother.

 Amile tensed.

“Ah…” Amilie scratched the back of her neck awkwardly, suddenly feeling as though she had stepped into a trap of some sort. She wasn’t sure why her daughter and her mate looked quite so furious with her, nor was she certain how to explain what Fleur and Gabrielle had told them. Subtly, she glanced at the girls in question, wondering if she could simply tell Apolline to ask her children about it instead. But something told her that wouldn’t go over well. Her daughter loved her—of that, there was absolutely no doubt—but Amilie, usually so assured and confident, felt off-kilter. She was the strong, flawless Clan Leader. She had been for most of her life. And yet, something about this entire situation unsettled her, made her feel as though she were treading uncertain ground. She couldn’t pin point the specifics but she did know she wasn’t grasping the whole picture, if she had she might be understanding why her grandchildren’s parent’s were so furious with her. Merlin help her. She wracked her brain, trying to piece together what in her sentence had caused such alarm.

“We feel a pull” Fleur spoke up, mercifully saving her grand-mère from their mothers’ withering glares. Her voice was soft, almost apologetic. “Like our magik is demanding we follow it. It hasn’t left us since we arrived at Hogwarts.” Amilie visibly relaxed as she saw her daughter and her mate begin to do the same. The lethal edge to their glares dulled—slightly as they took in their eldest daughters words.

“A pull?” Apolline questions softly, glancing between her daughters, both nodded in response. “Does it feel like it is good or bad?” Amilie’s daughter pressed, her tone serious, her gaze never leaving her children’s faces. Beside her, Amilie’s daughter-in-law had already begun casting diagnostic charms over both girls, likely checking that their magic was intact—that it hadn’t been tampered with in any way. Amilie suddenly felt foolish. Now she understood why her daughters had been so furious. Fleur and Gabrielle’s magic behaving strangely should have been a priority for her. She should have performed every spell she knew the moment she learned of it. Instead, she had been fixated on Dumbledore’s obvious transgressions, oblivious to what was right in front of her.

“I’m sorry.” Amilie whispered. She stood and moved toward her daughters and granddaughters, drawing her wand as she joined her daughter-in-law. Quickly she began murmuring every Veela-born spell she knew, carefully examining the girls’ magic and their Veela essence for any sign of ill-health or tampering. Relief coursed through her when her daughter-in-law briefly grasped her arm, offering a reassuring squeeze. A silent acknowledgment—an unspoken reassurance that despite their harshness they weren’t truly angry with Amilie. Just worried. As any mother would be.

“Nothing seems out of place.” the petite blonde finally declared, relief in her voice as she tucked her wand back into her pocket.

“It doesn’t feel bad, only insistent.” Fleur answered, looking to Gabrielle for her opinion.

“It feels familiar.” The youngest Veela informed them. Her exhausted blue eyes scanning the faces of her family “It feels like we need to find whatever it is, like we wont ever be safe until we do.” She continued as she pushed herself into a more upright position, as though speaking the words had given her renewed resolve.

Her family lapsed into silence for a few minutes, and the older witch could tell they were all trying to digest everything that had happened. She herself knew that it would take a little while for them to fully process the extent of this betrayal. For Amilie, the realization was overwhelming. It would take time to fully grasp the extent of Albus Dumbledore’s betrayal. He had stolen their lives the day he had stolen baby Adharia from them. He had robbed them of their happiness, stripped Apolline of the carefree nature she had once possessed. Camille and Apolline had been as close as Fleur and Gabrielle were now, but Camille had withdrawn into her grief. To this day, she struggled to be around Apolline and the girls for any length of time without becoming distraught.

There wasn’t a single aspect of their lives that hadn’t been scarred by the loss of their youngest. But perhaps, Amilie thought, Dumbledore’s actions had been most devastating to the three girls themselves.

To little Adharia, most of all.

In separating them, he had denied them the bond they should have shared—the strength that came with it. She couldn’t begin to imagine the horror her youngest grandchild had endured, nor could she imagine what her life had looked like, isolated from her family. No Veela should ever have to navigate their life alone, away from their kin. It was unnatural. Painful. Veela were family-oriented, their very essence rooted in love and belonging. To isolate a Veela child was to make every milestone a thousand times harder—their magic was said to be wilder, more volatile and hard to control as they grew.

The pain of coming into their heritage alone? The deep, gnawing sense of loneliness and isolation that her Grandchild would be experiencing?

Amilie Shuddered.

It destroyed her to think of Adharia suffering such a fate. And she doubted Dumbledore had risked placing her with another Veela family—no one would dare raise a Delacour child for fear of her family’s retaliation.

Which meant Adharia had been placed elsewhere.

At best, she would have been placed with another magical family.

At worst… with Muggles.

Neither would have been equipped to raise a Veela child in any way. The lack of bond alone would have been—

Amilie gasped.

Wide-eyed, she stood abruptly, one hand covering her mouth as the realization crashed over her like a tidal wave. “Adharia is here,” she whispered. Then louder, more certain: “Adharia is here!” Elation and devastation warred within her, colliding at a rate she struggled to process.

 “Adharia is here!” she exclaimed again, struggling herself to process her own words.  

“What do you mean, Mum?” Apolline whispered, her expression hardening. She stepped protectively in front of her mate and daughters, as if she could shield them from the pain of Amilie’s words. Her daughter’s wife let out a strangled gasp behind Apolline, eyeing Amilie warily, as though unable—or unwilling—to let herself believe it were possible.

“The bond!” Amilie nearly shouted. “The bond, Apolline!” Her breath came quick, her heart pounding as certainty flooded her. “The girls can feel it! Only family magik could have such a hold on a Veela without outside influence!” She grasped her daughter’s shoulders, shaking her slightly in her urgency. “The pull—it’s Adharia.”

She saw the exact moment realization dawned upon Apolline’s face.

Baby-blue eyes turned stormy grey as tears spilled down her daughter’s face. Her hands clutched at Amilie’s robes as if grounding herself. “The girls’ magic is untampered with,” Apolline whispered, her voice shook with the weight of her emotion.

Amilie nodded.

From over Apolline’s shoulder, Amilie met her daughter-in-law’s gaze— one that was hopeful and terrified in equal measure. Her own mate had moved closer to them, a gentle hand landing on her daughters face, gentle fingers turning their daughter’s chin towards her mother.

“Their magic is clean,” Adharia reassured them softly. “They are not being influenced by a potion, spell, or charm.” The warmth and love in her wife’s expression was enough to steady them all. And then, as if the words had been the last confirmation Apolline needed, she whirled toward her family, pure elation on her face. She pulled her mate into a tight embrace before reaching for her daughters, holding them both close.

The four of them sobbed—relief, joy, grief—so much emotion crashing into them at once. Amilie and Adharia moved toward them, their own hearts breaking for all that had been lost, for all that had been found. The older Veela wrapped her loved ones in her arms, shushing them gently.

“One way or another, we will bring her home,” she vowed solemnly. She didn’t know how they would find one girl in a sea of hundreds. But Amilie was a woman who would go to any lengths for her family. She really didn’t care who or what stood in her way. She would fight the world, in the coming days, if she had too. She would not rest until her grandchild was safe in her arms.

And Albus Dumbledore - had been destroyed for the unforgiveable crimes he had committed against her family.

“We will bring her home.”

Chapter Text

~ September 6^th 1995 ~

~ Hermione’s POV ~

~ Ravenclaw Fourth Year Girls Wing ~

Hermione woke with a start, her sharp mind immediately alert. Anxiety clung to her like a second skin, and her wide brown eyes darted around the room, squinting into the darkness. The room was shrouded in shadows that stretched across the walls, broken only by the faint glow seeping out from beneath the curtains – A feeble shield between her and the outside world. Though the dim moonlight provided little aid in easing her dread. Her magik stirred restlessly, pulsing beneath her skin with frantic urgency, heightening the suffocating sensation pressing down on her chest. It felt as though unseen hands were tightening around her throat. Her clothes clung too tightly, the air felt too thick. The only sound was the quiet rhythm of her friend’s breathing—a gentle reminder that she was not alone.

Desperately, she tried to steady her breathing, drawing in stilted deep breaths, her hand groping for the familiar weight of her wand. Her damp palm closed around the smooth Vine wood, gripping it like a lifeline. A comfort amid the storm. "Lumos" she whispered, her voice unsteady, nervous energy coursing through her. A soft glow bloomed from the wand tip, casting flickering light across her room. Hermione wiped the sweat from her brow, frowning as she scanned her surroundings. Nothing seemed out of place, yet the unease remained steadfast. A silent confirmation that everything was not fine. Not that she could identify what exactly that was. Every book, every chair, every picture lay exactly where she always had them and even Crookshanks lay sound asleep at the bottom of her bed. Beside her, Cho shifted slightly beneath the quilt, dark locks spilling across the pillow in an undisturbed mass. Hermione exhaled, a wry, self-deprecating thought flickering through her mind—at least one of them was sleeping peacefully.

The brunette sighed. Running a shaky hand through the tangled mop of curls atop her head. With a subtle flick of her wrist she wordlessly cast "Tempus." Groaning quietly. The glowing numbers hovered in the air.

5:05 a.m.

It was too late to salvage any more rest, too early to start the day without exhaustion gnawing at her. Frustration simmered beneath her skin. She wanted nothing more than to curl back into the warmth beside her friend, to steal just a little more of that rare, dreamless sleep. The kind where her mind had finally quieted, where the loneliness had slipped away—if only for a few precious hours. Morgana knew Hermione hadn’t slept for that long since she was a small child. But, of course, it hadn’t lasted. It never did. Now, it was back, coiling around her spine, whispering doubts with cruel precision. Every muscle in her body was wound tight.

Hermione rose quietly, already deciding on a shower to clear her head. The day ahead loomed in her thoughts: double Potions first, then Transfiguration and History, followed by lunch. Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures would fill the afternoon before dinner. Best to focus now, organize her thoughts and push away the lingering dread. She couldn’t afford distractions—not even the one that was curled up beside her. Admitting how much Cho mattered had been a mistake. A dangerous one. So what if Hermione saw Cho as the best friend she had ever had. It was dangerous to have admitted it, especially to the pure – blooded witch herself.  And Hermione knew, with a certainty that made her chest ache, that by morning, it would all be over. Whether Cho left the moment she woke or lingered just a little longer to revel in Hermione’s misery, it was only a matter of time before she was gone too. It was inevitable. It happened every time Hermione started to feel as if she had finally found someone she could call her family.

Hermine entered her bathroom, wandlessly summoning her uniform to her as she closed the bathroom door behind her quietly.

~~~~~~~~

Hermione stepped into her dorm room thirty minutes later, feeling a little more refreshed but far more anxious than before. The warm spray of water had done nothing to soothe her anxiety and trepidation. If anything It had only intensified as she stood under the warm stream of water, hoping it would ground her. By the time she stepped out, she felt as though she were suffering from a muggle caffeine withdrawal - or perhaps she had become the unfortunate victim of one of the Weasley twins cruel but undeniably clever pranks. She hadn’t quite decided which was more likely yet, but really she was leaning towards the caffeine withdrawals. The twins had always been respectful of her, after all, and she often wished they had been sorted into Ravenclaw instead of Gryffindor. Maybe then, they could have been friends.

They were certainly clever enough for Ravenclaw. Over the past four years, Hermione had taken the opportunity on several occasions to examine a number of the Twins’ inventions, each one had been as ingenious as it was catastrophic for its intended target. Their intended targets were usually the professors, the Slytherin students, and, to Hermione’s constant quiet amusement—Harry and Ron. Ron, being their younger brother, seemed to be a particular favourite. The dynamic between him and the twins had always puzzled Hermione. There was a deep-seated animosity between them, one she couldn’t quite understand. It almost made her sad. She had spent her entire life wishing for a sibling, yet here were people who had them and seemed to wish they didn’t. How was that fair?

“What has your mind so preoccupied at this - Merlin awful time in the morning Mia?” A groggy voice pulled Hermione from her thoughts, and she glanced sheepishly toward her bed. Cho was watching her through half-lidded eyes, her sleep-addled tone carrying a hint of concern. It was only then that Hermione realized she had been standing frozen in the doorway, a towel wrapped around her head, staring blankly at nothing discernible.

“Uh…” she murmured uncomfortably, shifting on her feet. She wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready for Cho to tell her that she never wanted to speak to her again. That she was an orphaned nobody who should have stayed in the Muggle world. She flinched at her own thoughts and closed her eyes hard. Wishing she could dispel the horror she felt swallowing her whole.

“Hermione?” Her friends voice came again, only this time it was clearer, closer and filled with a warmth the brunette was sure she was only imagining. Wishful thinking she was sure her matron would call it. A gasp escaped the brunettes dry lips as she visibly jumped, startled by the soft weight of a hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t seen or heard Cho move. There was something so earnest in the way Cho looked at her, so full of concern, that Hermione found herself unwillingly meeting her friends gaze. She braced herself for the disgust, the rejection and the hatred she was certain she would see — except it never came. Instead, all she saw was warmth. Cho stood mere inches away, her hands raised in a silent gesture of reassurance. Her usually immaculate locks of hair appeared slightly mussed, the remnants of sleep still evident in her expression as she studied Hermione carefully.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispered, running her hands down her robes in a futile attempt to steady herself. Her anxiety causing her palms to sweat and shake visibly. Cho raised an eyebrow, silently prompting her to continue—an expression Hermione had come to recognize as her friend’s way of telling her she was being a little ridiculous. “I… I know you probably don’t want to be my friend anymore. After… after…” Hermione’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper, as she tried desperately to find the words to explain her upset. She dropped her gaze, unable to look at the girl who had become her safe place.

“After what, Hermione?” Cho’s voice was sharp, her tone suddenly laced with something fierce, and Hermione flinched, curling in on herself instinctively. “After you opened up to me? Trusted me? You think I would discard you?” Cho’s voice grew stronger, almost angry, but not at her. “You think I would prove those awful Muggles right?!” Hermione barely had time to react before Cho grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her gently.

“You listen to me now Hermione Granger and you listen to me good.” The dark hair girl demanded, her grip firm but not unkind. “I think those muggles are vile. You deserved better than to be discarded. You deserved to have been loved and cherished.”  Tears welled in Hermione’s eyes, blurring her vision as she looked up at Cho’s unwavering sincere gaze.

“You are my best friend Hermione, my family!” Cho continued, her voice softening but losing none of its conviction. “I would follow you to the ends of the earth and back without question. No matter what you’ve been through, good people exist—and this one thinks the world of you.” She gave Hermione’s shoulders a final squeeze. “We’ll figure this out together. You are not alone. I promise.” Hermione barely registered the movement as she let herself be pulled into Cho’s embrace, clinging to her tightly. Relief, confusion, and lingering anxiety warred within her, but she held on, letting herself believe—for just a moment—that Cho meant every word.

Cho didn’t hate her.

Cho thought of her as family.

The notion was foreign, almost unbelievable, yet Hermione felt herself sink further into her friends embrace. They held onto each other tightly, neither in a hurry to let go — Cho relieved that Hermione was finally opening up, and Hermione overwhelmed but somehow… lighter. Her breathing slowly steadied, her control slipping back into place bit by bit.

When they pulled apart, Cho offered Hermione a watery smile. “Should we freshen up and head to the hall early for some breakfast?” she quietly suggested, patiently waiting for the brunette to answer. Hermione nodded, giving Cho a small smile in return.

“Refreshing your face is a good idea,” she murmured, flicking her wand—first at herself, then at Cho—casting a quick Scourgify before fixing her friend’s hair with another wave. “Wouldn’t want to scare the elves.” She quipped with a giggle, feeling an easy sort of contentment settle between them.

Cho let out a startled laugh, shoving Hermione playfully. “You’re such a prat.”

Their quiet giggles followed them all the way to the Great Hall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Appoline’s POV ~

~ British Ministry of Magic, Minister’s Private Office. ~

~ September 6^th 1995 ~

Apolline and Amilie strode through the Ministry side by side, radiating power with every step. It was early—8:30 a.m., to be exact—but the wait for the Ministry to open had been agonizing. They had spent the early hours of the morning deep in discussion with their mates and the headmistress—scheming, planning, and scheming some more.

For Apolline, there were few things she enjoyed more than a well-executed strategy—aside from time with her family. She had spent countless days holed up in stuffy offices, surrounded by equally stuffy, self-important pure-blooded men who valued their own status over public relations—let alone international diplomacy. Over the years, she had mastered the art of manoeuvring through their fragile egos, crafting careful plans to get exactly what she wanted while ensuring they believed it had been their idea all along.

It was a skill she had honed to perfection during her years as the International Liaison Officer for the French Ministry of Magic. And now, it would serve her well—because today marked the beginning of their carefully orchestrated strategy. Albus Dumbledore had stolen her baby, her littlest daughter, cruelly robbed them of countless years together. But Apolline could feel it—a bone-deep certainty thrumming through her very magik. They would right his crime. They would find her daughter.

She was not leaving Britain without her.

Not this time. Not ever.

Fourteen years ago, they had left Britain to protect Fleur and Gabrielle. But Apolline had never truly left. She had returned time and time again, conducting search after search for her lost daughter. She had never wavered in her belief that Adharia was alive—she could feel her. Over the years, her searches had become more discreet, carried out beyond her mate’s line of sight. The repeated heartbreak felt when every search yielded no results  had become too much for her wife to bear and Apolline had taken to shielding her wife from the heartbreak.

But this time would be different.

This time, they would not leave empty-handed.

This time, they were bringing their daughter home.

“Remember to let me lead, my Apple,” her mother whispered, and Apolline nodded, though she internally rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. Amilie had called her that since she was an infant — the apple of my eye, darling, my little Apple — always murmured with a kiss to the forehead before tucking her into bed. “Hopefully, we won’t have to set you lose” Amilie added as an afterthought. Apolline grinned, the expression unsettlingly reminiscent of her love’s childhood best friend—manic and edged with a cruelty that was seldom seen on the usually humorous blonde. Her inner Veela stirred, its hunger for vengeance briefly colouring her expression.

“Of course, Maman,” she agreed smoothly, stepping slightly behind her Clan Leader. They were here on official business, after all.

Amilie was resplendent in deep rouge silk robes, accented with gold trim. Apolline, by contrast, wore a pale grey business suit—elegant yet formidable. Together, they cut an imposing figure, and as they were ushered into the Minister’s office, Apolline suppressed a smirk. Cornelius Fudge looked pale behind his desk, his beady green eyes darting up at them with barely concealed alarm. Sweat beaded along his receding hairline, painting a rather pathetic picture.

This was the man the British had chosen to lead them?

Apolline resisted the urge to scoff. He looked nothing like his campaign portraits and certainly not how she had expected. Was he using illusion charms on the public? If so, they weren’t very effective up close.

She was silently grateful she had never had the displeasure of meeting him before. Usually, she dealt with his lackeys—or, better yet, sent her assistant to do it for her.

“Good morning, Monsieur Fudge” Amilie greeted smoothly, her voice laced with the effortless elegance and authority befitting a Veela leader. The man gaped openly for a moment before scrambling to his feet, his movements unsteady and stilted as he extended a clammy hand. Amilie took it, her lips curling in barely concealed distaste, though her grip remained firm.

“Cornelius, please.” He prompted, with a small awkward wave of his hand.

Amilie nodded. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Apolline—International Liaison Officer of France,” she continued, deliberately emphasizing her title. They wanted this man to know he was in the presence of power—power that, should they choose, could end his career for, simply put, nothing more than their own amusement.

“N-nice to meet you, Madame Delacour,” Minister Fudge stammered, offering Apolline his hand just as he had her mother. Apolline forced herself to take it, her own grip firm despite the revulsion curling in her stomach as his sweat-slicked palm met hers.

“Please, take a seat” he said, regaining some of his composure.

“No, thank you. This won’t take long” she replied curtly, subtly wiping her hand against the back of her suit trousers. Cornelius gulped, his beady eyes darting between them before lingering a little too long on her. Apolline grimaced as his gaze shamelessly fixated on her chest. Wonderful, she thought dryly. The Veela Thrall had caught the attention of yet another repulsive man. Beside her, Amilie bristled, her displeasure evident. Apolline knew her mother had noticed the blatant leering—and she was not pleased.

“Uhm, of course, of course, dear.” Fudge muttered, sitting up straighter in his high-backed chair, as if the shift in posture might somehow disguise his discomfort. Though his actions hadn’t fooled either of the Veela in the room. His behaviour was, regrettably, all too common amongst British wizards. Their ingrained prejudices had meant that they rarely interacted with Veela the way most other witches and wizards around the world did. As a result, they had never quite adjusted to the Veela Thrall – often leering and tripping over themselves to bed them, much to the Delacour clan’s irritation. But that was a battle for another time.

Clearing his throat, the Minister forced himself to meet their gaze—just barely. “What can I help you with?” he queried, eyes flickering past them nervously as though afraid of being caught leering once again.

Amilie didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “I’ll cut to the chase, Cornelius—this Ministry owes our family a great deal” she stated, her tone sharp and unwavering. Her eyes, steely with determination, locked onto his. “We’ve come to collect on that debt, and you will cooperate.” Apolline remained silent, observing the tension in the Minister’s posture. His hands twitched atop his desk, his gaze darting toward the door as though expecting someone—anyone—to walk in and rescue him from this conversation. But they all knew the truth: this was no mere discussion. It was a demand and no one was coming to rescue him.

“We have reason to believe that the kidnapped daughter of Clan Delacour—yes, kidnapped, Cornelius, I won’t entertain the Ministry’s absurd claims about a house-elf—has in fact been hidden within Hogwarts school, attending classes under a false name,” Amilie continued, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. “We want the Ministry to impose a school-wide, compulsory blood test for all students.” Fudge blanched, and Apolline could see his objections forming before he even opened his mouth.

“Preposterous, Amilie! Absolutely not, no! Think of the scandal! The public will call it an invasion of privacy!” he spluttered, his face reddening, outraged, as he leaned forward in protest. Amilie, completely unruffled by his outburst, merely arched a well-shaped brow, waiting for him to finish his performance.

“It is not an invasion, Cornelius,” she said smoothly, hands clasped lightly in front of her. “The Ministry already collects blood samples from pure-blood children at birth to confirm their family lineage—surely you haven’t forgotten that, have you? What difference does it make here? Keep the results private if you must, disclosed only to the individuals themselves. Don’t even store the records.” She leaned in slightly, her voice like silk wrapped around steel. As gentle as it was deadly. “But you will do this for my family.”

The threat in Amilie's voice was unmistakable, yet Apolline could tell that the minister wasn’t finished his protesting. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, beads trickling down as his face deepened from red to purple. He sucked in great, gasping breaths, as if utterly horrified by the implications of her words. Apolline saw it—the sheer disbelief on his face - that they knew. That they had uncovered a secret passed down from minister to minister, hidden for centuries within the Ministry’s walls. When Cornelius turned his panicked gaze on her, trying to gauge where she stood, Apolline smirked.

“Apolline, you must see how disastrous this would be,” he urged, voice thick with barely restrained desperation. “Not just for Britain, but for any future international relations we may have with France. To institute mandatory blood tests at the behest of the French Ministry—” Despite his horrified facade, Apolline sensed the calculation behind his words. He was stalling. Buying himself time. Fool. She flicked her gaze toward her mother, silently seeking permission to speak. Permission that was granted with a single subtle nod of the older Veela’s head.

Did he truly think that she wouldn’t support her own mother in this?

“Lady Delacour speaks sense Cornelius, I won’t tell you different.” Apolline replied coolly, her tone laced with disinterest, as if the matter was already settled.

Cornelius bristled. “The board will never agree to this, Amilie. You forget—the Wazengamot will not tolerate an outsider making such demands. It won’t stand.” His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“You seem to think I care about the British Wazengamot, Fudge.” Amilie’s voice was razor-sharp. “You are this country’s minister. A directive from you is law, and you know it. The Wazengamot doesn’t have a say in all ministry affairs.” Amilie spat back. Apolline could hear the growing impatience in her mother’s voice.

“You owe us a debt. We have come to collect. It is as simple as that. Unless”—her voice turned deadly soft—“you would prefer war.” She let the words hang, a blade poised to strike. “And I assure you, Cornelius, you would regret it.” She finished, danger threaded through every syllable she spoke.

The minister visibly blanched, his puce-coloured face turning an unhealthy shade as he shoved himself to his feet, hands slamming onto the desk with a sharp crack. The sound echoing around the minister’s office, reverberating in the air around them. “Now see here, woman,” he spat. “It is unwise for your kind to threaten war in the same breath that you ask anything of me. You are here as a courtesy to the French embassy—nothing more.” He leaned forward, as if to intimidate, as if to make himself appear larger than he was.

“How dare you presume you have any right to threaten the British Minister of Magic—especially over a measly child?”

Apolline didn’t let him finish. Her patience snapped, rage surging through her at the disrespect aimed at not only her mother but her child as well. Before he had the chance to react, she had rounded his desk in two strides and seized him by his robe collar, hoisting him clean off the ground with the effortless strength of her Veela blood.

“Non,” she hissed, her breath hot against his paling face. “How dare you threaten the head of the Veela clan in the presence of the International Liaison Officer Cornelius?” Her grip tightened, drawing the vile man closer. “You forget,” she murmured, voice dripping with false sweetness, “that the measly child you speak of is my child – My daughter.” Cornelius trembled. “You will do this,” she continued, eyes gleaming with dangerous promise, “or you will face the consequences of turning us away. Tell me, Minister” – She emphasised his title snidely — “can you truly defend yourself against the millions of Veela across the world and against the entirety of Wizarding France?” Her query as condescending as it was deadly.

His silence was answer enough. Yet Apolline did not lower him. Suspended midair, he must have felt utterly vulnerable—his wand lay useless on the desk, just out of reach. British wizards had the predictable habit of relying too heavily on their wands, never truly honing their magic beyond their use of them. Cornelius Fudge, it seemed, was no exception.

“Understood?” she hissed, her grip unrelenting. She saw the defeat settle in his eyes, the moment he realized there was no escape. He nodded quickly, avoiding her gaze, doing everything in his power not to meet the eyes of either Delacour woman. Apolline felt vindicated at his fear. Fitting that he should feel such a way when he had been part of the Auror team all those years ago that had failed immeasurably to find her little girl.

“Now, Cornelius,” Amilie’s voice cut through the room, both smooth and unyielding. She stepped forward, each step deliberate and measured, making sure the minister’s full attention remained focused on her. “My daughter is going to release you. And now that we have reached an understanding, you are going to take a little Unbreakable Vow.” Fudge’s eyes widened comically, panic flickering to life. “No, no,” Amilie continued, her tone almost soothing, as if speaking to a cornered animal. “There will be no protest. Simply uphold your promise, and you needn’t concern yourself with the consequences of breaking an Unbreakable Vow.” She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. And Cornelius Fudge, still dangling helplessly in Apolline’s grasp, looked as though he might faint.

Twenty minutes and an Unbreakable Vow later, both Veela women strode out of the minister’s office, a distinct lightness in their step. Step one of their plan was in motion. Now, all they could do was trust their instincts—that their little one was indeed hidden within Hogwarts, unaware of who she truly was. They just had to be patient once more.

Luckily patience was something they had always been good at.

~~~~~~~~

~ Fleur’s POV ~

~ Great hall – Breakfast time ~

~ September 6^th 1995 ~

The cold, wet morning did nothing to lift Fleur’s already exhausted spirits as she and Gabrielle made their way from the Beauxbatons carriage towards the great hall with their peers. The chill bit through her robes painfully, but it was nothing compared to the weariness weighing on her. She hadn’t slept. Even after their mothers had sent them to bed, urging them to rest—to gather their strength—Fleur had spent the night tossing and turning. Logic had told her to listen, to prepare for what lay ahead of them. But her magic had other plans. It surged and whispered, urging her to seek the force that called to her own. For hours, she had focused on that pull, tracing its edges, studying how it felt. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced—something ancient, something warm and missing. And as she had let herself feel it fully, she realized just how much her magic craved the unknown presence.

Gabrielle had put it into words the night before: "As if we will never be complete without it." And Fleur knew she was right. They would never be whole until they found the source of the pull. But that thought had led her to the fear that had haunted her most—Adharia. Adharia, the sister she had lost. Her sister who, she was certain, was at the other end of this connection. The sister she would do anything to find, yet Fleur didn’t know her.

She knew Gabrielle better than she knew herself, but Adharia? She didn’t even know her baby sisters favourite colour.

What if she couldn’t be the sister Adharia needed? What if Adharia hated her? Blamed her? Fleur was the eldest. She was meant to protect her sisters. And she had failed. It didn’t matter that she had only been three years old when Adharia had been snatched. It didn’t matter that Adharia hadn’t even been three months old. There should have been something she could have done. Surely, Adharia would see that. Surely, she would know Fleur had failed her.

The questions had tormented her all night, each scenario shattering her heart even as she clung to hope—a desperate, fragile hope—that they were right. That their littlest sister was waiting for them.

She had lost count of how many nights she and Gabrielle had lain together, piecing together an image of Adharia in their minds. Gabrielle was convinced that she would have the same wild curls that she did, Fleur’s nose, and their shared eyes. But Fleur had never agreed. In her mind, she pictured Adharia to be a younger version of their mother, Apolline—gentle honeyed waves, eyes as strikingly blue as theirs, the unmistakable mark of Veela blood. She would no doubt be shorter than Fleur but taller than Gabrielle. And If they had grown up together, Fleur could easily imagine the playful squabbles over height, Gabrielle and Adharia bickering while she played the role of peacekeeper, as the eldest always did.

It hurt to think about—to acknowledge all they had lost, all that had been stolen from them. In many ways, her sister’s kidnapping had shaped Fleur in every way, forging her into someone wary and vigilant, stoic and sensible. Every part of her life had been touched by it. Their parents had been terrified to let Gabrielle or Fleur out of their sight as children. They had grown up well-loved and happy, but Fleur had felt the weight of her parents' sorrow as surely as she had felt her own. Every joyful memory they had as a family was tinged with the ache of absence. And now, she didn’t know what the future held. She only prayed it included her baby sister.

“You need to focus, Fleur,” Gabrielle murmured from beside her as they walked, arm in arm, huddled together for comfort as much as warmth. “Grandmaman told us to focus only on the day ahead,” she added in a quiet, concerned whisper. Fleur knew her sister was trying to reassure her, sensing the weight of her worry. But there was nothing that Gabrielle could do to ease the anxiety churning inside her. It wouldn’t leave her anytime soon—not with so much at stake. Dumbledore circling. Adharia so close. Their family’s fears pressing down on her like a storm cloud. It was a lot to bear, but Fleur knew she had to keep it together. For Gabrielle. For all of them.

She took a steadying breath and forced a warm smile for her sister. “I know, Gabby. I do. But it is hard to truly relax when Dumbledore is so near and our magik feels so unsettled.” She spoke honestly—there was no point in pretending otherwise. Gabrielle, for all her lack of a filter, was Fleur’s closest confidant and always would be. Only two years separated them in age, and in many ways despite the small age gap, they had always been of one mind.

“I understand, sister, truly.” Gabrielle said sincerely, before a glint of mischief began to sparkle in her eyes — one that promised Fleur that Gabrielle had a plan that would clearly spell trouble for them both. “But think about this.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “We attend school like Maman instructed, but we search for our sister too. This castle is only so big. How hard can it be to find someone when there’s literally a magical connection leading us to her?” She arched an eye at her, the challenge evident.

 “What do you propose, sister of mine?” she asked, already suspecting the answer. A slight smirk appearing on her face as she awaited her sisters reply.

Gabrielle’s smirk widened. “What better way to help our little sister and stick it to that vile man than finding her before he even realizes his secret is about to be exposed?” Her voice was sharp with determination. “If we were to reach her first, if we tell her the truth, then there’s less chance that—” she spat the word with clear disdain, pausing for effect, “—that man can twist the outcome in his favour. If she knows to look for the deceit, his lies will crumble before they can ever take root.” Fleur considered her words carefully, the gears in her mind turning rapidly. Gabrielle had a point.

Albus trying to rig the blood tests was something they had discussed at length the previous evening and her Grandparents were certain it wouldn’t truly be a problem. Her Maman and Mother hadn’t been completely sure however and Fleur hadn’t been either.

They had all spent the previous evening discussing, at length, Albus Dumbledore’s likely attempts to manipulate the blood tests. Their grandparents were confident it wouldn’t pose a real obstacle—anything he tried, they believed, would be quickly caught and stopped by those administering the tests. But Maman and Mother weren’t as certain. Maman knew Albus better than anyone, and Fleur had seen the fear and devastation in her eyes when she learned of his deceit.

If her Maman wasn’t convinced, then neither was Fleur.

“You have a valid point, Gabrielle,” she admitted. “It’s a wise plan. However, we must be careful.” Her grip tightened on her sister’s arm, her tone turning serious. “Please do not approach our sister alone. If Dumbledore sees you with her, you’ll both be far more vulnerable than if we are all together.” She stopped just before the entrance to the main school, ignoring the light drizzle beginning to fall around them. This was too important. Gabrielle needed to understand the danger. She used her grip on Gabrielle’s arm to turn her sister towards her. “Please do not go rushing in without thought.” She continued, letting the desperation bleed in to her tone, her eyes flashing red for a second as her Veela voiced her agreement with Fleur’s ask. Gabrielle’s eyes flashed red in turn, an acknowledgement from the younger girls Veela to her leader.

“I promise I wont Fleur, But you must promise the same. I cannot risk harm to one sister while trying to save the other. We have all suffered enough.” Gabrielle whispered back in a rare display of sincerity. Damp hands pulling her sister in to her arms tightly. Fleur sighed into the hug, letting her little sister cling to her for a moment before she pulled away.

“I promise I wont either. You and our little sister are far too important to me. I won’t risk you – either of you - for anything. “ Fleur confirmed and she could see the relief on Gabrielle’s face as she reassured her. “Now come, Lets investigate what the British eat for breakfast.” The older Veela declared, ushering Gabrielle towards the hall and out of the rain. She cast a quick drying spell on them as they went.

~~~~

Upon entering the Hall, Fleur and Gabrielle were surprised by the sheer liveliness of the scene before them. The long tables were packed with students either side, and nearly every professor had already taken their place at the top table for breakfast. The atmosphere buzzed with an energy that had been absent the previous evening. From the Slytherin table, Fleur could hear the Durmstrang students boasting loudly. Among them, Lord Malfoy’s son—apparently a Slytherin as well—held conversation with his usual entourage. He and his friends hovered around the Durmstrang boys, blatantly vying for their favour, no doubt acting on instructions from their parents. It was pathetic. The very sight of Draco made Fleur feel ill. The thought that this miniature version of Lucius Malfoy was, in fact, her own little cousin was almost unbearable. Not that they had spent much time together. As much as her mother’s adored their nephew, they had little patience for Lucius Malfoy’s overt prejudice against the Veela and his obsession with blood purity.

Her grandmother had often scoffed that her Maman’s brother had no understanding of what "pure blood" truly meant. While Lucius droned on about the importance of lineage and DNA, the term had historically referred to those who honoured the ways of old Magik—not simply those born to witches and wizards. His narrow-minded rhetoric had always been dull and tiresome, and Fleur had mastered the art of avoiding him on the rare occasions they were forced into the same vicinity as one another. Unfortunately, it seemed Malfoy junior had taken to imitating his father. Even from this distance, Fleur recognized his all-too-familiar posturing, puffing himself up like a peacock. It made him look like an arrogant fool.

“I see you have spotted our dearest cousin, Sister?” Gabrielle murmured sarcastically as they settled into their seats at the Ravenclaw table. Nestling themselves between Elodie and Carmel. Fleur caught the flicker of disappointment in her sister’s eyes—she had noticed it too, the way Draco was slowly becoming a mirror image of their delightful uncle.

“Unfortunately,” Fleur muttered back, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as they watched Draco animatedly recount a story they couldn’t quite hear. “I wonder if he’s perfected Uncle Lucius’ ‘I am chewing on a wasp’ expression yet.” She smirked at the laugh her remark drew from Gabrielle, feeling a small victory in the way her sister’s usual boisterous nature flickered back to life. Fleur giggled alongside her, mimicking the look she was talking about, allowing herself, for a fleeting moment, to simply enjoy the warmth of the bustling hall and the melodic laughter of her sister. Just two ordinary sisters, lost in a moment of shared amusement—pretending, if only for now, that their family had not endured all that it had and there only care was in fact the blonde haired arrogant boy who was now rather extravagantly gesturing about something or other.

But the illusion was fragile. The closer they were in proximity to the castle, the stronger the pull became—a silent, insistent tug that demanded she seek out the one at its source. Gabrielle’s words echoed in her mind as Fleur let her gaze drift slowly across the hall. But she already knew the truth. Their sister wasn’t here. Her magic lingered, a faint trace in the air, but the pull—the tether—lay deeper within the castle. The ache in Fleur’s chest felt like a stone, the longing as raw and unrelenting as ever. Beside her, Gabrielle’s hand slipped into her own, a gentle grounding force. Fleur knew her sister felt it too—the same relentless pull, the same desperate call of their youngest sister’s magik.

The noise of the Great Hall faded into a distant hum. Conversations blurred, the weight of meaningless chatter paling against the only thing that mattered. Fleur clenched her fingers around Gabrielle’s, her resolve hardening.

She wanted nothing more than to follow that invisible thread—to let it guide her straight to their sister. But knew they had to be cautious. To search so openly with Albus Dumbledore merely feet away would be as foolish as her dear cousin’s posturing. So Fleur forced her gaze back to the table, giving Gabrielle’s hand one last gentle squeeze before she began to dish out her and Gabrielle’s breakfast plate.

The other Veela girls sat eagerly, their eyes fixed on Fleur as she finished, for Veela etiquette dictated that their leader be seated and begin eating first. It was a silly tradition that Fleur despised, but the girls clung to it nonetheless, finding comfort in its familiarity—something that seemed to soothe their inner Veela in such a strange place. Fleur sighed fondly, looking at them all. "Allez-y quoi," (“Well, Go on then.”) she said affectionately, gesturing toward the table in front of her. Her Clan was her comfort, and she felt truly blessed to be their leader. Moments like this served as a reminder of that blessing as they eagerly tucked in. Their voices rose in excitement as they sampled the food, critiquing each bite with gusto.

Fleur and Gabrielle, however, chose something lighter for their breakfast: some toast and scrambled eggs with a glass of pumpkin juice. The full English breakfast, while delightful in moderation, was simply too heavy for such an early hour.

“So Fleur, what is our game plan for the day?” Carmel queried before taking a dainty bite of her bacon. Ever the lady her mother wanted her to be.

"Just go to class, mingle, but behave!" Fleur responded with a smile, cutting herself off to give Elodie a pointed look. She knew the younger girl had a tendency to get into mischief. "We want to make friends here, so be friendly, but don’t let anyone disrespect you." She softened her tone, though it remained firm. "For that reason, I want you all to stick together in pairs, especially after some of the comments last night." Her voice had grown serious yet gentle. Several of the girls had come to her on their way to the castle, worried about the inappropriate comments aimed at them from the other students—mostly the boys. Many making lude and suggestive comments. Unfortunately for them all, they had been warned that such attention could be common at Hogwarts due to the sudden exposure to their Veela Thrall, something that many of the Hogwarts students had never experienced before but Fleur would not tolerate any such behaviours toward her girls. They would always have her full backing to handle anyone and everyone who dared overstep in any way.

Elodie giggled, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "Who, me?" she asked, feigning innocence, a faux gesture of hurt being aimed at her. Fleur, however, knew the girl well enough to see that she took the warning seriously. Relieved, Fleur smiled back at her, before being drawn into a conversation with the Ravenclaw girls on their timetables.

Halfway through breakfast, however, the light atmosphere at the Ravenclaw table was abruptly interrupted.

"Where’s Cho and Hermione this mornin’, Looney?" demanded a strained voice from Fleur’s right. The older  Veela bristled at the insult that had been directed toward her little sister’s friend, turning just in time to see a petite dark-haired girl with sharp features take a seat at the table. The girl immediately began shovelling a handful of sausages into her mouth as she spoke. The sight made Fleur grimace, a reaction mirrored by most of the students around them.

Marietta Edgecombe had never been particularly fond of Fleur, and Fleur had never been particularly fond of her either. She found the younger pure-blooded girl to have a bit of a vindictive streak, one that her Maman had once mentioned was unfortunately reminiscent of Marietta’s mother – Lady Millicent Edgecomb.

“Hermione and Cho have already been in for breakfast this morning, Milli,” came Luna Lovegood’s serene reply, her voice completely unfazed by the insult directed at her. The younger blonde girl, sitting across from them, maintained a calm expression as she continued eating her toast and jam—one of Luna’s favourites. She displayed a visage that suggested she was utterly unaffected. Fleur silently wondered just how often Luna had been subjected to insults like that for her to brush them off with such ease, as if they were meaningless.

“Ugh, great!” Millicent grunted, chewing loudly with her mouth open. It was a sight that was both jarring and unpleasant for those sitting around about her. Fleur couldn’t help but wonder how Millicent could be so unaware of how impolite and repulsive she appeared. Surely, she must have realized how inappropriate her behaviour was. Was she chewing like that just to provoke a reaction from someone? Or was she genuinely unaware?

“Oi, Milli, you look like Ronald Weasley,” called out one of the Ravenclaw boys, causing the hall to erupt in laughter. Millicent turned an awful shade of red in embarrassment, her earlier bravado faltering. Fleur, though not laughing as audibly or as visibly as everyone else, couldn’t help but feel a sense of amusement. It seemed like a bit of instant karma. Perhaps Millicent would think twice before insulting others in the future—though Fleur didn’t truly believe that would be the case. It was, however, a pleasant thought to hold on to.

Despite all the commotion around her, Fleur had been paying attention to both girls mention of the name Hermione. It wasn’t a name she had ever encountered before, and she’d grown up around many of the pure-blood girls—or at least in their general vicinity. She knew Cho, but this Hermione was unfamiliar to her. Fleur filed the name away for later, intrigued. Was this girl a muggle-born? Why did Millicent appear to say her name with such contempt? Could Hermione perhaps be Adharia? Was that why the magic she sensed here felt muted? Because Hermione had already been to the great hall and left already?

"Who is Hermione?" Gabrielle asked the Ravenclaw girls, her tone light with curiosity. Fleur could tell, yet again, that her sister had been wondering the same thing she had.

"Nobody. Just a swotty orphan Cho seems to pity," Millicent replied with a sneer, her confidence seemingly restored after her earlier embarrassment. Her bravado returning as she latched on to the new conversation and the chance to belittle Hermione.

"Hermione Granger is Cho’s best friend, Millicent," Luna said sharply, her usual dreamy air replaced by something far more grounded. "Being bitter that Cho doesn’t want to be friends with you doesn’t give you the right to insult her. I think Hermione’s lovely. She just doesn’t get the chance to show it, that’s all."

Fleur arched a brow. Interesting. Luna Lovegood, of all people, was defending this Hermione with unexpected fervour. Clearly, the girl meant more to Luna than Fleur had assumed. It seemed Hermione Granger had a talent for provoking strong reactions—loyalty, bitterness, curiosity. Fleur found herself wondering why. For Luna to defend her so ardorously it meant she must be someone incredible. It took a lot for the usually whimsical blonde to appear so angered by something.

"That’s not true!" Millicent snapped back at the little blonde, her irritation flaring. Conversations around Fleur’s clan faltered, weary expressions turning toward the brewing conflict. Yet beneath that weariness, Fleur caught the glint of curiosity in their eyes—a curiosity she couldn’t deny sharing. "Cho does want to be my friend. She just hasn’t realized yet that Hermione isn’t worth her time," Millicent huffed, petulance seeping into her voice like a crack in fragile glass. Though Fleur could see the insecurity in the other girls actions.

Luna tilted her head, her gaze steady and unsettlingly clear as she locked gazes with the dark haired girl. "Oh, Millicent, if you really believed Hermione was as inconsequential as you say she is, you wouldn’t be so threatened by her brilliance." she said softly, but with undeniable conviction. "You know as well as I do that Hermione will change the world one day." Fleur’s interest sharpened. What does Luna know that the rest of us don’t? she wondered. Though if Fleur had learned anything in the many years she had known the younger girl it was best never to bet against Luna Lovegood. The girl had an uncanny knack for predicting the most improbable things, as if plucking truths from thin air. Fleur had long suspected Luna might be a Seer—just one the world hadn’t recognized yet.

Seers, like the Veela, descended from long lines of ancient Magik, a gift passed from mother to daughter. However, unlike Veela—who were always born True Veela, whether from two Veela parents or from a Veela and a witch or wizard—Seers were far less predictable. Their gift often skipped many generations, sometimes disappearing for so long that families forgot the talent had ever been part of their lineage, until it unexpectedly resurfaced in a new descendant many years later. Fleur was certain that if someone traced Luna’s ancestry, this would be the case for her.

Millicent simply huffed and left the table, clear irritation etched across her face. Luna giggled softly, turning back to face the wider table, that same dreamy, faraway look settling once more on her delicate features. Fleur couldn’t help but smile fondly. It was refreshing to see Luna so effortlessly herself, her light unbothered by the cruelty of others. Often, as they grew, Luna had been overlooked by others—deemed too much like her father, full of whimsical nonsense that society never cared to understand. But Gabrielle had never seemed to mind. In fact, Gabrielle adored her as she did Gabrielle.

“So, who is this Hermione?” Fleur asked, repeating her sister’s earlier question. Now that Millicent had vacated the space, she hoped to get a clearer picture of the girl who seemed to inspire such strong emotions.

“Hermione Jean Granger,” Luna replied in her lilting, melodic voice. “She’s a fith-year, but the same age as me. 14. She was admitted a year early because Dumbledore said her accidental magic was too noticeable to the Muggles. She’s a muggle-born orphan, but she really is lovely. She likes to grow flowers when she’s sad.” Fleur found herself smiling at the soft fondness in Luna’s tone, a warmth woven between her words like threads of sunlight.

“She was a Hat Stall,” piped up a younger boy from farther down the table, his voice tinged with reluctant admiration. “The Hat sat on her head for nearly eighteen minutes—that’s longer than anyone. Even longer than Dumbledore and McGonagall. The hat told a student last year that he only picked so quickly because she demanded he hurry up.” He continued, emphasising the hat’s words. Fleur turned her smile to the boy, thanking him for the additions details about Hermione.

“Merci,” she said graciously, though she inwardly cringed when the boy’s face flushed pink, and he scrambled to his feet, puffing up with the kind of bravado only adolescent boys could muster.

“Terrance Boot’s me name. Friends call me Terry,” he announced with a smirk, extending his hand as if she’d been waiting for the honour. “You can call me anything you want.” Fleur barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. There was a smugness in his tone, a misplaced confidence that suggested he thought himself charming. Instead, she found it mildly repellent, though she masked her distaste behind a polite, diplomatic smile—the kind she’d perfected over the years. Sending a quiet ‘thank you grandmaman.’ to the powers that be for the many lessons Amilie Delacour had tutored her through.

“Fleur Delacour. Future leader of the Veela clans. It is nice to meet you Terrance.” She introduced back, her tone polite but not warm. She did not want to encourage this boy in whatever ideas of grandeur he had created for himself.

“We must go Fleur, let us leave the little boy to his illusions, no?” Gabrielle spoke up from beside her, deliberately placing herself in front of her sister. Her actions forcing distance between Fleur and Terry Boot much to the blonde’s relief.

“Yes you are right sister. We must go. Goodbye monsieur Boot” Fleur caught on, her expression matching the urgency her sister was creating. She silently made note to buy her sister an extra large box of Caramel Comets – A favourite of the younger blondes. The group silently picked their things up and set of for their first class of the day. Fleur had Transfiguration first with the seventh year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Gabrielle had a double potions with the fourth and fifth year Ravenclaw and Hufflepuffs. Though they both knew Fleur had got the better first class.

They had heard the rumours about the potions professor – Snape and both Blonde’s had hoped to avoid him.

As they left the hall a gentle hand was placed on Fleurs arm, drawing her attention to Luna who had followed them out. Her first class was also potions. “It will all work out, you’ll see.” The younger Blonde murmured as if to reassure them, before grabbing Gabrielle’s hand and skipping off, dragging the Veela girl with her down the corridor. Fleur stared after them in confusion. The blonde’s parting words were confusing and vague.

What did she mean it would all work out? Fleur gently ran her hands down her robes, the action bringing her comfort in her confusion. Before setting off towards her first class.

~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Same Day ~

~ Albus Dumbledore’s POV ~

~ Headmaster’s office ~

Albus Dumbledore had always been a very patient man—calculated, calm, and always unyielding in his control. For as long as he could remember, he had always had a plan, a way in which he could spin any situation to his advantage, given enough time. He loved being in control of everything around him. He prided himself on always being several steps ahead, playing a long game in which his opponents rarely knew they were even part of the game, until it was too late for them.

This strategic brilliance was what had earned him his reputation, a mind and magic so revered by those who followed him that no one ever dared question him or his motives.

Over the decades, Dumbledore had carefully crafted plans upon plans, each person—a pawn in his grand design—positioned with such precision that the pieces always fell into place. Nothing had ever been left to chance. Every move he made was strategically analysed from all perspectives, making his plans infallible.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully, a bemused expression overtaking his usually composed grandfatherly features as he gazed at the official parchment. The Ministry’s seal was stamped boldly in red on the top-left corner, confirming the authenticity of its contents.

But how?

How had he missed something as vital as this was? Where had he been when Cornelius Fudge had ran this decision past the Wazengamot? Surely, Fudge had never had an original thought in his life, let alone one that Albus himself hadn’t carefully maneuvered him toward, spoon-feeding him bit by bit as he had always done. The idea behind this new decree was baffling to him. It served no one’s interests—absolutely not his, nor the Ministry’s, not even the students would benefit much from it. It was an unanticipated complication in an already delicate plan. One in which he hadn’t for the first time in his life saw coming. It quite simply baffled him.

With a growl of frustration, Albus forced himself to remain seated, trying to maintain his usual calm. His senior staff would arrive soon, and there was far too much to figure out in the time between now and then.

He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself a brief respite before blindly reaching for the jar of lemon drops beneath his desk—his personal stash, not the ones on the desk for students. The sweets he left for the students were more than a simple treat; each was carefully infused with a subtle dose of Veritaserum. Not that he’d ever tell anyone that—particularly given the tendency for staff and guests to help themselves from the bowl. It would, after all, never not   benefit him to know those in front of him couldn’t lie to him.

After popping the sweet into his mouth and savouring the sharp tang of lemon sherbet on his tongue for a few moments, he read the letter once more. His eyes scanning the lines much more carefully now, looking for some type of clue, or thread of information he could pull on to unravel the ministries unexpected move.

~~~

Dear Albus,

I hope this letter finds you well Albus. I write to you in my role as minister of magic.

Unfortunately it has come to my attention that many witches and wizards at Hogwarts know very little about their families and their inheritance as a result of the harrowing events of the first wizarding war. So it is with pleasure I inform you of a new ministry initiative that will commence tomorrow morning the 7^th of September 1995. With the help of our Goblin friends at Gringotts every student within Hogwarts will partake in a one off lesson throughout the day.

In this lesson they will be taught the basics of family inheritance and the steps to lord and ladyships. They will also undergo a mandatory blood test. The results of which will only be known by the student taking the test and the goblin administering the test. I will repeat that this is mandatory and all students currently registered at Hogwarts as of today will be required to under take the blood test. This is non-negotiable and I am relying on your support to help ensure that this goes off without a hitch. The blood results will not be held on official records so please take the time to ensure the students are reassured by this.

To ensure that all runs smoothly tomorrow the students will be called to the great hall by year group where they will take part in the one off lesson and blood tests. Starting with the first years at 8:45am, just after breakfast.

I will also be in attendance tomorrow to help ease any and all worries.

Kind regards,

Cornelius Alexander Fudge

Minister of Magic

~~~

The more he read the letter, the more Albus doubted the sincerity of Cornelius’s words. But there was little he could do now. The letter had been sent in an official capacity, and the Goblins had already confirmed their attendance. Parents—both wizarding and Muggle—had already received notice. There was no postponing or bargaining he could do at this point.

That left Albus with less than twenty-four hours to formulate a plan—one that would allow him to turn this unexpected decree to his advantage. His greatest concern, however, was ensuring that Hermione Granger remained under his influence. Losing her now would be a costly mistake in his grand design. He silently cursed the minister. He had picked the worst possible time to initiate a plan.

Especially with the girls sisters at Hogwarts for the year.

It wasn’t as if he could simply do nothing. The Delacour sister’s would be unaware of Hermione’s relation to them. The plan was for them always to remain ignorant. But that would be foiled if the girl where to reveal her blood results to them. Unless…

Albus paused, a look of elation overtaking his features. That was it.

He just had to make sure Hermione Granger didn’t want to reveal her results, let alone to the Delacour sisters.

He would pull her aside, explain what he knew to be true. Of course she didn’t need to know it was in fact the opposite. He would explain the Delacour’s disgust that she wasn’t born Veela, how it was suspected that her Malfoy mother was nothing but a harlot and Hermione was the shameful result. With the girls life experiences she would be do afraid to risk reaching out to her sisters. Especially if he told her just how elated the Delacour’s were when they were rid of her. How they had packed up and moved country just to be as far from her as possible.

Yes! That was what he would do. He nodded smugly to himself. He placed the letter face down on his desk with a satisfied glint in his eye. He was glad the minister had given him notice. It had always been wise of him to keep the minister as an ally.

He had proven useful on many occasion and this was no different.

Just as Albus reached for another sherbet lemon, a brisk knock sounded at the door of his office, immediately followed by the arrival of his four Heads of House. Their expressions were still laced with the irritation they had been harbouring towards him since he had agreed to host the Triwizard Tournament here at Hogwarts. He had hoped they would come to understand his reasoning—that the school needed allies and exposure. He had never been secretive about his belief that Tom Riddle – Lord Voldemort, was not truly dead. It was only a matter of time before he resurfaced again, and Riddle had already made several attempts, of which they were aware.

Yet his staff had not cared for his justifications. They had called him an old fool, demanded that he think of the children. The children, he scoffed internally. Children were merely smaller versions of their parents—only more malleable. He could shape them in ways their elders could not be moved. Of course, he had considered the children. A little exposure to other schools, a real challenge—it would do them good. And if they got hurt? Well, it would surely serve as a much needed lesson to them all.

“Well, what do you want that couldn’t wait until dinner, old man?” Rolanda Hooch asked, as all four took their seats around his desk. Albus suppressed a frown. He had thought that he was making a wise decision when he had appointed Rolanda Hooch as Head of Ravenclaw over Filius Flitwick, believing her to be the more suitable choice. Filius’s creature heritage would have been a hindrance to both the school and the students, he had reasoned at the time. But now he wondered if he had miscalculated. Despite his lineage, Filius would never have been as vocally tiresome as the flying instructor had proven to be over recent years. The woman was becoming more of a hindrance to him than she worth.

“Take a seat, take a seat,” Albus murmured, his voice warm and inviting. “All will be revealed, Ro, don’t worry. Lemon Drop?” He gestured toward the bowl of sweets on his desk, grinning subtly as all four Heads of House reached forward and helped themselves to a Veritaserum-laced lemon drop. All popping them in to their mouths with little thought

“Noo, Albus, dae make haste, will ye?” Minerva interjected angrily, her thick Scottish accent more pronounced than her usual well-spoken twang—a clear sign to all of her heightened emotion. “I really dinnae hae all day, ye know. I hae third-year papers tae mark an’ interpret.” Albus made a mental note to check in with her later. Though she was often his most vocal critic, Minerva was also his most loyal ally. She questioned him, yes, but she had never strayed from his requests. Always following and doing as asked. A trait that had earned her his trust—though she would never know the full truth.

“Patience, Min,” he chuckled warmly. “I’m sure those papers will no doubt be light work for someone with your remarkable work ethic.”

Minerva opened her mouth as if to retort back, then closed it again, her thin lips pressing together into that tight line she often wore when biting back sarcasm. Another reason he valued her—Minerva was intelligent but most importantly she was intelligent enough to know when to hold her tongue. To her left, Severus Snape lounged back in his chair, looking thoroughly bored. But Albus knew better; he could see the flicker of curiosity beneath the cold exterior he portrayed to all. Yet another carefully constructed chess piece. Painting the Potters as the parents of the prophesied child had been easy. Swaying Severus into playing the double agent—easier still. It had ensured the man’s loyalty, binding him through guilt and the unspoken debt of keeping him out of Azkaban. A debt that Albus had reminded him of often over the years.

On Severus’s left sat Pomona Sprout, her plump form as unassuming as ever. She had never been a concern for Albus. Quiet, kind, and utterly unremarkable beyond her love for plants and students, she had neither the time nor the inclination to meddle in his affairs. She filled her position well, and, more importantly, she stayed out of his way. Beyond her expertise with plants, she was of little consequence and therefore Albus had never really paid any attention to her, always choosing to focus his attention on more worthwhile opponents.

“Now,” Albus began lightly, “there are two matters of the utmost importance that you must be aware of in the coming days. The first thing for your attention is this:” With a flick of his wand, he duplicated the Ministry’s letter and passed it around, allowing each of the professor’s time to read and digest the decree. Clearing his throat, he continued once he was sure he had all of their attention once more. “I’m certain you will all have your concerns, and I would very much like to hear them. However, rest assured that I have done everything in my power to halt this foolishness. Alas, it is no use. Cornelius is quite adamant that this will take place tomorrow, and we, as the students’ protectors, must ensure that it happens as painlessly as possible.”

“Concerns, Albus? Bloody concerns? Merlin’s beard!” Rolanda spat, her forest green eyes flashing with fury. “You invite actual danger into the school with this tournament Albus—a tournament that could very well kill our students! Then dismiss the concerns of your staff when they come to you. But now? Now, you take issue with those same students learning about their heritage? In a safe, controlled environment? The audacity of you truly astounds me!” She seethed. Albus sighed, resigned, as he noted the way the other professors nodded along in agreement with Rolanda.

“I can assure you, Ro, that the students are all perfectly safe. The tournament is completely tamper-proof, and no student under the age of seventeen is in any danger of being selected to represent the schools.” He waved a hand dismissively, brushing the woman’s comments aside before shifting the focus. Hoping to get them to focus their irritation towards him on something more productive to him. “These blood tests, however, could pose real concerns. The Slytherin students alone already present a significant risk to Muggle-born students without literal confirmation of their blood status —this could only serve to escalate tensions between the two groups.”

“I disagree Albus.” Severus drawled, inspecting his nails, appearing disinterested. “The Slytherin students have been on their best behaviour as of late. There has been no open mention of anti-Muggle-born rhetoric in over a year.” The dark haired potions professor continued, looking as if he wished to be anywhere but here. Albus couldn’t blame him.

He too would rather not be forced to endure this.

“Perhaps,” Albus conceded smoothly, choosing not to press the argument further for the moment. “But it remains a risk. One we must be vigilant about in the coming days.” He was growing rather irritated now. They weren’t agreeing with him the way he had expected them too.

But he still had one final move to play.

“The biggest concern,” he continued, his voice now heavy with carefully constructed gravity, “is not simply the blood test itself. It is the information I am privy to—what the blood tests may uncover, and for whom.” He continued, his tone hardening into something akin to concern.

“Spit it out.” Minerva hissed tiredly. Her long thin fingers rubbing at her temples.  

He sighed, feigning great reluctance. “Hermione Granger is about to discover that she is, in fact, a pure-blood witch. Abandoned by her family.” A beat of stunned silence. Then—gasps. Just as he expected. He let the words settle in the air between them, let the weight of his revelation sink in before he continued, filling in the gaps with a carefully woven tale. He spoke of hushed conversations overheard between Apolline Delacour and her wife. Of the betrayal—how Apolline’s wife had disregarded their vows, cheating on her wife with an unknown man. How the scandal had nearly torn the family apart, leading to a bitter feud that resulted in their decision to abandon the child in London, only leaving her with a letter that, the orphanage later confirmed, merely disinherited her. A staged kidnapping, a false narrative, a framed house-elf—it was all so tragic, so heartbreaking.

He made sure to pause at key moments, his voice tinged with sorrow. He watched as Pomona and Minerva subtly wiped at their eyes, as Rolanda’s face twisted in fury, as Severus, for once, looked genuinely horrified.

Perfect.

Albus continued, filling in details as they asked questions and ensuring he was leaving no possibilities of doubt in their mind. He made sure to emphasise just how heartbreaking things were about to be for the little brunette. Especially with her biological sisters now in the very same castle as her. As he finished his detailed explanation he forced himself not to openly smirk.

A swift scan of their minds confirmed his success—pity, sympathy, even guilt. Severus, in particular, was already considering being nicer to the girl.

Satisfied with the reaction he had orchestrated, Albus dismissed them, urging vigilance.

Then, as the door closed behind them, he leaned back in his chair - smiling, folding his hands together in contemplation.

Now, he mused silently, when did he deliver the news to the girl in question?

Chapter Text

~ September 6^th 1995 ~

~ Hermione’s POV ~

~ Astronomy Tower ~

Hermione and Cho had finished with their breakfast that morning long before most of their peers had even made their way down to the Great Hall. Hermione had opted for toast and scrambled eggs—something filling but lighter than the full cooked breakfasts on offer. Cho as always had loaded up on the French toast. For the most part, they had sat in companionable silence, simply appreciating each other’s presence after the weight of their morning. Hermione was deeply grateful that Cho, as always, had known exactly what she needed to hear earlier.

The reassurance, offered so freely, had been more than she felt she ever deserved from her friend, after years of guarding herself from harm so tightly. Her walls had been high—too high—and in doing so, she had hurt her friend on many occasions. Not intentionally, but she had. Seeing Cho so distraught over her had been a shock to the brunette. Morgana knew she had no idea what she had done to deserve someone like Cho, but she knew, without a doubt, that she would cherish her forever.

Near the end of their meal, Luna Lovegood had joined them at their table, and to Hermione’s surprise, she found it easier to be open to her than she had previously. Luna had always been kind, and Hermione had always felt a quiet fondness for her, though like Cho, Luna too had often faced Hermione’s walls rather than her trust. but that would change. It had too. Knowing how much Cho cared for the petite blonde too made it easier to let her in, even if just a little. Luna, who was so often dismissed by their housemates and bullied by the wider school, had a quiet intelligence that Hermione had always admired. There was more to her than the whimsical daydreamer she presented to the outside world—her words carried a weight that most overlooked.

Hermione, however, did not.

That morning, Luna had been practically buzzing with excitement, her magic pulsing gently in time with her animated chatter about the Beauxbatons students. Apparently, she had known the Delacour sisters forever, going so far as to declare the youngest, Gabrielle, her best friend. Hermione found it sweet, especially seeing the way Luna lit up as she spoke about them. But she didn’t quite understand why Luna felt the need to share so much about them. They sounded lovely, really, but Hermione doubted they would ever want much to do with her once they learned she was a Muggle-born orphan. And they—at least according to Luna—were royalty. Even more reason for them to avoid her, in her opinion.

Yet, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to dismiss Luna’s excitement. It was refreshing—comforting, even—to know that no matter what revelations she had about herself, Luna would always remain unapologetically, authentically herself. There had been many times in the past when Hermione had envied the innocent wonder with which Luna viewed the world, a quiet sadness creeping in every time she realized she would never see it the same way. But now, she was beginning to understand that maybe it was for the best. That it was always meant to be this way. Maybe she wasn’t meant to share in that innocence—maybe she was meant to bear witness to it, to help protect and strengthen it. Because, without quite realizing when or how, Luna had slowly become someone Hermione would do anything to keep safe.

So instead of tuning the blonde out like she may have before, Hermione found herself listening intently as Luna spoke about the memories she shared with the Delacour sisters. That same aching loneliness crept into her bones as she listened to the younger girl, her own inner child screaming at the injustice of it all—her own dark lonely upbringing starkly contrasting those of her peers. Around half past seven, Cho made an excuse for them to leave, and Hermione could tell her friend had sensed her shift in mood. She politely hugged Luna goodbye, ignoring Cho’s concerned gaze for now, silently hoping her friend would not question her until they were away from the great hall.

They promised to meet Luna in the dungeons in an hour before slipping out of the Great Hall, walking side by side in quiet understanding. Neither spoke as they made their way up to the Astronomy Tower, the solitude of the castle’s heights offering them the privacy Hermione desperately needed. Once they were away from the main throng of students the brunette felt Cho take her arm gently - a gentle prompt.

“Do you ever just feel like everything is so inherently unfair in the world, like we were all destined to lead the lives written for us long before we are even born?” she murmured in response to Cho’s gentle squeeze. Cho remained quiet, and patient, letting her continue. “I wonder how different things would have been if I’d grown up in a family like yours or Luna’s.” Her voice carried that same sadness it always did when she spoke of her past—an old wound that would never truly heal for her. “What I would have been like if I had been loved the same way. Encouraged, supported… instead of abandoned and ostracized by those that were meant to protect me.”

She turned her gaze toward Cho, only to look away just as quickly when she saw the older girl watching her back with a quiet sort of sorrow. Hermione wasn’t used to being looked at like that—with such open care and acceptance. It made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t quite name.

“I can’t say I ever thought about it before Mia,” Cho admitted softly, resting her head against Hermione’s shoulder. “Not until I met you, anyway. But for what it’s worth, I wish you had been raised in a more loving family too. You deserve to have been cherished.” They sat together in silence, gazing out over the grounds as their words settled between them. The Black Lake stretched below, and Hermione watched the giant squid’s tentacles breaking the surface, sending wave after wave toward the Durmstrang ship – soaking all that were on the ships open deck. The poor creature was clearly irritated by the unwanted disturbance, the ship an awful eye sore that Hermione couldn’t blame the Giant Squid for resenting.

“It physically hurts me, you know?” Hermione whispered hesitantly, pressing a hand to her chest, just above her heart, as if trying to soothe the ache that resided deep inside her. “It feels like there’s so much I’m missing—it’s like an emptiness that’s always been there, but now… now it refuses to sit quietly in the dark.”

Cho lifted her head. “And the fever Hermione? The pain in your abdomen, how is all that this morning?”

Hermione exhaled, sinking onto the ledge of the Astronomy Tower. Without a word, she cast a Sticking Charm on both of them as Cho moved to sit beside her. “The fever’s still there. The pain too. But it’s not just in my abdomen anymore—it’s everywhere.” She rubbed at her temples, weary in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. “I still have that migraine, and I can still smell and hear things I shouldn’t be able to.” The confession seemed to drain the last of her strength, and she slumped against Cho, as if speaking the truth had stripped away the last of her defences.

Hermione had never felt smaller than she did in that moment, gazing out at the world from so high above it. As if the whole world could swallow her up and no one but Cho—and maybe Luna—would notice.

“You need to send that letter.” Cho murmured quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. Aware that even after everything they had uncovered in the last twenty-four hours, Hermione might still shut down if she was to be pushed too far, too quickly. Andromeda Lestrange could very well be the too far, too quick she was hoping to avoid, if she wasn’t careful. She understood that the older woman had been helping Hermione in recent weeks, but she was also painfully aware that Andromeda Lestrange was a sore spot—just another adult in a long line of many who had let her friend down.

“I’ve written it. I just need to send it to her.” Hermione admitted, just as quietly. To Cho’s relief, there was no sign that she was about to withdraw from Cho again. “I am hoping she may have more of an idea about what’s happening to me now. She said she wouldn’t stop looking until she had answers for me.”

“Did she say what she thought it could be?”

“Not exactly no. She whispered something about magical signatures blocking mine and mentioned something about how my magical core appears to be older than it should be. But no, nothing else unfortunately. It’s infuriating.” Frustration crept into Hermione’s voice, and when she realized it, she flashed her friend an apologetic smile. She wasn’t annoyed at her friend—only at the situation she found herself in. One that had only become increasingly more complex and maddening over the past several weeks.

“What about the professors Mia? Have you spoken to them?” Hermione shook her head slowly, grimacing at the thought of talking to any of the professor’s. Cho’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow shot up in disbelief.

“Not even McGonagall or Madame Hooch!?” Her friend exclaimed and Hermione winced at her friends tone.

“No not them either. Truthfully Cho, I don’t trust any of the professors.” She replied quietly.

Cho’s exasperation was palpable. “Mia, they’re your guardians in the wizarding world. Why wouldn’t you—”

Hermione cut her friends protest off with a gentle smack to the arm. “No. For the love of Merlin, don’t give me the speech, Cho. The one about how I need to trust some adults, that they’re not all bad. It’s not about that, I promise.”

“Then what is it about Hermione?” Cho pressed, her arms crossed now, her voice tinged with frustration and her face set in a grim line. “Because I am really struggling to understand why you refuse to talk to anyone about this when you are very clearly dealing with something magical and possibly dangerous.” Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. Cho was empathetic, understanding and wore her heart on her sleeve—but she was so naïve in some ways. Trusting adults blindly was something Hermione simply couldn’t do. Not just because they had failed her numerous times before, but because she simply knew better.

She knew adults weren’t infallible. They were just as prone to mistakes and emotion as any youngster she knew and were often crueller about it too. Not that she would say that to Cho.

“Because things in this school don’t add up, Cho. And they never have.” She continued, taking a deep breath, when Cho motioned for her to do so, briefly nodding in assent as she too silently admitted there had been a lot of things that didn’t exactly add up.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while now Cho. How come Harry, Ron, and I always seem to get caught up in danger every year? And not just minor danger—life and death type of danger and all situations were ones that should’ve been easily preventable if an adult had stepped in?” She let out a humourless laugh. “Take last year. Sirius Black was forced back on the run because Albus Dumbledore, Head of the Wazengamot, mind you, chose not to arrange a trial. A trial that would’ve cleared his name if anyone had actually bothered to hear his case. Or first year—how did three children manage to find the only book in the entire castle explaining the Philosopher’s Stone? And how did we get past a series of obstacles that should’ve been a challenge for seasoned witches and wizards, let alone two less than average eleven-year-olds, and me – a ten year old?” She huffed, pacing now, her magic prickling beneath her skin.

“Second year—an extremely large killer snake sneaks through a castle full of highly skilled witches and wizards attacking muggle-born children undetected. A snake that had supposedly been living in a secret chamber no one knew about for fifty years, Cho. Fifty. And we’re supposed to believe no one had any idea about it? None! not even Dumbledore? Even though it is not the first time the giant snake had harmed a student! Only last time the girl died!! And all the staff just chose to do nothing at all?” Cho remained silent, but Hermione could see the flicker of reluctant agreement in her expression.  “A mass murderer was living in the castle as a rat for years—how did he get past Dumbledore’s wards? The same wards that are supposedly altered to prevent unregistered Animagi from entering unless they’re specifically keyed in by the headmaster himself?” She turned back to Cho her eyes burning with conviction. “It all feels too coincidental, and I don’t like it,” Hermione continued, running a hand through her frizzy hair. “If the professors aren’t actively part of whatever game Dumbledore is playing, then they’re just as complicit in my eyes. Because they chose to stay silent. To do nothing while all of this was happening.”

Hermione stopped pacing, forcing herself to take a breath. She had been ranting, voice sharp with frustration, her thoughts spilling out faster than she could control. With effort, she made her way back to Cho’s side. Retaking her seat on the ledge of the tower beside her friend. “I just… I don’t understand how no one has questioned any of it,” she admitted, voice softer now, but no less urgent. “So no, Cho. I can’t go to the professors. Not about this. Not when they can’t even guarantee any of us will survive each year.”

She watched her friend closely, reading the multitude of emotions that flickered across the dark haired girl’s pale features. Yet, Cho didn’t seem in much of a hurry to respond, her mind carefully working through everything Hermione had just divulged to her. A restless unease climbed up Hermione’s spine as she waited for the other girl to respond in any way. Had she said too much to her friend?

Was she over analysing everything, seeing deception where there was none? Creating deceit that wasn’t even there? Was it all just a coincidence?

The silence stretched between them until, finally, Cho whispered, “Wow…” The word was barely audible, yet in the quiet, it felt deafening. It yanked Hermione from her spiralling thoughts, and she turned sharply toward her friend, eyes searching.

“I… I… wow,” Cho murmured again, sounding almost dazed.

Hermione’s anxiety spiked. “Wow, what? Merlin, use your words, you’re killing me here!” she burst out, dragging her hands down her face in frustration.

“Sorry, Mia,” Cho said, her voice much firmer now. “It’s just… just a lot to take in. I mean, I get why you’d think all that, and logically you are right, none of it makes any sort of sense but… but would Dumbledore really put all the students in danger—deliberately?” She met Hermione’s gaze, conflict shadowing her expression and Hermione felt a pang of sympathy for her friend.

 Cho had never truly seen how even the kindest, most revered people could hide true cruelty beneath a veneer of warmth and wisdom.

“I don’t know for sure, Cho,” Hermione admitted. “It’s truthfully just a theory until proven otherwise. But what I do know is that I can’t trust him. I don’t think anyone can.” Her voice was quiet but carried a raw honesty that made Cho hesitate briefly—then nod in reluctant agreement.

“Alright, fine. We don’t trust the professors,” Cho conceded. “But my point still stands—send that letter. Hopefully, Lady Lestrange will have some answers.” Her tone was firm yet accepting, and something in her certainty eased the tension in Hermione’s posture. The brunette exhaled, a small smile ghosting across her lips as the invisible grip around her throat loosened.

She stood, brushing the dust from the back of her robes before extending a hand to her friend. “Come on. If we’re late for class, Snape will be even more intolerable than usual.”

~~~~~

~ Gabrielle’s POV ~  d

~Same day ~

~ Potions classroom ~

Walking into the dungeons where her first class of the year awaited them, Gabrielle visibly shuddered. The dimly lit grey-stone walls, coupled with the ominous portraits of long-dead figures that lined the walls, painted a grim picture of those who dwelled here. Was this really where an entire dormitory was located? The sheer lack of sunlight surely couldn’t be healthy!? Then again, perhaps that explained why her dear little cousin Draco always looked so pale these days. It would also explain the constant dour face of the professor that resided here. Severus Snape’s reputation preceded him. Gabrielle having heard many a story from her friend about the greasy haired man.

“You get used to it after a while. This part of the castle has never been very welcoming or warm to most—unless you’re a Slytherin, that is.” Luna remarked beside her. “It’s surrounded by those sneaky little Noxfire Sprites.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but Gabrielle had long since learned that Luna saw things others couldn’t. Rather than question her, she simply nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, I’ve heard of them,” Gabrielle mused after a pause. “Some say they carry the dying thoughts of those around them—like little secrets vanishing in the darkness as the sprites flicker and die out.” She recalled a passage her Maman had read to her not long ago, describing the many strange creatures whispered about across the world. Gabrielle had never been particularly interested in such things herself, but Luna was, and that was reason enough to pay attention. Luna’s love of the more unique creatures of the world really was the only thing that could have forced Gabrielle to sit through story after story about Veil Wraithes, Rune hares and Star Whisps of all things. Because Merlin knew there was only so much make believe Gabrielle could – well, believe really.

“Oh, yes! Daddy said the same!” Luna exclaimed, her voice bright with excitement. Gabrielle couldn’t help but grin like a fool, the infectious energy of her friend momentarily dispelling the dungeon’s gloom. The warmth of her laughter, chasing the chill from her skin in a way that only Luna ever had. Gabrielle hoped, with every fibre of her being, that she would always have the honour of calling this girl her dearest friend—for Luna Lovegood was, and always had been, the brightest light in any room.

“Of course,” Gabrielle agreed easily, pausing at the classroom door and letting Luna lead her inside.

Nothing, not even Morgana herself, could not have prepared her for what awaited inside the grimy classroom.

The moment she stepped in, her gaze locked with the petite brunette that was seated on the back row beside Cho Chang. Gabrielle felt her magik surge - that longing, insistent pull that she and Fleur had felt since arriving at Hogwarts thrumming through her veins - louder than it had ever been.

Her magik Converging.

Rushing.

Its sole focus—the honey-eyed girl who, impossibly, was staring right back at Gabrielle’s now ruby red eyes, her Veela flashed in her eyes but Gabrielle clung to her control. Refusing to scare her sister. A thought that has her Veela retreating, acknowledging the truth in her statement. For as far as they were aware, Adharia had no idea who they were let alone the what of their creature heritage.

Gabrielle moved without thought, drawn forward as if by an unseen force, desperate to be closer. Her magik reaching out instinctively, twining and soothing, embracing and overwhelming all at once. The feeling threatened to send her dizzy. The grip she had on Luna being all that stopped her knees from giving away beneath her as brunette and blonde gazed at one another intently.

It couldn’t be right?

It had to be some sick joke. A trick of her mind.

And yet, she could feel the other girl’s heartbeat as if it echoed alongside her own. The same way she had always been able to feel Fleur’s. Their magiks twisted together in quiet elation, recognizing something deeper—something unspoken that resided between them. A silent promise of unity, of belonging and of acceptance.

A tear slipped down Gabrielle’s cheek before she could stop it.

This was her.

This was Adharia.

Every fibre of her very being screamed for her to move forward. To cross the room as quickly as she could, to haul her baby sister out of that chair and into her arms—to hold her tighter than she had ever held anything or anyone. To whisper every reassurance she had longed to give, to promise that they would never be apart again.

A thousand words swelled in her throat, desperate to be spoken.

Every word on the tip of her tongue.

She almost did.

Almost.

"Ms. Delacour and Ms. Lovegood."

Severus Snape’s voice cut through her elation like a jagged blade, each syllable dripping with irritation.

"I would appreciate it if you ceased staring at my students and took your seats. You have disrupted my lesson enough. Don’t. You. Think." The sneering emphasis on those last three words sent both blondes ducking their heads in guilt. Without a word, they rushed to the only two available seats—to the left of Cho, and directly beside Gabrielle’s baby sister.

Gabrielle could barely breath as she sat, eyes flickering to the girl beside her. But Adharia didn’t look up.

Gabrielle saw the flicker of longing, the disappointment that flashed in her little sister’s honeyed eyes before she turned away, letting wild curls fall forward on to her face like a shield, blocking her from the older girl’s view.

It felt like a door slamming shut between them.

And Gabrielle had never wanted to break something more.

Her inner Veela wailed in outrage, furious at being shut out by the very girl they had been searching for all her life. The ache of it was unbearable—sitting so close to her sister yet unable to do anything to soothe the storm of emotions rolling off her in waves. Gabrielle could feel it all. The fear. The anxiety. The way Adharia seemed to be crawling in her own skin, every breath tense, every movement restrained. It shattered something deep inside her.

This is my sister.

Never had she felt so powerless.

Severus Snape droned on about poisons and their antidotes, his monotone voice fading into a distant hum as Gabrielle focused instead on the rise and fall of Adharia’s breathing. Inhale. Exhale. It was the only thing anchoring her. The only reminder she needed that her sister was here. Alive. She wanted to reach out, to tell her the truth—that she was loved, wanted more than all the money in the world. That she had never been forgotten. She wanted to shout it, as loudly as she possibly could, then and there. But they couldn’t risk Dumbledore catching on.

It took everything in Gabrielle not to simply blurt it out then and there. But she had made a promise to Fleur—not to act on reckless impulse, not to risk Adharia’s or her own safety. And she intended to keep it. Even if it hurt like hell. She inhaled deeply, matching her breath to her sister’s, grounding herself in the rhythm. If she could sense Adharia’s magik this fiercely, then surely, the younger girl could sense hers as well. She had to stay calm, to keep control.

To stay calm. For both of their sakes.

The last thing they needed was for professor Snape to notice something was amiss. Or worse—for him to report it to Albus Dumbledore.

Once Gabrielle was certain that she had regained control over the storm of emotions that were warring within her, she took a moment to survey the classroom. A simple task, yet one she had neglected upon entering the room, too distracted by her sister to notice her surroundings.

Like the corridor outside, the classroom too was dimly lit— illuminating just enough of the room to see, but not enough to work comfortably without an additional light source. Merlin, it was a wonder anyone completed anything as precise as potion making in such condition. Along the far wall, several arched windows stood, blacked out from the world beyond it’s ancient panes, ensuring that not even the faintest sliver of sunlight could reach the room’s occupants within.

A chill lingered in the air, threading through the space like an unseen spectre. Even beneath her fur-lined robes, Gabrielle felt its bite, the fine hairs on her arms standing on end in silent protest. She was wholly unimpressed by the terrible gloom before her. She wondered quietly if the dour professor willingly chose to work in such conditions or if there was something more to it—something beyond mere preference for the dark in which he surrounded himself in. He certainly looked extremely uncomfortable as he paced before the class, his onyx robes billowing around him like a shield as he was explaining their next potion—an antidote using bezoar stones. In Gabrielle’s opinion, he looked ill, as if he had been forced to swallow his own brand of poison.

Beside her, Luna shifted, drawing Gabrielle’s attention back to the present. The blonde Veela flashed her friend a small guilty smile, immediately catching the curiosity shinning in Luna’s silvery grey eyes. Those perceptive eyes flickered over Gabrielle’s face before settling on the girl beside her, head cocked adorably to the side.

“That’s Hermione. You didn’t meet her yesterday, but she and Cho are my friends.” Luna informed her, as if sensing Gabrielle simply didn’t know who the girl was.

If only it were that simple.

A flicker of amusement passed through Gabrielle, her mind always quick to find humour, even when there really was little room for it. She had always been that way. Sometimes, she wondered if she would be quite so loud and outspoken had she grown up alongside the girl sitting beside her, her face still buried in a mess of curls.

On some level, Gabrielle had felt the need to be everyone’s laughter. The day Adharia had been stolen from them, the laughter in their home had died. Warmth and joy once woven into the walls had vanished, leaving only an aching silence in their wake What was to be their childhood home had become a nightmare in the matter of a single night.

It now stood - barren and cold. A cruel reminder of all they had lost.  

But if she was always loud and funny, her parents laughed—just a little. If she was boisterous and unfiltered, her mother’s eyes, for a fleeting moment, lit with warmth. It didn’t matter that the laughter never lasted once she was gone from the room. She just couldn’t bear to see the sadness in her Mum’s baby-blue eyes or the longing on her Maman’s face.

And Fleur—sweet, protective Fleur—who had fooled herself into believing Gabrielle had been too young to remember much of their precious baby sister. Her pain had perhaps been the most devastating of all to Gabrielle. When Adharia was stolen, Gabby had in a way lost both her sisters. Fleur became the impenetrable heir of the Delacour clan. Their protector. Their leader. The perfect image. She followed every rule, never straying from what was right, as if sheer discipline could shield them from further loss. Gone was the sister who once laughed and played for hours, who hosted tea parties and dressed up in silks and ribbons. Those moments had disappeared, too. So Gabrielle had made it her mission to remind Fleur to live. To pull her, if only briefly, from the weight of duty. Sometimes she succeeded. Sometimes she didn’t. But she never stopped trying.

And Adharia? The girl beside her was nothing like the child she had once been. The fear rolling off her in waves felt unnatural—wrong. Her sister was meant to have been loved, to have grown up running free in the golden fields of Marseille with Fleur and her. Gabrielle was meant to pull her hair and tease her about her first crush. She was meant to teach her, and love her and annoy her. She was meant to be the infuriating but adoring older sister.

Instead, she sat here—unable to move closer, yet incapable of pulling away. It was ironic, really, that she, Gabrielle Amilie Delacour, should be rendered speechless when she was renowned for her gift of the tongue.

“Thank you, Luna,” Gabrielle murmured at last, turning back to her friend when she realized Luna had been watching her. A small part of her was afraid to look away from her sister—afraid that, if she did, Adharia might vanish all over again.

Gabrielle had no doubt that, given the chance, Adharia would run as soon as she could—flee as far as possible from the bond that was still pulsing urgently between them. And Gabrielle couldn’t blame her. She was a fourteen-year-old Veela girl who had no idea she was Veela, let alone any knowledge on the intricacies of Veela bonds. Gabrielle understood what was happening between them. Adharia didn’t. And that alone would be terrifying for anyone—especially someone who had clearly already endured more than most could imagine.

As the end of the class approached, Gabrielle felt her anxiety escalate. Somehow she knew, she had to do something – anything to ensure her little sister didn’t flee without at least knowing that everything wasn’t as it seemed.

Without another thought, she scrawled a quick note, in her neatest writing. Not much, but enough. Enough to ensure that, when the truth inevitably unravelled over the next few days, Adharia would at least hesitate—pause—long enough to question it. She slid the note into her sister’s Potions book, sending up a silent prayer to Morgana that Adharia would in fact come looking for answers.

She had barely tucked the note into place when the bell rang, signalling the end of their double lesson. As expected, Adharia bolted from her seat, her magic rolling off her in chaotic waves as she grabbed Cho and all but dragged her from the room.

Gabrielle felt the loss instantly, her heart aching and her magik raging, painful and insistent. Gabrielle winced, holding her breath as she clenched her teeth. A desperate attempt to stop herself both crying out and following after her sister.  Until tomorrow, all Gabrielle could do now was hope.

The loss hit Gabrielle instantly. Her heart clenched, her magik raging through her veins—painful, insistent. She winced, biting down hard, forcing herself to stay rooted in place. Don’t cry. Don’t follow. Don’t cry, Don’t follow. She repeated silently, breath held as she stood slowly. Making herself leave the room at a much slower rate than her sister.

Until tomorrow, all Gabrielle could do was wait. Wait and hope.

~~~~~

~Hermione’s POV ~

~ Her room, Ravenclaw Tower ~

~ That evening ~

‘Hermione - Albus Dumbledore cannot be trusted. Thing’s are not as they appear. If you want the truth please meet us in the courtyard tomorrow night just before curfew. – love always, Gabrielle Delacour.’

Hermione stared blankly at the note in her hand, her bloodshot eyes unfocused and distant. It had been an exhausting day—the kind of day where every second dragged like an hour, and nothing seemed to go right.

The morning had started off well enough. Great even. She and Cho had enjoyed a peaceful breakfast together, and for once, Hermione had found it easier to open up. Easier than she ever had with anyone before. Her and Cho’s late night revelations having seemingly truly eradicated her desire to hide from her friend. Even the Weasley twins had greeted her in passing, flashing mischievous grins as they rushed by on their way to whatever undoubtedly suspicious scheme they had planned. Calling a cheerful “Hullo Hermione” over their shoulder as they flew past her.

And it was after then that her horrible, no good, bad day had truly started.

In walking into her double potions class she was at first surprised to realise that the class was an unexpected mix of fourth and fifth year student. Professor Snape had explained – rather begrudgingly - that there was fewer and fewer students that met his standards enough to be trusted with more complex potion brewing in the upper end of the school. As a result, he had made the executive decision to combine classes and years, extending class time in hopes of fostering what he called "true mastery under his tutelage." Whatever that meant.

Hermione had never known Professor Snape to have ever cared much about anyone’s success, unless they happened to be one of his precious Slytherin’s. The only time she had ever glimpsed anything close to compassion from the gloomy man was years ago, back in the prefects' bathroom during her first year. When he had uncharacteristically offered Hermione a brief moment of comfort.

As she found her seat, a familiar restlessness stirred within her. Her magik, already volatile and longing as it had been for weeks, roiled under her skin with a renewed vigour, pulsing with an uncomfortable intensity that filled her with terror. Her heartbeat quickened, erratic and forceful. For a brief moment she feared it would beat right out of her chest as she struggled to steady herself. She could feel it, harsh and insistent as it urged her to look. So insistent that Hermione complied and that had been a mistake.

Or at least it felt like a mistake now as she sat here at her desk feeling more dazed and confused than she ever had.

Because when she had looked up she came face to face with the most haunting sea-blue eyes she had ever seen. Eyes that were as equally piercing as they were achingly familiar. The wave of familiarity that crashed over her was almost debilitating in its intensity. The girl those eyes belonged to seemed just as unable to look away from her as Hermione was. And the emotion swirling within them—was raw, unspoken, and impossibly deep—and it made Hermione’s heart ache in a way she didn’t understand.

Then, something shifted.

Her magik stirred, reaching out instinctively, twining with the magic of the girl that stood before her. It was intoxicating. The blonde’s magik felt like true warmth, like starlight on the darkest of nights, like something that had always meant to have been there—a missing piece that Hermione had never known to search for. It pulsed against hers gently, playful yet steady, as if this connection was the most natural thing in the world. Hermione’s hands trembled. The aching loneliness that had shadowed her life for years seemed to ebb, replaced by a small, foreign spark of belonging that ignited deep in her heart. And it terrified her.

The girl took a step forward, and Hermione’s heart pounded painfully against her ribs. The magik between them danced and pulled, whispering in a language she couldn’t understand but somehow felt in her very bones. It urged her closer. Told her this girl was home. Was safe.

Hermione recoiled.

Home?

Safe?

Those words had never belonged together in her world. This—whatever it was—had to be some cruel trick, a carefully orchestrated prank. Probably the work of some wretched Gryffindors looking for a new way to humiliate her. She was certain of it. Because Hermione Granger didn’t have a home. She was an orphan. A nobody.

A hollow laugh echoed in her mind. Whoever had devised this was truly wicked, preying on her in the cruellest way imaginable.

But even as her mind tore through every little insecurity she possessed, her foolish heart clung to the impossible truth—that whatever was happening between them was natural, necessary. That this girl, this complete stranger, was somehow more important to Hermione than anyone she had ever met in all her years.

Ridiculous.

She had forced herself to look away then, fixing her gaze on the worn tabletop, pretending to be listening intently to Professor Snape as he droned on and on about something she couldn’t quite process. His words were insignificant really, compared to the way she could feel the girl beside her—her heartbeat, her presence, as if they were one and the same.

She could feel the girl’s anxiety, her impatience, her longing. Morgana help her, Hermione had struggled enough with the intensity of her own emotions. To feel another’s so acutely, so intimately, left her breathless—on the verge of combustion.

She didn’t understand. The longer she sat there, feeling paradoxically safe yet utterly out of her depth, the more fear began to creep in. She needed to get out. To escape this dangerous illusion of safety. It was a lie. It had to be. Because safety had never been meant for her. She couldn’t be trusted.

Vaguely, Hermione registered the sound of the girl’s voice—soft, melodic—speaking to Luna. And despite the haze clouding her mind, her sharp intellect pieced it together. This was clearly one of the Delacour sister’s that

Luna had mentioned at breakfast. The casual closeness between them, the way Luna sat completely at ease in her presence, only confirmed Hermione’s conclusion. Gabrielle Delacour.

The moment the bell had rung, signalling the end of their double Potions class, Hermione had shoved her belongings into her bag at speed and all but dragged Cho out of the classroom. She moved quickly, desperate to put as much distance as possible between herself and her—that girl, unable to remain calm in proximity to her and the strangeness that lay in their magik, the way it had called to her.

For the rest of the day, classes thankfully passed, without further unpleasant surprises. Yet no matter how hard she had tried, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about her. Fighting the relentless urge to find her. Her magic and heart ached in a way that unsettled her even more, filling her with an unpleasant sense of dread that bubbled up in her stomach. Heavy and unpleasant.

What was happening to her?

At lunchtime, driven by fear and a need to escape, Hermione had retreated to the kitchens deep in the recesses of Hogwarts. Logically, avoiding the girl—or the Great Hall, for that matter—was neither wise nor sustainable for the brunette. But in that moment, she couldn’t bring herself to face it. So instead, she sat at a small wooden bench in the corner of the kitchen, nursing a cup of cocoa and a cheese sandwich prepared by her house-elf friends, Tully and Saph. The two had long since grown accustomed to her random appearances when things became too much.

When Hermione had first encountered house-elves, she had been horrified by what she saw as their enslavement—tiny, subservient creatures bound to the whims of wizarding families. In her mind, they were all miserable, mistreated servants to masochistic pureblood tyrants like Lucius Malfoy. It wasn’t until second year, when she met Dobby, that she truly began to understand just how complicated the situation was. Because, of course, life wasn’t black and white. She should have known better than to judge the elves’ lives through the narrow lens of her Muggle upbringing, biased and narrow minded as the muggles she had grown up with were.

Dobby, for all his good intentions, had been an unhinged little thing. His abuse at the hands of the Malfoy family had left him deeply traumatized—so much so that he had betrayed them, something almost unheard of for a house-elf. His subsequent freedom, granted by Harry Potter, had spiralled him into a kind of madness. He had needed to be bound to another magikal lineage to stabilize once more. Curious and in need of answers, Hermione had asked the elves in the kitchen about it. To her surprise—now that she wasn’t trying to force them into freedom—they had been more than happy to explain things to her in great detail.

House-elves, as it turned out, thrived off the magik of the families they served. It was the foundation of their existence. For centuries, they had lived symbiotically within wizarding households, tending to daily tasks, helping raise children, performing duties that tied them intrinsically to the family’s magic. In return, the bond nourished them, allowing them to grow, to belong. Tully had explained it simply: ‘We love our families Mione. It is our bond to our family that keeps us thriving. Without a families magik we house elf’s would perish.’

Of course, there were others like poor Dobby, whose unwavering loyalty had been twisted into something dark and cruel: forced servitude, used against him by the cruelty of the Malfoys. That, more than anything, was what enraged Hermione—the lack of protection for elves like Dobby. And there were many. She understood now though that not all house-elves were mistreated, that many were valued, loved like precious family. But the ones who weren’t? The ones who had no safeguard against abuse? That is where Hermione’s heart roared in her outrage for no one, no creature or human should ever be treated in such a fashion. It was inhumane and one day, she vowed,, she would change that.

For now, though, she sat with Tully and Saph, listening intently to their stories about the daily goings-on of Hogwarts and the gossip she had missed regarding all the other elf’s, allowing their steady presence and easy going nature to ground her.

And yet, despite the warmth, the comfort, and the familiarity of it all, Hermione spent the entire lunch hour locked in an internal battle.

Fighting the desperate, traitorous need to find her again. The voice in the back of her mind, soft but insistent, whispered over and over again—

Home. Find home.

By the time dinner had rolled around, Hermione was too exhausted to resist when Cho practically dragged her out of their last class and down to the Great Hall, brushing aside her feeble protests. "You’ve barely eaten in days, Mia," Cho stated matter-of-factly, her tone firm in a way that left no room for any sort of argument. "It’s time you had a proper meal." Between her unwavering voice and the intense frown on her face, Hermione knew she had lost the battle with her friend. Resigned, she let herself be pulled into the Great Hall and over to the Ravenclaw table.

And that was when things went from bad to worse.

Much, much worse.

For not only did Cho unknowingly force her to sit merely a few students down from the very girl she had wanted so desperately to avoid all day, but said girl was sitting right beside the girl’s sister. Both of whom seamed to sense her at the same time Hermione’s magik did that excited little surge it had that morning, as it reached out towards the Delacour’s. Her heart once more hammering in her chest as her breathing all but stopped.

No. No, no, no. The word echoed in her mind like a desperate mantra.

This wasn’t fair!

Yet even as she bemoaned the situation she found herself in - her magik surged again and again, playful. Excitable. Eager. Rushing and twirling as it reached out to the Delacour’s Magik, bringing with it that same aching familiarity as she had felt earlier with Gabrielle.

And again she could feel it, that steady little heartbeat beside her own, only this time there were two, because of course she could feel Fleur Delacour’s magic and heartbeat as surely as she could feel Gabrielle’s.

What was it about these two sisters? Why her?

She didn’t want this. Didn’t want to be hounded by unpredictable magik, heightened senses she couldn’t explain, or the constant, aching awareness of them. She hadn’t asked for any of it. She just wanted to study in peace, to keep her head down, to laugh with Cho and Luna about whatever nonsense they were discussing.

Hadn’t she suffered enough?

“Excuse me, Hermione…” A melodic voice spoke from directly behind her, and Hermione nearly leapt across the table. A sharp gasp escaped her as she recoiled, startled by the sudden proximity.

She hadn’t noticed anyone move. Had been too caught up in her rising panic, her mind spiralling beneath the weight of fear and confusion. Yet, even as dread threatened to consume her, she could feel it—the Delacour’s’ magik reaching out, wrapping around her own in soothing waves, each spark laced with quiet reassurance.

She whipped her head around toward the voice, her frightened gaze locking onto mesmerizing blue—eyes so full of emotion and warmth, so impossibly deep, she felt as if she could sink into their safety if she let herself.

“Are you… are you finished with it?” the same lilting voice asked. Hermione blinked, struggling to process the girls words.

“F… finished?” she stammered out, grasping for some semblance of composure, but her voice was too high, too fragile—too much to truly portray such a thing.

The girl in front of her smiled, soft and patient, and the warmth of it seeped into Hermione’s once again  traitorous heart. What would it be like to see that smile every day? To know that kind of gentleness?

Home, Safe.

Those retched words again, whispered in the back of her mind.

“Yes, finished, petite sœur. The Bouillabaisse. Are you finished with it?” There was kindness in her tone, an effortless grace that had Hermione blushing before she could stop herself. She managed only a quick nod, afraid to speak again. Her voice had already betrayed her once—she wouldn’t risk it a second time.

The girl smiled once more, and Morgana, why was Hermione proud of earning that smile? The girl leaned in slightly, flicking her wand in an effortless silent spell, smoothly levitating the dish off the table from just beyond Hermione’s shoulder. But Hermione barely had any time to react before the girl’s wandless hand landed gently on her shoulder. A soft, warm touch—yet it sent a pulse of magik through her, setting her heart stuttering.

Warmth and belonging and hope filled her once more. It was all too much.

A choked sob escaped Hermione before she could stop it, her entire body trembling under the weight of it all.

“Thank you, Hermione. It is an honour to meet you.” That voice—so warm, so kind—was the last straw. Not caring that the entire school was watching, nor that the girl was standing so close she could still feel her touch, Hermione launched herself out of her seat. She barely managed a fleeting, apologetic smile before she turned and fled.

She had to go. She couldn’t stay there, couldn’t just sit there drowning in that Merlin-awful feeling of safety, kindness, and warmth. Of hope. She had to get away.

She couldn’t take it.

Tears streamed down her freckled cheeks as she ran, her hurried steps carrying her far from the Great Hall, from them. She didn’t stop until she reached her dormitory, slamming the door shut and sealing it with every silencing, privacy, and locking charm she could muster in her turmoil.

Crookshanks let out a startled meep as she threw herself onto the bed, burying her face into the pillows as great, heaving sobs shook her small body.

What is happening to me?

Her mind was a mess. Her body ached. And her heart—Morgana, her heart mourned the very magik she had just fled from.

She had remained there,  across her bed for hours, curled up with Crookshanks, his deep, insistent purring a constant vibration against her arm. She knew he was trying to comfort her and his purr was comforting, his soft warm fur soothing and his occasional headbutts as endearing as ever but nothing—nothing—could ease the confusion clawing at her chest.

Eventually, when her tears had run dry, she forced herself up, moving to her desk with trembling hands. She needed to do something—anything—to ground herself.

Lady Lestrange.

She needed to send a letter. She had reached the point where she could no longer deal with this alone. Emptying her school bag onto the desk, she resolved to at least attempt her homework while she was at it. She reached for her Potions textbook, pulling clean parchment from her drawer as she did. But before she could so much as uncap her ink bottle, a small folded note slipped from her textbook, landing in her lap.

Frowning, Hermione picked it up, unfolding the parchment with careful fingers. The message was short, direct—yet filled with a familiarity that sent another painful pang through her chest.

She read it once. Twice. A hundred times. And still, she couldn’t fully grasp the intent behind the older girl’s words.

‘Hermione - Albus Dumbledore cannot be trusted. Thing’s are not as they appear. If you want the truth please meet us in the courtyard tomorrow night just before curfew. – love always, Gabrielle Delacour.’

Her breath caught. What did she mean Dumbledore… can’t be trusted? The truth of what?

Hermione knew Dumbledore couldn’t be trusted—hadn’t she just come to that conclusion earlier with Cho?

But what did Gabrielle Delacour know of it? She had been at Hogwarts for less than a few days.

What truth was she speaking of?

Who was this girl?

And her sister? Morgana, she could still feel the spot on her shoulder where the eldest Delacour had touched her—gentle, fleeting, yet impossibly present.

Her mind was a tangled mess of questions, so many that it was a wonder they weren’t tripping over one another as they tumbled through her thoughts.

~~~~~~~

~ Fleur’s POV ~

~Great hall ~

~ Same day~

Fleur stood frozen for a moment, her heart hammering wildly in her chest as she gazed longingly in the direction her little sister had just fled. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to follow, and her inner Veela too agreed -wholly.

This was her sister.

This was Adharia.

Gabrielle had been right. The girl she had ran into that morning, the girl Fleur was now gazing after was their sister. When Gabby had told her at lunch she had run in to their little sister. That she now knew exactly who she was, the older blonde hadn’t dared to hope it were true. Far too afraid of the disappointment she knew would inevitably follow if Gabby was wrong.

Yet there she had been. Adharia.

Her sister.

Fleur had known it the moment the girl had entered the Great Hall—both her and Gabrielle’s magik had surged, reaching out instinctively, searching, seeking that missing connection they had longed for their entire lives.

And then, there she had been. Fleur could hardly believe their luck. She had come to Hogwarts, accepting her role as Beauxbatons' Triwizard Champion, not just for the tournament, but to start her search for answers. She had expected a long and difficult road ahead.

Instead, she had stumbled upon those answers—upon her—within a single day.

And It was really her!

Yet, as they had sat at the table, Fleur had seen the way the girl had trembled, her body visibly reacting to the way their magik had coiled together, drawn together like a force of nature. That wouldn't settle quickly, Fleur knew. It would take time—extensive time spent together—for their magik to fully align. It should have happened naturally when they were small—their magik should have been able to grow together, from strength to strength, to bond as effortlessly as hers and Gabrielle’s had. But they had been denied that chance. And as much as Fleur had basked in the feeling of her little sister’s magik, in the undeniable confirmation that she was there, it was also a painful reminder of everything they had lost.

Everything they had missed.

But that would change now.

They would bring her home—where she belonged.

They would get their chance to bond, to grow, to rebuild what had been stolen from them.

And Fleur would take late over never any day.

As they had sat at the Ravenclaw Table, she had seen her sister’s distress from across the table—felt it in the way her magik trembled, raw and uncertain. Fleur’s heart broke. What has happened to you, ma petite sœur? she wondered silently, aching to reach out, to take away whatever pain had left such deep scars on the girl who should have never been lost to them.

Witnessing her sister’s distress had propelled her to her feet without any thought, quick strides carried her around the table, until she stood behind a cascade of wild brown curls. Fleur hadn’t meant to approach so suddenly, hadn’t intended to come up behind her so recklessly, but once she was there, she had to say something—anything. Especially when the other girls had turned in her direction, watching her expectantly.

Her gaze had dropped then, to the bouillabaisse in front of Adharia. “Excuse me…. Hermione?” She had called, seeking the younger girl’s attention. Yet Fleur had hesitated upon saying the name Gabrielle had informed her their sister went by now. The name felt foreign, unnatural, bitter on her tongue. It wasn’t her baby sister’s name, no matter what lies Albus Dumbledore had fed her. But Fleur didn’t truly have time to dwell on that particular bitterness—because at the sound of her voice, her sister had tensed, flinching as if she had been struck. Fleur’s inner Veela howled in protest, distressed at having caused the girl even a flicker of fear.

It was no wonder the girl had fled the room—fled from them so quickly—when their magik had all but crackled with restless excitement as it brushed one another’s. Fleur had felt breathless, overwhelmed even and if it was this intense for her, she could only imagine the sheer terror it must have caused in their little sister who had no idea what was going on. She cursed softly, anger flaring anew at what that narcissistic, manipulative excuse for a man who had done—to her family, to her sister.

And the worst part of it all? Was that now that they knew exactly who she was, they couldn’t just track Adharia down and explain everything. Here and now. No, their family had a plan. Maman, Grand-mère, mother, all of them had a plan, and it was Fleur’s duty to follow it. Dumbledore had backed them all in to a corner with his clever deceits, he had left them no choice in how to handle this, and as much as it tore her apart not to chase after her little sister, to hold her and tell her the truth, she forced herself to remain still. Adharia needed to find out publicly, in a way that Albus couldn’t then erase the truth once more. So Instead of doing as she craved and following after her, she carefully levitated the bouillabaisse toward her side of the table, retaking her seat beside Gabrielle with deliberate composure, portraying the picture perfect Clan leader in training that she had perfected so long ago.

A glance toward the Professor’s table eased some of the tension Fleur was carrying in her chest—Headmaster Dumbledore was locked in a heated discussion with Professor McGonagall, her posture screaming irritation. The Transfiguration professor looked quite furious, even more so than she had the day before. Fleur found herself quietly grateful for whatever had irritated the formidable witch in such a manor; it meant Albus Dumbledore’s cursed eyes weren’t on her or Gabrielle for now.

“What do you think they’re arguing about?” Gabrielle whispered conspiratorially beside her, tone light, teasing—but despite the playful words Fleur could hear the strain hidden beneath each syllable her sister spoke, the way her sister masked her unease with playfulness was obvious to the older blonde.

Under the table, Fleur reached out, and Gabrielle’s own slim fingers found hers with the instinctive ease of sisters who had spent a lifetime side by side.

“Probably the Tournament, Gabby” Fleur murmured her tone matching that of her sisters. “The Hufflepuffs were saying this morning that some students died the last time it was held, one hundred years ago. From what I can tell, McGonagall cares about her students. She hates that the headmaster has put them in harm’s way.” Her explanation caused Gabrielle to roll her eyes.

“Because of course he is willingly putting his student’s in harm’s way.” The younger blonde retorted sarcastically. This time, Fleur giggled for real. The uncomfortable truth in her sister’s words felt almost ironic. How was it that the rest of the wizarding world hadn’t seen the malice hidden behind this man’s actions?

How many lives had he interfered with?, how many lives had he ruined? The thoughts crept in unbidden, sending a shiver of horror through her. They were valid questions—after all, he had kidnapped and hidden a baby from one of the wealthiest, most powerful families in wizarding Britain, with no one the wiser. If he was capable of that, what else had he done? What other schemes had he orchestrated? A sickening realization settled in her gut. This man believed himself to be some sort of god. His kindly features were nothing more than a carefully constructed mask, concealing his true self—one untouched by the scrutiny of public opinion.

For years, he had gone uncontested—never once held to account—allowing him to execute his nefarious plans without opposition.

“You have a point their Gabs. But hush, lets finish our food and report back to Grandmama” Fleur whispered sensing that their conversation was straying into dangerous territory for such a public space. It was alright to privately hate the man that had ruined their lives but to do so publicly right now would just risk the dastardly man’s attention.

Gabrielle nodded, settling back on her seat as she returned to her dinner, and Fleur did the same—determined to eat as quickly as possible so she could inform their parents of everything she and Gabrielle had discovered that day. There conversation would be continued then, It was safer to discuss such matters within the walls of their carriage. By now, Albus Dumbledore almost certainly knew about the Ministry’s plans for tomorrow, which meant he was undoubtedly scheming, plotting a way to come out on top.

Yet Fleur took comfort in one undeniable truth—there was nothing Albus Dumbledore, in all his power-could do to stop the inheritance tests. The Ministry would arrive in the morning, and every Hogwarts student would be tested. Adharia would be identified, and a renewed investigation into her disappearance would begin. The truth would come out.

Fleur was even willing to offer her own memories up for scrutiny. Her Grandmother was convinced Dumbledore had cast some form of magic on her to suppress her recollections of him. But his arrogance had blinded him to one crucial fact: Veela minds were exceptionally resistant to enchantments. Their creature blood, combined with the strength of their bonds, made them nearly impenetrable to mind magic. He had only succeeded in altering her memory temporarily because she had been so young. That was why it had taken her so long to remember his face. But once she had seen him again, the memory he had stolen had resurfaced once more.

His ignorance would be his downfall.

He wouldn’t be able to hide behind his lies much longer. Not now.

One thing was certain—by the time Fleur and her family were finished extracting their pound of flesh, Albus Dumbledore would wish he had never heard the name Delacour - let alone crossed them in such a horrific way. They would ruin him, dismantle the empire he had built for himself, and when he had nothing left—when his carefully constructed world lay in ruins at his feet—they would leave him to rot.

Chapter Text

~Thursday 7^th September 1995~

~Nymphadora Lestrange’s POV ~

~ Ministry of Magic, Auror Department~

Dora was bored. Beyond bored, if she was being perfectly honest. Yet here she was, stuck in this Merlin-awful briefing for the next hour, in a stuffy atrium while being forced to listen to their simpering, incompetent Minister of Magic prattle on about recent disturbances and the rise in Muggle disappearances across London. It was the same tired drivel he’d spouted at last week’s briefing—empty words, hollow warnings, and meaningless urges to “uphold the law, remain vigilant.”

As if he actually cared about any of it and they all knew it. The muggles meant less to him than the money that lined his pockets.

Cornelius Fudge wasn’t about to lift a finger to help those Muggles or stop whichever wizards had started hunting them again. After all, he was just as arrogant and money-obsessed as the rest of the pure-blood elite he spent his days grovelling to.

The politics of it all made Dora want to bang her head against the desk, repeatedly. She had next to no patience for the pure-blood rhetoric her grandfather and father subscribed to. It was all utter drivel. Anyone with half a brain could see that the idea of Muggle-borns “stealing” magic was nothing more than fearmongering nonsense—misinformation spread by those desperate to cling to their own self-importance. Not that she’d ever say that to her father.

Rodolphus Lestrange wasn’t the brightest of men, but he loved her. That much was undeniable. Still, Dora was fairly certain her father would have a heart attack if she were ever to tell him outright that everything, he’d been taught his whole life was complete rubbish. No, those kinds of conversations were best saved for when she was alone with Mother.

Mother—now she was a remarkably clever witch.

Andromeda Lestrange was formidable and had taught Dora how to navigate the world they lived in with the expert ease of the pure-blooded aristocratic cunning of a true Black heir: Teaching her how to keep her thoughts close, how to play the role of the perfect pure-blood heir when necessary, and how to be herself only in the presence of those she trusted. It was a delicate balance; one she’d mastered over time. It was an art form that had allowed her to get as far as she had within the ministry so quickly. She was the youngest Auror ever and even better she had been made head of her section within the first month.

She was after all the Lestrange Heir.

Still, sitting here, forced to endure Fudge’s tedious grandstanding, she found herself longing for the moment she could escape this room and actually do something useful. Because unlike these fools, she had no intention of sitting idly by while people suffered.

Don’t get her wrong—Dora knew she could be just as self-serving and arrogant as the aristocracy that she had grown up with. But in her heart, she also knew she would never be capable of the cruelty and wilful ignorance that her peers and their families had clung to. Muggle-borns weren’t magic thieves. That much was obvious to anyone who actually thought about it. Yes, they had muddy blood—meaning they often brought Muggle views and prejudices into the wizarding world, never fully subscribing to tradition or Mother Magik as all respectable pure-bloods did. But was that truly their fault? If no one had given them the tools or the knowledge to learn, how could they be expected to embrace a culture they had never been a part of?

How could they learn to respect the magic that flowed around them, through them when all the information they needed to subscribe to tradition was locked away in pure-blood family libraries rather than accessible to the public?

Yet instead of addressing that reality, most chose hatred and bigotry. They weaponized fear, using it to fuel segregation and destruction. Spearheading false narratives about the dwindling fertility of the pure and how more squibs were born because muggle children stole their magic. It was unjust and absolutely ludicrous. And as the Lestrange heir—and, more importantly, as a person—it was her duty to do what she could to balance that injustice.

Of course, she doubted she could do so without at least tripping over herself a few thousand times. - A specialty of hers. No matter how much pure-blood training she had endured, Nymphadora Lestrange had always been spectacularly, hopelessly clumsy. It drove her poor mother batty and earned her a fond chuckle from her father—along with plenty of teasing from her fellow Aurors.

But that was just who she was. And if she was going to trip her way through life, she might as well make sure she landed on the right side of history.

“…mandatory blood testing will be carried out this morning…” Dora startled slightly as Auror Banks subtly elbowed her in the ribs, snapping her back to attention just as the minister switched topics. The mention of blood tests had caught her full focus in an instant. Issues regarding blood always proved to offer varying degrees of contention. Straightening, she fixed her gaze on the minister as he continued speaking, though she gave Sarah a quick, appreciative nod in thanks. Sarah Banks was as ordinary as they came, a bit stern looking, pretty if you were into that sort of vibe—a solid duellist, from a middle-class magical family in America, with a strong sense of justice. It was what had drawn Dora to her back in training despite her stern expression and painfully tight low bun, and the older witch had quickly become her best friend. It also helped that Sarah shared Dora’s ridiculous sense of humour. She found endless amusement in Dora’s Metamorphmagus abilities—especially when Dora used them, as she often did, to disguise herself as other Aurors just to mess with the department heads. It never failed to amuse them when some of the more arrogant members of the auror teams were reprimanded because Dora had stolen their identity and let off a prank in the minister’s office.

They had graduated the Auror Academy together in the summer, and to their delight, Sarah had been assigned to Dora’s team immediately. It made for plenty of laughter between them—particularly when dealing with the snobbish, pointy-nosed pure-blood blokes who still truly believed they could back them into betrothals. As was customary in pure-blood society. Luckily, Nymphadora’s mother had seen that nonsense coming from a mile away. Andromeda had made Rodolphus swear an Unbreakable Vow when Dora was barely more than an infant—he would never even attempt to arrange a marriage for her. She was to be free to choose her own path, including who she married—if she ever married at all. And with slimy gits like Artimus ‘Arti’ Carrow and Charles ‘Charlie’ Weasley lurking about, Dora had never been more grateful for her mother’s foresight. The thought of being within five feet of the pure-blood blokes she had grown up with was revolting.

The minister’s voice droned on, but this time, it actually held substance. “It has come to the Ministry’s attention that we are failing many of the students at Hogwarts. There has been an abhorrent decline in young heirs claiming their titles since the last war, and we have not done enough to rectify this. As such, starting today—and repeating every seven years—there will be a mandatory school-wide inheritance test administered to all students.” That got people’s attention. Dora could feel the shift in the room. Over half of the Auror force that had been politely ignoring Fudge before was now fully engaged once more.

 “There is a disproportionate number of families with no identified heir,” the minister continued factually, though there was a noticeable strain in his voice, “and it is our hope that this measure will allow us to correct that oversight, ensuring that those legacies are upheld as they should have been all along.” Dora bit back a smirk, running a hand through today’s choice of hairstyle—short pink spikes. It was quite obvious Fudge wasn’t doing this of his own accord. Someone had found reason and ground to force his hand. The only question was who?

They’d all find out soon enough. Whether or not the papers choose to cover the story, information like this never stayed hushed up for long. It always found its way into the wider wizarding population. Dirty, ruinous secrets whispered in dark corners, passed between persons with ease. Gossip had always spread like Fiendfyre in wizarding society. At least it promised some entertainment.

The minister didn’t linger after his announcement, quickly dismissing the meeting before making himself scarce. As soon as he was gone, Dora yawned quietly and stretched, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders. “Merlin, I hope we actually get out of this merlin awful office today,” she muttered to Sarah. “There’s only so much drunk elderly wizards and stray familiars I can take before I start looking for something a little more… stimulating.” She finished. She waggled her eyebrows in exaggerated suggestiveness, and Sarah snorted. They both knew the ‘stimulation’ she was after had far more to do with a prank worthy of the Marauders than anything remotely scandalous.

“By the sounds of it, we will,” Sarah said, glancing around the room. “They’ll need reinforcements at Hogwarts. I can already imagine the outrage over this latest stunt.” She leaned in slightly, voice tinged with curiosity. “Why do you think they’re testing the students?” Dora caught the spark of excitement in her friend’s eyes—giddy anticipation for either good gossip or a proper mess to clean up. It tugged a grin onto her own face.

Oh, this was going to be fun. Nymphadora thought to herself.

“Lestrange!” The booming voice of their mentor, Alastor Moody, echoed across the atrium, cutting off any further conversation between Dora and Sarah before Dora had a chance to verbally respond to her friend.

“Boss?” Dora responded instinctively, jogging over with an exaggerated bow—only to stumble slightly as she straightened up. Moody’s lips twitched in what might have been fond amusement, though he’d never admit it, before the look passed just as quickly as it had appeared. If he wasn’t so far up Dumbledore’s arse, her mother had once said, he would have been a fantastic wizard and ally. As it was, he was a damn good boss, but Dora wasn’t blind to the resentment he held toward her and the Lestrange name. Likely just another bias passed down from Albus. That man had always butted heads with the pure-blood families who still rightly held to tradition.

“Stop acting the fool, Lestrange. You are not your father,” Moody sneered in response. Dora barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. Moody’s particular hatred for Rodolphus Lestrange was no secret to anyone. Rumour had it he still resented her father for marrying Andromeda Black all those years ago—a highly desirable match in their youth. Even now, her father still boasted often about winning her mother’s hand. And though Dora had no doubt Rodolphus loved Andromeda, she also knew her mother had only ever married him out of duty, not love. Though she did believe her mother secretly was fond of her father, even if she would never return his love.

“Take your team on up to the castle,” Moody ordered, his voice clipped and no-nonsense. “There’s a swarm of angry parents causing a stir outside the grounds. Your lot is to head inside and man the Great Hall and surrounding corridors. Make sure the blood tests go off without incident and no one who shouldn’t be there gets in. I’ve already sent Carrow and Smithy’s team to secure the gates.” Dora nodded, noting the sharp edge in his tone. Moody was in one of his legendary bad moods—the kind that could last for days. Best to just do as he asked and stay out of his way.

Without further discussion, Dora pivoted sharply, calling her team to attention as she went. Luckily, they were all still mulling around in the atrium—saved her the hassle of tracking them down before their departure. She manned a team of six, including herself, with Sarah as the only other woman.

“Weasley, Banks—straight to the Great Hall when we get there,” she ordered firmly, already forming a mental plan as they strode quickly toward the apparition point. “Cormac, Sinclair—you two will secure the corridors around the Hall. Dunlop, you’re with me. Let’s make sure dear old Albus has a handle on his students.” Murmurs of agreement rippled up through the group, making her smile widely. Dora knew the weight her last name carried, had often as a child used that name but this was different, here she had earned her team’s trust and respect through sheer skill, not bloodline. She might be goofy, clumsy, and prone to mischief, but no one could ever say she wasn’t a damn good Auror. Her mother’s rigorous tutelage, combined with raw talent, had made her formidable—and she had never lost a fight.

“Meet ya there, then.” She quipped, flashing a grin before stepping past the apparition ward and vanishing with a crack.

Looked like she was getting that action after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry~

~Same day~

~Nymphadora’s POV~

When Sarah had predicted that the public would be absolutely outraged over the Minister’s latest stunt, she hadn’t been wrong. Morgana be their witness—what a crowd it was. The swarm of furious parents and guardians outside the school gates was impressive, but what truly surprised Dora was who had turned up to object.

She had fully expected her pretentious Uncle Lucius and his merry band of Death Eaters to be out in force, demanding the Ministry rue the day they dared insult the House of Malfoy by extracting blood from his heir. She had anticipated as much. But instead of a gathering of cold, composed aristocrats, she was met with a cacophony of noise, threadbare robes, and—was that Molly Weasley and Augusta Longbottom?

Dora let out a brash snort, the kind she only ever dared indulge in when her parents weren’t around to bear witness. Should’ve figured, she thought dryly as she surveyed the furious crowd swarming the gates of the castle.

Of course, Uncle Lucius might not like the Ministry testing his precious little heir, but he would accept it—after all, it would only confirm to the world Draco’s absolute superiority over his peers. Molly Weasley, however? That woman would be outraged at the very idea of anyone ever daring to scrutinize her precious brood. Ever the loyal Dumbledore devotee that she was, always ready to shout louder than anyone else. Augusta Longbottom was just as bad. Dora had long wondered why people like them clung so desperately to Albus, hanging off his every deceitful word. Now, however, it was evident to her—his followers were just as bigoted and hateful as he was.

“How dare you do such a thing to those poor children!” Augusta could be heard bellowing, her voice trembling with righteous fury.

But it was perhaps Molly Weasley’s screeching that truly stole the show. “I FORBID it, Albus! Do you hear me? FORBID IT!”

The woman was nearly as red as her wild unbrushed hair, and the high - pitched fury that escaped her was painful to Dora’s ears, sending them ringing uncomfortably. Embarrassing, really—though she suspected a Weasley couldn’t even feel such a thing and by the way the woman was conducting herself she doubted they did.

Her mother, though the most tolerant of the Weasley family out of all of the pure-blooded elite, had made it absolutely clear to Dora that the Weasley Clan were not the desirable sort of company to keep. And not because they were “pro-Muggle-born,” if that was even a thing—anyone with even half a brain could see that Albus and his so-called Muggle-loving posse had never actually done anything to help Muggle-borns directly. Not a thing to target the inequalities and injustices that surrounded them. Every action they had taken had been just as self-serving as those on the so-called “dark” side of the last war. No, the Weasleys' offense wasn’t their perverse stance on Muggle-borns—it was their utter disregard for the traditions that had kept magic thriving for millennia.

Each wizarding family had their own customs and way of doing things, but at their core, they all honoured the same principles. Mother Magik was their patron. She had gifted them their magic, blessed families with their family magik and enriched their lives in ways beyond comprehension to those outside the know. As a show of gratitude, on the winter solstice of a young witch or wizard’s magical maturity, their family gathered to celebrate, taking part in a ritual that strengthened their magic. For Dora, the Blacks, the Malfoys, and the Lestrange’s had all gathered for her, to honour her and Lady Magik—an experience she would never forget. Feeling her family’s magik combine in such a way had been blissful, a beautiful reminder of how fortunate she was to possess the gift of magic. It was a simple ritual, a simple tradition, but it was one of great importance, steeped in rich history—and the Weasleys, like so many of Albus’s followers, had forsaken it. An offence that could not be forgiven. And the evidence of their slight was clear.

Nymphadora could swear Molly Weasley’s children got more and more empty headed with each one that she produced.

Shaking off her analysis of the Weasleys, Dora refocused, spotting Albus Dumbledore hovering near the entrance of the school gates, as if he were contemplating whether to allow the mob—spearheaded by the Weasley matriarch—inside the school.

She knew fellow auror Charles Dunlop had reached the same conclusion by the way he quickened his pace beside her.

“I cannot stop you from entering the grounds to see your children, Molly,” Albus Dumbledore’s voice finally came into focus as they approached, barely carrying over the continuous angry murmurs around him. “I can assure you, however, that they have come to no harm.”

“No harm, Albus? No harm? You are allowing the Ministry to forefront an anti-Muggle-born regime within the school! Testing the children? What is the Minister hoping for? This could be completely disastrous!” Augusta Longbottom declared.

“Exactly! Our children already know their inheritance - whether or not they are heirs to prominent houses! The twins are set to inherit the Prewett fortune on their eighteenth birthday, and Bill is the Weasley heir,” Molly snapped, her tone sharp and indignant as she glared at the headmaster.

“Calm yourself, Molly. It is not my doing. I have no authority over the Ministry’s actions.” Dumbledore’s voice was maddeningly calm, as if completely unbothered by the uproar. “I assure you, I fought this, but alas, Cornelius was clear. I cannot interfere.” And yet, even as he spoke, he shifted ever so slightly—his body no longer blocking the gates, leaving just enough of an opening for a particularly determined parent to slip through.

Dora growled under her breath, bolting forward.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she hissed, stepping directly into Molly Weasley’s path just as the older woman made to brush past Dumbledore. Using her own body to block the red-haired woman’s path. That sneaky old coot, she thought wryly. Clever too. He couldn’t interfere, but if he just accidentally let a few parents storm the gates, gaining access to the school, they could interfere in his stead? Not on her watch.

Her order’s had been clear – the inheritance tests would proceed without any interference. Especially not interference in the form of a Weasley.

“Lestrange!” Molly gasped indignantly, brushing invisible pieces of lint from her hideous floral-patterned blue dress. “Let me pass! I will not tolerate this tomfoolery a moment longer!”

It really was ironic that one of this woman’s precious brood was currently inside the castle helping the ministry carry out the testing.

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Weasley, what you will and will not tolerate is completely irrelevant to me.” Dora’s voice was crisp, professional. Feeling quite proud that she hadn’t pointed out to her that two of her sons now worked for the ministry, one of which was inside the castle, helping to ensure the testing went smoothly. “The Minister has issued clear instructions—it would be illegal for you to impede the inheritance tests in any way. Certainly, you’d rather not find out your precious children’s results from one of Azkaban’s finest cells? I heard my dear aunt just lost her neighbour.” She said instead.

Molly spluttered, her rage momentarily stifled, and Dora smirked.

“Inside, Albus,” she commanded, redirecting her attention to the poised looking Headmaster. “Your presence is only inciting this silly little protest further.” For a fleeting moment, she saw a flicker of fury in Dumbledore’s expression at being instructed by her, but he bit his tongue. Wise choice. He allowed Dora to guide him back through the gates, away from Molly and Augusta.

“Auror Lestrange,” Augusta snapped, her voice desperate now, “you and the Minister have no right preventing Molly from reaching her children. No right at all!” For a moment, Dora felt a flicker of sympathy creep into her heart for this woman. Augusta Longbottom had lost her husband, her sister, her daughter, and her son-in-law in the war. She had been left to raise the Longbottom heir alone while visiting her daughter and son-in-law in St. Mungo’s Janus Thickey Ward for the incurably spell-damaged and dealing with the Longbottom estate while her grandson was too young to do so. From what Dora had heard, the boy wasn’t all that impressive.

“Just because you pure-blood bigots don’t know what it is to care for your children,” Augusta sneered, “doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t and this won’t stand.” And there went the sympathy Nymphadora had felt for her. Twenty years ago, it would have been social suicide to go toe to toe with this woman, but now the woman held no power, and she really shouldn’t concern herself with the woman’s slights. But Nymphadora was nothing if she wasn’t fiercely protective over her family.

Dora’s voice dropped into something soft and dangerous. “I advise you to quieten, Ms. Longbottom. I’m certain my mother would be thrilled to hear your thoughts on her parenting style.” She smirked, raising her chin in victory as Augusta flinched. Shrinking back beside Molly as Dora continued to voice her displeasure. “Now, think yourself lucky I’m an Auror here on official business and that I am not my mother or father. We Lestrange’s don’t take kindly to slander. It would be a pity for you to learn that the hard way.”

Augusta paled. Her haggard features somehow looking worse.  Dora turned away with a victorious smirk. Augusta Longbottom was nothing more than a miserable old witch that was long past her prime. Flicking her wand wordlessly.

The gates slamming shut and locking tight behind her.

~~~~~~

It had been a slow day so far—after the initial excitement, that is. The gaggle of furious witches outside the gates had dispersed within the first hour of the Aurors arriving. Albus had sulked his way into the Headmaster’s office and locked himself in, and all the first, second, and third-years had been tested without so much as a whimper. Thrilling stuff. Riveting really.

Dora was now counting down each agonisingly slow minute until her lunch break, hoping it would break up the monotony. She had always lived for the chaos of being an Auror—the adrenaline, the action, the high-stakes work enthralled her. The dull moments? Not so much. Even teasing Auror Dunlop about his love-struck mooning over his fiancée Kath had lost its charm, and that was saying something. The poor bloke was hopeless, practically swooning every time he so much as mentioned her name. Dora had never been one for that kind of all-consuming selfless devotion. Though she supposed someone would have to actually take her fancy for longer than a minute for that to happen, and Morgana knew it hadn’t happened in all twenty years of her young life.

Not that she hadn’t tested the waters. Wizards, she had ruled out rather quickly—too much chest hair, too little self-awareness, and their egos were as delicate as spun glass, especially the ‘men’ she had grown up with. The moment one of them so much as puffed out his chest at her, she was already halfway to the door, exaggeratedly dry heaving as she fled. Witches, though. Dora appreciated a pretty witch, and there had been a few who had graced her bed over the years. There was something about the feminine curves of a woman that Dora had always found excruciatingly beautiful and their minds even more so. She did love an intelligent witch, someone that challenged her in all the best ways. But despite the exploration none had ever held her attention for longer than what her mother liked to call a "passing fancy."

Still, she supposed there was always hope. Maybe one day, someone would surprise her. Preferably after lunch.

She shook her head, horrified at the direction her thoughts had taken. Sentimentality? Whimsy? Bleh. That wasn’t her. Dora had never wanted to be tied down in such a way. She was happy with her life—she had money, looks, a loving family, and the skill set to do what she loved: helping others. Marriage and children? Not really for her. Especially not now.

Even worse, that type of romantic nonsense sounded like something her mother would and had said before. “Oh Nymphadora dear, do try to hold on to this one wont you. You never know, she might be the one.” YUCK!

Nope, Dora much preferred being unapologetically her.

And unapologetically her was bored.. and hungry.

“Right then, Dunlop, you stand guard, yeah? I’m gonna nip to the kitchen and see about feeding the crew,” she ordered, already turning on her heel headed to the kitchen before he could answer. She had no desire to listen to his love sick rambling any longer. Maybe after lunch, she’d swap him out for Auror Sinclair. Hell, even Auror Weasley would be a better shout at this point than Charles Dunlop. Don’t get her wrong—Charlie Weasley was gross, but at least he was a competent Auror who respected her authority. It had only taken knocking him flat on his arse a few times for him to get the message. And honestly, she was sure poor Sarah could use a break from his drivel by now too.

It didn’t take very long for her to reach the kitchens. The moment she stepped inside, she was greeted warmly by Tully, the head chef, just as she always had been. The Hogwarts kitchens had been Dora’s sanctuary as a student—a place free from the suffocating expectations of pure-blood society and all its ridiculous politics. Down here, she wasn’t Nymphadora Lestrange, pure-blood heir and member of high society. She was just Misses Dora, as Tully had affectionately dubbed her. There was no one to impress, no façade to maintain. Just good food and good company.

She’d needed that escape back then. Not that she felt the same pressure anymore. Her mother had come to accept her little quirks, and her father—well, he’d always been one to indulge her. Somewhere along the way, Dora had found her footing outside Hogwarts and realized she had absolutely no interest in meeting anyone’s expectations of her. Ironically, that had earned her more respect than anything else.

“What’s can Tully be doing for her misses Dora?” The little elf asked, her smile as wide and as warm as Dora had remembered it to be.

She had never understood how anyone could treat these adorable creatures the way her uncles’ parents had treated their house-elf when they had him. The very thought of just how messed up Dobby had been when he was bound to Dora’s family just a couple of years previously haunted her even now. Her mother had needed to treat the poor elf with countless healing, nourishing and strengthening potions before sending him to see a mind healer when he had first arrived, such was the devastation he had endured. Uncle Lucius had vehemently denied ever treating the elf poorly—insisting that Dobby’s condition was entirely the fault of his father’s cruelty when he had Dobby as an elf. And honestly? Dora had a sneaking suspicion that her uncle was telling the truth for once in his life. Her memories of Abraxas Malfoy weren’t pleasant ones. Though he was always polite to her and her mother, the man had spoken down to everyone, especially his own family. He had treated them with a level of contempt that made her shudder even now thinking about it. She couldn’t imagine what a man like that—who barely spared an ounce of kindness or love for his own flesh and blood—had done to a defenceless little creature like Dobby.

“Of course misses Dora, Tully wills get that sorted quick quick. Tully will get her friends to deliver it misses Dora.” And the eagerness in her voice made the pink haired witch coo fondly. Tully had always been so very warm.

“Of course, Misses Dora! Tully will get that sorted quick-quick!” the elf chirped, practically vibrating with excitement. “Tully will get her friends to deliver it, Misses Dora.” Dora cooed fondly, ruffling the elf’s head. So warm. She hadn’t realised just how much she had missed this little elf. It was impossible not to adore her.

Thank you Tully.” “Dora knew she couldn’t stay in the kitchen, not while she was on duty with a team to lead. So with that thought in mind she turned, sending a patronus to Auror Weasley informing him he was to switch with Dunlop.

As Dora made her way back up toward the Great Hall, a strange sound stopped her in her tracks. It was soft at first—a faint sniffling noise that sent an unfamiliar ache through her chest. Crying? She paused, standing still in the empty corridor, listening. The halls stretched on before her, empty and unchanged as she searched them. Looking for the source of the noise. Yet despite the empty corridor the sound persisted. It grew louder as she neared the Astronomy Tower.

If asked later why she had gone searching instead of continuing on towards the Great Hall, Dora would insist it was her duty as an Auror to investigate anything unusual – constant vigilance and all that right? But the truth was, she didn’t know why she had followed the sound. Just that she needed too. Some instinct, buried deep, had propelled her forward without conscious thought.

Her long legs carrying her up the Astronomy Tower steps two at a time, curiosity quickening her pace. A nervous sort of excitement hummed beneath her skin, urging her onward.

As the metamorph reached the top of the grand staircase, she came to an abrupt halt, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. The sight before her sent a sharp pang through her chest, her bright bubble-gum pink hair fading to a muted brown without conscious thought. In all her twenty years, Nymphadora had never seen anything more heartbreaking.

A small-looking girl—fourth year, if Dora had to guess—sat curled against the cold stone wall at the edge of the Astronomy Tower. Her wild brown curls, so much like Dora’s own mother’s on an especially untameable day, framed a tear-streaked face. She clutched a crumpled piece of parchment in trembling hands, shoulders hunched as she tried, and failed, to muffle her sobs. The force of her crying shook her thin frame, each ragged breath betraying just how hard she was trying to hold herself together. Dora’s heart clenched. She might be an Auror, trained to face danger head-on, but this—this kind of pain—felt far more delicate, far more important than any mission she had ever encountered.

Dora crept forward, casting a silent barrier spell between the girl and the open edge of the Astronomy Tower that she balanced on. Her heart whispered that this girl had to be kept safe above all else, and Dora would comply. She had never questioned Lady Magic and whatever fate she had at play, and she never would.

Clearing her throat softly, she barely had time to be grateful for the barrier spell before the girl startled. She jolted backward, wobbling precariously in a way that sent Dora’s heart lurching into her throat—even knowing the spell was there. A frightened cry tore from the girl’s lips, and Dora acted on instinct.

“It’s alright, little witch. You’re alright,” she murmured, aiming a soothing smile at the girl, slipping close enough to gently lay a hand on the girl’s bare arm. A sharp jolt rushed up Dora’s fingers upon contact with the girl’s skin, searing through her arm like static laced with something deeper, something ancient. The auror barely managed not to flinch in response. The girl however tensed, beginning to pull away, but Dora tightened her grip—not harsh in any way, but firm enough to let the girl know that she was to stay still. Some instinct told her that despite the girl’s urge to flee, she needed to stay close. Close to Dora where she was safe and protected from whatever had her crying like that.

“Hush,” Dora soothed gently, voice warm and steady. “I’m Dora, one of the Aurors sent to help out today. I won’t hurt you I promise.” Large, pain-filled brown eyes met hers, and Dora felt something inside her crack wide open. Pain and confusion swirled in that gaze, raw and unguarded. It took everything in her not to pull the girl into her arms right then and there.

“What’s your name, love?” Dora whispered, her voice soft as she gently guided the girl away from the ledge, settling her onto the floor inside the tower.

The girl hesitated, her breath hitching. “I don’t know anymore,” she finally murmured, her voice cracking as if the words themselves fractured something deep inside her. Those same pain-filled eyes met Dora’s, searching—desperate, as if she thought Dora might somehow hold the answer. “It used to be Hermione.” The words came quietly, cryptically, but there was no deception in her voice, no attempt to be difficult. Just raw, aching uncertainty.

“Now… I don’t know.” Her voice broke on the last word, dissolving into a gasping sob that shook her violently.

And that was it. Dora caved.

Without hesitation, she pulled the girl into her arms, holding her tightly, protectively. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to soothe, to shield, to keep this fragile, hurting witch safe from whatever storm had driven her here. The girl clung to her, small hands gripping fistfuls of Dora’s Auror robes, her tear-streaked face burying into Dora’s shoulder as if she could disappear into the warmth and safety of her embrace. Her cries were muffled now, swallowed by the thick folds of fabric and all Dora could think to do was sit there, holding the girl as tightly as she appeared to need held, rocking gently from side to side.

Softly, instinctively, she began to hum. Some old lullaby her mother used to sing when she was small. A quiet, soothing sound meant to ground, to comfort, to remind. She shushed the girl gently, running a hand over trembling shoulders in slow, steady strokes. With her free hand, Dora sent her Patronus off once more. Her heart was here—rooted in this moment, in this girl. The certainty of it settled into her bones. She couldn’t leave, even if she wanted to. Sarah would cover for her, just for now. And later—later, she would speak with her mother. Try to find the answers.

But now however, none of that mattered. Right now, she would sit here, unhurried. She would hold this little witch for as long as she needed, however long it took. Leaning back against the cold stone of the tower, Dora tightened her grip, settling in. Content to watch over the girl in her arms though completely unaware, in that moment, that the girl in her arms was unravelling. That somewhere, deep inside, Hermione’s entire sense of self was falling apart.

~~~~~~~

~Hermione’s POV~

~Astronomy Tower~

~Thursday 7^th September 1995~

Hermione didn’t understand why it was always her who got the worst lot in life. It seemed no matter how hard she worked, how much she excelled, how desperately she tried to blend in, the universe found new ways to remind her that she was different—unwanted, abandoned, other. Yesterday had been a whirlwind of confusion and exhaustion, her magic slipping from her grasp like sand through her fingers, wild and unsteady. The inexplicable pull between herself and the Delacour sisters had left her more conflicted than she had ever been. There was something there, something that made her magic hum, that made the ache in her chest sharper, yet she had no words to explain it.

But today was supposed to be different. Today, she had planned to collect herself, to analyse the situation logically, to uncover what had happened and why. Yet, of course, fate had never been kind to her. How was she supposed to ‘pull herself together’ when the very foundation of her existence was crumbling beneath her?

This morning, she had been certain of a few things;

She was Hermione Granger.

She was a Muggle-born orphan.

She was the smartest witch of her age.

She was Cho Chang’s best friend.

Now, she wasn’t sure if any of it had ever been true.

It had begun, as it often did, at breakfast. The Great Hall, usually filled with mindless chatter and the clinking of cutlery, had fallen into a hushed silence as Albus Dumbledore stood before them. His usual twinkling gaze was hardened, his jovial tone replaced with barely concealed irritation. With an air of forced authority, he announced that every student would undergo a mandatory Hogwarts-wide inheritance test—an unprecedented event, a decree from the Ministry. The minister himself had decreed it with no exceptions.

Hermione had never been one to involve herself in Ministry affairs. It was easier, safer, to focus on her studies, to drown herself in knowledge and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. But this… this was different.

Her blood had run cold at the announcement.

Did she truly want to know the names of the people who had discarded her like she was nothing? Who had left her to rot in that orphanage, at the mercy of cruel caretakers and merciless peers? The answer was no. She did not want to know. It was one thing to live with the knowledge that she had been unwanted—it was another to have proof. Names. A legacy she had never been deemed worthy of. A past she had never been meant to reclaim.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Dumbledore had summoned her to his office just after her second class of the day.

She had known, even before stepping through the door, that something was wrong. The way he looked at her—calculating, almost disappointed and cold—set her nerves alight. Then he began to speak, spinning a tale of shame and rejection, of an affair child born to a proud pure-blooded family who had seen her as nothing more than a stain on their lineage. Something to be hidden and hushed away in the dark of night. He told her they had discarded her, ashamed when she failed to display the same defining traits as her sisters. That they had then fled to France to be as far away from her as possible. The family preferring to put an ocean between them. Their discarded child becoming nothing more than a mistake they had sought to erase from their impeccable family line.

Each word he spoke sliced through her like a dagger, cutting into wounds that had never truly healed. Her fingers trembled against the arms of the chair, her breath shallow, her vision blurring with tears she despised herself for shedding, especially in front of this man.

But beneath the pain, beneath the crushing weight of rejection, something sharp and insistent stirred within her.

A voice, quiet but resolute, whispering in the corners of her mind.

Dumbledore was lying.

She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. It was in his tone, in the way his eyes never quite met hers. The way his words were too perfect, too cruelly precise, feeding into every insecurity she had ever harboured.

He wanted her to believe this. He wanted her to accept this as truth.

But Hermione Granger was not so easily led, never one to simply except the words of authority as gospel without doing her own research. Painful or not she would do her own search in to the story he was currently feeding her.

So she let the tears fall, let him believe his words had shattered her. But even as she sat there, heart splintering in her chest, his words hitting the mark, her mind was already working, already unravelling and picking at the deceit she could feel him trying to weave around her.

She didn’t know who she was.           

But she was going to find out.

She had left Dumbledore’s office resolute. Determined to do what she did best—seek the truth in ink and parchment, in the quiet corners of the library where facts could not lie to her the way people always did. She would uncover the reality for herself. But that resolution had been before.

Before she came face to face with the undeniable truth of her heritage.

Her year had been called during their fourth class of the day, the announcement sending a ripple of nervous energy through the students. As they filed toward the Great Hall, the atmosphere crackled with tension—palpable, electric. The pure-bloods walked tall, their chins lifted with carefully cultivated confidence, as if daring the world to challenge the legitimacy of their lineage. The Muggle-borns, by contrast, shrank into themselves, subdued and uneasy. It wasn’t just the test that unsettled them—it was the implications. As if official confirmation of their parentage somehow made them less. Whispers slithered through the corridors, filled with taunts and venom. The so-called "light" families decried the Ministry’s decree, indignant at what they saw as a threat to those of less than pure blood. The darker families, always quick to retaliate, fanned the flames with sneers and pointed jeers.

It was all so trivial. So adolescent.

For a fleeting moment, Hermione almost forgot her own anxiety. But then it came again—that insistent, gnawing pull in her gut, something ancient and restless awakening inside her. She faltered mid-step, and Dumbledore’s words echoed in her mind, his cool, clipped tone weaving through her thoughts like a curse.

Your parents saw you as nothing more than a stain on their impeccable lineage.

A lie. It had to be.

Didn’t it?

Twenty minutes passed as they all stood waiting, the tension mounting. And then the Slytherins arrived.

Hermione had expected them to be smug, brimming with cruel delight at the discomfort of others. It was, after all, an opportunity to reaffirm their superiority, to watch the cracks form in the identities of those they had always considered beneath them. But there were no careless jibes. No smirks or lazy taunts. Instead, they were quiet. Serious. Their postures were rigid, their eyes sharp with something Hermione couldn’t quite decipher—anticipation, perhaps. Dread. She had never seen them like this – so uncharacteristically silent.

Before she could analyse it further, her name was called, the voice of whomever was set to carry out her test gruff and unbothered. A stark contrast to the way she felt the minute she heard her name. Her stomach lurched, but her feet carried her forward. Each step felt heavier than the last, dread curling around her ribs like a vice. The doors to the Great Hall loomed before her, vast and unyielding. Beyond them lay the inheritance test. Beyond them lay the truth. And no matter how desperately she wanted to turn away, she knew there was no escaping it now. She would come face to face with the names of those that had abandoned her at the orphanage all those years ago.

The doors to the Great Hall felt heavier than they had that morning at breakfast. Hermione’s hands trembled, slick with sweat as she followed the goblin who had called upon her to the front of the hall. The vast room, usually alive with chatter and the clatter of cutlery, was eerily transformed. The long house tables were gone, replaced by rows of infirmary curtains—pale, sterile barriers that created makeshift booths. The set up created the illusion of privacy, but Hermione knew better. There was no real privacy in this. How could there be when someone other than the individual being tested was performing the test.

She was led to the farthest booth, where the Slytherin table should have been. A cruel irony, she thought distantly. The cream-colored curtains whispered shut around her, and for the first time in her life, the walls of this room felt like a noose tightening around her neck. Ragnok, the goblin who had summoned her, turned and bowed—a mark of respect Hermione automatically mirrored, despite the storm raging inside her. It was instinct, the product of a sharp mind that never ceased functioning, no matter how unbearable the moment. She had always treated goblins with courtesy. A rare thing among witches and wizards. A rarity that she refused to forgo even in her most agonising moments.

“Miss Granger, take a seat please,” Ragnok murmured, his voice much quieter now. Not gentle, not truly, but softer than before. A courtesy, perhaps. A sympathy. He gestured to a simple chair before the desk, taking his own seat behind it. Hermione sat, her eyes traveling to the top of the desk where a single parchment, a small knife, and a self-inking quill awaited.

“These results will remain private,” he said evenly. “No one beyond that curtain will hear or see what transpires here, not from me. A privacy ward ensures that.” He paused, studying her. “Do you have any questions before we begin, young Miss?” He added, as if sensing her fear and attempting to soothe it somewhat. Hermione locked eyes with him, her breath shallow, her mind working frantically through the probabilities, the implications.

“Do I have to do this?” she whispered. The plea was uncharacteristic—Hermione Granger did not plead. But this was different. This was everything and Hermione, perhaps futilely hoped he would simply allow her to leave. The moment stretched. Ragnok did not immediately answer, and she knew then, before he even spoken that she would not receive the answer she was looking for.

“We have orders.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but something unreadable flickered across his face. Sympathy? Empathy even? Then, as if sensing how close she was to breaking, he added, “For what it is worth, young Miss, we goblins have suspected your lineage for some time. If it is confirmed, know that your family has never once stopped looking for you nor given up on trying to find answers to your disappearance.”

The words, meant to reassure her, should have been a comfort. They should have been a revelation. But to Hermione, they were a contradiction. A blade slipping between her ribs, twisting, tearing at wounds that already bled. Because the words made no sense. They opposed everything she had been told. Everything Dumbledore had said. Contradicted everything in that wretched letter that had shaped her childhood. He had said that her family had never stopped looking for her? The breath she hadn’t realized she was holding stilled in her chest. She felt lightheaded, her mind fracturing between logic and the unbearable weight of hope and betrayal. Her hand moved of its own accord, palm up, offered in silent surrender.

She barely registered Ragnok picking up the blade, barely felt the prick of the knife or the blood that dripped from her finger on to the parchment.

Then—

Her magic lurched violently. The blood in her veins turned to ice, her heart hammering against her ribs. The parchment glowed. The world tilted.

She didn’t remember standing. Didn’t remember moving. Only that suddenly she was running, the crumpled parchment gripped in her damp fingers, her breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.

The Astronomy Tower. She didn’t think—she just went.

She barely made it up the staircase before the sobs overtook her, strangling her, clawing their way free from her chest in a way they hadn’t in years. Her small frame curled in on itself as she collapsed onto the ledge, her entire body wracked with the force of her emotion.

Her whole life, she had been Hermione Granger. The orphan girl. The Mud-blood who had forced her way into a world that was never meant to be hers. Completely unaware of her true origin. But it had all been a lie. She had always belonged. Had always meant to be surrounded by Magic. She was not an outsider. Not a mistake. And yet, she had been discarded. Thrown away like nothing. Abandoned and discarded by the world that at fourteen she was only now discovering had always been hers.

Instead it had been ripped from her cruelly before she was even old enough to remember.

But by who? Her biological parents? Dumbledore had said so. The letter had said so.

But her sisters—Merlin, her sisters—had acted strangely when they were around her. And the goblins—who had no reason to lie—had said she had disappeared. That her family had never stopped looking for her and for answers. So who had abandoned her?

And why?

What had she done to deserve this? To deserve any of it? What act had she committed so terrible to have been denied the life with parents and sisters that had never been hers. Instead, she had only ever known the bite of a belt, the gnawing ache of an empty stomach, the cold, cutting words of a matron who had openly admitted to despising children. That had been her reality. That had been her life.

 Until today.

She didn’t know how long she had been curled up on the cold stone floor, shivering in the cold September air, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The parchment lay crushed in her trembling fingers, a damning confirmation of a truth she didn’t know how to reconcile.

A throat cleared behind her.

The sudden sound sent a bolt of panic through her, her already hammering heart lurching into a frantic, painful rhythm. She whirled, breath ragged, wild brown eyes locking onto the green-gold gaze of an older witch dressed in deep red Ministry robes.

An Auror. Her mind supplied the information before instinct could take over, before she could reach for her wand. Still, her muscles coiled, her body ready to flee, her magic crackling just beneath her skin. Then—a hand. Warm. Gentle. Resting on her arm.

Hermione flinched. Electricity shot up her spine, not from pain but something else, something that made her breath stutter and her stomach twist in ways she couldn’t name. She’s too close. Too much. Too real. She scrambled to her feet, but the witch’s grip tightened—not harshly, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep her still. Enough to ground her. Enough to say: Stay. I’ve got you.

“Hush,” the Auror murmured, her voice soft, warm, wrapping around Hermione’s frayed nerves like silk. “My name’s Dora. I’m one of the Aurors sent to help today. I won’t hurt you, I promise.” And Hermione—brilliant, rational, sceptical Hermione—believed her. She didn’t know why. She only knew that she allowed the Auror to guide her away from the edge of the tower, her body moving without thought, her mind still spinning, still drowning.

“What’s your name, love?” The Auror - Dora - asked, her voice impossibly gentle. And Hermione tried. She tried so hard to answer. But the question pulled the ground out from beneath her feet. Her name.

Her name.

She had always been Hermione Granger. Hadn’t she? But it wasn’t was it?

“I don’t know anymore,” she whispered, voice barely more than a breath. She turned pleading eyes to the older witch, desperation bleeding into every inch of her expression. Fix it. Make it make sense. Somewhere deep inside her, a voice—the same voice that had always guided her, always kept her safe—whispered that this witch could help. That she would help.

“It used to be Hermione.” The admission shattered something inside her, the last threads of her identity unravelling like dropped yarn, and the sobs she had fought so hard to contain broke free once more. Great, heaving cries that shook her frame, that made the world spin faster and faster until she couldn’t tell which way was up.

Perhaps it didn’t matter anymore.

“Now… I don’t know,” she choked out again, the words torn from her like something vital, something that had kept her tethered. And then—arms. Strong. Steady. Wrapping around her and pulling her in, holding her so tightly she almost believed she could never be hurt again, that nothing painful could touch her so long as she stayed where she was, wrapped in the scent of cinnamon and honey. Without thought, without hesitation, Hermione sank into the embrace, her body folding into the warmth of the Auror’s hold, tucking herself into the safe space against Dora’s neck.

She didn’t think. She didn’t fight. She simply let go. Crying out for the girl she thought she was. For the girl she could have been and for the family she could have had, should have had —

And had been denied.

~~~~~

~Andromeda’s POV~

~Hogwarts infirmary~

~Late evening, September 7^th 1995~

Andromeda Lestrange was, unfortunately, beginning to notice a disconcerting pattern when it came to the young witch she had long since considered a part of her family. A pseudo-daughter of sorts.

Every time they crossed paths, Hermione appeared to be in some sort of distress.

It baffled Andromeda how the girl still stood—how she had not yet fractured under the sheer weight of all she had endured. And yet, she was growing accustomed to finding Hermione in a hospital bed, bruised, exhausted, or in need of some form of medical intervention.

Today, it seemed, was no different.

She had been in the drawing room at Lestrange Manor, sipping tea with Rodolphus, discussing the upcoming Triwizard Tournament and the distasteful rumours swirling around those foolish enough to follow the imposturous Dark Lord of his hopeful return and their plans for the Potter boy, when their conversation had been interrupted by a silvery, ethereal wolf bounding into the room—a Patronus.

Her daughter’s Patronus.

Nymphadora’s voice had been urgent, her usual careless ease stripped away and replaced with something unfamiliar—something that sent a thread of unease through Andromeda before the message had even fully formed. Concern. Confusion. And, beneath it all, something deeply protective. There had been no hesitation.

Andromeda had abandoned her tea, left Rodolphus to his musings, and taken the Floo directly to Hogwarts.

The moment she stepped into the infirmary, her sharp eyes landed on her daughter. Nymphadora was seated at a bedside, her usual vibrant hair dulled to a lifeless brown, her expression far more sombre than Andromeda had ever seen it. A warning bell rang softly in the back of her mind.

Without a word, she crossed the infirmary in swift, measured strides, each step designed to eliminate the distance between her and her child as quickly as possible. It was only when she reached Dora’s side that she took in the full scene before her.

Nymphadora was holding Hermione’s hand.

Andromeda’s gaze flicked to the unconscious girl, then back to her daughter. Even in sleep, Hermione’s fingers curled instinctively around Dora’s. And the way her usually unshakable daughter sat there, watching over the girl with a quiet intensity—protectiveness—sent a flicker of understanding through Andromeda’s chest.

There was a connection between them. Something unspoken. Something deeply rooted. “What happened, darling?” she asked, voice hushed as she came to stand beside her daughter’s chair, careful not to disturb the sleeping witch between them.

Dora’s grip on Hermione’s hand tightened. “I found her in the Astronomy Tower,” she admitted, a note of raw emotion threading through her words. “She was a mess, Mum. I’ve never seen anyone cry like that before. I couldn’t just leave her.” Andromeda didn’t miss the way Dora’s voice dipped slightly, how her hold on the girl beside her was firm yet impossibly gentle. Protectiveness leaking out in to her tone subconsciously. A tone Andromeda chose to ignore for the moment. Simply gesturing for her daughter to continue.

“Right, anyway,” her daughter continued, shaking her head briefly as if realising she had given only half an explanation to her mother. “She was distraught. I didn’t know what else to do mum, so I brought her here. Madame Pomfrey gave her a Dreamless Sleep and a Calming Draught—I was scared she was going to hurt herself with the way she was sobbing.” Her daughter’s gaze drifted back to Hermione, and Andromeda caught the subtle shift in her expression—an unguarded softness, a quiet reverence that the older witch was unaccustomed to seeing on her daughters face.

Interesting.

“When she finally gave in to the potions I found this and I remembered you telling me about meeting a Hermione Granger that you felt connected too. I didn’t think it wise that I call anyone else just yet.” Her daughter finished and Andromeda couldn’t quite understand Dora’s words until she picked up the parchment Nymphadora had gestured too.

“When she finally gave in to the potions, I found this.” Dora gestured toward a parchment resting on the bedside table. “And I remembered you mentioning a Hermione Granger—one you felt… connected to. I didn’t think it wise to call anyone else just yet.” Andromeda arched a delicate brow at that, a frown forming as she reached for the parchment. The moment her eyes scanned the words, she felt her breath still, her grip tightening just slightly.

Her heart leaping in to her throat as she read the parchment silently.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                                       ~ 

The following results were obtained by blood test on this day, Thursday, 7th September 1995.

Carried out by Head Goblin of Gringotts Bank – Ragnok.

Name: Hermione Jean Granger
Also known as: Adharia Appoline Delacour
Date of Birth: 19th November 1981
Blood Status: Pure-blood

Creature Inheritance: Veela

Parents: Appoline Delacour & Narcissa Malfoy–Delacour
Siblings: Fleur Narcissa Delacour & Gabrielle Amélie Delacour

Grandparents:
— Amélie Delacour & Adharia Delacour (née Lestrange)
— Abraxas Malfoy (Deceased) & Belvina Malfoy (née Nott, Deceased)

Aunts: Camille Delacour (By Blood) & Bellatrix Black Malfoy (By Marriage)

Uncle: Lucius Malfoy (By Blood)

Cousins: Lyra Bellatrix Malfoy (Deceased) & Draco Lucius Malfoy

Godparents: Bellatrix Black & Marlene McKinnon (Missing)

Heiress/Ladyship: Ravenclaw House, Heir of Le Fay
Secondary Heir of: Delacour, Malfoy & Black

Member of the following family lines: Delacour, Le Fay, Malfoy, Lestrange, Nott, Prewett, Black & Ravenclaw

To view and claim inheritance from the above houses, an appointment must be made at Gringotts Bank at your earliest convenience.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Andromeda inhaled sharply, though outwardly, not a single muscle in her body tensed, not a single trace of her inner turmoil showed on her aristocratically composed features. Years of maintaining the perfect façade of Lady Lestrange ensured that even now, when the very foundation of her world threatened to shift, she remained as poised and unreadable as ever.

Slowly, deliberately, she conjured a chair beside her daughter and sank into it with an effortless grace that had been drilled into her since childhood. She did not immediately react—did not allow herself the luxury of outward shock. Instead, she turned her gaze to the sleeping girl, watching her with an unreadable expression.

Hermione Granger. No—Adharia Apolline Delacour.

A girl she had spent the past three years watching over, protecting, caring for—despite Hermione’s often dismissive demeanour, despite her insistence on carrying the weight of the world alone. And now, this.

Lady Magic worked in strange ways.

Andromeda had always felt an inexplicable pull toward the girl from the moment they had met—a connection she had never been able to name but had always been curious about. Unable to resist it’s pull whenever the youngster had need of her. Now, she knew why.

Her hands, steady still even in the wake of her emotion, clenched briefly before she forced them to relax. She could not afford to let herself feel too much. Not yet. But deep in her heart, beneath the carefully cultivated mask of aristocratic detachment, something settled.

With this new confirmation of her Daughter’ bond with the girl and the girl’s concealed identity, Andromeda vowed to do whatever she could to ensure that nothing ever harmed the girl again. She would protect this girl, help her grow and heal and most importantly she would make sure any that had harmed her, paid with their lives.

Because whether she was Hermione Granger or Adharia Delacour, the girl was her family and Andromeda Black-Lestrange would die before she let a slight against her kin stand.

Chapter Text

~~~~~~~

~Hermione’s POV~

~Hogwarts Infirmary~

~Thursday 7^th of September 1995~

When Hermione came to, it was a slow and disorienting affair. The remnants of potions she couldn’t remember swallowing dulled her senses, leaving her mind sluggish and heavy. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of fabric and the distant clink of metal. The air smelled oddly of cinnamon and honey—comforting, yet unfamiliar. When she forced her eyes open, the light hit her iris like shards of glass, painful in its insistence as she squeezed them shut again. The bed beneath her was stiff, the sterile sheets scratchy against her skin and the pillow under her head felt too thin and uncomfortable. She should have known she’d end up back here. It was practically an annual occurrence at this point. But she’d expected her inevitable infirmary visit to come much later in the school year—not barely three days in.

Her mind waded through a thick fog, struggling to recall how she had gotten here. The soreness under her eyes and the raw ache in her chest whispered of something not right, something different. A shift in her very foundation that was pulling at her subconscious.

How did she get here?

Hermione hated not knowing what was happening around her—she hated the blank spaces in her mind where her usual sharp awareness should be. Whole pockets of information foggy and unclear. But the memories came only in fractured, incoherent flashes, tangled and blurred, as though viewed through frosted glass. The bitter aftertaste of a Sleeping Draught lingered on her tongue, muddling her thoughts further. And Hermione strained her mind, forcing the sluggish memories into some semblance of order.

Red robes. The Astronomy Tower. Cold then warmth, a presence—comforting but unknown.

Serious-faced Slytherins.

Dumbledore’s ever-so-gentle, ever-so-false sympathy.

Ragnok, solemn and severe, holding a ceremonial dagger.

The blood tests!

Hermione flinched. And suddenly, it all came crashing back. The truth that had shattered everything she thought she knew. Her temporary respite shattered in an instant as her mind sprung to life, filling in the gaps that she had briefly overlooked. Reminding her that her life would never again be the same as it had. She could never unlearn the information she had garnered.

Their headmasters’ words coming flooding back in as she lay on the hospital wing bed.

They didn’t want you…. A disgrace to their lineage…….

Her breath hitched, fingers curling into the sheets as those words echoed in her mind. Cold. Final. Unforgiving.

“Hush, I’ve got you.” That same soothing voice from the tower cut through the fog before Hermione had a chance to spiral again. The words wrapped around her like a tether, grounding her before she even realized she needed it. Instinctively, her head turned toward the speaker, her movements slow and heavy, like wading through treacle.

The girl from before, the one that had found her in the Astronomy Tower.

Only—she looked different now. A little brighter. More relaxed. Hadn’t the Auror’s hair been brown not its current pale pink?

“Hi?” Hermione croaked, her voice raw and unsteady, her throat scraped from too many tears. She blinked hard, eyes scanning the stranger—except she didn’t feel like a stranger at all. Her presence was natural, familiar in a way Hermione couldn’t explain, as if she had always been meant to be here. There was no wrongness to her being at Hermione’s bedside, no unease. Just warmth. Safety. A connection that hummed beneath her skin, deep and inexplicable.

The Auror’s lips curled into something that was almost a smirk, though concern lingered in her sharp features. “Hi,” she echoed, before wrinkling her nose at their surroundings. “I’m sorry you woke up in this wretched place. You were a little…” She paused, as if searching for the right word, her expression shifting into a delicate frown. “A little upset.” Her lips pressed together like she was swallowing something bitter, something she didn’t quite know how to say. Her voice was light, teasing even, but there was something else beneath it—something more concerned than the playful tone the witch was obviously trying to go for.

“Upset?” Hermione repeated, her tone dry and humorous. “I’m sure my throat feeling like sandpaper and my eyes-as if they have been stuck with needles was just me being a little upset.” She rolled her eyes, but she found that her retort lacked its usual bite, sounding more like a quip than the self-depreciating jibe it had been intended as.

Dora chuckled, a warm rich sound that made something deep in Hermione’s chest relax, making her feel as if she could breathe easy once more after years of restriction. The witch’s hair shifted as she laughed-brightening, softening, changing – until it was no longer the muted colours she had worn up in the Tower but was now a vivid, playful pink. Hermione found that she much preferred the bright pink. The brown had been all wrong though Hermione couldn’t understand why exactly she felt confident in that conclusion. Yet oddly enough she did. The pop of colour seemed to fit the witch much better, the effortless almost unconscious transformation felt right for this witch, as if she was never meant for dull or boring.

“Fair, love. I can’t argue with that,” Dora conceded, a teasing lilt in her voice. But then her expression shifted, softening, growing more serious. “But… on a more serious note we need to talk about your blood results….” Hermione stiffened. The momentary relief she’d felt, the fleeting sense of normalcy, evaporating in an instant.

“I… I don’t know what happens now,” she whispered before Dora could continue speaking, turning away, as if avoiding her gaze could somehow shield her from the painful truth of it all.

Dora sighed, but it wasn’t frustrated or impatient—it was understanding, filled with a sympathy that only served to confuse the little brunette more. “I’d love to tell you that nothing has to change if you don’t want it to, love,” she murmured, voice gentler now. “But that’d be a lie.” Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. “Your biological family has been searching for you for fourteen years,” Dora continued, carefully measured, watching Hermione for any sign that she was pushing too hard.

“It’d be naive to think they aren’t impatiently waiting for the first opportunity they can get to see you.”

A heavy sigh escaped Hermione, and she rubbed clammy hands down her face, desperately searching for something—anything—that would make this feel less like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

But instead of answering the Auror, something in her shifted. A creeping sense of unease prickled at the back of her mind, her thoughts catching up to what her instincts had so easily accepted. She didn’t know this witch. She didn’t know who she was, why she had been in the tower, why she had stayed. It didn’t matter that Dora’s presence felt natural, like a missing piece Hermione had never realized was missing. It didn’t matter that, instinctively, she felt safer with her near than she had with anyone in a long time.

Because the truth was—she couldn’t… no, shouldn’t trust her.

Her expression hardened, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?” she asked, voice sharp with suspicion. “Why didn’t you just leave me in the tower? Or leave me here with the Medi-witch after you brought me in?”

She watched Dora’s every move, noting the subtle flinch at her accusatory tone. Hermione shouldn’t care that she had hurt her. But she did.

“I…” Dora started, then hesitated. Her features flickered with something unreadable before she shook her head. “I don’t know, honestly, Hermione. It’s all a bit of a muddle.” Her hair darkened to deep red as she waved a dismissive hand. “Maybe it’s best we don’t focus on that and just focus on your family.”

No.

No, she was not doing this again.

Hermione had spent her entire life being lied to. Being orphaned, abandoned, manipulated. Forced to accept whatever half-truths the so-called adults deemed appropriate to share with her, feeding her meagre scraps of truths that never quite added up. She was done being kept in the dark, being told what she should focus on while the truth was dangled just out of reach.

“No,” she snapped, her voice cold and sharp as glass.

Dora blinked, startled.

“I will not just focus on my family,” Hermione sneered, her temper flaring hot, curling around her exhausted mind like a storm. “I deserve an explanation as to why you—an Auror I have never met—sat by my bedside for hours and think you have the right to speak about my family like you know what’s going on with me.” Her hands clenched at her sides, her body taut with frustration.

She refused to look away, refused to back down. Confrontation might not have been her default preferring to hide in the background, but she was done letting people decide what she did and didn’t need to know from now on. And she was damn sure not letting this witch—who felt too much like something important—be another person who kept secrets from her.

The witch in question stared back, eyes flickering with something unreadable—conflicted, uncertain. But beneath it, Hermione saw the same reluctance, the same challenge she knew was reflected in her own gaze echoed back at her. For a long moment, neither of them moved, locked in a silent battle, neither willing to be the first to yield. Then, at last, Dora shut her eyes and tipped her head back with a long, measured breath. When she looked at Hermione again, something in her had softened—or maybe broken. The storm in her eyes was raw, unguarded in a way that made Hermione’s stomach twist, wholly unprepared for the storm of emotion she could see in the older witch’s gaze.

“Okay, love,” she murmured, and for the first time, she sounded tired—far more so than seamed natural for the witch. “But at the very least, let me ask my mum to help explain things. She understands the magic at play here far better than I do.” Hermione knew—knew—that Dora had only relented to placate her, but that didn’t stop the wave of gratitude that swelled in her chest. Not that she had any intention of letting the Auror see it.

She nodded stiffly, watching as Dora lifted her wand to cast her patronus. A moment later, a beautiful, shimmering, ethereal wolf burst forth, light and magic given form. Hermione inhaled sharply, her irritation momentarily forgotten as the magnificent creature bounded across the infirmary in a graceful arc, its presence powerful in a way she could barely begin to describe. It completed a circuit of the room before padding back to Dora’s side, pressing its head gently against her in greeting. Hermione had never seen a Patronus behave quite like that, with such affection. And then—it turned to her. For a second, she could only stare, frozen in place as the wolf approached, its luminous gaze meeting hers. Then, to her utter shock, it nudged her—softly, deliberately—rubbing its face against her shoulder as though she were familiar. As though it knew her. Something caught in her throat, too complex to name.

Dora sent it on its way after that, asking for her mother to come at her earliest convenience. There was something about the way she said it, formal yet playful, that made something clench in Hermione’s heart. How wonderful must it feel to be so at ease with your mother? To know that a simple ‘please come’ would have your mother beside you without question. Would she be able to do the same? Would her mother’s come to her whenever she called? Would they want her to call on them? And what of her sisters? Her Grandparent? Would they want her? Would she belong with them the way her peers did their families?

She barely had time to get lost in the thoughts buzzing around her mind before the Floo in Madame Pomfrey’s office roared to life redirecting her attention, green flames spilling light through the glass window that separated the infirmary from the healer’s office. A moment later, a figure stepped gracefully into the infirmary, moving with the kind of effortless grace and a presence that Hermione would recognize anywhere—because she had spent years trying to avoid the woman.

“You called, my girl?” The voice was rich, warm, affectionate and refined. Hermione’s breath caught. Her gaze snapped to Dora, her mind stumbling over itself as realization crashed down on her like a landslide.

Dora was a Lestrange?

Lady Andromeda Lestrange came to stand beside the Auror—her daughter—placing a gentle hand on her forearm before pressing a tender kiss to Dora’s left cheek in greeting. The gesture was simple, unremarkable even, yet it sent a sharp burst of longing through Hermione’s chest. She watched as the tension bled from Dora’s shoulders, her deep red hair shifting back to vivid pink as she instinctively leaned into her mother’s touch. Hermione looked away, feeling out of place in a way she hadn’t before. It was such a normal display of affection—comfort given; comfort received. And yet, for Hermione, it felt utterly foreign.

“Hermione, you know my mother, right?” Dora quipped, her teasing tone breaking the silence. Hermione’s eyes snapped back to her, rolling slightly before she fixed the Auror with an unimpressed glare. Of course, the woman would find her humour again in the presence of her mother.

“Of course we know each other, don’t we, little witch?” Andromeda answered smoothly, as though sensing Hermione’s reluctance to respond. The older woman’s voice carried an easy warmth, offering Hermione a moment’s reprieve—a moment to collect herself after the whirlwind of revelations that had just been thrown her way.

“Though as lovely as it is to see you awake,” Andromeda continued, tilting her head slightly, “why, exactly, have I been summoned?” Her sharp gaze flicked between Dora and Hermione. The younger witch hesitated, then turned to the Auror beside her. Dora, for her part, looked distinctly uncomfortable. She offered Hermione a sheepish smile before shifting her focus back to her mother.

“I was hoping you could explain to Hermione what is happening better than I could, Mum.” She rubbed the back of her neck nervously, her ears tinging red and her cheeks flushing. “I… didn’t want to get it wrong.” She murmured and Hermione couldn’t help but look at her curiously, wondering why she appeared so uneasy.

“Ahh,” Andromeda exhaled knowingly, conjuring a chair and settling beside her daughter. Hermione watched as both Lestrange women sat with the same effortless poise, mirroring each other in a way that made it glaringly obvious that this wasn’t some distant, estranged connection—this was family. Andromeda’s expression softened as she turned her attention back to Hermione as if she could sense the direction her thoughts had gone.

“Being a Pureblood,” she began, “is not, as many believe, simply about the ‘purity’ of one’s blood. It is a choice—a way of life. A series of traditions and practices meant to strengthen bonds, deepen magic, and preserve what we call Family Magiks. It is through these traditions that Lady Magic herself bestows her blessings upon those willing to honour them. That is why many of us hold our heritage with such pride.”

She paused, her lips pressing together briefly. “Of course, there are those who twist that ideology to fit their own agendas, but that is not what we will discuss today.” Despite herself, Hermione found she couldn’t look away. The woman spoke like a professor—light, informative, yet intriguing. Captivating her inner book worm wholeheartedly, keen to learn, to devour this bit of information.

“You,” Andromeda continued, meeting Hermione’s gaze directly, “are a Pureblood Veela. And with that comes gifts—gifts bestowed upon you by Lady Magic herself. I cannot explain everything to you, as the Veela are notoriously secretive about their nature, but what we must discuss today is what we refer to as the Veela bond.” Hermione felt her stomach twist. “The concept of a soulmate exists for witches and wizards, but for a Veela, it is… different. Deeper. More absolute.” Andromeda’s voice was calm, measured, but Hermione could see the slight furrow in her brow, as if she were carefully choosing her words. “For ordinary witches and wizards, love can be found in many places, at different times. A person may fall in love with more than one person throughout their lifetime, and that love may shift or fade.”

“A Veela, however, has only one true match. The other half of their soul. This bond is not bound by time—it can form at any point in a Veela’s life. Some find their match early, others much later. You, my dear, fall into the former category.” Hermione’s mind reeled, struggling to keep up, dread forming in the pit of her stomach. Andromeda studied her closely. “I have suspected for some time that there was a link between you and my family,” she admitted. “We discussed this years ago, did we not?” Hermione’s breath caught even as she nodded at the older woman in confirmation. Her mind flitted back to her first year—recalling the strange conversation she’d had with this very woman in this very place. How could she have ever of forgotten that moment. Andromeda had spoken of protection, of feeling a need to watch over her, nurture her. Of not understanding why she felt so strongly for the muggle born. It was the night she had promised to be there for her.

She had dismissed it then. Not believing the witch or her false promises. She wanted to dismiss it now.

But she somehow knew she couldn’t. Because as much as she resented being in this woman’s presence… Andromeda had not been wrong about the pull between them. Some small, deeply buried part of Hermione had always felt a draw toward her. A quiet sense of safety that she couldn’t ever explain and certainly resented herself for.

“Despite our tumultuous relationship, little witch,” Andromeda said lightly, meaningfully, “the urge to protect you has never faded for me—no matter how many times you ignored or dismissed my attempts to know you.” Hermione stiffened. There it was. Her tone was light and factual, but she could hear the quiet accusation and hurt hidden beneath the older woman’s words. A pang of guilt settled in her stomach, simmering uncomfortably but she quickly shook her head, shoving the unwanted feeling down. She was not the one who had failed here. Andromeda Lestrange had promised to be there for her. And yet, during second year—when Hermione had been lying, quite literally petrified on a bed in the infirmary for months—the woman had not come. Not even once. Merely sending her baseless apologies through the schools resident Medi-witch. Hermione turned away from her, still listening, but acutely aware that her own magic was beginning to pulse within her veins, echoing the erratic rhythm of her heartbeat as she sat listening to the woman’s words.

“When I was here earlier today..” Hermione snapped her head around to look at Andromeda once more, unable to hide the disbelief as it flashed across her face.

“I called her when I brought you to the infirmary,” Dora admitted hesitantly, rubbing the back of her neck once more. “I remember Mum telling me about you before, and I figured… you’d want someone sort of familiar here while we figured out what had happened.” She looked both hopeful and apologetic, her expression oddly reminiscent of a guilty pup trying to worm its way out of trouble. Her eyes were sheepish, sad and repentant all at once in a way that had the younger brunette deflating. Hermione sighed, some of her irritation unconsciously fading, the auror’s look effective in dispelling the ire she had initially felt.

Hermione nodded at her hesitantly, before turning back to Andromeda. Though already her mind had begun to piece together the information the woman was giving her. She wasn’t certain she wanted to know, but that part of her who had been lied to and kept in the dark for far too long, refused to back away from the truth.

Whatever it was, Hermione would survive it. She always did.

“When I arrived,” Andromeda continued, “I saw the way my Nymphadora reacted to you—the way she protected you. And more importantly, the way you, even in sleep, sought out her hand. Clung to her.” Hermione felt a strange sort of dread settle in her stomach. “I cannot confirm anything,” Andromeda admitted, “not until you come into your inheritance, or I have spoken to your mothers. But if my suspicions are correct—and I am never wrong—” Hermione snorted before she could stop herself. Lady Lestrange sounded horribly like her nephew – Draco Malfoy as she spoke, her tone haughty and almost arrogant.

Draco often sounded as arrogant and self-assured as the older brunette did in that moment.  

Surprisingly Lady Lestrange smiled warmly at her outburst. “Do tell what is so amusing to you young one?” She asked, raising an immaculate eyebrow at her and Hermione couldn’t help but actively giggle this time.

Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. A mixture between nervousness and true humour threatening to send her into hysteria. “You just… you sounded like Draco for a moment.” Dora let out a snort of laughter joining the younger brunette in her amusement, her hair flashing through a series of bright colours before settling back into vivid pink.

Andromeda, to Hermione’s surprise, smirked. “I shall try to curb that. I would hate to sound like my dear nephew—especially when he insists on acting so much like his tepid father.” She quipped back and Hermione let out an actual laugh then, something warm and unexpected unfurling in her chest. All three witches momentarily lost in their own mirth. It had been a long time since Hermione had truly let herself laugh with anyone that wasn’t Cho, and quietly it felt a little freeing. Something she would have to analyse later when she got a moment alone.

But all too soon, Andromeda’s expression sobered. “Back on topic,” she said, drawing their attention back to their previous discussion. All traces of humour bleeding from their faces. “If I am right… when the time comes for you to inherit your Veela nature, my Nymphadora is likely to be your true match.” Hermione froze. Her heart beating loudly in her ears. She could tell the woman was waiting for her to respond, to react in some way to the revelation.

Truthfully Hermione didn’t know how to react. She was only fourteen, Nymphadora was a fully fledged Auror, an adult. Let alone she had never even thought of dating or been attracted to anyone. Nor did she want to be. Not yet at least.

“I..” Hermione began, feeling a little bewildered, unsure how to respond.

“It’s not like that,” Dora interrupted, her voice firm, stopping Hermione’s panic in its tracks. “I think Mum’s right. I feel the bond between us. It’s there for me. But it’s not like that, not romantic at least.” She repeated her tone decisive.

"And I should hope it isn’t—at least, not yet," Andromeda said, her voice measured, but carrying the unmistakable weight of certainty. "Your mothers will be able to explain it in far greater detail than I, but understand this, little witch—Nymphadora being your true soulmate does not mean your fate has already been sealed into something you cannot control. Soulmates are not bound by the simplistic notions of romance that so many assume. Rather, it is much more than that, what this connection signifies is that your magic and Nymphadora’s recognize one another, that you are tethered by forces beyond mere coincidence. Lady Magic, in her infinite wisdom, has deemed that you are meant to walk this path together, that you need each other. Your magic and Nymphadora’s magic are the perfect balance to one another, as is your hearts. What that truly means, how it manifests with one another, is something that only the two of you can dictate."

She paused, allowing Hermione the space to absorb her words before continuing, her voice now tinged with a quiet reverence. "My educated guess however would be that any depth of romantic inclination, if it is meant to be, will not come into play until you are of age, until your magic fully awakens, and until you are both ready. Lady Magic would not twist or tarnish that which is meant to be pure. She would never allow something sacred to be corrupted by ill timing."

Despite herself, Hermione exhaled, some of the tightness in her chest loosening, though her mind remained a whirlwind of thoughts. The sheer enormity of it all—being Veela, having a soulmate, and the implications of what that meant—coupled with the monstrousness of finding out who her biological family are, that she may have been stolen was almost too much to take in at once. But at the very least, she had been given one certainty: the bond she supposedly shared with the auror would be what they made it, despite it being something she did not yet understand fully.

Even so, her innate hunger for knowledge refused to let the matter rest. Already, she was mentally cataloguing everything she would need to research—Lady Magic, soulmates, the Veela connection, the elusive and seemingly impenetrable principles of Family Magiks. There was too much she did not yet know, too many pieces still missing, and Hermione had never been one to settle for half-answers.

"Now, about your parents," Andromeda spoke again, changing topics to the one she considered most pressing, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant—a stark contrast to the usual impenetrable air she carried. It was rare to hear uncertainty from Lady Lestrange, and the shift in her tone only made Hermione’s stomach twist tighter.

Hermione swallowed, her fingers curling into the blanket draped over her lap as she stared at her hands. She blinked repeatedly, as if trying to will herself into composure, but the words slipped out before she could stop them, raw and aching.

"I don’t even know what to say to them," she whispered. "I mean... do they even want me?" Had she looked up, she would have seen the way both Lestrange women flinched, the quiet devastation that flickered across their faces. But she didn’t. She kept her eyes trained on her hands, as if they might hold the answer she so desperately needed.

"Of course they want to see you," Andromeda said at once, her voice firm, though not unkind. "They have been outside this wing from the moment I informed them you were here. They would be in this room if not for Madame Pomfrey’s strict orders and Nymphadora’s insistence that them all being in here when you woke would be far too much for you after everything you have endured." Her tone one of absolute certainty.

Hermione exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together, something between relief and fear battling in her chest.

They were here. Right outside the door.

"You can’t hide from them, Hermione," Dora murmured, her voice thick with understanding.

Hermione wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that she could, in fact, hide from them. That she would, if given the chance. If she still had the time-turner from last year, she might have used it—might have spun it back, seconds, minutes, hours, days—until she found a way to undo everything. To erase the inheritance test, to wipe this revelation from existence before it had the chance to crush her beneath its weight.

But she didn’t have that luxury.

Her parents were waiting. And she wasn’t sure she was ready.

How could she be? How did you prepare to meet the people who had given you life, only to lose you? The ones who had been waiting for years, searching, longing, hoping—while you had grown up believing they had never wanted you, that you had been discarded? Abandoned and forgotten about like a dirty little secret?

She clenched her hands in her lap, fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of her robes that her knuckles ached.

She didn’t know what to say to them. Didn’t know if she even could say anything. What if they were disappointed? What if she wasn’t what they had imagined? What if they looked at her and saw nothing of the daughter they had lost—only a stranger wearing her name? What if they realised that she wasn’t worth the heartache they had supposedly felt all these years?

A warm hand covered her own, steady and grounding. Hermione startled, glancing up through the tangled curtain of frizz that had fallen into her face. Andromeda Lestrange was watching her, gaze softer than Hermione had ever seen it.

“I can stay with you,” the older witch offered, her voice quiet, careful. “Or Nymphadora can, while you meet them for the first time.”

Hermione swallowed, her throat tight. She should say no. After all, hadn’t this woman already proven that Hermione couldn’t rely on her. She should tell them she could handle it by herself. Just like she had handled everything by herself. But the truth was, she wasn’t sure she could. Not this time. Not when the weight of what was to come felt like it was crushing her from the inside out.

Andromeda’s fingers tightened slightly around her own, an anchor. “I know this feels overwhelming,” she murmured. “And I know you’re afraid. But I promise you, little witch, you are wanted. You always have been.” She hesitated, as though choosing her next words with care. “It is not my place to tell you your history, but I need you to understand this—you were so loved. Your family never stopped looking for you. Never stopped hoping to bring you home.”

The words landed somewhere deep inside her, in a place she had kept locked away for years, where all the quiet longing and unspoken wishes of her childhood had been buried.

Wanted. Loved. It was all she had ever wanted to be.

Andromeda’s words echoed Ragnok’s from earlier, and despite the fear still clawing at her insides, despite the wariness she had always felt towards the older woman, Hermione found herself looking up, searching her face for any sign of dishonesty.

There was none.

Her breath shuddered as she exhaled, her fingers twitching slightly against Andromeda’s. A moment later, she made her choice.

“Can you and Dora both stay?” The question was barely more than a whisper, fragile and uncertain, but it carried more weight than Hermione could comprehend. Because despite her hesitance towards this woman, despite her lack of knowledge regarding Dora and their bond, Hermione didn’t have it in her to brave this one alone.

Andromeda’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile, and something in her expression softened even further.

Dora, who had been quiet up until now, reached out, her grip firm and reassuring as she took Hermione’s other hand. “I’ll stay with you for an eternity, love,” she promised, and her voice was warm, teasing—but beneath the jest, there was something unshakable. A vow. A promise, unspoken but no less weighted.

Hermione swallowed past the lump in her throat.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, despite the fear still thrumming beneath her skin, despite the uncertainty looming ahead—she didn’t feel quite so alone. Maybe—just maybe—this wouldn’t be as terrible as she feared.

“When you’re ready, young one,” Andromeda said gently, settling back in her chair, her presence a quiet reassurance, “I will bring them in.” smiling gently as she settled back into her chair, content to watch over her family as the youngest among them took a moment to gather herself.

Hermione took a slow, steadying breath. Before nodding.

She could do this.

She had to.

~~~~~~~~~~

~Narcissa Delacour’s POV~

~Beauxbatons Carriage, Hogwarts Courtyard~

~Thursday 7^th of September 1995~

Narcissa Delacour had once considered herself invincible, untouchable in her power, her wealth and her infallibility. She was the heiress of the House of Malfoy, after all. She and her twin brother – Lucius - had never known reason to fear those considered beneath them, nor had they ever had reason to question their superiority over others. Their father was a cruel man, but their mother—oh, their mother—had been the epitome of grace and light. A vision of perfection that, even now, Narcissa strove to emulate. Her mother had been the buffer needed between their father’s cold cruelty and the children who had adored him. Shielding them from the worst of his torment. Yes, he had on occasion shown them care but her father like many Pure – Blood men had been swept up in the ‘epidemic’ that had been the influx of squib births and muggle – born children entering the wizarding world. Belvina Malfoy had been everything to Narcissa as a girl and she had hung off her mother’s every word in lessons.

From the moment she could lift her head, her mother had taught her exactly what was expected of a scion of the Malfoy name. How to carry herself, how to command a room with a mere glance, how to wield power with a whisper rather than a shout. How to bring a Wizard down with magic and elegance that were passed from mother to daughter.

But all the training in the world had not prepared her for having her daughter so cruelly ripped from her. Nor had it prepared her for the loathing she couldn’t help but feel towards herself for letting it happen. She had been the one at home, tending to their daughters while her wife was out working, providing for their family while working to better the international relationship’s their ministry held. She had been the one entrusted with their safety. And yet, it was she who had failed them.

It was she that had failed to protect them from the monster that lingered in the night, failed to keep them safe.

It was she that had allowed Albus Dumbledore—though she hadn’t known it was him at the time—to slip into her home, invade the sanctuary where her children had been born, and steal her youngest right from beneath her. He had murdered a loyal house-elf in cold blood, leaving behind nothing but an empty crib and devastation. The harm he had inflicted upon her family was irreparable, a wound that no amount of time could mend.

Her family had never once blamed her for Adharia’s abduction. They never would. But Narcissa would forever carry the weight of her failure deep in her soul, the unbearable guilt of knowing she had not been there when her innocent little girl had needed her most drowned her most days. Scarring her heart with a wound so deep it had never healed. Nor would it.

They had exhausted every resource, again and again since the day their daughter had been stolen, chasing hope only to be met with dead ends and the painfully devastated looks on their other two daughters faces each time they had failed to find their sister. And with each disappointment, each tear her family shed, another piece of Narcissa’s heart had shattered. What remained of it, she poured into the daughters still within her grasp—showering Fleur and Gabrielle with all the love, strength, and guidance she had left to give.

For fourteen years, she and her wife had done the only thing they could—survive- as best they could. Haunted by the memory of beautiful blue eyes they had never gotten the chance to truly know. Milestones and memories stolen from them. Each birthday, each Christmas that passed was another reminder of absence, another day spent mourning a loss they had never been able to escape.

Then her mother in law had called them to Hogwarts, an urgency in her tone that both witches had identified immediately.

She had spoken of a bond rekindled, of a certainty that their lost daughter was close—within the very walls of the castle where Narcissa herself had spent some of her happiest youthful days. And from the moment they arrived, neither she nor Apolline had been able to bring themselves to leave.

Olympe had graciously extended them sanctuary, offering the privacy of their daughter’s wing within Beauxbatons’ enchanted carriage. It was a small mercy, but an immense relief to know they would not be torn away from their girls. A greater relief still to know that, at long last, they would never again have to leave Britain without all of their children by their side—as it should have been from the very beginning.

Yet, even as hope flickered back to life, guilt followed swiftly in its wake.

Adharia was here. Alive. So close. And with that knowledge came a crushing fear that had lingered, unspoken, in the depths of Narcissa’s heart for years.

What if their baby did not want to know them?

What if she blamed Narcissa for failing her?

What if she chose to remain apart from the family that had spent fourteen years shattered in her absence?

It was too much.

The moment she and Apolline were safely ensconced within the walls of their temporary bedroom within the carriage, the door closed tight behind them, Narcissa had crumbled. The elegant, impenetrable mask she had worn for decades—one sculpted from marble and honed by years of expectation—shattered beneath the weight of emotion she could no longer contain. Her mother would have been appalled, rolling in her grave at such an unseemly display, but for the first time in her life, Narcissa found she cared very little for her mother’s ideas regarding propriety of an heiress’ conduct.

Not now. Not here.

Here, within these walls, surrounded by the only person who had carried this unbearable grief alongside her, she was safe to break. Safe to grieve. Safe to feel.

Apolline said nothing—she didn’t have to. She simply pulled her into her arms, holding her as she had so many times before, as if she could keep the pieces of her together through sheer force of will. And Narcissa let her.

They clung to one another in silence, their sobs muffled against silk and lace, their bodies trembling with the weight of years lost, of nights spent staring into the abyss of what-ifs, of aching, unanswered prayers. Fear gripped them still, but hope burned alongside it—an ember reignited after so many years of suffocating in the dark.

By morning, there was no time left for tears. Their carefully laid plans had been set into motion, and all they could do now was wait.

The waiting was agony.

While their daughters went off to class, the adults remained behind, pacing the carriage in restless silence. Every minute felt like an eternity, every breath laced with anticipation and dread.

Then evening came, and with it, the news they had all longed for and feared would never come in equal measure. Fleur and Gabrielle had returned, their eyes alight with certainty—they had found her. Their sister. Their Adharia. Narcissa’s breath had caught in her throat, her heart slamming against her ribs as she took in the sheer conviction in her daughters’ voices. They had known instantly. Had felt it in their bones, in their very magic. An insistent connection that had snapped out to meet hers the minute they had lain eyes on one another.

But joy was a fleeting thing.

Because as Fleur and Gabrielle recounted their encounter, the elation in the room gave way to something heavier, something far more fragile.

“She was terrified,” Fleur whispered, her voice barely holding together. “Ari, She ran from us.” Fleur’s voice sounded so broken, so young in the moment that Narcissa was unwillingly taken back to that awful night when their daughter had been taken, and the broken whispered words of her darling eldest crying out for her little sister.

Gabrielle’s lip trembled as she nodded, eyes glassy. “She looked at us as if we were strangers. As if we meant her harm.”

Narcissa felt her heart crack, the sound of it deafening in her ears. Oh, darling what did they do to you, she thought brokenly.

Her baby. Her stolen child. The daughter she had dreamed of holding again—had longed to shower with love and protection—had looked upon her own sisters with fear. Had fled from them.

The image seared itself into Narcissa’s mind, unrelenting in its cruelty.

This was her fault. No matter how many times Apolline whispered otherwise, no matter how many reassurances were offered—deep down, she knew.

She should have protected her. She should have found her sooner. Now, after years of searching, of waiting, of aching for this moment—her daughter was finally within reach and Narcissa had no idea how she could ever repay failing her.

However, Narcissa didn’t have the luxury of wallowing in her own regrets, nor could she afford to be consumed by the storm of emotions threatening to pull her under. Not now. Not when, just beyond the door they stood behind, was her baby girl.

The daughter she had spent years searching for.

The daughter she had mourned, even as she clung to hope.

The daughter who had been stolen from her arms and had grown up a stranger to them all.

They had received word from an old friend—an unexpected ally. How Andromeda had gotten herself entangled in all of this, Narcissa neither knew nor particularly cared. None of it mattered. Not right now. Not when the only thing standing between her and her child was a single set of doors and the torturous passage of time.

So here they were. Waiting.

Apolline and Amilie paced the narrow stone corridor outside the infirmary, their movements restless, frantic. The tension in their shoulders, the tightness in their jaws, the sheer fire in their eyes—it was clear their inner Veela’s were wide awake, prowling just beneath the surface, impatient and unwilling to be denied any longer.

Fleur and Gabrielle sat huddled together, fingers laced so tightly their knuckles had gone white. Neither had spoken in some time, each staring at separate, meaningless spots on the wall, their lips trembling as they fought to keep their emotions in check. It was an admirable attempt, but Narcissa saw the truth in their eyes. The fear. The hope. The agony of waiting and she longed to erase the heartache she knew they were feeling.

And Adharia—her mother-in-law—stood beside them all, an unmovable pillar of quiet strength. Her sharp gaze swept over the corridor in steady, watchful arcs, as though expecting some unseen threat to appear at any moment. Ever the warrior, ever the protector.

They had been here for hours.

Denied entry by Madame Pomfrey. Blocked by Andromeda’s child—Nymphadora, the young Auror who had proven surprisingly steadfast in the face of Narcissa’s icy glares.

“She needs time,” the girl had said firmly, unwavering despite the sheer force of Narcissa’s displeasure. “Waking up surrounded by strangers—family or not—isn’t in Adharia’s best interests.”

Strangers.

The word had settled over them all like a curse, cutting deeper than Narcissa would ever admit aloud.

It had perturbed her greatly, the thought of anyone—anyone—denying her access to her own daughter after all this time. After years of aching for her, of wondering, of fearing the worst.

And yet…

Begrudgingly, she had accepted the Auror’s words.

Because as much as it pained her, as much as it went against every instinct screaming at her to push past that door and reclaim her child—Narcissa knew that if she forced this, if she demanded what she had every right to—she might just drive her daughter further away.

And after everything, that was a risk she could not afford to take. No matter how painful it was.

Just as Narcissa could see the last threads of Apolline’s patience fraying, the doors to the infirmary finally swung open with a quiet creak. The movement was small, almost hesitant, but it was enough to make all six women in the corridor freeze, their breath catching in collective anticipation.

And then, Andromeda stepped out.

For a brief, jarring moment, Narcissa felt as though she had been transported back in time—because standing before her, in the dim candlelight of the castle corridors, was Bellatrix.

The resemblance had always been there, of course. They were sisters, after all. But now, after all these years apart, it struck Narcissa in a way it never had before. The sharp lines of her face, the unmistakable Black features, the way her dark curls framed her face in a manner eerily similar to the way Bellatrix’s once had. It was enough to send a phantom pain through her chest.

Memories stirred unbidden. Hogwarts, when they were young—when it had been the three of them: Bellatrix, and Narcissa, with a younger Andromeda in tow. Andromeda, ever the mischievous one, trailing after them, laughing too loudly, never quite as composed as she and Bellatrix were.

Narcissa had been overjoyed when Bellatrix’s engagement to her twin had been announced. Thrilled that they would always remain close, bound by more than just friendship. They would be family. Even when it was clear that Bellatrix cared little for her fiancé, Narcissa had consoled herself with the thought that, at the very least, they would always have each other.

And they had.

For a time.

Until they didn’t.

Bellatrix’s imprisonment had been a wound Narcissa hadn’t been prepared for, and Andromeda’s marriage into the Lestrange family had only complicated matters further. The younger witch had drifted slightly from their once-tight-knit group, and after Bellatrix’s incarceration, the distance between them had only grown. But even then, Andromeda had always been one of Narcissa’s favourite people when they were young.

And now here she was—standing between Narcissa and her daughter.

“Adharia is awake,” Andromeda began, her voice gentle but firm, her dark eyes sweeping over them all, “and she has agreed to meet you.”

A sharp, collective inhale echoed through the corridor. Fleur and Gabrielle clutched each other’s hands even tighter, Amilie and Apolline straightened with barely restrained urgency, and Narcissa—Narcissa felt her entire body go rigid, her heart hammering against her ribs.

They moved as one, the six of them surging forward without hesitation—only to be halted in their tracks by Andromeda’s raised hand.

“She is terrified and exhausted and has been through entirely too much for one so young” she continued, her voice laced with an unmistakable edge of protectiveness. A protectiveness that did not go unnoticed. Narcissa’s eyes flickered to Apolline instinctively, searching for confirmation that she wasn’t imagining things. Her wife met her gaze, subtle but knowing, a silent message exchanged between them. She noticed it too.

“She has asked that Nymphadora, and I remain with her.” Andromeda’s tone left no room for argument, though there was a quiet sympathy in her expression.

Apolline nodded, her grip on Narcissa’s hand tightening just slightly—silent reassurance, silent understanding. No words were needed between them; they had always been each other’s anchor. Behind them, their daughters and Apolline’s parents fell into step, moving as one. A family united, even in their uncertainty.

“Thank you, Andromeda, for being there for her,” Apolline murmured, her voice gentle yet tinged with something deeper—something raw.

Gratitude, yes. But also, pain.

Because Andromeda had been there for their daughter when they hadn’t.

Narcissa could feel it in her wife’s posture, in the way her thumb absently traced patterns against her palm. She felt it in herself, too—a bitter mix of appreciation and resentment, not directed at Andromeda, but at the circumstances that had led them here.

It should have been them.

They should have been the ones to comfort her, to guide her, to protect her from the nightmares she had surely faced. Instead, they were strangers to her, and that knowledge settled like lead in Narcissa’s stomach.

As they stepped into the room, Narcissa braced herself, though for what, she wasn’t entirely sure.

She had envisioned this moment countless times over the years. Imagined a million different scenarios, each one playing out in her mind like a desperate plea to the universe. Would Adharia run to them? Would she cry? Would she recognize them on some instinctual level, the way a child always knew its mother?

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared her for what she saw.

A fragile-looking girl perched on the edge of the infirmary bed, her small frame rigid with tension, her fingers twisted into the fabric of the blanket draped over her lap. Wide, honey-brown eyes darted between them, shimmering with unshed tears, her breathing uneven—each inhale sharp, each exhale unsteady.

She was afraid.

No, terrified.

The fear clung to her like a second skin, so palpable that it sent a sharp ache through Narcissa’s chest.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Her baby girl—her Adharia—was supposed to feel safe with them, not look as though she were moments away from bolting.

And yet…

Even through the overwhelming wave of sorrow that threatened to consume her, Narcissa couldn’t help but take in every detail of the girl before her. She was nothing like what Narcissa had imagined.

No Veela ice-blue eyes. No long, silken blonde hair.

Instead, warm brown irises stared back at her, framed by thick lashes, her wild chocolate curls cascading over her shoulders.

Glamour, her mind supplied.

Dumbledore had hidden her. Of course, he had. Veela genetics were unmistakable, a glaring beacon of identity. Unglamoured, even as an infant, Adharia would have stood out in a crowd. It made sense—too much sense—but that didn’t ease the sharp, burning sense of betrayal curling in Narcissa’s gut.

Her daughter had been stolen from her.

Hidden.

Raised without them.

And now, here she was—so close Narcissa could reach out and touch her yet feeling impossibly far away.

~~~~~~~~~

~Hermione’s POV ~

~Hogwarts Infirmary~

~Thursday 7^th September 1995~

As Andromeda left the room to bring in her long-lost family, Hermione's mind raced, a frantic drumbeat of fear and desperation pounding through her skull. Her eyes flickered toward the Floo, calculating the distance, assessing the likelihood of making it past the pure-blooded sentry stationed beside her. If she were fast enough—if she could just get there before the door opened—maybe she could disappear, just for a little while. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to pretend none of this was happening.

But then there was Dora.

Seated beside her, the older witch was unnervingly perceptive, her sharp gaze pinned to Hermione with quiet understanding. It was the look of someone who knew—who felt—the storm raging beneath Hermione’s carefully constructed walls. Sympathy, yes, but also a kind of wary attentiveness, as if she were bracing for an explosion she couldn’t stop but would be damned if she let Hermione face alone.

And maybe she was right to watch her so closely.

Because Hermione wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold herself together.

Her fingers clenched into the blanket draped over her lap, knuckles white with the force of her grip. Her breath came shallow and uneven, a battle between control and panic. Every nerve in her body was on edge, every instinct screaming at her to run, to hide, to make herself small, unseen—just as she had done for so many years. Just as she had learned to do to survive.

But there was no hiding from this.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the infirmary corridor, sharp and deliberate. Each click of a heel against the stone floor sent another jolt of terror racing through her, tightening around her throat like an invisible noose.

They were coming.

Her family was coming.

A family she had once convinced herself had never wanted her. A family she had resented in the quiet, lonely corners of her heart. And yet… something deep within her stirred at their approach. An invisible pull, a whisper of something ancient and inescapable. A bond.

It terrified her.

She didn’t understand it, didn’t trust it. It should have felt more, should have overwhelmed her senses like the warmth of a home she had never known. But instead, it was muted, distant—like reaching for something she wasn’t entirely sure existed.

What if it wasn’t real?

What if they weren’t real?

What if they saw her and regretted ever searching for her?

What if they looked at her—this broken, battle-worn girl who had spent her life fighting for a place that never truly welcomed her—and decided she wasn’t worth it after all?

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet Dora’s gaze.

The other witch squeezed her hand, steady and unwavering, grounding her.

Whatever happened next, she wouldn’t face it alone.

The only question was, when the door opened, would those who entered condemn her?

Or finally—finally—save her?

Just then, Andromeda stepped back into sight, her elegant features once more composed behind a carefully practiced mask. The only sign of emotion was the way her hands remained tightly clasped in front of her, as if restraining herself from reaching out.

But Hermione’s gaze didn’t linger on Andromeda.

Her breath hitched as her eyes locked on the figures behind her.

Two women led the way, hands intertwined in an unbreakable grip. One possessed eyes of an impossible ice blue, the other a stormy grey, both gazes fixed on her as if she were a miracle—a long-lost oasis in a desert of sorrow. Tears traced silent paths down their cheeks, yet they made no move to wipe them away.

They were breathtaking. Ethereal.

Were these her mothers’?

The thought struck her like lightning, sharp and searing. Magic surged in the air between them, reaching, grasping, desperate to bridge the gap. Hermione felt it—felt them—but the moment her own magic responded, something twisted, something recoiled. The bond, once straining toward them, dulled, receding into uncertainty. Like a frightened animal unsure whether to trust an outstretched hand.

Something was wrong.

An insistent voice screamed at the back of her mind, clawing for attention, warning her. But of what? Why did it feel as if something inside her was…misaligned? Fractured?

A shrill buzzing overtook her senses, drowning out everything else. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, frantic and uneven. The walls of the infirmary—sterile, clinical, suffocating—began to close in, pressing against her chest, tightening like iron bands.

She couldn’t breathe.

The air was too thick, too sharp, every inhale like swallowing glass. Her vision blurred at the edges.

She was going to die.

She was going to die right here, in front of them. Her long-lost family would have to watch as she suffocated under the weight of their reunion, under the ghosts of a life stolen from her.

Why couldn’t she breathe?

Why couldn’t she breathe?

Her vision swam, the entire room moving - tilting and twisting as if the world itself had been thrown off its axis. She had no control—no sense of safety—just the unbearable weight of panic crushing her chest with each desperate breath. Her hands, unsteady and desperate, clawed at her throat, fumbling with the stupid blue tie that felt like a noose tightening with every gasping, failing attempt to draw breath into her burning lungs. Her mouth opened and closed, a vain attempt to call for help. She was soundless, voiceless, drowning in the emptiness between each shallow inhale.

Help.

She tried to call out—to plead, to beg—but no words came. Her mind screamed, terror clawing through her skull. Her lungs screamed louder, raw with their demand for air.

And then—suddenly—hands. Firm, steady hands on her shoulders, anchoring her, their grip firm. Safe. A scent—warm, familiar, overwhelming in its comfort—wrapped around her senses, seeping into the cracks of her crumbling composure. It was home and safety and something else, something deeper, something she couldn’t name. Her starved lungs spasmed, as she inhaled instinctively, the scent pulling her from the void like a rope tied around her soul. Her lungs greedy and desperate.

Cool fingers found her own, intertwining with her shaking, clammy hand, pressing her palm flat against a steady, unwavering heartbeat. “Breathe.” The voice was low, gentle. A sanctuary in the storm. A command wrapped in kindness. Hermione’s spinning mind latched onto it, desperate for something—anything—to ground her.

“That’s it, baby, breathe.” The voice - So sure. So warm. So certain. A shuddering gasp wrenched itself from her lips. Her lungs, finally remembering their purpose, fought their way back to a rhythm that no longer burned, one more practical and necessary. No longer suffocating.

And with each slow, measured breath, the world gradually stopped spinning, beginning to settle around her. The crushing weight on her chest began to lift, but the tears still flowed freely, warm streaks fell against her chilled skin. With great effort, Hermione forced herself to look up at the one who had pulled her back from the brink – her saviour. Sea-blue eyes, deep and endless, met hers—filled with something vast and real. Steady. Unshakable.

Golden hair cascaded over the soft green of the woman’s dress robes, strands catching the light as if spun from the very sun itself. The cool fingers that had steadied her now traced feather-light over her cheek, that same hand guiding her forward, until their foreheads touched.

Hermione dared not move. Her chest still rose and fell unevenly, her body trembling with the aftershocks of panic, but she was held firm in that gaze, in the silent reassurance it carried.

“Well done, my girl. Just keep breathing with me.” The words, a whisper against her cool skin, sent a strange, foreign sense of pride curling up her spine. She couldn’t remember having ever felt any amount of pride directed at her. Let alone directed at her so softly, so genuinely. So, she complied. A breath in. A breath out. Her rhythm fell in sync with the woman in front of her, their hands still clasped over the steady, unyielding beat of her heart—thump, thump, thump—a quiet anchor in the storm.

Her magic, which had felt so very wild and frantic, pulsing with fear and confusion, now curled around her like a blanket on a crisp autumn night. For a moment, Hermione allowed herself to simply be. Nothing more. Her steadfast focus on her breathing. On the warmth emanating from the woman in front of her. On the soft, steady heartbeat beneath her palm,

As if sensing the way Hermione's breathing had evened out, the woman in front of her smiled—proud and warm, though something else lingered in her gaze. A sadness Hermione didn’t understand, a grief that didn’t belong to her yet settled deep in her bones all the same.

“I’m going to move out of your space now, my darling.” The words were spoken with the same tenderness as before, but their meaning hit like a physical blow. Hermione blinked, sluggish in her comprehension.

Move away?

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure she meant it. Her hands snapped back to her lap, pale fingers twisting into the soft fabric of the blanket draped over her legs, grasping at it as though it could anchor her. As though it could replace the steady heartbeat she had clung to only moments before.

With each step the woman took away from her, the warmth faded, replaced by a creeping, familiar uncertainty. The same gut-wrenching loneliness that had kept her company all her life slithered back in, curling around her ribs like iron chains.

Silence settled thick and heavy over the room. Nine people—nine strangers, though the word felt wrong—watched one another with unreadable expressions, the air between them charged with all that had been lost, all that had been stolen. A thousand agonized screams, a thousand tainted memories hovered between them, unspoken, unheard—unanswered.

Hermione swallowed hard, forcing herself to look at them, to truly see the family that had spent years searching for her. And Merlin, they were beautiful.

Unreal, almost. Ethereal in a way that made her feel small, out of place, wrong. Their fair hair and luminous skin seemed to glow in the dim lighting of the infirmary, a stark contrast to the wild, unruly curls that framed Hermione’s face.

She looked down at her hands—freckled, pale but not nearly as fair as theirs.

She looked nothing like them.

The thought lodged itself in her chest, twisting cruelly, sharp as broken glass.

Her magic curled inward, retreating, cautious.

This was her family.

And yet, she had never felt more like an outsider in her entire life. It was as if the very air in the room were laced with a sense of otherness, a subtle but undeniable dissonance between her and them. Her magic, her features—they felt wrong, out of sync with the world she had always known. Their elegance, their grace, their effortless beauty—it was as though she didn’t belong in their presence, as if she had stumbled into a world that wasn’t meant for someone like her.

But despite the overwhelming certainty that something was amiss, Hermione’s mind refused to make sense of it. The sharp clarity that had always been her greatest strength—her intellect, her ability to see through the fog of confusion—now spiralled into a whirlpool of half-formed thoughts. She grasped for answers, but they slipped away like water through her fingers, leaving her drowning in her own questions.

Then came the words—soft, barely above a whisper, but they sliced through the thick air around her, landing with a finality that made her heart skip a beat.

“We believe you have been deliberately Glamoured, your magic caged.”

In the silence that followed, those words echoed in Hermione’s mind like an explosion. They were so quiet, so gentle, yet they might as well have been shouted across the Quidditch pitch by Dean Thomas with one of his ridiculously loud magically-enhanced megaphones. Every syllable rang with a clarity so intense it nearly stunned her.

Glamoured. Caged.

She hadn’t realized it until now, but the weight of it hit her like a physical blow. All this time, the magic that should have been hers, that should have felt like an extension of herself, had been locked away, smothered beneath layers of an illusion she hadn’t even known existed.

And if her magic had been caged...

What else had they done to her? What else had she been denied?

It made sense in an obvious, instinctual sort of way—like a puzzle piece clicking into place, yet leaving behind a hollow sort of ache. Her magic, though calmer now, still stretched outward, reaching for something it knew should be there, only to recoil, confused and rejected. It was like grasping at the edges of a memory just out of reach, a truth hidden in plain sight that everyone else could see but her. The magic surrounding her family whispered of recognition, of belonging, yet hers remained muted, restrained—caged.

“When you’re ready, we would like to remove the magic that has been used on you, little one.” The voice was new, smooth and elegant, carrying with it an undeniable authority wrapped in warmth. Hermione’s eyes flickered toward the speaker—an older woman, her beauty almost otherworldly in the stark sterility of the infirmary. Her long, silken blonde hair was carefully pinned back, accentuating the regal curve of her cheekbones and the sharp, delicate structure of her features. But it was her magic, the sheer presence of it, that sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine. It was powerful. All-consuming. Intoxicating. It wrapped around the room, pressing against Hermione’s own like a gentle but insistent whisper, coaxing, calling for something long denied.

Hermione swallowed, throat raw and unsteady. “Who are you?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. The question felt almost ridiculous—surely, she should know—but her mind, exhausted, anxious, fractured, refused to make the connections it should.

The older woman chuckled softly, the sound like the flicker of warm candlelight in a dimly lit room. The tension in the air eased at once, her mere presence a balm to the unease thick in the space between them. “How silly of us, little one. Of course, with your magic caged, I can imagine the connections feel quite confusing for you, no?” Her voice, rich with understanding, held no judgment. Only patience. Her piercing ice-blue eyes searched Hermione’s own, as if seeking to understand rather than assume.

“What do you feel, Hermione?”

It was Andromeda who spoke this time, her voice careful but purposeful. A prompt, a nudge toward something deeper. But the little brunette did not miss the wince—small, fleeting, but unmistakable—that passed through her birth family at the sound of the name she had known her entire life.

“I can feel everyone’s magic.” The words left her lips slowly, deliberately, as if speaking them aloud would make them easier to understand. Her eyes remained fixed on the stray thread protruding from the coarse blanket draped over her lap, fingers instinctively twisting the frayed edge between them. “But mine—it feels disconnected from everyone else’s. Like it’s reaching for something but… coming back confused. Like it knows something I don’t.”

The confession sat heavy in the air, unspoken emotions pressing in from all sides. But when she finally forced herself to look up, her gaze found Andromeda’s steady brown eyes, warm and unwavering. And against all reason, Hermione sought something there—comfort, reassurance—something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to feel.

Andromeda smiled. Small, genuine. A silent I’ve got you that settled some of the chaos within her. But then, with a barely perceptible nod, she gestured toward the rest of the room. A silent redirection.

Right.

Hermione blinked, hesitant, her pulse thrumming as she turned her attention back to the older woman who had first spoken. Who are you? she wanted to ask again, but the answer was already forming somewhere deep in her gut.

Ice-blue eyes met hers, filled with something that sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine—understanding, sadness, an emotion too complex to name. “We thought as much, little one,” the woman murmured, her voice soft but weighted with certainty. “But don’t worry. We can fix that. If you allow it, for I fear we have a lot to discuss before you will allow us such a trust.”

The words weren’t meant to frighten her, nor were they an accusation, and yet, Hermione felt her breath hitch. If you allow it. Guilt twisted within her heart. Because despite agreeing to meet these people—despite knowing, in some distant, logical part of her mind, that they were her family—her body still screamed to run. Fear slithered through her ribs, coiling tight around her heart, whispering for her to keep her distance, to protect herself.

And the worst part? She knew why. Because trust meant lowering her defences.

Trust meant leaving herself open to the possibility of hurt.

And she had built her walls—impenetrable, unyielding—long ago. The day she had first found that Merlin-awful letter. The one that had convinced her, long before she was old enough to truly understand the implications of it, that she had meant nothing to her birth family. That they had discarded her. Forgotten her.

The letter that had taught her that she meant very little to the world. She was small. Insignificant. Forgettable.

“Why don’t we all come and sit?” Andromeda’s voice cut through the thick silence, a gentle but firm suggestion. She gestured toward a sitting area that had seemingly materialized within the infirmary at some point—unnoticed by all present, including Hermione.

“A wonderful idea, Andromeda,” the woman who had calmed her earlier murmured, her voice carrying a lightness that felt ever so slightly forced. “Come now, little one, sit by us.”

Hermione barely had a moment to react before the woman’s cool hand found hers, grasping it with a gentle surety that sent a fresh wave of panic through her. Don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. But her fingers curled instinctively, fitting into the grasp offered to her, and despite the alarm bells screaming in her mind, the touch felt… safe. Steady. And so, against all logic, she allowed herself to be guided forward.

She was directed to a singular grey armchair, positioned close to a matching sofa. The two blondes, one of which had been her saviour—her mother’s—settled onto the sofa closest to her, their hands still entwined, their movements hesitant yet purposeful. Fleur and Gabrielle—her sisters—sat beside them, their gazes heavy with an emotion Hermione couldn’t yet face.

Their pain, their longing—it was too much. Too raw. Too overwhelming.

So, she dropped her gaze, fixing it on the armrest of her chair, fingers gripping the fabric there instead of meeting their eyes. Because she couldn’t—not yet.

Not while she was still struggling to make sense of the chaos storming inside her own heart.

“Firstly, little one,” the older woman spoke again, her voice warm yet carrying an undeniable command, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “I am Amilie Delacour. Your Grandmama.”

Hermione swallowed thickly, the word curling around her like something fragile and unfamiliar. Grandmama. A title that should have meant comfort, history, love—yet it felt foreign on her skin, a garment she hadn’t yet decided if she could wear.

“To my left,” Amilie continued, gesturing gracefully, “is your grandmother, Adharia.”

Hermione’s gaze shifted toward the woman now identified as her other grandmother. She was blonde as well, though her hair was darker than Amilie’s, and her sharp, aristocratic features carried a presence that was undeniably commanding. She wore elegant ruby-red robes, a striking contrast against the more muted tones of the others. Her eyes—an unusual grey-green—were piercing, assessing Hermione with quiet intensity.

She was beautiful, but in a way that made Hermione’s skin prickle. Something about her posture, the way she held herself like a queen prepared for war, sent an instinctive warning through Hermione’s veins. It wasn’t fear, exactly. More a knowing. A quiet understanding that this woman had fought for the things she held dear. That she would not hesitate to fight again.

Hermione tore her gaze away, pushing the thought aside. She had already humiliated herself in front of them once today—another panic attack, another moment of weakness, and she feared she might shatter completely.

Amilie continued. “Beside you is your Mother, Apolline. Our daughter.”

Hermione blinked, her chest tightening as she traced the features of the woman sitting closest to her. Mother. The resemblance was undeniable—Apolline had the same striking sea-blue eyes as her Grandmama, the same elegant facial structure. Yet, the way she carried herself, the quiet strength in her poised shoulders, was eerily reminiscent of her other grandmother.

Her mother smiled at her—gently, steadily—and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. That was the same smile that had guided her back from the brink of panic. The same unwavering, quiet assurance that had anchored her when she was drowning.

Her mother.

A new wave of dizziness threatened to overtake her, but Hermione fought it down, gripping the armrests of her chair as if they were the only solid things in the world.

“And beside your mother,” Amilie continued, softer now, “is your Mama, Narcissa.”

Hermione exhaled shakily, turning her gaze to the woman who had been so silent, so still. The sharp, elegant angles of her cheekbones, the soft blonde hair, the way she sat—prim, contained, as if holding herself together by sheer will alone. Her dark blue robes were perfectly tailored, her pale hands clasped tightly in her lap, her entire being coiled as if she were bracing for something monumental.

And her eyes.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Her Mama’s eyes were stormy grey, filled with a longing so raw, so desperate, that it carved itself into Hermione’s very bones. Something inside her ached at the sight. It was a longing she recognized all too well—one she had spent years burying beneath books and logic and an unyielding determination to survive. It made her want to reach out, to grasp those pale hands, to offer something, anything—

But she didn’t.

Her fingers only curled tighter around the fabric of her chair, nails pressing into the upholstery in a desperate attempt to anchor herself.

She turned back to Amilie, needing a reprieve, needing to look anywhere else before she did something irreversible.

“And I’ve been told you’ve already met your sisters,” her Grandmama finished, her voice impossibly gentle. “Fleur and Gabrielle.” The weight of guilt crashed over Hermione like a tidal wave.

Her sisters. Her sisters. The words reverberated in her head. The image of Gabrielle’s heartbroken gaze as she had fled the classroom the day before, Fleur’s pleading eyes as she had hesitantly asked for the bouillabaisse at yesterday’s dinner and her sheer grief when Hermione once more fled from them.

She hesitated before allowing herself to meet their eyes again—Fleur’s, shimmering with emotion, and Gabrielle’s, wide and uncertain. Both so soft and hopeful in a way that made her want to run—because what if she couldn’t be what they wanted? What if she couldn’t be a sister, a daughter, a Delacour—? Hermione flinched, guilt twisting in her chest, coiling tight.

Her magic pulsed again—restless, relentless—coiling deep within her like a creature readying for war. It searched, yearned, seeking something just beyond reach. Her heart pounded in tandem with it, a wild, erratic rhythm, her very soul crying out—a desperate, aching kind of fear, a loneliness that had festered for far too long.

These were her sisters!

This was her family.

These were the people she had spent her entire life missing. Loving. Loathing. Believing they had abandoned her.

Yet here they sat—six figures, each impossibly beautiful, impossibly familiar—watching her with emotions that twisted like a blade in her chest. Hope. Longing. Pain. Each one a mirror of her own.

And still, her magic rebelled.

Despite the cage around it, despite the foreign weight pressing down on it, it fought—desperate to bridge the aching chasm that separated her from the people who should have been hers all along.

The magic in the room responded—reaching, brushing against her own in the smallest, gentlest of touches. Fleur and Gabrielle’s magic curled playfully, tentatively, like sisters reaching out with cautious hands. The sheer, all-consuming presence of her grandparents’ magic pressed around her, protective and vast. And her mothers’—warm and steady—wrapping around her like something safe. Something known.

But Hermione was muted—her magic caught in something unnatural, something wrong. The connection should have been seamless. Should have felt right. And yet, the barrier remained, dulling every touch, every brush, turning something that should have felt whole into something broken.

Her heart pounded harder, her mind spinning, racing toward a decision she needed to make, one she had to make— Because she could not exist like this.

She could not bear the muted, hollow ache in her chest. Could not stand the way the magic around her tried so valiantly to reach her—only to be denied.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, fingers trembling as she clenched the armrest of her chair.

“Reverse the concealments,” she whispered. “Please!” A plea. A prayer.

Tears welled in Hermione’s eyes as she sought out her Grandmama’s gaze, her entire being aching, pleading for the truth. For freedom. For something to finally make sense.

Amilie Delacour held her stare for an intense moment, something ancient and unyielding glimmering in her sea-blue eyes as she searched her youngest grandchild’s gaze. Then, with a solemn nod, she rose to her feet, a wand appearing in her hand as though conjured from thin air. Her movements were deliberate—poised, confident—yet tinged with an almost imperceptible hesitance, as if she feared both the enormity of what she was about to do and the fragility of the girl before her.

“Inverse le tort, défais ce qui a été fait. Dame Magie, je t’invoque, aide notre sang à voir.”

The words fell from her lips in a whisper, reverent and poised, a spell and a prayer intertwined. Hermione barely had a second to register the warmth in her voice before another joined her—Adharia, her other grandmother, her presence commanding yet equally tender. Their voices wove together like a harmony, their magic surging, growing, until it crackled like a brewing storm.

The effect was instantaneous.

Hermione gasped, her magical core—dormant, chained, muffled for so long—wrenched open with a force that stole her breath. A dam breaking, a tether snapping. Magic, she had never known she possessed uncoiled like a living thing, stretching and surging through her veins with an almost dizzying intensity. It was warmth and power and the undeniable, aching familiarity of home—a sensation she had never known but somehow recognized in her very bones.

Her skin rippled, a thousand invisible needles pricking her from head to toe, relentless and unyielding. A static hum filled her ears, rising to a fever pitch as the air around her shifted, warped—her hair lifting, whipping about as raw magic crackled through the room.

It was breathtaking. It was unbearable.

Hermione curled into herself, arms clutched tight around her body as she clung to the storm of magic wrapping around her, invading her, soothing and overwhelming all at once.

And then—

Nothing.

Silence.

The very air seemed to still, holding its breath alongside the room’s occupants. All eyes were locked on the girl at the centre of it all, the girl who sat trembling in the infirmary bed, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven gasps.

The magic quieted. The spell settled. The room exhaled. Hermione stilled. Slowly, painstakingly slowly for the rest of the room’s occupants she relaxed, uncoiling from her previous position.

Lady Magic had heard them and answered. And Hermione Granger—the girl she had been forced to be, the role she had been forced to play—was no more.

In her place sat someone new. Someone old. Someone whole.

Her breath came in sharp, unsteady gasps as she fought to comprehend the overwhelming reality of her transformation. The weight of centuries-old magic settled into her bones, as if every piece of her that had been severed had finally stitched itself back together. She lifted trembling hands, fingers brushing against unfamiliar softness—her hair, no longer a mess of curls, but cascading waves of spun gold, a perfect mirror of her mother’s.

Her skin, once kissed by the sun, was now pale, luminous. Her features—delicate, refined—no longer the ones she had known. They were a perfect fusion of the two women who had given her life. And when she dared to lift her gaze, her tear-filled ice-blue eyes locked onto the identical pair that watched her with unguarded love and awe.

Amilie Delacour.

Her Grandmama.

The woman who had stood sentinel over her as the spell unravelled. The woman who had kept herself between Hermione and the rest of the room, as if shielding a treasure long-lost and newly found.

Hermione struggled to breathe, to exist, as magic swirled around her, alive and singing. She had spent her life feeling untethered, an anomaly in her own skin. But now? Now she could feel everything. Every thread of magic that bound her to the people before her. Each connection thrummed, familiar yet foreign, an aching reminder of all she had been denied.

Her gaze flickered back to Amilie—Our leader, our protector.

The silent voice, the ever-present whisper in the depths of her mind, had always been there. She had never understood it. Until now.

And when Amilie took a single step back, as if giving her space, Hermione had to fight the instinct to reach for her. To cling to the warmth, the safety, the love that had been absent for so long. Her chest tightened, aching with the unbearable urge to belong.

“Ari?”

The name—her name—was spoken like a prayer.

Fleur’s voice was raw, hesitant, thick with emotion. Gabrielle was already on her feet beside her, wide-eyed and trembling.

“Ari, please.”

It was enough.

Enough to break through the fear, the uncertainty, the walls Hermione had spent years constructing to keep the world at bay. Her breath hitched. Her magic surged. Her gaze snapped to Fleur’s, then Gabrielle’s—uncertain, desperate, searching.

Fleur moved first, her hand reaching forward, tentative, as if afraid the illusion might shatter. And Hermione—Ari—stopped resisting. She launched herself forward.

Fleur and Gabrielle met her halfway, and the space that had once divided them ceased to exist.

The collision was bone-crushing, fierce, desperate. They clung to one another, sobs wracking their bodies, fingers grasping at fabric, at skin, at proof that this was real. That they were together. That they had found their way back to each other. Their magic—long-suppressed, once-muted—burst to life around them. It danced, leaped, wove between them with wild, unrestrained joy, singing a melody only they could hear. A song of reunion. Of love. Of sisters.

And the adults in the room—the ones who had waited, hoped, suffered—could do nothing but watch. Their hearts ignited at the sight before them, an image they had longed for, prayed for, begged for, yet feared would never come to pass.

Tears slipped silently down their faces as they bore witness to a moment so profound, so impossibly fragile, that none dared to move, lest it shatter. Apolline and Amilie clung to their mates, their fingers gripping tightly as if holding themselves together. Their Veela’s magic stirred in quiet harmony, wrapping around them, around all of them, adding to the unspoken vigil they had taken up.

By the door, standing apart yet ever-watchful, Nymphadora remained silent. She had not spoken throughout the entire ordeal, had barely breathed, unwilling to interrupt something so sacred. But her wand was drawn, steady, her stance firm and unyielding. She was a sentry, a shield between the fragile reunion unfolding before her and the cruel, unrelenting world outside. Her eyes, usually so mischievous, were bright with a happiness she had never before known.

Andromeda, too, smiled through damp lashes, her chest tightening as she bore witness to the daughter of her once-best friend finding her way home. The ancient magics that had been severed, betrayed, stolen, now reknit themselves between them, bridging the chasm that time and treachery had carved.

A family, once broken, was slowly but surely stitching itself back together.

And for the first time in over a decade, hope did not feel so impossible.

Chapter Text

~Hermione’s POV ~

~Hogwarts Infirmary~

~Thursday 7^th September 1995~

It took all three reunited Delacour sisters a long time to find the strength to let go, and even then, she nearly didn’t. Hermione— no, Adharia—clung to the moment, to the warmth, to the magic thrumming between them, afraid that if she stepped away, it might disappear. But it didn’t. It wrapped around her, strong and unwavering, as if it had been waiting for her all along.

It felt like barefoot summers, chasing butterflies through fields of gold, the distant crash of waves as pebbles skipped across the ocean’s surface. It felt like every wistful, unattainable dream she had once watched from the shadows, every tender family moment she had yearned for but never dared to reach.

But this time, she wasn’t watching. This time, it was hers.

She drank it in, unable to get enough. Her sisters’ magic curled around her own, filling the hollow places she had never been able to name, knitting together pieces of herself she hadn’t realised were frayed. It rooted deep, binding them in a way that was as old as blood and as unshakable as the tides. And for the first time in her life, she hoped—without hesitation, without fear—that she was finally discovering who she was.

She was Adharia. She was a Delacour and she was starting to believe that here, in these arms, she belonged.

She would have stayed there forever if she could, wrapped in the warmth of Fleur and Gabrielle’s arms, their magic a lullaby she had been missing since birth. But even as she revelled in it, her own magic stirred. It had found her sisters, had recognised them, and now it was seeking, stretching out tendrils of awareness beyond them. Calling her attention to the other occupants in the room.

They pulled away slowly, reluctant but reassured, their hands lingering, fingers entwined as if afraid to let go completely. And Adharia had no complaints. She let them guide her, moving seamlessly between them as Fleur and Gabrielle led her back to the sofa they had previously occupied. Their magic wove between them—familiar, steadfast, unshaken. A steady current of warmth and belonging, as if they had never been separated.

As if they had never been denied their bond.

It was only once they were seated that Hermi— no, Adharia—noticed the way the adults in the room watched them. Their gazes were heavy with emotion, filled with a warmth she was only beginning to recognise as something meant for her. Not just Fleur. Not just Gabrielle. But her, too.

She had never known such a thing before.

A flush of self-consciousness crept over her, unbidden. Four pairs of eyes, the ‘adults’ of her newfound family, studied her as if she were something fragile, something precious—something they were terrified might vanish if they blinked too fast, too much.

And then she felt it.

Their magic, too, reached for hers. The family magik that bound them all, stretching towards her, seeking, yearning—determined to mend what had been broken, to restore what had been stolen. To erase the remnants of the severed, stunted bonds left in the wake of Albus Dumbledore’s manipulations.

The weight of it pressed against her magic, but there was no forcefulness, no demand. Only a quiet certainty.

She was theirs. And they were hers.

She drew in a slow, steadying breath, the warmth of her sisters on either side of her a quiet anchor. Their presence bolstered her, gave her the courage to look toward her mothers—hesitant, uncertain. A thousand questions buzzed in her mind, tangled with the ever-present longing to reach for them. To close the aching distance.

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

Not before she held the truth in her hands. Not before she understood how she had ended up in that filthy Muggle orphanage, trapped with those Merlin-awful people. Not before she was sure they hadn’t simply abandoned her to the fates.

“What happened?” she whispered, the question rushed before she lost her courage.

The words barely carried across the room, but they landed like a spell—heavy, inescapable. Hesitation, hurt, confusion bled into her tone, her blue eyes searching, locking onto each of her mothers in turn.

Narcissa looked stricken. Horrified. Guilt and heartbreak flickered in stormy grey eyes, raw and unguarded. Adharia’s mama dropped her gaze, fingers twisting into the fabric of her robes, fisting them tightly as if the answer was buried somewhere in the silk. Her hair fell forward, a golden curtain shielding her face.

Beside her, Apolline changed.

Adharia didn’t understand it yet, but something in her mother rose. A shift, subtle but powerful, like the crackling air before a storm. Her Veela sensed her wife’s distress, instinctively moving to shoulder the burden, to take the weight for now.

“Where do you want us to start?”

The question was quiet, steady. Apolline met her youngest daughter’s gaze head-on, her sea-blue eyes calm, patient—open in a way that was rare for the usually poised woman.

Adharia hesitated, glancing down at her lap, her teeth worrying the inside of her cheek. What did she want to know?

It should have been simple. The answer was simple.

She wanted to know everything.

But she also knew that simply saying so wouldn’t get her all the answers she was looking for.

“Who am I? What happened the day I was left at the orphanage? Why did it happen?”

The questions tumbled from her lips in a rush, raw and unfiltered. She looked at her mother, guilt creeping into her chest, torn between the hope her newfound magic had given her and the terror still rooted in the girl who had grown up unwanted, abused, and cast aside.

“That’s quite the list of questions, young one. But we will do all we can to answer them accurately for you.”

It was her grandmother who spoke first, her voice steady, factual—but warm. There was something solid about her, something reassuring. Adharia had the distinct feeling that this woman was the protective type, the kind who watched over her family like a silent guardian, always ready to act.

And the thought brought an unexpected sadness creeping up Adharia’s spine.

What would it have been like to grow up with her? To know the quiet strength and unwavering love her grandmother exuded so effortlessly?

Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to focus as her mother finally spoke.

“First, to answer who you are, my darling.” Apolline’s voice was gentle but certain, carrying the weight of truth. “You were born Adharia Apolline Delacour, the youngest daughter of myself and your mama. You were born on the 19th of November, 1981. You have two godmothers—Bellatrix Malfoy and Marlene McKinnon. Where they are now… well, that’s a story for another day.” A flicker of something unreadable crossed her mother’s face, but she pressed on. “What you need to know is that they loved you. They doted on you and your sisters, and we loved you fiercely.”

Apolline’s voice softened as a wistful, faraway look settled in her sea-blue eyes, a gentle smile curving her lips as she remembered.

“You were an incredible baby. Peaceful, loving. You lit up around your family, especially your sisters. And we were all so incredibly happy…”

But then the warmth faded. The tension in her mother’s face grew as she continued, the lines around her mouth tightening, her voice growing hoarse.

“December 22nd,” she said, the words heavier now. “I was working at the Ministry and had been sent to France to liaise with the French Minister. You were just over a month old. Your mama tucked you into bed at seven, just like always. Your sisters not long after you. Then she lay down for a few hours, waiting for me to return.”

The room felt still. Adharia barely breathed as she listened.

“Your nanny elf—Liza—was watching over the three of you, with strict instructions to fetch your mama if any of you stirred. Everything was as it should have been.” Her mother’s voice wavered. Her breath caught.

“Your mama woke at one in the morning. I had been held up at work. But when she woke… the house was silent.” She swallowed hard.

“Unnaturally so.” Adharia felt her stomach drop.

“She ran to the nursery. And as she reached the hall, she heard your sisters screaming.” Apolline’s jaw tensed, her pain laid bare in the storm of emotion flickering across her face. “The Aurors found a silencing ward on the room. And when they checked your mama for magical interference, they found traces of a sleeping spell.”

Her mother’s breath hitched as she turned pain-filled eyes toward her youngest daughter.

And Adharia felt something tighten in her chest, an ache both sharp and deep. Because in that single look, she saw it. The loss. The grief. The anger.

And it stole the breath right from her lungs.

But before Adharia had the chance to react—to process the weight of her mother’s words—her mama’s voice cut in. It was the first time Narcissa had spoken in what felt like an eternity.

“I ran to the nursery,” she whispered. “I swear—I got there as quickly as I could. But by the time…”

Her voice cracked. Haunted grey eyes lifted, locking onto Adharia’s, and something inside her tightened.

“By the time I got there…” Her mama was struggling, barely able to force the words out. Her breath was ragged, her hands clutching her robes so tightly Adharia could see the stark white of her knuckles. Her lower lip trembled.

“By the time I got there, you were gone.”

The truth spilled from her mama’s lips in a rush, raw and agonized. “Liza was dead—murdered—lying in the middle of the floor as if she had tried to protect you all. And your sisters were screaming.”

Tears spilled down Narcissa’s pale cheeks, slipping over her delicate features. And something inside Adharia cracked. Because the way her mama looked—broken, lost, defeated—sat uncomfortably in her chest, clawing at something deep and aching.

“You were gone,” Narcissa choked out. “My baby. Gone.” Her voice wavered, a confession, a plea.

“I failed you.” She looked down once more and Adharia could feel the guilt in each of her mama’s words.

“I didn’t get to you in time. I didn’t protect you. I failed you.” She repeated, Narcissa’s voice broke, the words trembling on a sob that wracked her body.

Adharia moved before she even realized it.

The space between her sisters and her mother’s was barely anything—a few short steps—but every inch of distance felt unbearable. She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

She just moved.

Because she couldn’t sit there—couldn’t listen to this woman, to her mum, blame herself for something that was so clearly not her doing.

She came to a stop in front of Narcissa, her own tears slipping silently down her cheeks as she reached out, fingers curling gently around her mother’s hand.

Narcissa’s head snapped up, stormy grey eyes meeting hers, and Adharia cracked further.

There was so much guilt in those eyes. So much self-loathing.

She couldn’t stand it.

Without a second thought, Adharia pulled her mama into her arms.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered, voice barely more than breath, her head tucking into the somehow familiar scent of honeycomb and coconut butter.

For a moment, Narcissa didn’t move. And Adharia’s heart lurched. Had she overstepped? Had she assumed too much? Just because this woman was her birth mother didn’t mean she wanted her near, right?

Doubt crept in, and she almost pulled away. But then—arms wrapped around her. Tight. Secure. Safe. Despite the way her mama trembled, despite the sobs still wracking her body—she held on. And Adharia held on tighter.

“It wasn’t your fault, Mama,” she whispered again. And somehow—without meaning to—her words shattered the dam that Narcissa had been holding back for years. Silent sobs turned into deep, agonizing cries that filled the room. Raw, gut-wrenching sounds of grief that had been locked away for far too long.

And if Adharia had ever doubted—even for a second—how much she had been wanted, the way her mama clung to her now, like she was the only thing keeping her breathing, erased that fear more completely than words ever could. Her mama’s grip on her tightened, and Adharia held on just as fiercely.

She felt her sisters close behind her, their magik blending with hers in an ancient sort of harmony. Her family. Steady, strong, unwavering.

They sat like that, together. Savouring the closeness between mothers and child for the first time in fourteen years. Adharia taking in every thump, thump of her mama’s heart. Comforted by her perfume and the way her families magic laced the room.

When Narcissa had quietened, soft sniffles replacing her earlier sobs, Adharia sat up slightly, not moving away from her mama, but ensuring she could now see the wider room from her mama’s arms. It was Apolline who spoke next, voice steady but lined with quiet rage as she broke the peaceful silence.

“We have since learned that Albus Dumbledore was the one who infiltrated our home.” Adharia stiffened.

Her mother’s hand found hers, reaching across the small distance that separated them, fingers curling tightly, grounding her.

“He killed Liza in cold blood,” Apolline continued, “and he stole you from your bassinet while your mama was incapacitated and I was out of the country.” Narcissa’s grip around Adharia tightened, when the youngest blonde tensed.

And for the first time in her life, rage began to burn—hot and violent—in Adharia’s chest. It drowned out the fear, the pain, the doubt, leaving behind only a searing, unshakable sense of injustice.

Her whole life had been orchestrated by a man who had posed as a caretaker.

It didn’t matter that she had never fully trusted him, that she had always been wary of the way he watched her too closely, how he steered Harry and Ron toward her every year. Positioning them. Pushing them toward her.

Urging her to guide them. To help them. And—when necessary—to put her life on the line for them. It was sickening.

His lies were so plain now, so obvious. Yet she had let herself believe them—at least in part.

She had let his words cripple her. Had let him twist and manipulate every insecurity, every fear, every desperate wish to be wanted. But now—now—she could see the truth for what it was. And she knew one thing for certain.

She could not let it lie. Every fibre of her being recoiled at the injustice, at the betrayal.

"He cannot get away with this." The words slipped from her lips in a near-growl, her anger thrumming hot beneath her skin. Her eyes flashed—red—though she didn’t notice the shift. Though despite her being oblivious to the creature that was awake and pacing within her, Appoline was not. Her mother sat up straighter, her gaze locking onto her youngest daughter’s, sharp with recognition.

"He will not," her grandmother cut in smoothly. When Adharia turned to face her, a shiver crept down her spine. That smirk—delicate, refined, yet almost... sinister—rested on her grandmother’s lips like a blade.

"We have a plan," the older woman continued, voice rich with satisfaction. "Step one was getting you to take that blood test in a way that he couldn’t interfere with."  She finished proudly and Adharia winced. The conversation from earlier trickled into her mind, like a rot creeping through the cracks. His voice, his taunts, his lies. They clung to her like a second skin.

"Let me guess," her Grandmama said, her voice much gentler than her grandmother’s, though her eyes held the same razor sharp steel. "He tried?" Adharia nodded. Swallowed past the lump in her throat, blinking back tears. The painful lies Dumbledore had spun were false—she knew that now—but they still lingered, still stung. Would they always?

"What happened, Ari?" Fleur’s voice was tense, but the hand she placed on her back was steady. Warm. Safe. Soothing in a way she couldn’t quite describe.  Adharia pressed into the touch without thinking, seeking the comfort her sister offered so freely, her shoulders relaxing as she stayed curled in Narcissa’s arms.

"He called me to his office this morning," she started, her voice barely above a whisper. A shiver crawled down her spine. "He told me I was a Delacour. That I was about to find out I was... an affair child. That Narcissa Malfoy had had me with an unnamed pure-blooded man."

A low, dangerous growl rumbled through the room.

Her mother.

Adharia froze, startled by the sound, her eyes flashing red once more as she looked up at her warily. Uncertainty lacing her pale features.

"Hush," Narcissa murmured. Her voice was still rough - raw from crying, but steadier now. Holding a quiet strength that Adharia decided fit her mama much better than the guilt she had carried. Adharia watched as she placed a hand over her wife’s arm, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the fabric of her sleeve.

 "Go ahead, little one. Finish what you were saying and ignore your mother’s strop." Narcissa instructed and somehow, the teasing remark—gentle, affectionate, and so normal—eased the tension in Adharia’s chest that had begun at her mothers strange reaction. It wasn’t something she understood. Though she wanted too. She would have to make note and ask about it later, she decided quietly. She took a breath.

"He said that once I was born, Mother realized I couldn't be hers," she continued, hesitant. "That I was brunette. That I had brown eyes. That I held no trace of Veela heritage." She paused. "I’m not really sure what all that means." Adharia admitted sheepishly, feeling as if it was something she should know. Fleur and Gabrielle giggled behind her, their hands warm on her back.

"Don’t worry about it, Ari," Gabrielle said lightly, her tone playful. "Grandmama and Maman will teach you everything you need to know." Adharia nodded silently, exhaling softly. Grateful for her sisters words of comfort.

"Then he said..." Her throat felt tight, like the words were trying to claw their way back down. "He said you were both ashamed of me. That you couldn’t raise a bastard child." Her voice faltered. Stuttered. Her heartbeat picked up as she looked away, squeezing her eyes shut, desperately willing the tears away. She would not cry.

Not again. Not over Albus Dumbledore’s manipulations of her life. She was so tired of letting him win.

"He said you all decided to get rid of me," she forced herself to continue. "That you disowned me and fled to France to put as much distance between us as possible." She looked up at Narcissa then, breath held. Eyes glistening with hurt. Doubt coiled around her ribs like a vice.

"You are not a bastard child," Narcissa sneered, her voice filled with a conviction that burned.

"And you certainly do not lack the Delacour genes or your Veela inheritance," her mother added.

Her voice was quiet—too quiet—but each word was laced with something sharp. Something lethal.

"Even now, at fourteen, I can feel it," Appoline continued, eyes glinting as she watched her youngest daughter carefully. "Your Veela is waking. Ahead of schedule, I might add. We will need to start your training as soon as we can." She added, conviction lacing her words.

Something stirred within the young witch—a strange, unfamiliar sense of satisfaction at hearing her mother’s pride. It settled deep in her chest, warm and steady, but her mother’s words had caught her attention. Her mind—ever curious, never content with simple acceptance—latched onto them.

"What do you mean, ahead of schedule?" she asked, eyes keen, her hunger for knowledge flickering to life. The Ravenclaw in her had always thrived on figuring out the answers to all that she encountered.

Appoline chuckled, the sound rich with amusement. Adharia could feel her mama laughing too, her shoulders trembling slightly beneath her touch. But there was no mockery in their laughter—only warmth. A warmth she had never known could be meant for her.

"A seeker of knowledge, I see," her mama murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Something inside Adharia tightened—something fragile and uncertain—because it felt so natural, so easy, and she didn’t know what to do with it.

She hesitated, then rushed forward, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I… I've always sought knowledge. But it’s frustratingly not always accessible to a Muggle-born." She bit her lip, cheeks flushing pink.

"Lady Lestrange sent me all sorts of interesting books, but I never felt comfortable asking for specific ones. There are so many topics I want—no, need—to learn more about."

She glanced toward the woman in question, a guilty look flickering across her face. She had never admitted that before. Had never dared to.

She had been too busy avoiding her. Self-preservation had dictated as much. But Andromeda only smiled, soft and understanding, bowing her head slightly—as if to reassure her that she understood, that she did not hold it against her.

"Your mother is the same, little one, as is Fleur. Both have always strived to learn as much as they can," her grandmother added, her voice gentle, easing the tension curling in Adharia’s chest.

If she was honest, her mind was reeling.

This all felt so easy, so natural—like slipping into a life she had never known but was always meant for her. The little pieces of herself that had been mocked and criticised for years, the traits that had set her apart, made her an outsider… were not only accepted but embraced. And better yet she wasn’t alone in them?

The realization left her breathless, a quiet sense of wonder creeping up her spine. Was this real?

She swallowed hard, a sliver of fear whispering in the back of her mind. What if this was just a cruel dream? What if she woke up to find herself alone again?

That would be her luck, wouldn’t it?

"Grandmother is right. Knowledge is a powerful thing, Ari," Fleur added, her voice laced with pride. Adharia turned toward her sister, drawn in by the unmistakable warmth in Fleur’s expression—pride, in her. She smiled hesitantly, something fragile but hopeful unfurling in her chest.

Was this what a family looked like?

Were all families so supportive? So… loving?

She wasn’t sure.

But this? This was hers and she would do anything in her power to keep it.

"Though to answer your question, ma chérie," Apolline began, recapturing her youngest child's attention. She was eager—desperate, even—to teach her daughter, to impart her knowledge and to help her grow. This was her first opportunity to do so, and she would not waste it. "Us Veela are a complicated sort. We are human, we are witches, but we are also something more. We are creature." Her voice was steady, sure, and Adharia was captivated. "It is often assumed that with each generation, the Veela gene becomes weaker, diluted by human blood, as mundane genetics would dictate," her mother continued, a sharp gleam in her eyes. "But Veela are not so simple." Adharia hung on every word, starstruck by the knowledge in her mother’s voice—by the certainty, the enthusiasm.

"However, we Veela are more complex than mundane genetic wiring. There is no such thing as a half-Veela or a quarter-Veela, as the wider wizarding world believes. Every daughter of a Veela is a Veela. A full Veela. Because part of being Veela is the creature that lives inside us. How silly a notion would it be to only possess half a creature." She scoffed lightly, shaking her head before continuing. “Our Veela usually awakens around a girls sixteenth birthday. She will start sensing them, hearing their voice, sensing their emotions, experiencing the world through heightened senses all at once when her Veela begins to wake.” She paused, watching Adharia carefully, and the young witch inhaled sharply, a strange feeling twisting in her chest. Was that what had been happening to her all these weeks? The sickness? The fever and migraine? The way she could hear and smell everything?

Her pulse quickened as questions surged to the surface, but before she could voice them, Apolline raised a hand, halting her with a knowing look.

"Our Veela while a creature in its own right, is an extension of our human self," she continued. "What we feel, they feel. What we want, they want and so on. But their emotions are amplified—sharper, more volatile. Possessive. Protective. Our Veela are quick to anger, harder to calm and much more reactive than our human side and that is why their awakening does not usually begin until a girl’s sixteenth birthday. That is when our bodies, minds, and magic can safely integrate with them. It is also considered safest to begin teaching the skills needed to live in harmony with our Veela at this time too." Apolline’s expression softened slightly, her gaze meaningful. "But… in times of great need, a Veela can begin to awaken earlier in a girls life."

"Like mine?" Adharia asked before she could stop herself. Her voice was quiet, hesitant—but burning with a curiosity that the older witches present in the room quietly hoped she would never lose.

Apolline smiled, nodding. "Yes, like yours little one. But your Veela is not just stirring and beginning to wake—your Veela magic and your thrall are awakening as well." Adharia blinked, startled, aware that there was importance in that statement, but unsure as to what it meant for her. "I can feel it in the way you react to us. In your anger at the injustice done to you. In how quickly your magic recognized your family bonds. If not for that certainty—if not for your Veela knowing exactly who she belongs with—this would not have been so easy." And suddenly, it all made sense. More sense than any of this had in a long, long time.

Yes, she was still terrified. Still anxious. Still uncertain and still more than a little confused about everything that was happening around her. But the bonds around her—the magic connecting her to her family—were stronger. Stronger than the fear she had clung to for so long. She bit her lip, contemplating her mother’s words, when her grandmother’s voice interrupted.

"As touching as it is, watching you two marvel over our little one’s Veela heritage and all it means for her" her grandmama teased, warm laughter threading through her voice, "you cannot keep her all to yourselves forever. Some of us have been waiting for this day just as long as you have, mes filles."

There was a playfulness in her tone, but also undeniable truth—a truth that had been denied for far too long.

"Now, hand her over."

Her Grandmama’s words were light-hearted, but Adharia could feel the magic behind them. Gentle, yet insistent - yearning. Her breath caught as her grandmama’s magic pressed against her own, seeking. It was familiar, warm and steady. It felt like her mothers’ magic, like both of her sisters too. And yet… she hesitated. Her gaze flickered between her mothers, then to her grandmother, then to her sisters— before landing back on her grandmama. Uncertainty marring her elegant features. She was conflicted. She could feel it—the inviting pull of Amilie’s magic. But she could also feel the rest of her families magic tugging her in different directions, like tides drawing her toward shore from many different directions. Each promising love – acceptance and safety. Her heart torn between following the gentle ask of her Grandmama and wanting to remain where she was. Tucked up safely in her mama’s arms. Arms she had been denied for fourteen cruel years.

“It’s alright, ma chérie,” Apolline reassured, her voice soft but certain. “Let your grandparents have their moment. Your mama and I will still be here after. We are all just so glad that you are finally here with us.”

Something in Appoline’s words—so full of patience, so unwaveringly certain—helped to ease the tightness that had begun to form in Adharia’s chest. She smiled at her mother gratefully. Her heart warming at the quiet reassurance her mother had offered—reassurance she hadn’t known she needed. It was foreign, strange, but it soothed the anxiety bubbling beneath her hesitation, grounding her in a way she wasn’t sure she had ever felt before.

"It really is alright, Ari," Gabrielle murmured quietly beside her, squeezing her hand gently before smirking playfully. "Besides, better you go willingly before she loses her patience. The last time that happened, Fleur and I ended up dangling upside down at the dinner table for our incessant cheek."

A quiet giggle escaped Adharia before she could stop it. Her gaze flickered toward the older woman in question, curiosity sparking in her wide eyes.

"I would never do such an awful thing to my grandchildren!," her grandmama declared, lifting her chin in mock indignation—before winking playfully. Adharia giggled again, somehow feeling lighter - freer than she had expected to feel. Warmth spread through her chest—gentle and unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

And when the woman held out her hand towards her, she didn’t hesitate. Her families light hearted teasing working at drawing her out of her hesitance.  She stepped forward, allowing herself to be drawn into a hug—in an embrace that was solid, certain and real. She was surrounded by the scent of parchment and old books, of stories and wisdom, of history and home.

She let herself sink into it.

~~~~~

Adharia moved through the dim corridors of Hogwarts with quiet precision, her steps light, her breathing steady. Though exhaustion curled at the edges of her mind, it did not weigh her down. For the first time in years, she felt whole—her magic thrumming within her, untethered, free. Yet, to any outsider, she was still Hermione Granger, the bookish, rule-abiding Muggle-born Ravenclaw girl that nobody particularly cared for. The mask was firmly in place, seamless and unshaken. And would remain so in public, for at least a little while longer. Only those attuned to magic, those powerful enough to sense its nuances, might catch the subtle shift in her presence. Though none would guess at the quiet storm that was quietly brewing before their eyes.

From this moment forward Adharia would never cow to anyone, ever again.

She had sat with her family - Andromeda and Dora joining them, - woven together not just simply by blood but by magic itself. The severed threads that Dumbledore had once cruelly bound and attempted to conceal from her had begun to mend, stitching themselves back with every shared breath, every whispered memory, every flicker of laughter that passed between them all. The warmth of their presence had settled deep in her bones, fortifying her. The pain of stolen years remained, a wound that could not be erased so easily, but the balm of their magic, their love, made it bearable.

Grounding. Strengthening. Healing.

They had spoken for hours, trading stories of the past—of their mother’s gentle lullabies and Adharia’s first month of life. Her mama had whispered that, the month that they had her was the happiest their family had ever been. That Adharia had been their starlight and when she had been taken Narcissa had been afraid to look at the stars each night, terror coursing through them all at the endless heartbreaking unknown of what had happened to her. Their Grandmother, ever the protector as her mother had described her, redirected the conversation then. Her quiet pride in Gabrielle’s endless appetite for mischief lightening the mood, giving them all a respite from the horror they had lived. Fleur, ever the responsible elder, had been the one to tattle on Gabrielle’s exploits, her exasperated recounting laced with reluctant amusement, Gabrielle had looked horrified at her sisters spilling of her secrets before quietly promising to teach Adharia how to cause a little mischief of her own.

“I’m certain you’ll get along with the Weasley twins,” Adharia had mused, a sly smirk tugging at her lips.

Gabrielle had positively beamed at the idea, eyes alight with mischief, while Fleur groaned, burying her face in her hands.

“Do not give her ideas she does not need,” Fleur had muttered, but there had been no real admonition in her voice. Only the warmth of a sister who knew exactly what chaos awaited.

It had been... beautiful. And yet, beneath the joy, there was an ache—a silent grief felt by all present for all the moments that had been stolen from them. The lost years that could never be returned, but they were all resolute in reclaiming the future together.

Little details had been shared, things most would take for granted—Fleur’s favourite colour was lilac, Gabrielle’s was sunset orange. Then they had turned to her.

“What about you, Adharia?”

She had hesitated, heat rushing to her cheeks. No one had ever asked her that. No one had ever cared to. She had spent years fading into the background, adapting, becoming what others expected of her, hiding from the cruelty of life as a magical child in an impoverished muggle orphanage.

What colour had ever been hers?

After a moment’s thought, she had whispered, “Emerald green and Ice blue.”

She could not choose between them, nor did she want to. One was the deep, endless blue of the ocean, steady and vast, reminiscent of her mother, her grandmother, her sisters and now her own eyes. The other, the striking green of forbidden knowledge, of power, of growth and of home.

Fleur had hummed in approval. Gabrielle had grinned.

Adharia had felt like she belonged.

But soon, the warmth of their shared memories gave way to colder, sharper matters—the matter of Albus Dumbledore. More specifically, how they would destroy him. Piece by piece.

Her grandmama, Amilie, had explained the reasoning behind the heritage tests, her voice rich with satisfaction as she recounted how Appoline had strung the Minister up by his disproportionately scrawny neck—her words, spoken with absolute delight. How he had acquiesced to their polite suggestion that both the Ministry and Hogwarts must do more to protect the dwindling Wizarding Houses of Britain. And, of course, how necessary it would be to test all Hogwarts-aged children to ensure that lost and forgotten family lines could be restored.

Adharia highly doubted that gentle persuasion had been the deciding factor for him.

No, she suspected the Minister had been backed into a corner, threats hanging over his head like a blade. And he had done what all men like him did—folded, bartered, and prayed he wouldn’t be the one bleeding at the end of it. She had met the man only a handful of times, but it had been enough to see him for what he was. Spineless. Self-serving. A relic of the old guard who spent more time bowing to the whims of the powerful than serving the people he supposedly led.

And so, step one of their plan was in motion.

Step two, however, rested on her.

Playing a role had never been difficult for Adharia. Her entire life had been a performance—an act she hadn’t even been aware she was playing for most of it. But this time was different. This time, she understood the script. And more importantly, she was willing to play her part. Dumbledore could not know she had reunited with her family. He could not suspect that she was aware of the glamour still woven over her skin, concealing her true appearance. So she would act. She would slip seamlessly into the role he had always pushed her toward—the grateful, desperate, eager-to-please Hermione Granger.

She would pretend.

Pretend that the truth of her heritage had shattered her. Pretend that she was lost, isolated, and struggling to find her place. She would let them think they were helping her. That she was slowly, tentatively, returning to their fold. She would even play nice with Harry Potter and his insufferable weasel of a friend.

All the while, she and her family would watch. They would listen. They would gather every piece of information they could.

Her mothers would sift through the Ministry’s records, unearthing what secrets they could. Her grandmothers would call upon their allies, rekindling old ties and striking new bargains. Adharia and her sisters would be secretly practicing and strengthening their bond and skills, together. They would meet with Lady Lestrange – Or Andromeda as the woman insisted – who after taking an unbreakable vow to keep their secrets, had volunteered to teach them without Albus Dumbledore ever suspecting something was going on.

Fleur and Gabrielle were leagues ahead of her in both skill and control—a fact that grated against the perfectionist in her. But she had only herself—no, Dumbledore—to blame for that. He had stifled her magic, suppressed her potential. Yet even hindered, she was powerful. It showed in how she outpaced her peers at Hogwarts, in how knowledge came easily to her, as if magic itself longed to be wielded in her hands. And according to her grandmother, even that was a fraction of what she should have been capable of.

“It has long been whispered,” Her grandmother had mused, her voice laced with quiet disdain, “that under Albus Dumbledore’s tenure, Hogwarts has deliberately produced weaker, less capable witches and wizards with ever generation that graces its halls. The syllabus here is child’s play compared to what Beauxbatons teaches its students.”

That, more than anything, sent fire curling in Adharia’s chest. Dumbledore had stolen so much from her. Her name. Her magic. Her family.

He didn’t know it yet but he would lose far more in return.

With a plan in motion and exhaustion pressing heavily upon her, Adharia barely registered Madame Pomfrey returning, shooing her family out of the infirmary with the same no-nonsense efficiency she applied to all things medical. Andromeda assured them that the matron would have no recollection of their presence here, her only recollection of the evenings events would be Hermione Granger waking alone in the infirmary and being sent on her way once she had been given the all clear - a small yet crucial safeguard in the tangled web they were weaving.

Andromeda Lestrange was an enigma to Adharia. The woman played the role of concerned maternal figure well—too well. It made Adharia want to believe she truly cared. And maybe she did. But how did that reconcile with the fact that when Adharia had been lying in this very infirmary, petrified and helpless, Andromeda had not come? She had promised she would be there. And yet, she hadn't been. It was a bitter thought, one that coiled tight in Adharia’s chest. Confusing, but bitter nonetheless. The idea that Andromeda might not care hurt in ways she hadn’t quite prepared for. And yet, wouldn’t it be easier if she didn’t? If Andromeda was just another liar, another person who didn’t truly want her, then at least Adharia wouldn’t have to face the quiet, aching betrayal of waking up at the end of second year to nothing but silence and an empty room.

She shook her head, dispelling the complicated web of thoughts away. She was simply too tired to unravel that particular mess tonight. She had faced enough revelations for one day. Right now, she just wanted a hot shower and the comfort of curling up in bed with the book her Grandmama had pressed into her hands before she left.

Family Magik: The Veela, Their Origins, and the Depths of Their Heritage.

Even through the exhaustion, excitement sparked within her. The mere thought of it sent a quiet thrill through her. A book detailing her heritage, her magic, her origins—who she was meant to be. For so long, she had been forced into a false identity, shackled by a past that was never truly hers and denied the very foundations of who she was destined to become. Now, she could reclaim what had been stolen, piece by piece, page by page. This was her magic, her history, her truth She could already imagine the delicate, intricate scripts woven through the pages, waiting for her to devour each nuance of her bloodline’s power.

By the time she reached the Ravenclaw dormitory, her body felt impossibly heavy, but her mind remained restless. She rapped the bronze knocker against the plain oak door, rousing the enchanted eagle from its slumber.

“How much dirt is in a hole that stands four feet by four feet by five feet?” The eagle’s voice was smooth, arrogant and lofty, its beady eyes glinting in the dim torchlight with a sense of arrogance that irked the young witch, as if it thought the answer was anything but obvious.

Maybe it wasn’t obvious – to anyone that wasn’t her. Adharia rolled her eyes. “Oh, please Raven. There isn’t any dirt in a hole. Holes are empty.”

The brass eagle huffed a noise of disapproval, but the latch clicked open, granting her passage into the common room. She didn’t stop to see who was still awake at this miserable hour. She barely glanced at the grand common room, warmed by the blue-tinged fire flickering in the marble hearth. Instead, she made a beeline up the girls’ staircase, nearly running in her eagerness to reach her sanctuary. One of the best parts of being a Ravenclaw was that after first year, students could opt for private rooms. Adharia had claimed hers immediately. Having her own space was a blessing, both for studying and for the simple luxury of shutting out the world when it became too much.

She took the steps up to her dorm two at a time, her mind singularly focused on getting into the safety of her room.

She yelped as she stumbled, her balance failing her completely as she tripped over something soft, yet surprisingly solid at her feet outside the door to her room.

Or rather, someone.

“Hermione?”

The tangled heap of blue-lined robes stirred, a groggy voice mumbling her old name as the mass of limbs fought to right itself. Adharia blinked in surprise before recognition dawned, concern immediately replacing.

“Cho? What on earth—” She knelt immediately, grasping her friend’s arms and hauling her upright. “What are you doing sleeping outside my room?”

Cho groggily rubbed at her head, her dark eyes blinking blearily up at her. “You took forever and when you didn’t come back... I was worried. Then I figured you were in the infirmary, and Pomfrey wouldn’t let me in to see you, so I figured…. If I couldn’t wait with you, I’d wait here.” She yawned. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Adharia exhaled sharply, a mix of fondness and exasperation blooming in her chest. Cho had always been one of the few constants in her life, a steady presence who had seen beyond the lies and half-truths, who had chosen her even when she had nothing to offer in return.

“Come on,” Adharia murmured, guiding her friend inside. She helped Cho onto the bed before summoning a blanket and retrieving a couple of potions from her secret stash—gifts from Andromeda, tucked away for moments like this. A warming charm on the blanket, a soft nudge toward comfort. “Here. Take this, then sleep.”

Cho didn’t argue, but she still watched Adharia with quiet concern. “What happened, Mia?”

Adharia hesitated. Even now, after everything she had learned that nickname felt as natural as the name she was born with. Cho was the only one who had ever called her that—Mia. Yet it was a name that belonged to someone who no longer existed. And yet, it felt like home coming from Cho’s lips.

Adharia paused in the doorway of the bathroom. “I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Promise.”

The door clicked softly behind her, and for the first time in days, Adharia allowed herself to breathe.

From the other side of the door, Cho’s soft snores were the only reply.

Adharia smiled. Because despite everything that had changed—despite her changing—Cho was still Cho. Still her best friend. And right now, that was enough.

~~~~~~

~Albus Dumbledore’s POV ~

~Friday 8^th September 1995~

~Headmasters Office~

The sharp pop of elf apparition shattered the silence of the office, pulling Albus Dumbledore’s attention away from the parchment spread before him. He did not startle—he rarely did—but the interruption was an unwelcome one. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the presence of a small, trembling figure. Dobby. The creature stood anxiously at the edge of the grand desk, his large, bat-like ears drooping, his wide green eyes darting about nervously. That, of course, was nothing unusual. The little elf was forever wringing his hands, tripping over his own feet, or flinching as though expecting a strike. However, this particular display of anxiety set Albus on edge.

Dobby’s nerves meant one of two things—either he had failed to obtain the information as instructed, or he had learned something Dumbledore would rather not hear. Neither option was ideal. He exhaled softly through his nose, a deliberate, measured breath, and turned his attention back to the letter in his hand. Choosing to ignore the pathetic little creature for the moment.

It was an intriguing piece of correspondence. A curious letter indeed – one that had arrived without warning, penned by a former student, long since graduated. A student who had written to him—in an unexpected turn of events, given her notable absence from Wizarding Britain’s affairs in recent years. Andromeda Lestrange. Not Black or even Tonks as he had once hoped, he reminded himself. Lestrange.

A curious woman, that one. He had once had high hopes for her, marking her as a promising recruit for his Order during her final few years at Hogwarts. She was clever, talented, and—more importantly—connected. Her ties to the Muggle-born in Fifth year had been an intriguing possibility, but it was a relationship that had ultimately fractured, dashing his hopes of seeing one of the revered Daughter’s of House Black tied in marriage to a muggle-born. It would have been scandalous, drawing the right kind of attention from the media when the woman’s parents disowned her for disgracing their line. But it had ultimately not come to pass. The opportunity slipping by him so quietly he had somehow missed it. How, exactly, that had happened remained frustratingly unknown to him. Not that it particularly mattered  now. Edward Tonks had disappeared, never to be heard from again and Andromeda had gone on to marry the Lestrange Heir. What did matter was that, despite everything that had happened and her unfortunate choices, she had remained a figure of influence. Her name alone carrying weight in the right circles.

And now, she was offering her services – expressing interest in returning to the castle—not as a guest, but as an instructor.

A most interesting prospect.

He had always known she would be useful, given the right circumstances. Wealthy, influential, and powerful in her own right, Andromeda Lestrange was not a piece to be played lightly. But if she was offering herself up willingly, well—that could make things far simpler.

Dumbledore’s fingers drummed lightly against the wood of his desk, his mind already calculating the possibilities. The timing was convenient, almost too convenient. Why now? He thought quietly, considering the possibilities. Why had she resurfaced now, after all these years? The Triwizard Tournament loomed just weeks away, and Alastor Moody would certainly appreciate the additional help. He had done nothing but grumble about the workload since his arrival, and it had only been four days since the term began. The man was getting slower, Dumbledore had noticed. Not physically—no, he still moved with a certain sharpness when necessary—but his mind? That was another matter entirely. The years had worn him down, paranoia gnawing away at his better judgment. If Dumbledore secretly thought his old colleague was beginning to lose his edge, that was something he would keep to himself. It had been enough of a challenge convincing Alastor to split his time between the Auror Office and Hogwarts, and an outright replacement would have drawn too much scrutiny.

No, it would be far easier to simply… supplement his presence. Andromeda, if handled correctly, could be that supplement.

And now, an opportunity presented itself. He did so like it when things fell in to place so beautifully.

More than that, she could be an asset.

With the Triwizard Tournament set to begin in mere weeks, it was in his best interest to keep a closer eye on the proceedings. His role as headmaster required him to ensure the safety of his students—or at least, that was what the public expected of him. In reality, his priorities lay elsewhere. The tournament was an opportunity. A calculated risk. One that would set certain events into motion, events that had been carefully planned years in advance. Every piece on the board had been placed with purpose, every move accounted for. The war was coming—he had made certain of it—and when it did, he would need every advantage.

Andromeda’s letter was more than just an expression of interest—it was a strategic move. Her wealth, her connections, her resources—all valuable assets in the greater game he played. If he maneuvered correctly, he could ensure that her position within Hogwarts worked to his advantage. Her influence could be guided, shaped, into something useful.

And then, of course, there were her… suggestions.

She had outlined several proposals—enhancements, she called them—that could increase Hogwarts’ chances of securing victory in the Tournament. That, above all, piqued his interest. A successful showing in the competition would only further cement his influence, reinforcing the image of Hogwarts as the beacon of the magical world.

He had spent years carefully cultivating his public persona, ensuring that Wizarding Britain saw him as a wise, benevolent leader. The hero. The guiding light.

A position he manipulated often.

Yes, he thought, settling back into his chair, this could be very useful indeed.

Finally, his gaze shifted back to the trembling elf still standing at attention. A flicker of irritation crossed his expression. Dobby would not have lingered unless the matter was pressing. And if it was pressing, then it likely concerned a certain girl.

His lips curled into the faintest ghost of a smile.

"Speak, Dobby," he commanded, his tone as gentle as ever. Yet beneath that practiced warmth, there was an unmistakable edge of impatience.

The little elf flinched, his trembling worsening—a pitiful display, really.

Albus regarded him coolly, suppressing a sigh. House-elves, if raised under the correct conditions, could be just as useful as the people he maneuvered on a daily basis. Their unwavering loyalty, their inherent magic, their ability to pass unnoticed through the halls of power—such traits made them valuable tools in the right hands. Properly trained, a house-elf could be an exceptional asset.

Dobby, however, was not.

The creature had always been difficult. Wilful, unpredictable, too prone to sentimentality. His potential had been squandered, leaving him little more than a semi-useful servant at best.

"Well?" Albus prompted again, allowing the faintest flicker of irritation to cross his otherwise composed expression.

Dobby swallowed, his wide eyes darting about the office before finally speaking.

"Master said Dobby follow Hermionny. Misses Granger has left from the firmry. Lady Healer said no one came."

He very nearly stuttered over the words. Albus almost smirked. At least the creature had learned some restraint—he had expressed, more than once, his distaste for Dobby’s sniveling, stammering speech. It irked him more than most things.

"You are certain no one came to see her?" he asked, voice measured.

"Certains, Master. Dobby asked Lady Healer."

Albus nodded slowly, pursing his lips in thought. That was unexpected. He had anticipated some sort of response to the heritage tests—some figure from the past, some long-lost relation come to reclaim the girl. Yet, according to Dobby, no one had.

The revelation brought a flicker of satisfaction.

It meant she had believed him.

She had not run off to confess her unfortunate heritage to anyone of consequence. She had not sought out guidance beyond what he had carefully provided. No sudden interference. No meddling outsiders. No threats to the careful narrative he had spent years crafting.

Still, the danger had not yet passed.

This year would be a difficult one. He would need to keep an even closer watch on her—ensure she was drip-fed his version of events often enough that she did not decide to dig where she shouldn’t. It would not do to come this far, only for the carefully placed pawns to start slipping from their assigned positions.  Truthfully he hadn’t really had the time to think through the repercussions of inviting Beauxbatons to Hogwarts. He had been Certain the Delacour’s would not allow their Daughters to grace the walls of Hogwarts after losing their youngest.

He had after all kept close contact with them in the days afterward. Even helping them search for the girl. Once he had been certain he had avoided suspicion he had slowly extracted himself from their lives. Taking comfort in the knowledge they had moved to France, determined to keep the remaining two of their daughters away form the dangers that lurked in Britian. He had even assured them it was a wise choice. Though he should have known the Veela Clan would not allow their school to be entered into any competition without their future leaders present. A regretful miscalculation on his part.

But that did not mean all was lost. No, he had the ability to stay one step ahead of them, ensuring the girl would never seek those that had discarded her. And who would he be, but a benevolent voice of care and reason to not encourage her to maintain that… separation from those that had seen her as shameful.

He had miscalculated, not mis stepped. His plan so carefully cultivated that even with the Delacour’s ever so close to their sister, they would never suspect a thing.

"Very well, Dobby," he said at last, settling back into his chair. "Keep an eye on her. Report to me if anything seems… suspicious."

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he sent the elf away, almost chuckling at the speed with which Dobby disappeared from the office.

Weak. Skittish. But obedient.

For now, at least.

With that thought in mind, Albus stood, stretching out his tense muscles. It was nearing morn. High time he caught a little rest before the new day dawned once more.

~~~~

~Andromeda Lestrange’s POV ~

~Lestrange Manor~

~Friday 8^th September ~

Seated on the patio lounge, a steaming cup of coffee cradled between her hands, Andromeda Lestrange watched as the first light of dawn spilled over the manicured gardens of the manor. The sky was painted in soft hues of gold and rose, and in its glow, her daughter’s vibrant pink hair shimmered brilliantly. The sight brought a gentle smile to Andromeda’s lips.

Nymphadora.

So full of life, so utterly herself. The bold colour in her hair—so fiercely hers—was back in place, a reflection of the bright, determined soul she had raised. It was in quiet moments like these that Andromeda allowed herself to believe, truly believe, that she had made the right choice. That all the struggles, all the sacrifices, had been worth it.

Their life was one of security, of certainty. Their name, their wealth—it afforded them protection, yes, but more than that, it ensured that Nymphadora would never be hindered. Never be shamed for the circumstances of her birth, never be forced to shrink herself to fit someone else’s expectations. The love and joy they shared as a family was a magic all its own, one Andromeda cherished more than anything.

She could no longer imagine a world where her daughter had been denied this. And yet… once, she had envisioned a different life entirely. A life that, in her youthful naivety, she had convinced herself was the key to happiness.

Once upon a wand, she had dreamed of freedom—true freedom. A life where she had married for love, where she had carved her own path, defied the rigid expectations placed upon her. As a starry-eyed teenager, she had believed that her heart alone should dictate her future. And for a time, she had thought that future lay with Edward Tonks.

He had been everything she thought she wanted—kind, charming, adventurous. A breath of fresh air in a world that had already planned out every step of her existence. He had offered her a life of uncertainty, a chance to choose for herself.

But it would have been a cruel life. Of that, she was certain now.

Her father had made sure of it.

The summer she turned sixteen, he had taken her beyond the protective bubble of the wizarding world. He had walked her through the streets of Muggle London, shown her what lay in wait if she continued to chase after a dream built on ignorance.

She had not understood it then—not truly. She had believed that the Muggle world and the wizarding world were simply different, nothing more. That love could bridge those differences, that the prejudices she had grown up hearing about were nothing but the paranoia of an outdated generation. But her father had made certain she saw.

Tucked away in the dull uniformity of suburban cul-de-sacs, they had watched the Muggle women of that time—wives, mothers, daughters—trapped in the monotony of servitude. Cooking, cleaning, repeating the same thankless tasks day in and day out. Their lives were dictated by the men they stood beside, their potential crushed beneath expectations as suffocating as the ones Andromeda had once resented.

And then, her father had taken her to see Edward.

They had knocked right on his door. Walked into the house as if they belonged there. And Edward—Edward had welcomed them, unaware that it would be the moment that shattered Andromeda’s carefully constructed fantasy.

His father had been a preacher.

The man had tolerated magic, in the way one tolerates an unfortunate birth defect in an otherwise acceptable child. His distaste for it, for her, had been barely veiled beneath the forced civility of a reluctant host. They had eaten dinner together—some sort of roast, the details of which Andromeda had long since forgotten—but the conversation? That, she remembered with perfect clarity.

Edward had spoken of their future as though it was already written. He had smiled at her, reassured her that she needn’t bother with silly things like a career in healing. No, she would stay home. Raise his children. Make his meals.

His Andy.

The words had been meant as comfort. As reassurance.

Instead, they had been a knife to the gut.

By the time they left, she had been distraught. Torn between the image of the man she thought she loved and the reality of what he expected of her.

Edward had been an escape—but only from one prison into another. She had been willing to trade the rigid structure of a Pureblood heiress for the gilded cage of a Muggle wife. The realization had nearly broken her.

Though she had risen from her grief, more determined than ever to pick her own path. So she did, carefully. Constructing a path that let her grow into herself in a way that did not ostracise her from her family or her potential and by the time she had entered sixth year, Edward Tonks was a distant memory. One that she preferred not linger on.

She had been so young. So blind.

Andromeda exhaled slowly, forcing herself to release the lingering bitterness of that memory. It was the past—a lesson learned. A lesson she would never forget.

Now, she had a life she had chosen. A husband she had grown to love. A daughter who was, clever, loving, beautiful and as free as Andromeda had once longed to be.

And she would never—never—let anyone take that from them.

Adharia Delacour had been an unforeseen variable, a presence Andromeda had never accounted for. Nor had she anticipated the ancient, intricate magic that bound the youngest Delacour to her own daughter. And yet, as she sat watching Nymphadora—her child, her heart—kicking her feet in the air, her expression bright with laughter as she recounted the events of the previous night, Andromeda knew with absolute certainty that Adharia belonged.

The way the two girls interacted, the unspoken trust, admiration, and respect that had already taken root between them—it was everything. And that wasn’t even taking into account the way Andromeda herself felt about the girl.

She had spent years watching from the shadows, feeling an ache she hadn’t been able to name whenever she looked at Hermione Granger. She had pitied the child, felt an unexplainable pull to protect her, but Albus had blocked every path before she could even take a step. He had been one step ahead of anyone who wished to protect the girl in any way.

Andromeda had tried. Quietly. Carefully, of course to try and gain custody of the girl, not that she had ever divulged that information to the girl, as rocky as their relationship was Andromeda hadn’t wanted to make any promise’s she couldn’t keep. She had sought answers through the Ministry, had questioned Amelia Bones—Head of the Department for Magical Child Welfare—about Hermione Granger’s wellbeing, including raising concerns over how jumpy and hypervigilant the girl had been from the moment they had met. She had been dismissed with firm reassurances that the child received regular magical checks by Madame Pomfrey at the castle and that her guardian in the wizarding world was Albus Dumbledore, so of course all her needs were being met. Beyond that, Amelia had refused to divulge anything further, and Andromeda had not pushed. Drawing too much attention to the girl could have been dangerous.

Instead, she had helped where she could—quiet acts of defiance cloaked in caution. She had never quite understood why she had hesitated to push further, why something within her magic warned her to tread carefully. At the time, it had felt like cowardice. Now, she knew better.

Magic had been protecting her. Protecting them both. Shielding her from the scrutiny of a man who, without anyone knowing, had already stolen too much. Ensuring that Adharia would find her way back to where she truly belonged.

Andromeda was many things, but she was not a fool. What she knew—what she had witnessed, overheard, and painstakingly pieced together about the girl and her home life in the nearly four years she had quietly observed Hermione Granger—was no longer hers to guard. To withhold that knowledge now would only hinder those who sought the justice they deserved.

The Delacour women needed to know everything.

Andromeda would not hesitate. She would lay bare every scrap of information she had gathered, every suspicion, every gut-wrenching moment of knowing something was terribly wrong and being unable to act. And she would do more than share the truth—she would help in whatever way she could. If there was a battle to be fought, she would stand beside them. If there was justice to be won, she would see it through.

It had been too long since she had truly spoken with Narcissa, and the guilt of that had never left her. She had wanted to be there, had wanted to reach out, but time had never been in her favour. Narcissa had lost her daughter—her world—and Andromeda had grieved with her. But with a sister in Azkaban, a cousin rotting there too, another cousin missing, and a lively six-year-old of her own to raise, she had let that connection slip through her fingers.

She hadn’t been there for them. She hadn’t fought for them when they had needed her most.

Merlin be damned if she made the same mistake again.

It was why she had stepped forward. Why she had agreed to infiltrate Hogwarts, to get close to the vile man who called himself headmaster, to oversee the training of the children who would one day change everything. It wasn’t enough—not nearly enough—to make up for the years she had been absent, but she would not fail them.

Not this time.

Not when so much depended on them staying in the shadows until the time was right.

A biscuit landed unceremoniously in her lap, jolting her from her thoughts.

“Mum, are you even listening?” Nymphadora pouted, arms folded, her brows furrowed in exaggerated irritation.

Andromeda sighed, torn between scolding her for her lack of manners and laughing at the all-too-familiar petulance on her daughter’s face.

“If you cannot conduct yourself properly, Nymphadora, then perhaps we should revisit your heiress training,” she mused, lips twitching.

As expected, her daughter’s pout deepened, her arms tightening across her chest as she huffed, “I can behave.”

That did it. Andromeda laughed, warm and unrestrained, her eyes alight with mirth.

For all that her daughter had grown into a formidable Auror, fiercely independent and successful, she had never quite outgrown the habit of throwing things the moment she felt she wasn’t getting her way.

Some things, it seemed, would never change.

Andromeda collected herself, smoothing down her robes as she turned her full attention to her now thoroughly unamused daughter. “What is it you would like to discuss, Nymphadora?”

“Hermione—well, Adharia.” Nymphadora exhaled sharply, running a hand through her ever-shifting hair. “I don’t know what I should do. I mean, I feel our bond, and you’re right—it isn’t anything other than platonic. And I know she feels it too. But how do I support her without overstepping? How do I be there for her in a way that isn’t suffocating but still lets her know she’s not alone?”

The words tumbled out in a rush, her hair flashing through colours as quickly as she spoke. It was a clear sign of her anxiety—one Andromeda had learned to recognize long ago.

“Calm, my girl,” she soothed, patting the cushion beside her.

Nymphadora didn’t hesitate, shifting into her mother’s embrace with the same ease she always had. Andromeda smiled softly, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead before running gentle fingers through her daughter’s hair, the strands rippling between colours beneath her touch.

“I’m not sure I have all the answers for you, my Nymph,” she admitted, her voice thoughtful. “But what I can tell you is this—listen to the magic that connects you. Apolline and Amilie said yesterday that your bond will be whatever you both need in each moment of your lives. That kind of magic is ancient, instinctive. It will guide you, if you trust it.”

She felt Nymphadora nod against her shoulder, humming softly in consideration.

Andromeda knew the truth of it. The magic that wove between her daughter and Adharia was as old as magic itself. No matter how much one studied it, no scholar, no seer, no witch or wizard would ever truly understand all the intricacies of the bonds magic spun in the world around them.

Still, she understood her daughter’s hesitation. The desire to do right by the girl. To protect, to support, without smothering her.

“If you’re that worried, darling, why don’t you come with me to speak with the Delacour’s at lunchtime?” she suggested. “I planned to visit them personally before attending Albus’s introductory meeting.” She waved a hand dismissively, but her lip curled in barely concealed disgust at the mention of his name.

Perhaps pretending to tolerate the man would be harder than she thought.

“I’ll come with you,” Nymphadora agreed easily, her hair settling into its usual bright pink. Then she grinned mischievously. “Though, for the love of Merlin, fix your face, Mother. You’ll never fool that old codger if you keep looking like you’re chewing on Glumbumbles.”

Andromeda huffed out a laugh, shaking her head.

She truly did thank her lucky stars for this daughter of hers.

Chapter Text

~ Apolline Delacour’s POV ~

~ Friday 8^th September 1995 ~

~Beauxbatons carriage, Hogwarts ~

The atmosphere in the room was thick with tension as Apolline and her wife sat across from their unexpected lunch guests. Apolline could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on them, the air charged with unspoken emotions.

Narcissa, ever the embodiment of pure-blooded elegance, sat rigid beside her. Her beautiful blonde hair was swept into a meticulously styled bun, every strand held in place with precision. Her back was straight, shoulders poised, hands delicately clasped in her lap—an exquisite mask of control honed over years of practice. It never failed to impress Apolline, the way Narcissa could command a room with nothing more than her presence. She was a vision of refinement, untouchable in her poise. Yet, beneath that icy exterior, Apolline could sense the storm brewing within her wife, a tempest of long-buried emotions clawing their way to the surface.

They had known, of course, that Andromeda Lestrange had been hovering around their daughter. They had known from the moment they had stepped into the infirmary the night before and found her there, seated at their baby’s bedside, a silent guardian when they had been unable to be. A part of Apolline, the rational part, felt grateful to the woman. Even before she had known who Adharia truly was, she had protected her, had tried to shield her from the cruel world that had stolen her from them. And for that, Apolline was thankful.

But gratitude did little to smother the resentment simmering in her chest. It was not Andromeda’s fault, Apolline was aware of that. And yet, the knowledge did not lessen the ache, did not quiet the voice in her mind whispering that Andromeda had been there when she had not—that she had been the one to comfort Adharia in her darkest moments when it should have been Apolline herself.

Yet, that was not the most troubling aspect of this encounter. No, what unsettled Apolline most was the way Andromeda’s presence reopened wounds in Narcissa that had never quite healed. Wounds carved deep by fourteen years of silence. Fourteen years of lost weekends, of unreturned owls, of Floo calls left unanswered.

The once unbreakable bond between them had disintegrated into nothingness. No explanation. No closure. Just absence.

Narcissa, for all her icy demeanour, possessed one of the kindest hearts Apolline had ever known. It was a trait that all three of their daughters had inherited—an innate warmth, a capacity for love that could not be extinguished, no matter how harsh the world had been to them. Narcissa loved fiercely, wholly, without reservation, and once upon a time, she had loved Andromeda like a sister. She had doted on her, protected her, adored her.

As girls, Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Black had been inseparable, bound together by deep admiration, friendship and circumstance. Narcissa and Bellatrix had been a formidable pair, and from the moment Andromeda was born, she had been folded into their world, shielded beneath their wings. They had been everything to one another. And then, all at once, it had fallen apart. First, Bellatrix had been lost to Azkaban.

And then, only months later, Adharia had been stolen from them. Narcissa had clung to the hope that Andromeda would remain at her side, that they would grieve together, heal together - search together. But Andromeda had disappeared, leaving behind nothing but silence.

The hurt had never faded. Apolline had seen it in her wife’s eyes, in the way her fingers twitched towards a letter that would never come, in the way she stared into the fireplace as though willing the Floo to burst to life. And now, after all this time, here Andromeda sat, brown eyes wide and pleading, searching for something—anything—in Narcissa’s gaze.

Beside her, her daughter lounged with effortless confidence, a stark contrast to the tension in the room. Nymphadora Lestrange was a riot of colour against the sombre backdrop of old wounds. Her short, spiked hair was a vivid shade of pink, her red Auror robes crisp against the heavy black boots she had propped carelessly beneath the table. There was no hesitation in her, no sign of the nervousness most witches of barely twenty would exhibit beneath Narcissa’s piercing gaze. If anything, she seemed amused by the weight of it, as though she had walked into the lair of two apex predators and was entirely unbothered by the danger they posed.

Apolline found herself impressed despite herself. Few witches—few people—had the audacity to meet Narcissa Delacour’s gaze head-on and smirk.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, and beside her, Narcissa remained composed, unreadable. Only the faintest tremor of her upper lip betrayed her turmoil. It was enough to ignite Apolline’s fury. Her Veela instincts roared in protest, rebelling at the sight of her mate in distress. The urge to lash out, to remove the source of her pain, to make them hurt as her wife had hurt, was almost unbearable.

Yet, she held herself still. For now.

Andromeda swallowed hard, hands clenching against the table as she forced herself to speak. "Cissy, I—"

Apolline's nails dug into her palm as Narcissa inhaled sharply, the sound barely audible, but to her, it was deafening.

The tension thickening even more - if that were possible. Andromeda had better choose her words wisely.

“Do not call me that.” Narcissa’s voice was like a blade, slicing through the fragile silence. The words dripped with venom, the finality in her tone leaving no room for argument. Whatever Andromeda had been about to say died on her lips, smothered beneath the weight of a name no longer welcome.

“You lost the right to address me with any sort of familiarity fourteen years ago, Andromeda.”

Her gaze was colder than Apolline had ever seen it. A glacial, impenetrable wall that even the fiercest inferno could not thaw. The sight sent a shudder through her, forcing her to cling to the very edges of her control. Her Veela instincts coiled within her, desperate to rise, to lash out at the source of her mate’s distress. But she would not allow it. Not here. Not now. This moment was too precarious, too delicate, for her to let her fury take hold.

Narcissa was not angry. Not truly. Apolline knew her wife too well, knew that beneath the ice, beneath the cruelty of her words, lay something far more dangerous: grief. This was not hatred. It was pain—long-buried, festering pain, sharpened by fourteen years of silence and abandonment.

Out of the corner of her eye, Apolline caught the subtle shift in Nymphadora’s posture. The girl had straightened at the sharpness of Narcissa’s words, her spine rigid, her hands clenched just slightly tighter than before. She said nothing, made no move to intervene, but Apolline could feel the change in her. Could see the tension in the set of her jaw, the storm brewing behind her dark eyes. The restraint, the quiet observation, the way she absorbed every detail without reaction—it spoke of her training. It was the mark of an Auror, of a woman who had learned to temper her emotions and analyze a room before making a move. And despite herself, Apolline was impressed.

“Narcissa—” Andromeda tried again, her voice quiet, resigned. She did not argue, did not protest the rejection, merely accepted it with a quiet nod. Her shoulders, once squared with hesitant hope, now sagged beneath the weight of the distance Narcissa had placed between them. And Apolline did not blame her wife for it.

Andromeda had once been family, once been cherished. And she had left. She had chosen silence when her pseudo sister had needed her most. She had chosen absence over loyalty.

“I have no excuse for my absence,” Andromeda continued, her words barely above a whisper. “I won’t try to justify my actions.” There was a rawness to her voice, a fractured honesty that mirrored the hurt in Narcissa’s eyes.

“All I can say is that I am truly sorry. I failed you. I failed your girls. I failed our bond, and for that, I will never forgive myself.” She exhaled shakily, her magic flickering through the air, reaching, pleading. Apolline could feel it, that desperate, aching energy, stretching across the chasm that now separated them.

“But Morgana be my witness, Narcissa,” Andromeda vowed, voice thick with unshed tears, “I will do everything—anything—in my power to right the wrong between us.”

Apolline did not need to look to know she was crying. She could hear it in the tremor of her voice, feel it in the pulse of her magic—the way it quivered, fragile and uncertain, like a lifeline cast into a sea of regret.

And still, Narcissa did not move.

Her face remained unreadable, a flawless mask honed over years of necessity. There was no indication that Andromeda’s words had even registered, no flicker of acknowledgment in her ice-blue eyes.

"When Bella was imprisoned, Nymphadora was distraught. Then Sirius was sent there too. The rumours about their crimes were endless, and Regulus—he simply vanished. The Tapestry still claims he’s alive, but no search has ever found him.” Andromeda’s voice wavered, her eyes glistening with truths she had never dared to speak aloud. “It felt like I was drowning, like the family magik itself was consuming me in its desperation to right the wrongs done to our bloodline."

She hesitated, her hands curling into tight fists in her lap. Then, after a deep breath, she pressed on.

“At first, I distanced myself because you were happy. Bella was imprisoned, and you had a new baby in your arms. You didn’t need my grief adding to the weight you already carried. And then, when Adharia was taken—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “It was too much. I couldn’t help. There was already a distance between us, and I was afraid. I didn’t want you to think I came back only because Adharia was gone.” She exhaled shakily. “I didn’t know how to reach out. And the longer I waited, the harder it became.”

Now, the tears came freely, carving silent paths down her cheeks. Her shoulders trembled with quiet, choked sobs, her anguish laid bare at Narcissa’s feet. But Narcissa gave no sign of softening.

Apolline almost pitied the woman. Almost.

But until Narcissa forgave her, Apolline would not.

She had not grown up beside Andromeda, had not shared a childhood filled with whispered secrets and laughter. Andromeda was not her burden to grieve. But Narcissa—her wife, her mate—had suffered most in all of this. Andromeda had abandoned the bond they once shared, leaving wounds so deep they had never fully healed.

And if there was to be any reconciliation, it was not Apolline’s to give. It was Andromeda’s responsibility to bridge the chasm she had created.

And it was Narcissa’s choice whether to let her.

“I do not expect forgiveness. I do not deserve such a kindness from you. But please, Cissy…” Andromeda’s voice faltered as the childhood nickname slipped past her lips, unbidden. She tensed, wary eyes snapping to Narcissa’s as if bracing for a sharp reprimand.

But none came.

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken history. Andromeda swallowed, forcing herself to continue.

“Please… hear me when I say that failing you is the greatest regret of my life. And I will spend eternity doing whatever you ask of me to make amends. I never wanted to hurt you.” Her final words were barely more than a whisper, raw with remorse.

Apolline’s gaze flickered to Nymphadora as the young Auror reached for her mother’s hand, grasping it tightly.

Her expression remained unreadable, carefully controlled even as the weight of the moment bore down on the room. She is strong. The Veela within Apolline purred in approval, satisfied that Lady Magik had chosen well in choosing this witch for her youngest daughter.

Silence fell once more. Andromeda’s head remained bowed, her eyes fixed on the hand clasping her own—perhaps the only thing keeping her grounded, keeping her from fleeing the overwhelming tide of emotion that sat so heavily between them.

“I forgive you.”

The words were so soft, so unexpected, that for a fleeting moment, Apolline thought she had misheard.

But then she saw it—the way Narcissa’s icy composure wavered, the way something fragile, something long-buried, cracked open beneath the weight of those three words. Forgive her?

Apolline watched in something close to awe as Narcissa turned, storm-grey eyes seeking hers first. A hand, gentle but sure, settled on her knee—a silent reassurance. I am right here. I am safe. I am okay. Apolline exhaled, her Veela instinct settling at the silent promise.

“I forgive you,” Narcissa repeated, her voice steadier now. Yet it carried the weight of fourteen years of grief, a warning wrapped in quiet steel. “But I will not forgive you a second time. If we are to have any sort of relationship, you will earn it. Starting with you being the mother of my youngest daughter’s mate.”

Pride swelled in Apolline’s chest at the sheer strength in her wife’s voice. She could hear the tremor beneath Narcissa’s calm, could feel how much it cost her to say those words. She wants to forgive. But to do so without condition would be a betrayal of her own suffering.

Andromeda had lost much, yes. She was wrecked by her own guilt, drowning in regret. But Narcissa—Narcissa had grieved a child, two friends who were like sisters, and the home that had once been hers. And she had done it alone. Andromeda’s absence had cut deeper than betrayal. It had been abandonment.

“Understand this Andromeda,” Narcissa continued, her voice quiet but unyielding. “If not for our daughters, this conversation would not be happening.”

Tears slipped down her face, silent but relentless. But her gaze—fierce, unwavering—remained locked onto Andromeda.

“I am not yet at a place where I can say the pain I have experienced, caused by your inaction has healed. But I am willing to try.”

Apolline felt something shift deep within her own chest as she watched her wife, a kind of aching hope she hadn’t dared to believe in for years, reigniting as her wife spoke. For the first time in far too long, Narcissa was not just surviving. She was fighting for herself. Her voice firm, an image of confidence that had vanished so long ago that Apolline feared it would never return no matter how hard she had tried to reassure her wife over the years.

She could see it now, the glimmer of self-worth creeping up her wife’s spine, the certainty in her magik. The ignition of strength.

And maybe, just maybe, this was the moment she began to find herself again.

“I understand, Narcissa. Whatever you need of me, I will do.”

Andromeda’s voice was steady, but beneath it lay something deeper—an unshakable determination, a silent vow woven into every syllable. Apolline studied her carefully, seeking any hint of hesitation, but found none. The devastation that had weighed so heavily on Andromeda mere moments ago had shifted, replaced by a quiet resolve.

And Apolline believed her.

Narcissa remained silent, her sharp, discerning gaze locked onto Andromeda for a lingering moment before, at last, she nodded. Without a word, she reached out for Apolline, and the older Veela responded instantly, as if drawn by instinct. She took her wife’s hand, her grip firm but comforting, and began rubbing a soothing thumb across the back of her mate’s hand—a gesture as natural to them as breathing. Their bond sighed contentedly at the contact, humming with warmth.

Even now, after nearly two decades, Apolline sometimes struggled to believe how fortunate she was in her mate. Narcissa was everything she could have dreamed of—strong, loving, fiercely protective, and clever beyond words.

Her family was a blessing. One she would cherish for eternity.

“Now,” Narcissa spoke again, her voice cool and composed. Any trace of previous upset had vanished, replaced with the calm, precise authority that had always commanded a room. The shift had an immediate effect—tension eased, postures straightened, and all present refocused. “I am almost certain you did not come here today simply to grovel. What is it you wish to discuss?”

Apolline barely managed to suppress a laugh. The mirth in her eyes flickered to Dora, and she found the young Auror struggling just as much to keep a straight face. Amusement danced in Dora’s green eyes, her lips twitching at Narcissa’s pointed dig at her mother.

Andromeda let out a breath before straightening, brushing her hands through her neatly styled curls. Her expression smoothed, the last remnants of distress carefully tucked away as she regained her composure. “Yes. I wished to discuss Adharia with you, and Nymphadora had some questions about her bond with your youngest daughter that she wished to understand more thoroughly.”

That caught Apolline’s attention immediately. She sat a little straighter, her focus sharpening.

She wished to discuss Adharia?

“Adharia first, and then we will address any questions you have, Nymphadora,” Apolline replied, her curiosity evident as she glanced between the Lestrange women seated before her.

“Please, call me Dora, Lady Delacour. I loathe ‘Nymphadora,’” the young Auror interjected, nodding respectfully. Beside her, Andromeda scowled, her disapproval clear. Evidently, Dora’s name was a point of contention between them.

“Dora, then,” Apolline agreed smoothly. “And please, Lady Delacour is my mother. Call me Apolline.”

“And I, Narcissa, if you may,” her wife added with a barely restrained shudder. Apolline didn’t miss the way Narcissa’s lips curled in distaste at the mere thought of being likened to her mother-in-law. Though she adored the woman, Apolline new there was no one quite like her mother.

Dora nodded once more, and for the first time, a genuine, almost childlike smile graced her features. It was unfair, really. Apolline had expected—no, had wanted—to be at least a little wary of her daughter’s mate. It was a mother’s prerogative to be sceptical, to take her time warming up to the person who had bonded with her child.

But Dora was making it difficult. Infuriatingly so.

Because the more Apolline observed her, the more she realized that Dora was exactly the kind of person she had prayed the universe would send to Adharia. And with that realization came something unexpected—relief.

Adharia would never be alone again. Never again abandoned, never again unprotected. No force on this earth—mortal or magical—would ever take her from them.

“Now, Andromeda,” Apolline continued, gathering herself, “what is it about Adharia you wished to discuss?”

Andromeda cleared her throat, briefly squeezing her daughter’s hand before placing her own in her lap. “There are a few things,” she admitted, “but let me start at the beginning.”

Both Delacour women nodded in silent encouragement. As she spoke, Narcissa rested her head against Apolline’s shoulder in that effortless way that always made Apolline feel invincible.

“I first met Adharia as Hermione Granger the summer before her first year,” Andromeda began. “She was ten years old and had been taken to Diagon Alley by McGonagall. She and Draco ran into one another at Flourish and Blotts—knocked themselves off their feet, if I remember correctly. From the moment I saw her, I felt… something. A connection. Familial, familiar, protective.”

Apolline nodded. That made sense. The call of blood magic was undeniable, especially when an injustice had been committed. Lady Magik had ways of correcting wrongs. She had likely guided Andromeda toward Adharia, urging recognition, longing to restore what had been stolen.

“She was looking at advanced books, so I tried to engage her in conversation,” Andromeda continued, voice steady but tinged with something close to regret. “She was nervous. Skinnier than any child should be. Her clothes—worn, dirty, too small for her slight frame. Then Draco asked about her parentage—or rather, he asked her if she was a ‘Mud-blood.’ Courtesy of Lucius, of course.”

A sharp edge crept into her tone at the mention of their brother-in-law.

Apolline’s grip on Narcissa’s hand tightened just slightly. Lucius.

Narcissa’s twin, yet her opposite in every way that mattered.

Where Narcissa was kind, Lucius was cruel. Where she was full of love, he harvested hatred like it was gold. His obsession with blood purity was his greatest flaw—one that had long since tainted his soul.

It was why the Delacour’s had distanced themselves from him. Visits were minimal, interactions kept brief. It was infuriating every single time his snobbery bled through his carefully constructed mask.

And now, it seemed Bellatrix’s darling boy was following in his father’s footsteps.

Bella would be livid.

“I issued a warning through Draco,” Andromeda continued, her voice calm but firm. “Hermione Granger was off-limits—protected under House Lestrange and House Black. That was enough to keep most of the pure-blood children in check. Draco told me there had only been one incident of bullying—on the train, the very first day.”

Apolline held her breath.

“She held her own.”

Pride flickered in Andromeda’s voice, quiet but unmistakable.

“She cast a wandless, wordless Shield Charm and held it while under spell fire from older Slytherins. She was unharmed. And once Draco spread word, Slytherin never made another move against her.”

Silence settled over the room for a long moment. Apolline exhaled slowly, something indescribable coiling in her chest.

Adharia. Even then, even as a child, she had fought.

Apolline lifted her free hand, pressing it gently against her heart.

Oh, ma chérie. You should have never had to fight alone. But you will never, ever, fight alone again. Apolline thought sadly. Her heart hurting for her baby girl. The image Andromeda was painting of her at such a tender age was devastating to the Veela mother. Her little girl had clearly – even then – experienced far too much of life’s cruelties. Where she should have grown with love, with acceptance and safety, she had clearly experienced the opposite and that knowledge destroyed Apolline.

From the way Narcissa sat up, her sharp grey eyes fixed on Andromeda, her fingers tightening around Apolline’s hand as if drawing strength from the connection, it was clear that she felt the same devastation. Neither woman had spoken since Andromeda began recounting what she knew, but the way they leaned in—silent, unblinking—told the brunette that they were absorbing every syllable, desperate to learn all they could about their stolen child.

“I saw her before she boarded the train for the first time,” Andromeda began, her voice steady but thick with restrained emotion. “When I approached, she looked ready to bolt as soon as she had the chance. The moment I reached out to help her push her trolley, placing my hand on hers, she flinched.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “She tried to cover it up as if she had something to hide, but I saw. I started sending her care packages, letters, books—anything to let her know she wasn’t alone, that somebody cared for her. She never responded.” She took a breath and Apolline could see just how badly Andromeda had truly wanted to help their daughter in the pain present in Andromeda’s eyes.  “She was sorted into Ravenclaw after a near twenty-minute Hat Stall.” She paused, momentarily lost in thought. Narcissa and Apolline remained silent, unwilling to interrupt, unwilling to break the spell of these long-awaited revelations.

“At the end of her first year, I received a letter from Draco. It was short—just a single sentence that simply stated: ‘Hermione Granger is in the infirmary.’ When I went to see her, I found her covered in healing bruises, including one on her head. Apparently, she’d gotten herself caught up in Harry Potter’s reckless schemes and followed him and Ronald Weasley – Molly Prewett’s youngest boy - into the depths of the castle to confront a professor they believed was after the Philosopher’s Stone.” Andromeda inhaled sharply, her voice tightening with barely restrained fury. “They were right—the professor was after the stone. But what they didn’t realize was that he was also playing host to Lord Voldemort. They were attacked.” Narcissa’s grip on Apolline’s hand became bruising. Apolline’s own magic surged within her, her Veela pacing, prowling, her fury barely contained beneath her skin as they listened to Andromeda recount all their daughter had been subjected too. “She was knocked unconscious, trying to protect the two idiot boys—boys who, from what I’ve observed, use her for her knowledge and skill. Nothing more.” Andromeda’s voice was like steel, every word laced with disdain.

“When she woke in the infirmary, she was hesitant to talk about any of it, but I managed to persuade her to open up. She told me about the bullying. The loneliness. How the entire school either tormented her or avoided her and how Harry and Ronald had made it a point of demanding her help.” Apolline’s breath hitched, and Narcissa closed her eyes, swallowing against the pain those words inflicted. “I held her until she cried herself to sleep.” Andromeda’s voice wavered for the first time, but she pressed on. “After that, she slowly began replying to my letters. But midway through her second year, the letters stopped. Not long after, Draco informed me that she’d been petrified by the Basilisk.” Her voice turned venomous. “A creature that had been living under the school for over fifty years. Apparently undetected by the professors. Adharia was one of twenty three perceived Muggleborns targeted and nearly killed under the protection of Hogwarts finest.” Apolline’s fury flared, a wildfire beneath her skin. Her magik crackled, begging to be unleashed.

“I visited her a few times while she was petrified, trying to track the school’s efforts to heal her. There were none each time. By the time she was finally revived, things had escalated with Rodolphus’ family, and I was unable to get away to visit her before she was released from the infirmary and sent back to the orphanage for the summer. After that… she avoided me. I tried to inquire about taking her in, explaining my concerns, my observations. But the Ministry wouldn’t budge.” Andromeda exhaled sharply, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her robe—an uncharacteristic show of vulnerability. “They dismissed me, assured me she was ‘perfectly healthy, completely safe’ and under the care of a magical guardian.”

Andromeda barely got her next words out through clenched teeth, her words clearly furious and bitter in her throat. “She was not healthy. She was suffering. And Dumbledore allowed it.”

The weight of her fury sat thick in the air, and for a long moment, no one spoke.

Apolline too was angry, her Veela infuriated by the many ways in which her daughter had been failed by the school. The sheer volume of harm that had come to her, all because of Albus Dumbledore. She could feel the way her Veela paced, her magik whipping in her veins like a tightly coiled spring ready to snap and she had to force herself to take a breath. The steady pressure of Narcissa’s hand in her own the only thing grounding her. Preventing her from truly caving to the anger that was surging through her.

“The next time I saw her was the summer just past,” Andromeda continued, voice quieter now, but no less intense. “She sent me an owl. No explanation, just a request: ‘Come to me.’ It was strange, uncharacteristic of her when she had spent the entire year deliberately ignoring my existence. Every book, every gift, every letter, returning to me unopened.” Apolline could almost taste the concern in Andromeda’s tone. The woman clearly lost in the memory as she told it.  “In the time she refused to engage with me she was once more roped in with Potter’s constant mess, she faced Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, a werewolf, and there was some sort of a time-turner incident that somehow entangled her in the affairs of my cousin.” She sneered at Black’s name. “Yet she never spoke a word of it to me Refusing to divulge any sort of detail pertaining to what had actually gone on.”

Apolline had gone whiter than she believed possible with her already pale complexion. Her heart now hammering to such a degree she feared it would escape her chest if it kept going.

“When I apparated to her location when I received her letter, I found her in the attic of her orphanage.” Her breath hitched, and for the first time, her composure cracked. “She was huddled under a pile of dirty, threadbare blankets. The walls were covered in Narcissus flowers and Fleur-de-lis. The whole room smelt like damp and rotted wood. Her magik was saturating the air around her. She looked… ill. Burning with fever, shaking, sweating, in so much pain she could barely speak to tell me what was happening. She kept saying she could hear too much, smell too much, that she’d been locked up for the summer after an ‘accidental magic’ incident. Her matron had confiscated her wand, all her belongings. The entire orphanage had been horrific to her.” Andromeda paused once more, taking a slow steadying breath as her eyes haunted by an image the Delacour’s couldn’t see, closed as if to erase the unpleasantness completely.

Apolline’s vision blurred with rage. Narcissa trembled beside her, her breaths uneven.

“I ran every test I could think of in my attempt to identify what was causing her to be so ill. I honestly…  I feared for her. I found nothing physically wrong, yet her body bore the scars of years of mistreatment. Her magical signature was tampered with—glamours, suppressions, spells I couldn’t even begin to identify.” Andromeda turned to Apolline now, her gaze burning fiercely with an anger that Apolline felt deeply. “Her history is riddled with untreated injuries—fractures, bruises, broken bones, all clearly not healed correctly or with magic. How Madam Pomfrey never noticed—never reported it—is beyond me.”

Apolline’s Veela roared. She forced herself to breathe. Breathe. She forced herself to focus, trying to find some comfort in the knowledge that as Andromeda spoke, the way she cared about Adharia was evident. And Apolline was grateful  - truly, that there was one more person out there that cared for Adharia as fiercely as Narcissa and she did.

“I was helping her manage her pain and symptoms as best I could, though when I tried to remove the glamour and the unknown magic I quickly realised I wasn’t strong enough alone and there was no one else she trusted enough to let help. I enquired again at the ministry, even showing them my reports but again Madame Bones made it clear I was overstepping and Hermione was perfectly safe.” Andromeda hesitated, her eyes flickering to her daughter. Nymphadora had been silent, still, her expression unreadable throughout the entirety of the discussion.

Apolline held up a finger, silently asking the woman for a minute to collect herself, she and her wife reeling from the onslaught of horrific but necessary information.

“There’s something you haven’t said,” Narcissa bit out, her voice dangerously calm and Apolline winced at the fury laced in every syllable that Narcissa spoke.

Andromeda exhaled shakily, nodding hesitantly, reaching for Dora’s hand. “When I was with her this summer, when she was fevered, she was in and out of consciousness, It got to the point that I had to strip her down to help regulate her temperature. It was the only option left, the next step would have been taking her to St Mungo’s” She explained, her voice now barely above a whisper, she closed her eyes. “Her back and thighs…

She paused once more, shaking her head sadly. Her eyes flitting over Nymphadora as if whatever it was she was about to say shook her beyond measure and she needed to reassure herself that her own child was in fact safe.

“Out with it please Andromeda.” Apolline whispered, unable to bear the silence and hesitation. She needed to know what about her darling girl had shook this woman so.

“They’re covered in scars.” Apolline’s heart stopped.

“looks like cane scars.” Andromeda’s voice barely carried, yet it felt like a scream in the suffocating silence. “The scars – there are some as old as twelve years.”

Twelve years ago Adharia was barely two years old.

A choked sound escaped Narcissa, her body curling inward. Apolline’s vision swam. A guttural growl built in her throat, her magik lashing like a tempest as her Veela roared, her vision bleeding red. The sheer horror the woman depicted was unbearable to contemplate yet it had been her little girls reality.

“You are sure?” she asked, teeth clenched as her eyes wavered between their sea blue and the bright crimson of a very much awake Veela calling for blood.

Andromeda nodded, an expression of anguish etched on her features and Apolline felt as if she were about to lose all control. Her wife cried beside her, anger and upset coursing through them unbidden.

And then—

A pulse of pure, seething fury crashed through the room.

The auror who had sat stoically throughout the entire discussion, her expression one of neutrality and her eyes ever present and watchful now looked murderous. Her hair was a deep void like black, her normally warm eyes hollowed with darkness. Her once neutral expression now flushed with a fury that Apolline knew she mirrored. Yet despite the clear fury on her face Apolline caught the tears that streamed freely down the until now, unshakeable Auror’s face. Heartbreak shinning in her eyes in a way that halted Apolline in her tracks.

The Veela’s fury evaporated. Her razer sharp gaze fixed on her youngest daughters soulmate.

“Dora,” she commanded, stepping forward despite a still distraught Narcissa’s protests. She hated to move away from her wife, but Apolline knew that Nymphadora needed her more in this moment. “Breathe.” Her words were quiet but forceful. The young Auror startled, her eyes locking onto Apolline’s. For a moment, there was no recognition, only raw, overwhelming grief.

They had clearly underestimated how awake their daughters Veela was for the witch in front of her to be affected so badly by what she had just heard.

Apolline knelt down in front of the young witch. Hands coming up to rest on Nymphadora’s shoulders, directing the distraught witches focus towards herself.

Andromeda’s panic flared. “What’s happening?” she demanded, fear and confusion lacing her tone, eyes searching frantically between Dora and Apolline for some clue as to what was going on.

“The bond that ties her and Adharia is new, they haven’t even had time to spend any sort of time together. Or adjust to the bond that exists between them.” Apolline answered, hands rubbing the young witches forearms gently as she silently hoped the contact would help ground the young auror quickly. “She’s feeling the weight of it all—the suffering, the pain, the rage she knows Adharia was put through. She doesn’t know how to process it yet.” She explained as briefly as she could, trying to reassure Andromeda while keeping her focus on Dora.

“Adharia is safe now. She is safe.” She informed the younger witch gently, releasing a little of her thrall into the air around the Auror. Instinctively knowing that it would be the only way to get through to her fast enough to prevent her from harming herself or anyone else in her devastation.

She kept her voice soft, gentle in a way that was only reserved for her children and her wife. “Adharia is safe.”

“Breath.” She instructed again, this time breathing her own breath of release as the girl in front of her began to follow the command. Lost eyes locking with her own. A flicker of recognition seeping back into the aurors gaze.

Dora’s breathing hitched.

“Breathe with me.” Apolline exhaled slowly. Dora followed.

“Good,” Apolline murmured, steady and certain, anchoring the storm within her. “Adharia is safe now, Dora. She is safe.” Nymphadora nodded. The movement stilted and awkward as she fought to regain control.

“Just keep breathing.” Apolline reassured once more.  Making sure to exaggerate her own breaths for the auror to copy. Again and again. “She’s safe now.” She murmured again. Her voice portraying a calm she didn’t truly feel. But she knew Dora needed to recognise the harm Adharia had come too was done with, her family had found her. Dora had found her and she would never be left to face any storm alone again.

“What happened?” Dora’s voice shook with emotion but Apolline was relieved to see her eyes had slowly started turning back to their usual green, warmth bleeding back in to her gaze the more the breathed together.

"You and Ari share a bond that is both beautiful and unimaginably complex, young one." Apolline’s voice was steady, carrying the weight of centuries-old knowledge as she slowly stood, smoothing the folds of her dress robes before settling back beside Narcissa. Her mate instinctively curled into her arms, seeking the comfort of their closeness, and Apolline held her tighter in response.

“When an awakened Veela meets their mate, the bond forms instantaneously—unbreakable, irrevocable. It weaves the souls together in a way that transcends conscious thought. To harm the human half of a bonded pair is to harm the Veela. To kill one…” She trailed off, sparing a glance at Nymphadora, who had gone unnervingly still. “Would mean the death of the other. There is no living without the other, for a Veela the mere thought of losing their mate is shattering.” Her voice softened, though the weight of her words pressed heavy upon the room. “It is one of our most closely guarded secrets.”

She turned slightly, her sea-blue eyes meeting Narcissa’s stormy grey ones. A single tear had slipped down her wife’s porcelain cheek, and Apolline instinctively reached out, brushing it away with a gentleness that contradicted the storm brewing beneath her composed exterior. Her arms tightened protectively around Narcissa, grounding them both.

“Ari’s Veela is waking far too early, which means her Veela—like her—is young, untrained, and unsteady. It has no real control over itself, no understanding yet of its nature. And yet, the bond remains absolute.” Apolline’s gaze shifted back to Nymphadora, watching intently as the young Auror absorbed every word. She had always known this moment would come – that one day she would have to explain the intrinsic complexities of Veela and soulmates to her youngest child’s mate, but never this soon, never before Fleur or Gabrielle’s and especially never under such harrowing circumstances.

“She knows you,” Apolline continued, her voice quiet but certain. “Her Veela recognizes you in the same way your soul already knows her. The moment you met, the bond was sealed. However, it was never meant to manifest this early—Adharia should not have been able to feel her Veela at all until her sixteenth year.” She watched as the Auror’s expression flickered, comprehension dawning, though not without resistance.

“Because the bond is in place,” Apolline pressed on, “your reaction is precisely what we would expect from a newly bonded mate. You are feeling everything too deeply, too intensely. Learning of what has been done to her—what she has suffered—has triggered an overwhelming response. But the magic that ties you together is unsettled. You do not know each other. You have not had time to learn the rhythms of your bond, to acclimate to the presence of one another’s magic.”

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair to push it back from her face before placing her hand gently over Narcissa’s smaller one on her knee. "The intensity will settle in time. As your magics learn that you are both safe, the weight of it will ease. But for now, you must be patient with yourself. With her.”

Apolline could see the thoughts forming in the Auror’s mind—the rapid shift of emotions as she worked through the information. Her head tilted slightly, her fingers picking at an invisible flaw in her robes, hair shifting once more—now a deep shade of cobalt blue. Eyes distant, unfocused, yet sharp in their scrutiny.

Apolline smiled. It was small, almost amused, but filled with quiet understanding. This young witch was no stranger to processing difficult truths, but this… This was different.

Nymphadora would need guidance. Reassurance. A place to anchor herself amidst the chaos of the bond. And Apolline, for one, was relieved.

Her daughter’s mate was not only competent but kind. Intelligent. Worthy.

And Apolline would make certain she had everything she needed as they moved forward—together.

~~~~~~~

~ Adharia’s POV~

~Hermione’s room, Ravenclaw Dorm~

~Friday 8^th September 1995~

The Origins of the Veela

Long before the rise of modern wizarding society, when magic was still whispered through the forests and sung by the rivers, there existed a tribe of witches known for their grace, wisdom, and unwavering kindness. These witches, ancestors of the Delacour line, lived in harmony with nature and the creatures of the magical world, offering aid to those in need without fear or prejudice.

It is said that their fate changed when three of their own intervened to save a young Siren child from slaughter at the hands of ruthless hunters. The Sirens—mystical beings of the sea, revered and feared for their beauty and enchanting voices—had long remained distant from human affairs. But when word of the witches' selfless act reached the Siren Queen, she was deeply moved. Taken with their compassion and the ethereal beauty they already possessed, she chose to bestow upon them a gift—one that would forever set them apart from other witches.

With an ancient blessing woven from the tides and sung into their very blood, the Siren Queen granted the witches' tribe the essence of the Veela. Her gift transformed them, elevating their magic and bestowing upon them an aura of otherworldly allure, powerful charm, and an innate connection to the natural world. This was the birth of the first Veela clan, their lineage forever tied to the grace of the Sirens. From that moment onward, they were no longer merely witches—they were Veela, a new and distinct magical race.

Unlike other magical inheritances, the Veela essence is not diluted over generations. The Veela gene passes in its entirety from mother to daughter, ensuring that every female born of a Veela is a full-blooded Veela, never a half or a quarter. They are whole and complete in their nature, carrying the legacy of the Siren Queen’s blessing within them.

Perhaps the most sacred aspect of the Veela’s magic is the bond of the soul. Every Veela has one true mate, a soulmate whose presence awakens the deepest parts of their being. This bond is rare and unbreakable, a tether of fate woven from the same enchantment that first birthed the Veela into existence. To a Veela, love is not fleeting—it is eternal, just as the gift of their kind has been, from the very first Veela to those who carry the legacy today.

Thus, the Veela remain a testament to the power of kindness, beauty, and magic intertwined—an immortal echo of the Siren Queen’s song, still carried in the daughters born to the now expansive Veela clans worldwide.

Adharia hummed softly, the sound barely audible in the quiet room as her eyes traced the elegant script flowing across the page. The book—ancient yet lovingly preserved—sat reverently in her hands, its weight grounding her in a way she hadn't known she needed. A gift from her grandmother, it was more than just parchment and ink; it was a thread connecting her to the history that had been stolen from her.

She drank in the words with an insatiable hunger, her mind sharp, her magic thrumming in quiet exhilaration.

The more she read, the more she understood—not just about the Veela, but about herself. About the bloodline she had never known she belonged to, the legacy that ran deeper than mere ancestry.

It was strange, surreal even, to sit here curled up on her bed, the world beyond still steeped in darkness, while Cho slept soundly beside her. Strange to wear the skin of Hermione Granger when she now knew, with absolute certainty, that she had never been meant to be that girl. She had never been meant for that life—small, caged, filled with suffering. No, she was Adharia Apolline Delacour, daughter of the most formidable witches she had ever known, a descendant of a people whose magic sang through their veins like fire and storm.

And she could feel it. The difference. The way her magic no longer curled in on itself, no longer fought to fit within the limits imposed upon it. It was free now, coursing through her like liquid sunlight, filling every inch of her with an awareness so potent it nearly stole her breath. Beneath her skin, woven into her very being, was the whisper of her ancestors—the first Veela, the untamed magic of a lineage as ancient as time itself.

She had fallen into sleep almost the moment she had showered the night before, exhaustion dragging her into the deepest, most undisturbed rest she had known in years. She had wanted to read then, to begin unraveling the history denied to her, but her body had given in the moment her head touched the pillow.

Yet at five-thirty sharp, her eyes had snapped open. Not sluggish, not weighed down by the remnants of restless sleep, but alert. Ready.

For the first time in so long, she had awoken without the crushing weight of fear. Without the instinct to brace herself for whatever the day might bring.

Her hands had been steady as she dressed, movements efficient as she packed her bag, prepared herself for the day ahead. There was clarity in her mind, a purpose that burned in her chest like a steady flame. And then, drawn by an urgency she couldn’t quite explain, she had curled back up on her bed, book in hand, heart in her throat.

She had lost so much time. So many years stolen from her, shackled to a false existence.

What is a Veela?

A Veela is a being of duality—both witch and creature, seamlessly intertwined. They are not mere part-human hybrids; they are a perfect fusion of two natures, each one essential to their existence. The Veela essence is dormant in a girl’s early years, a quiet presence resting beneath the surface of her magic. It is only as she nears her sixteenth birthday that the awakening begins.

When the Veela stirs, it is not a simple transformation but a reckoning—a merging of self and instinct, magic and nature. From this moment onward, a Veela must learn to coexist with her other half, to embrace the creature within rather than resist it. The Veela is not a separate entity but an extension of her soul, intrinsically woven into her very being. To deny it is to fight against her own nature, but to accept it is to unlock a power unlike any other.

When called upon, the Veela can shed its human skin and reveal its true form—a towering, bird-like creature of ethereal beauty and deadly grace. This transformation is a fearsome display of Veela power, a form designed for both defence and dominance. Their inhuman strength is unmatched, their taloned hands and feet razor-sharp, their bodies covered in pale, near-luminous feathers. While most Veela have piercing green eyes in this form, those of the Delacour bloodline are set apart—their transformed eyes burn a striking, unnatural red, a mark of the ancient Siren Queen’s blessing.

But even in their human form, Veela are otherworldly. They exude an effortless elegance and beauty, their movements like liquid poetry, their presence commanding without effort. More than simple allure, their magic pulses with an undeniable pull—an instinctive connection to nature, to life, to the magic that binds all living things together. Animals trust them, plants seem to bloom in their presence, and the air itself seems to hum when they walk by.

Their magic is stronger than that of ordinary witches and wizards, not just in raw power but in depth and instinct. It is ancient, untainted, tied not to wands but to will and intent.

Yet perhaps the most profound aspect of a Veela’s existence is the nature of their bonds. Love, to a Veela, is not fleeting or fragile—it is absolute. Their soulmate bond is the most well-known, an unbreakable tie between a Veela and the one meant for her. But beyond that, Veela are bound just as deeply to their families. These ties are as powerful as the mate bond, a force of loyalty, devotion, and protection that transcends mere blood. A Veela’s love is eternal, as is her wrath—those who threaten her own rarely live long enough to regret it.

A Veela is witch and creature, beauty and fury, magic and instinct—not two beings, but one.

Cho stirred beside her, shifting beneath the covers with a soft sigh. Adharia’s fingers paused on the delicate pages of her book as she turned her gaze toward her sleeping friend, watching for any sign of wakefulness. A flutter of movement, the brief scrunching of her nose—then Cho simply rolled over, burying herself deeper into the blankets, her soft snoring resuming almost instantly.

Adharia chuckled under her breath. Some things never changed.

Cho had always been a much better sleeper than she was, slipping into slumber with an ease Adharia had envied for years. She had spent countless mornings nudging, shaking, and even bribing her friend awake in time for classes, only to be met with drowsy grumbles and bleary-eyed resistance. Mornings, to Cho Chang, were an inconvenience, something to be endured rather than embraced. She was utterlymiserable until she had consumed at least one cup of tea, preferably two.

With a flick of her wand, Adharia cast a quick Tempus. The golden numbers materialized in the dim light of the dormitory, glowing softly in the space before her.

7:00 AM.

She exhaled, resisting the urge to groan. Breakfast would be served between 7:30 and 8:45, and while she would have happily forgone the entire ordeal in favour of sinking deeper into the words of her book, she knew better than to suggest such a thing. Skipping breakfast would earn her nothing but Cho’s indignant wrath and a firm scolding about the importance of not starving herself out of stubbornness.

With a reluctant sigh, Adharia carefully tucked her book into her bag, smoothing a reverent hand over its worn cover before rising to her feet. Her room was still cloaked in the hush of early morning, outside her room her housemates were still blissfully lost in sleep. She padded across the floor, slipping into the bathroom and turning on the dim light.

Her gaze lifted. And froze.

The mirror reflected the face of Hermione Granger. Wild brown curls, freckles and a somewhat large set of teeth that had always been unnatural.

Honey-brown eyes blinked back at her, familiar yet wrong. The face she had worn her entire life, the one the world recognized as hers, now felt like an ill-fitting disguise—a prison made of flesh and bone.

She swallowed, gripping the edge of the sink as unease curled low in her stomach. She had only seen her true reflection once, only for a brief moment the night before, but already this stolen face felt suffocating.

Gone were the delicate, sea-blue eyes that had tethered her to her mother and sisters. Gone was the silver-threaded hair, the ethereal glow of her Veela magic resting beneath her skin. Instead, she was staring at a lie, a mask carved by the hands of a man who had never had the right to shape her.

A slow, creeping anxiety slithered up her spine as reality settled like iron in her chest.

She would walk out of this room and into a castle where no one knew the truth. She would sit through breakfast, surrounded by familiar faces who did not know her—who had never known her.

And worst of all…

She would have to face her sisters.

She would see Fleur and Gabrielle, the bond that tied them singing through her very blood, and she would have to pretend they were strangers.

The thought sent a sharp, twisting ache through her heart—a restless, consuming discontent that burned hotter than she had anticipated. Her Veela hated it. It writhed beneath her skin, clawing at her ribs, unsettled and furious at the idea of denying its own blood, its own kin.

But she had no choice.

She was not just Adharia Delacour.

She was a girl wearing a stolen name, fighting a battle that had begun long before she had ever known to raise her sword.

And for now, for now, she had to keep up the illusion.

Even if it hurt.

Merlin knew it already was.

Adharia exhaled slowly, pressing her palm against the cool porcelain of the sink as guilt curled around her ribs like ivy. Through the crack in the bathroom door, the dim light illuminated Cho’s sleeping face, casting delicate shadows across her peaceful features. Untouched. Unburdened. Adharia envied her for that—for the quiet, for the blissful escape of not knowing.

Because knowledge was heavy. It changed everything. And now, as she stood here, suffocating beneath the weight of her own reality, she wished—just for a moment—that she could unlearn it all.

Her life was a mess—one she had not created, yet somehow had become the centrepiece of. Powerful hands had shaped her fate without her consent, moving pawns, scripting her story as if it had ever been theirs to tell.

But why?

What had Dumbledore’s intentions been?

Kidnapping her was no small act—it was a calculated move, a deliberate strike. There had to be a plan, a grand scheme woven into the very fabric of her existence. And as she sifted through the pieces, something became clear—Harry Potter. From the very first day, the old man had maneuvered her into his orbit, subtly but persistently ensuring that she stayed by his side.

Was that the goal? A weapon for the Boy Who Lived? A shield? A pawn in some larger war?

A flicker of something hot and volatile burned in her veins, but she forced it down. Now wasn’t the time for anger.

She turned on the tap, letting ice-cold water flow freely before cupping it in her hands and splashing it over her face. The shock of it was grounding, the chill sinking into her skin as droplets trickled down her cheeks. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose, willing herself to remain calm.

One step at a time.

A soft murmur broke the silence.

“Mia?”

Adharia tensed, her muscles going rigid as she glanced toward the door. The voice was sleep-heavy, thick with exhaustion, but it still sent a pang of guilt twisting through her.

Waving a hand over her face, she cast a silent drying charm before pulling in a steadying breath. She had to pull herself together.

Stepping into the dormitory, she was met with the sight of Cho sitting up in bed, the quilt pooled around her waist, dark hair sticking up at odd angles. She blinked sluggishly, sleep still clinging to her eyes, but there was something sharper beneath the haze—concern.

“What happened?” Cho repeated, her voice more awake than Adharia felt she had the right to be at this ungodly hour.

Adharia huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Straight to business, then?” she drawled, turning away and busying herself with tidying her room. Her hands moved methodically—dusting shelves, stacking books, straightening parchment. A deliberate distraction.

Cho said nothing.

She didn’t have to.

The silence stretched, and when Adharia glanced over, Cho was watching her with that infuriatingly patient expression, her brow delicately arched. It was a look that said, You can keep stalling, but we both know I’ll wait you out.

With a sigh, Adharia caved.

“It’s a long story,” she admitted, voice quiet but firm. “But I need you to swear—you cannot tell anyone.”

Cho’s gaze softened, and she tilted her head slightly, as if offended that Adharia even felt the need to ask.

“You know I would never speak a word to another when it comes to you, Mia.”

The response was simple, but it unravelled something inside Adharia.

Her shoulders sagged, the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding finally loosening. She turned fully, letting her mask slip just enough to reveal the vulnerability beneath. It was Cho. It was safe.

Cho straightened, her expression sharpening with concern.

“I swear it, Hermione,” she said suddenly, her voice carrying absolute certainty. “On my magic—I will never betray you or your secrets.”

A pulse of blinding white flashed through the air, sealing the vow with the ancient force of magic itself.

Adharia flinched. Not at the oath—she had never doubted Cho—but at the name.

Hermione.

Hearing it spoken by someone she loved, someone she considered family, felt… wrong.

But she nodded anyway, pushing aside the discomfort as Cho patted the empty space beside her. She sank onto the bed, inhaling deeply before finally speaking.

“I’m not Muggle-born,” she said carefully, watching as the words shattered the sleep still lingering in Cho’s eyes.

Cho’s brows furrowed. “You’re not—?” She stopped, blinking rapidly, her voice pitching slightly. “You’re not Muggle-born?”

Adharia shook her head. “Apparently not.”

She hesitated for only a moment before saying it—her real name, the one that had been stolen from her.

“My birth name is Adharia Apolline—”

“Delacour?!”

Cho’s gasp cut her off, the name leaving her lips in a near squeak of pure shock.

Adharia nodded. Summoning the parchment from her bag, she placed it between them. The delicate script detailing her inheritance, her lineage, her stolen birthright gleamed under the soft morning light. “I was kidnapped six weeks after I was born,” she continued, voice even despite the weight of the words. “And left at an orphanage.”

Cho’s hands hovered over the parchment, but she didn’t touch it. Instead, she stared at Adharia, lips parted, something horrified etching itself into the delicate lines of her face.

“My mum,” she whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “I remember her telling me about the Delacour’s—Mia, they searched for years. They offered millions in reward money for anyone with information about their missing daughter. My mum said…” Her voice wavered. “She said Narcissa Delacour became a shell of who she was. Cold, detached. The entire family left Britain in their grief.”

Adharia swallowed hard, her chest tightening. She had known this. Of course, she had known it. Her parents had told her as much. But hearing it—having it confirmed by someone who had witnessed the aftermath, who had grown up hearing the stories—was different. It was real.

More real than she was ready for.

Her lips curled into a sad, wobbly smile, her eyes stinging despite herself.

“I know,” she murmured. “They told me.”

She tipped her head back against the headboard, forcing down the emotion that threatened to rise. It was too much. It was all too much.

“I met them last night,” she added softly, voice barely more than a whisper. “That’s why I was so late coming back from the infirmary.”

Silence.

When she finally dared to look at Cho, she saw tears glistening in her best friend’s dark eyes, her hands curled tightly in the sheets.

“You’re Adharia Delacour,” Cho whispered, something raw and unspoken in her voice.

Adharia blinked rapidly, a single tear slipping free despite her best efforts.

“Yeah,” she whispered back. “I am.”

~~~~

Forty tearful minutes later, both witches stood at the sink, splashing cool water onto their faces, rinsing away the evidence of their earlier emotions. They lingered for a moment, steadying themselves, before rushing downstairs, eager to reach the Great Hall before all the pastries had vanished. Adharia, for her part, was particularly fond of a pain au chocolat whenever she could get one.

As they settled at the Ravenclaw table, Adharia could practically hear the gears turning in Cho’s mind. She could see it, too—in the way her intelligent eyes unfocused slightly, staring off into the distance at nothing in particular, her thoughts churning through everything Adharia had revealed.

Adharia wasn’t sure whether to be impressed, relieved, or utterly terrified at how effortlessly Cho had accepted the truth. She had taken in every detail—the tangled web that had been spun around ‘Hermione Granger’—without so much as blinking. No shock, no questions spoken aloud, just quiet contemplation. It was unnerving. Adharia knew it was a lot to process; she was still struggling to do so herself. And yet, Cho remained poised, her expression thoughtful but calm, as if she were merely puzzling out an Arithmancy equation.

The weight of that silence pressed against Adharia’s chest, making her uneasy.

Thankfully, a familiar presence arrived before she could dwell too long in her discomfort.

“Good morning,” Luna greeted, her light, airy voice breaking through the tension as she slid onto the bench beside them.

Adharia let out a slow breath, grateful for the interruption. Luna had a way of appearing exactly when she was needed, whether to comfort, to confuse, or simply to exist beside them without expectation. There was an effortless magic to her presence, one that Adharia was beginning to appreciate more than she ever had before.

Not that Luna knew she was Adharia. Or at least, they didn’t think she did. But if anyone had the ability to see beyond veils and illusions, it was Luna Lovegood. Those faraway eyes of hers missed nothing.

She was a Ravenclaw, after all.

“How are we this morning?” Luna asked, tilting her head with a soft smile.

Adharia found herself smiling back, the familiarity of the routine grounding her.

“Well, thank you, Luna,” she replied, her tone uncharacteristically warm. “And you’re just in time for the pastries.”

Something settled in her chest at the words. It was strange, the way the knowledge of her true heritage—of the love that surrounded her—made her feel both lighter and heavier at the same time. Lighter, because she was no longer lost. Heavier, because she could now see, with painful clarity, the distance she had forced between herself and those who had tried to care for her.

That, too, was something she would have to untangle.

But not now. Not this morning.

This morning, she would eat her pain au chocolat, let the warmth of her friends wrap around her, and—just for a little while—allow herself to feel safe.

Or at least, that had been her plan. But like all of Adharia’s plans, this one, too, was doomed to go wrong.

And, of course, the source of its unravelling came in the form of Albus Dumbledore himself.

He entered the Great Hall through the towering doors, his presence commanding yet deliberate, his gaze sweeping across the tables before landing squarely on her. Without hesitation, he strode forward, purposeful yet unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world.

Adharia forced herself to remain still, even as unease curled in her stomach.

There was a calculating sharpness behind those half-moon spectacles, a quiet determination that sent warning bells clanging in her mind. The casual observer would see only the kindly headmaster, twinkling with grandfatherly warmth. But Adharia knew better. She had learned to hear the inflection beneath his words, to sense the impatience and distaste he so carefully veiled.

And now, he stood before her, forcing her to crane her neck upward to meet his gaze.

“Ah, Miss Granger,” he greeted, his voice gentle, rich with false kindness. “Lovely to see you have rejoined the body of the school once more.”

Adharia barely suppressed a shiver of revulsion, her entire being protesting his proximity to her.

His expression was so perfectly crafted—concerned, indulgent, everything one would expect from a wise and benevolent mentor. And yet, her instincts, her very magic, screamed at her to run. To flee as far and as fast as she could from the man who had stolen so much from her. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Not yet.

So instead, she lowered her gaze just enough, allowing a quiet deference to settle over her features as she forced the meek act he expected from her.

“Yes, Professor,” she murmured, voice soft, hesitant.

She made sure to look just past him, her gaze unfocused, as she felt the insidious pressure of his Legilimency attempting to creep into her mind. She nearly scoffed. Did he truly think she wouldn’t notice? That she would be so weak-willed, so pathetic, that he could simply slip past her defences? Did he really fail to remember that she had spent a lifetime trying to hide herself from everyone around her, her survival depending on it. Her mind would be no differently defended. She was a natural at occlumency, and had been practicing the skill ever since she found out about its existence.

Her Occlumency shields held firm, not so much as trembling beneath his prodding. She clenched her jaw slightly, ensuring that not a crack formed in her mental walls.

“I was released late last night,” she continued, carefully weaving a note of hesitancy into her tone. “Madam Pomfrey gave me strict instructions to eat properly. I thought it best to listen.” She gestured slightly toward her plate, stacked high with pastries—an afterthought, a meaningless detail, the kind of thing a nervous student might latch onto for credibility.

Dumbledore hummed, his piercing blue eyes scrutinizing her in that way of his, as if he could strip her bear with a single look. Gather her secrets and mould her as needed all just with his eyes. It was unsettling and Adharia forced herself not to shrink away from him.

“Ah, wise, Miss Granger. Very wise indeed,” he murmured, his words dripping with patronizing approval. “I wished to speak with you. Just to check in. I know yesterday cannot have been an easy one for you.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, a soft squeeze meant to be reassuring. It was not.

Adharia fought the urge to recoil as his hand made contact with her, to flinch away from the touch of a man who had orchestrated so much of her suffering. Instead, she did something else.

She let tears well in her eyes.

Not real ones, of course—she had long since perfected the art of forced emotion. She blinked rapidly, swallowing thickly, then lifted her gaze to him, glassy-eyed and vulnerable.

“I…” she whispered, letting her voice tremble just enough. “I am okay.” She ducked her head then, as if overwhelmed, as if struggling to hold herself together. In truth, she was biting back a smirk.

Dumbledore watched her closely, his beady little eyes drinking in the image she presented—the broken, obedient girl he had so carefully moulded. The one who was grateful, who believed in his guidance, who trusted his wisdom over her own.

The fool.

She lifted her head once more, forcing hesitation into her features, as though she were mustering courage to speak.

“Yesterday changes nothing,” she continued, voice soft but determined. “I am better off far away from them, sir. Please…”

She glanced around, her eyes flickering anxiously over the students seated nearby. She made sure to keep her shoulders slightly hunched, her posture small, as though afraid to even voice such a thought aloud.

And just as she expected, Dumbledore’s expression melted into something perfectly understanding, perfectly sympathetic. But she saw it. The flicker of satisfaction beneath the surface.

“I understand, Hermione,” he murmured, squeezing her shoulder again—firmer this time.

And in that moment, as she looked up at him, she could see it so clearly—the disconnect between what he projected and what he truly felt. The emotion he wished to portray did not quite reach his eyes, could not quite mask the glint of victory gleaming within them.

“Please, if you need anything, come see me, my door shall always remain open to you.” he said, his voice a soothing lull. “Or Professor McGonagall. Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who are worthy of it dear girl. Don’t forget how much your school values you.”

It took everything in her not to bristle, to keep the revulsion from curling her lips.

Instead, she exhaled softly, nodding, allowing her shoulders to sag just a little—as if in resignation, in acceptance. And at last, it seemed to be enough.

Dumbledore gave her one last knowing look before turning on his heel and making his way toward the staff table, his robes billowing in his wake.

Adharia sat frozen for a moment, her fingers digging into the wooden bench beneath the table, steadying herself.

When she finally lifted her gaze, she met Cho’s eyes across the table. Concerned. Sharpened with suspicion.

“What just happened, Mia?” Cho asked, her voice a careful mix of worry and warning.

Adharia blinked, frowning slightly.

“You… you didn’t hear that?”

Cho shook her head. “No. None of us did. We could see you talking, but there was no sound. Not even a whisper.”

Adharia let out a sharp breath, huffing a quiet, bitter laugh.

“Of course,” she muttered. “Of course he would think to cast a privacy ward around us while he ‘checks on how I’m doing.’”

Cho’s expression darkened, a flicker of understanding passing over her features as she pieced it together.

Adharia met her gaze, shaking her head ever so slightly—not now.

Cho hesitated for a breath, her lips pressing into a thin line, but then she gave a short nod, acknowledging the silent command. With a last glance at Adharia, she turned back to her breakfast, though the tension in her shoulders spoke volumes.

Only then did Adharia allow herself to take in the rest of the hall.

The teachers’ table was full, every seat occupied. The guest schools’ faculty were crammed in beside the Hogwarts staff, their conversations overlapping in a symphony of different languages and cadences. Some were engaged in deep discussion, others speaking in low murmurs as they observed the students below.

And then—Dumbledore.

He met her gaze almost immediately, as if he had been watching, waiting. His eyes twinkled with manufactured warmth, his head tilting ever so slightly as he offered her a gentle, sympathetic smile.

Adharia responded in kind. A small, hesitant smile—meek, barely there, the perfect imitation of gratitude.

It was enough.

The vile man accepted it without question, turning away to engage Professor McGonagall in quiet conversation, utterly convinced of her compliance.

Let him think it.

Exhaling softly, Adharia continued her quiet survey of the hall, her gaze moving along the length of the Ravenclaw table.

And then she found them.

At the very start of the table, nearest the entrance doors, a pair of familiar sea-blue eyes met hers.

Fleur. Beside her Gabrielle glared subtly up at the Faculty table, turning to speak with a girl to her left when Fleur jabbed her in the ribs gently.

Adharia felt her heartbeat steady, her magic instinctively reaching for the comforting presence of her sisters.

Fleur’s expression was unreadable to the outside world—cool, composed—but Adharia knew better. She saw the barely restrained fury simmering just beneath the surface, the quiet storm of outrage and concern that no one else would notice.

She had known Fleur and Gabrielle were close by. She had felt them the moment they had entered the hall, their magic brushing against hers, present and unwavering. The connection was instinctive, unbreakable. And now, as Adharia let herself fully acknowledge it, she wrapped her own magic around theirs like a protective blanket, weaving their strength together even as they remained physically apart.

Fleur’s gaze softened.

A small, reassuring smile curved her lips, her eyes suddenly glinting with a quiet, unshakable resolve.

You are not alone.

Adharia clung to that silent promise, her own expression shifting in response, mirroring her sister’s certainty.

The moment passed in an instant, a wordless exchange between siblings bound by something deeper than blood. And then, as if nothing had happened, they both turned back to their plates, resuming their breakfasts like any other morning.

But Adharia knew better.

She could feel it—woven in the threads of magic between them, in the unspoken understanding that passed between glances. Fleur and Gabrielle were waiting. Watching. Ready.

And as Adharia forced herself to play her role for yet another day, she couldn’t help but wonder—

How much longer could she adhere to this charade until Dumbledore realized that his perfect little puppet had finally cut her strings?

Chapter Text

Adharia’s POV~

~Sunday 1^st October 1995~

~Room of Requirement~

Adharia wheezed, sweat dripping down her forehead as she narrowly twisted out of the path of a curse aimed at her chest. The air crackled around her, charged with raw, unfiltered power. Beside her, Fleur and Gabrielle panted, their exhaustion evident, yet their eyes gleamed with exhilaration. Despite the strain in their limbs and the burn in their lungs, all three sisters wore identical expressions of fierce joy, revelling in the challenge. Their bodies moved in perfect synchrony—ducking, rolling, countering—as they unleashed spells at Andromeda Lestrange with the same ruthless intensity the formidable witch sent at them.

It was intoxicating.

The sheer feeling of their magik entwining so thoroughly made Adharia’s heart pound—not from exertion, but from the overwhelming sense of belonging. She could feel Fleur’s pulse thrum through the air, steady and unyielding like the warrior she was. Gabrielle’s magik rippled, bright and wild, unpredictable in the best way. And then there was her own—no longer locked away, no longer shackled by the lies she had been forced to live under. It was free, reaching out, wrapping around her sisters' energies like a protective shield, just as theirs enveloped her in return.

It had been three weeks since they began training together—twice a week, every week—under Andromeda’s watchful, ruthless guidance. Their pseudo aunt’s presence at Hogwarts as the secondary Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had provided the perfect opportunity, and Adharia had seized it with both hands. There was so much she hadn’t known, so much the false life of ‘Hermione Granger’ had hidden from her.

Especially the truth of what set her apart from those who merely used magic.

She had heard the term ‘Magik’ spoken in passing before—whispered in hushed, arrogant tones by older pure-bloods who sneered at those they deemed lesser. At the time, she had dismissed it as nothing more than a pretentious affectation, a meaningless variation of the word ‘magic.’

She had been so wrong.

Her mother had tried to explain it, but it wasn’t until Adharia began training alongside her sisters that she truly understood.

Magic, as most knew it, was an external force, a tool. It was the act of spellcasting, an energy wielded with incantations and wand movements, independent of lineage or deeper connection. Wizards and witches who lacked understanding of their magical core merely borrowed its power, pointing their wands and reacting to the world around them.

Magik, however, was something far greater.

It was personal, woven into the very essence of one’s being, shaped by ancestry, emotion, and instinct. It was a living force, tied not just to an individual but to their family, to the traditions and bonds that defined them. To wield magik was not just to cast spells—it was to command them, to shape the very air with one's will.

Family Magik was unique—undeniable, untouchable to outsiders, as distinct as a birthmark, a surname, or even one’s DNA. Those in tune with it, those who could feel it—like Adharia could, thanks to the Veela blood singing in her veins—could identify a witch or wizard simply by sensing their magical core.

It had been stripped from her for fourteen years. Now, with every duel, every clash of energy, every moment spent alongside her sisters, she was reclaiming it. It’s strength and vitality filling her, eradicating the wounds done on to her by those she should have been able to trust.

A sharp crack split the air as Andromeda sent a streak of violet fire hurtling toward them. Fleur met it midair with a wordless wave of her wand, her movements instinctive, effortless. The blast diverted against the far wall of the training space the Room of Requirement had so graciously granted them. Gabrielle, ever quick to seize an opening, flicked her fingers with practiced ease, sending their new professor stumbling backward with a powerful gust of wind.

Adharia smirked, tightening her grip on her wand. She seized their mentor’s momentary surprise as the reprieve she so desperately needed to catch her breath, her weaker, less skilled body struggling to keep pace. Training with Fleur and Gabrielle had exposed a truth she had known but not truly allowed herself to think too deeply on before: while she was leagues ahead of her Hogwarts peers in skill and understanding, that skill looked juvenile compared to her sisters'. Both were stronger, quicker, and more agile than she was. They moved with the fluid grace of warriors trained from infancy, while she struggled to bridge the gap of a stolen childhood.

The clear difference that lay in their upbringing was startling.

Fleur and Gabrielle had been raised with the knowledge of their family magik, immersed in it from the moment they could hold a wand. Their power had been nurtured, guided, strengthened and celebrated as they grew. They had never doubted its existence, had never needed to prove they were worthy of wielding it, nor had they ever been denied the magik that had been so vital to their growth. But Adharia? Adharia had been robbed. Bound before she even knew what she had lost, forced into a world that was never meant to care for or teach a magical child, let alone a Veela one. A world that had been completely inept at providing for her in the most basic of ways.

It was this truth she clung to when insecurity crept in, whispering that she would never catch up. That she would never be enough. Self-doubt curling in her veins, sharp and uncomfortable.

Lost in her own thoughts, she missed the way Andromeda had recovered, regaining her equilibrium quickly, the older witch firing spell after spell at them in rapid succession. Fleur and Gabrielle reacted instantly, moving in sync to cover their baby sister.

“Adi!” Fleur panted, a hand landing on her shoulder, tender but firm. The touch grounded her, snapped her back to the present. Her eyes met her sister’s for a brief moment—warmth, concern, understanding—and then she turned, rejoining the battle with a ferocity that matched her sisters. With a flick of her wrist, she threw up a shield charm just as Andromeda’s tickling hex hurtled toward Gabrielle. The protective barrier shimmered as it absorbed the spell, the magic dispersing into harmless light inches from Gabby’s torso, the middle Delacour sister’s face a mixture of relief and horror at the proximity of the spell. Adharia laughed at her older sister, taking pride in her ability to protect her from the, harmless, spell that Andromeda had aimed at her.

“Nice, Adharia!” Andromeda called, approval threading through her tone. Adharia would be lying if she said the praise didn’t make something in her swell. She beamed, the reaction instinctual, before turning to her sisters.

Her heart clenched at the sight of their proud expressions, their unwavering support written in the soft smiles they gave her. The defensive charm had always been a particular strength of hers, from the very first time she had accidentally cast it, wandlessly and wordlessly, on the train to Hogwarts in her first year.

Their moment of celebration over Adharia’s defensive charm, however, cost them. In a flash, Andromeda struck, wordlessly summoning their wands from their hands. The duel was over. Andromeda standing victorious over the Delacour sisters.

Fleur groaned in frustration, while Gabrielle let out a loud, delighted laugh, amused at their eldest sister’s inability to lose gracefully. Adharia, however, remained silent, her mind already replaying Andromeda’s movements, analysing every flick, every subtle shift in stance. She was eager—desperate—to learn all she could from the formidable witch before her.

“Alright, girls, we’ll call it a night there,” Andromeda announced, stepping forward to return their wands, passing each to their owner with a soft smile. With a casual flick of her wrist, she righted their rumpled appearances, smoothing out tangled hair and straightening wrinkled robes, righting all three girls appearances into their previous immaculate condition. “On Wednesday, we’ll meet here again. Until then, I want you all to practice non-verbal spellcasting.”

“Merci, Andromeda.” Fleur thanked, still a little breathless, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

“You did good, Ari.” Gabrielle draped an arm around her shoulders, the casual affection melting away some of the tension in Adharia’s chest. It was constant, the way her sisters touched her whenever they could—gentle brushes of fingers, reassuring squeezes of her hands, playful nudges. A silent reminder that they were there with her, that they would hold her close no matter what.

“Thank you, Gabby,” Adharia murmured, warmth creeping up her cheeks. A lifetime of criticism making any sort of praise an uncomfortable experience that she hadn’t quite adjusted too. Then, quieter, almost ashamed, she added, “I need to work harder. I’m still so far behind.” Her expression falling a little in frustration. Fleur sighed, stepping closer, sadness flickering across her face as she looped an arm around Adharia’s waist, pulling her into their now familiar huddle. They didn’t need words to comfort her. Their silent, steady presence did more to alleviate her doubts than any verbal reassurance ever could.

“You do, Adharia.” Andromeda’s voice shattered the fragile moment of peace. Fleur and Gabrielle turned to her with matching frowns, their protective instincts flaring at the older woman’s bluntness. The two almost growling in warning at the older witch as they sensed the way their baby sisters heart sunk even further at her words.

“I mean no offense, my girls.” Andromeda continued, hands raised in a gesture of peace. “I say this because I want to help you, not insult you. You’re behind through no fault of your own, and that is why I’d like to work with you one-on-one—to strengthen the skills you were never given the chance to develop.” She explained gently, her expression softening as she realised just how much Adharia was struggling with the vast differences in skill between her and her older sisters.

Adharia blinked. She hadn’t expected that. A part of her recoiled at the idea. Rebelling at the thought of being left alone with Andromeda Lestrange, the one woman she had once begun to trust – only to be let down so completely when she had been so very vulnerable.

She understood the logic in Andromeda’s offer—knew it made sense and that individual training would help her catch up with her sisters skill sets faster, knew that her sisters wouldn’t then have to slow down for her, protecting their group training for the growth of their magical bond, their ferocity as sisters. But knowing and accepting were two different things. The thought of facing Andromeda alone, of confronting the complicated tangle of emotions that lay between them, made her stomach twist unpleasantly. That knot of emotion she had done so well at ignoring lodging itself in her throat uncomfortably.

“Uhh…” she began, struggling to find an excuse, but nothing came fast enough. For once her quick mind failing to provide her with the words she needed to rebuke the older woman's offer without causing insult or further tension between them. 

“It’s a good idea, Ari,” Gabrielle murmured quietly beside her, sympathy woven into her tone as she leaned her head against Adharia’s shoulder.

“As much as it pains me to admit it Ari, Gabrielle is right.” Fleur smirked playfully, her words aimed at easing the tension that had reappeared in Adharia's shoulders, before softening. “Andromeda working with you individually makes more sense petite soeur.”

Adharia admittedly, didn’t need their reassurance to know the truth. She knew Andromeda was right.

She needed this. If she wanted to stand beside her sisters, if she wanted to protect them from what was coming, she had to be better. Much better than she currently was. After all, they had no way of predicting just how Albus Dumbledore would react when the truth finally came out. 

Still, the prospect unsettled her. Silently wishing there was another way for her to catch up without having to face this woman in particular, without the buffer that was her sisters.

“I know,” she murmured at last, allowing the warmth of her sisters beside her to steel her resolve. She would do anything if it meant she would be able to keep them safe. Anything to ensure that when the time came, she would not be the weak link between them. The thought of her being the reason any of them were harmed, enough to have her silently resigning herself to the confrontation she was sure was coming when she and Andromeda were alone.

“When shall we meet?” she asked, schooling her voice into careful neutrality. Her expression not betraying even a hint of emotion. The way it always did when she felt particularly uncomfortable.

“Tomorrow evening. Seven o’clock, meet me here.” Andromeda replied simply, as if she hadn’t just witnessed the silent battle Adharia had waged within herself.

Adharia nodded.

Tomorrow it was then.

~~~~~~

~ Monday 2^nd of October 1995 ~

~ Room of Requirement ~

~ Andromeda’s POV ~

Andromeda had never felt so utterly at a loss.

She had faced war, death, and the unrelenting scrutiny of a pure-blood society that had scrutinised her families every action without a second thought. She had built a life for herself that she was proud of, fought many battles and risen from the ashes every time she didn’t quite live up to expectations, she had raised a daughter in defiance of everything she had once been taught. And yet—yet—nothing had prepared her for being stared down by a blank-faced fourteen-year-old girl who regarded her with all the warmth of an ice sculpture.

Adharia Delacour.

The child she had once thought lost. The girl who, from the moment she had met her as muggle-born Hermione Granger, had felt like a second daughter to her in all but blood.

And now, Andromeda was acutely aware that Adharia wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.

The realization stung more than she cared to admit.

She had known the girl was irritated with her—furious, even. It was painfully obvious that Adharia had only reached out over the summer because she had no one else to turn to in her distress. Andromeda had been tolerated then, nothing more. Her presence had been begrudgingly accepted at her bedside in September only because of Nymphadora.

But she had not truly understood the depth of Adharia’s resentment until now.

Five minutes.

They had been in the Room of Requirement for no more than five minutes, and Andromeda already wanted to throw her hands in the air in exasperation.

Adharia had been polite, at least in the most technical sense of the word. She had greeted her when she entered, her voice carefully neutral, her expression unreadable. But then… nothing.

No small talk. No curiosity. Not a single word offered beyond the initial greeting.

She simply stood there, arms at her sides, waiting.

Expectant.

Andromeda had intended to begin the lesson immediately—to focus on magic, on strategy, on anything that might distract from the gaping chasm that lay between them. But now, standing before the silent girl, she felt it—the tightly wound ball of anxiety that was rolling off Adharia in waves, her magic thrumming just beneath the surface.

No, this was not the moment to push forward with spell work.

Andromeda had spent enough years in the field to know the dangers of unstable, untrained magic. And Adharia… Adharia was not just a witch finding her footing after years of magical suppression. She was a Veela child on the cusp of awakening completely, her magic raw and untempered, fed by emotion she clearly could not—or would not—acknowledge.

Asking her to cast spells in this state would be reckless. Magic was emotion, after all.

Andromeda inhaled slowly, choosing her words with care before breaking the oppressive silence between them.

“I see you are still rather upset with me.” She had never been one to dance around an issue, and she wasn’t about to start now. Her statement was met with an immediate, visible reaction.

Adharia’s eyes narrowed slightly—not quite a glare, but close. Then, with a dramatic roll of her eyes, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her posture shifting into one of quiet defiance.

Andromeda resisted the urge to sigh. Teenagers.

“Would you prefer I pretend otherwise?” she pressed, arching a single brow.

Silence.

Adharia’s fingers flexed against the fabric of her sleeves, her nails digging in, but she said nothing.

Andromeda had always considered herself a patient woman. It was a trait she had perfected over years of dealing with difficult patients at St. Mungo’s, of enduring the delicate intricacies of both high society and war. Balancing social expectations, working in a hospital and motherhood, expertly.

But something about Adharia’s unyielding silence made her want to shake the girl.

She had spent years worrying, second-guessing, watching from the sidelines as Adharia had become increasingly distant, more guarded and weary of people. Had done whatever she could think of to help her, to protect the girl that was so clearly drowning in her own heartbreak that it had made Andromeda feel painfully incompetent when she had been unable to help. The entire time she had been kept at a polite but deliberate distance, and while she understood—understood that she was not owed Adharia’s trust or affection—she could not help but feel the sting of its absence.

And yet…

Looking at her now, Andromeda knew that whatever anger Adharia held onto, whatever resentment burned beneath the surface, it was not truly about her.

Adharia was grieving.

She had spent her entire life believing she was Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born, a girl with no family, no roots, no safety. She had been lied to, her magic bound, her very identity stolen and her childhood shaped and manipulated by a man who had posed himself as a mentor.

Of course she was angry.

Of course she didn’t trust easily.

Andromeda exhaled through her nose, pushing down her own frustrations. If Adharia needed to be cold, if she needed to push her away to feel in control, then so be it. Andromeda would not fight her on it.

But she would not give up, either.

This girl—this child—was her family, whether Adharia acknowledged it or not. And Andromeda had never been the sort to abandon those she loved.

She would break through.

Even if it took time.

Even if it tested every ounce of patience she possessed, Andromeda was determined to prove herself.

She would show Adharia that she was someone she could rely on. Someone she could trust.

“Very well then, little one,” Andromeda said at last, choosing not to push further. Instead, she offered an easy smile, a quiet olive branch amidst the tension that had settled between them. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

It was a simple statement, yet it shifted the energy in the room.

To Andromeda’s surprise, Adharia’s shoulders lost some of their rigid tension. Though still guarded, she turned her gaze back toward the older witch, her warm brown eyes—no, her glamoured brown eyes—glinting with the faintest spark of curiosity.

Andromeda had, from the moment she had seen Adharia Unglamoured, decided that the Hermione Granger facade did not suit the girl.

It was a mask. A brittle, ill-fitting thing that no longer held purpose, except perhaps as a lingering shackle, a reminder that they all had need to proceed with caution. And she could see it—see the discomfort that clung to Adharia like a second skin whenever she wore the disguise.

But this moment, however fleeting, was Adharia.

Not the Muggle-born bookworm. Not the stolen child with a bound core. But a young witch standing at the precipice of something new.

Andromeda would meet her there.

“Firstly,” she began, keeping her tone light, informative, “to truly understand the magic we wield, we must first understand that magic has many facets. Every spell falls into one of three categories, classified by both its intent and impact.”

As she spoke, she began to pace the room, slow and deliberate. She didn’t need to turn to know that Adharia was watching her intently, absorbing every word like a sponge.

“Light, Dark, and Grey magic,” came Adharia’s quiet voice.

Despite the softness of the statement, Andromeda heard her clearly.

“Exactly.” With a casual flick of her wrist, she silently summoned two armchairs.

They materialized with ease beside a lit fireplace, the flickering glow immediately transforming the space from a training hall into something warmer, more intimate.

A choice.

Rather than instructing from a position of authority, she settled into the nearest chair, tucking her feet beneath her in a way that was almost casual, an unspoken invitation for Adharia to do the same.

Adharia hesitated—only for a fraction of a second—before moving toward the second chair and sitting down.

She was quiet about it, as though unwilling to acknowledge the subtle truce between them, but Andromeda didn’t miss the way her posture still carried a defiant edge. Nor did she miss the way her eyes gleamed in that particular way they always did when she was learning.

It was progress.

“Light magic,” Andromeda continued, “is what most would call ‘pure.’ These are spells designed solely to heal or enhance life. Medical spells, for example, fall under this category. The theory is that magic created with the sole purpose of mending and protecting can only be considered Light.”

She allowed a brief pause, giving Adharia time to process before shifting gears.

“On the other hand, some spells are irrevocably Dark. While most magic exists in shades of grey, there are curses so inherently cruel that their very existence is condemned. The Unforgivable Curses, for example. No matter the reasoning, no matter the circumstance, they are considered an affront to magic itself.” Adharia gave a small nod, indicating she was following, but she didn’t interrupt.

“Then there is Grey Magic, which makes up the vast majority of the spells we use every day. These are spells that can be wielded for good, for harm, or even just for convenience. A Summoning Charm, for instance, could be used to retrieve a book or steal a wand—the magic itself is neither good nor evil. Intent is what defines it.”

Andromeda watched as Adharia mulled over her words, her fingers unconsciously toying with the fabric of her sleeves.

“Grey magic,” Adharia murmured, almost to herself.

She was thinking. Weighing the information, turning it over in her mind like a puzzle piece she had yet to place.

Good.

Andromeda wasn’t just here to teach her spells—she was here to teach her how to wield the magik she was born with, to understand it.

“Following so far?” she prompted, tilting her head slightly.

Adharia met her gaze, and after a beat, she nodded.

Andromeda allowed a small, satisfied smile.

“Good,” Andromeda murmured, watching as Adharia fought the urge to smile.

It was fleeting, barely a twitch of the lips, but Andromeda saw it.

She didn’t comment, didn’t push—she simply allowed the moment to exist.

“Now,” she continued smoothly, shifting the conversation forward, “when it comes to Light, Dark, and Grey magic, most magical people have a natural affinity for one over the others. That being said, a truly skilled witch or wizard will be able to wield all three, utilizing magic to its full potential.”

She paused just long enough to ensure Adharia was following before adding, “I am a Black by blood. My family, historically, has always leaned toward an affinity for Dark magic—your godmother, Bellatrix, for instance, has an extremely strong natural pull toward it.”

Adharia nodded, clearly storing the information away in that sharp, analytical mind of hers.

“But I,” Andromeda continued, studying the girl before her, “have always had an affinity for Light magic.”

Adharia considered this, her fingers drumming absentmindedly against the armrest.

“The Dumbledore family,” Andromeda went on, her voice casual but laced with meaning, “has always had an affinity for Dark or Grey magic. Though Albus Dumbledore presented himself as a beacon of Light, his natural magic—his true magic—has always leaned toward the shadows.”

At that, Adharia’s expression hardened—just slightly.

Good.

She was paying attention.

“But the Delacour’s,” Andromeda pressed on, “are unique.”

Adharia’s head tilted slightly in question, and Andromeda smiled.

“Because of your inherent Veela heritage, your family has a natural affinity for all three kinds of magic. While most witches and wizards are predisposed toward one, Veela blood allows you to balance all three with remarkable ease. That being said, some individuals—particularly those chosen to lead—often display a stronger connection to healing magic.”

“Like Fleur?” Adharia asked immediately, curiosity lighting up her glamoured brown eyes.

“Yes,” Andromeda affirmed, nodding. “Fleur and your Grandmama are both magically chosen clan leaders—healers by nature, warriors by necessity. Your Grandmama holds the position now, but one day, Fleur will take her place.”

At that, Adharia relaxed further into her chair, her small hands settling lightly on the armrests, her head tipping back against the cushion as she absorbed it all.

It was, admittedly, a lot to take in, especially for one so young.

A lifetime of carefully woven lies unravelling before her, thread by thread, exposing a truth that felt both foreign and strangely familiar. She had spent years believing she was someone else, clinging to a false identity forced upon her, but here—here, in this moment—she could feel the weight of that deception slowly peeling away.

Andromeda saw it.

The way Adharia settled into this truth—not without caution, not without fear, but with the careful deliberation of a mind that had always craved understanding.

She wore it better than she had ever worn the lie of Hermione Granger.

And Andromeda knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that in time, Adharia would not just accept her truth—she would own it.

And when that day came?

It would be a day to celebrate.

"What do you mean by ‘magically chosen’?" The question came abruptly, breaking the moment of silence between them.

Andromeda almost cooed at the sheer intensity in Adharia’s voice, at the way curiosity radiated from her in waves. The girl was starving for knowledge, for truth, for an explanation that made sense of everything she had lost, everything she had gained.

She stopped herself, though.

She knew that any hint of affection, any indication that she saw Adharia as family, would only push the girl back into the rigid shell she had built around herself.

Instead, Andromeda allowed a pleased smile to slip over her face, thrilled that Adharia had caught onto her wording.

“Magically chosen,” she confirmed, deliberately offering no further information.

As expected, frustration flickered in Adharia’s eyes at the lack of elaboration. Andromeda smirked inwardly.

"Well?" Adharia prompted, shifting forward slightly in her chair.

Andromeda simply arched a brow, feigning nonchalance. “In your inheritance test, what did it say about Heirs?”

A flicker of understanding crossed Adharia’s face.

She exhaled sharply, but answered immediately, as though the words had been burned into her memory. “I am Heir of Ravenclaw, Heir of Le Fay, and Secondary Heir to the Houses Delacour, Malfoy, and Black.”

Andromeda hummed approvingly, summoning a tray of tea and biscuits with a lazy flick of her wrist. The tray appeared between them, steam curling from the porcelain teapot, the scent of chamomile and honey filling the air. She gestured for Adharia to help herself, noting with silent satisfaction when the girl did.

She was too skinny—she always had been. Her tiny frame still baring the evidence of years of neglect and malnourishment despite her three years at Hogwarts.

Another thing they would need to fix. They had to make sure she was eating enough.

“To be an Heir to a House is an honour,” Andromeda began, watching as Adharia wrapped her hands around her teacup, the warmth seeping into her skin. “It is a title that can be granted in one of two ways—either through inheritance, passed from generation to generation, or through a magical selection that supersedes all bloodlines.”

She paused, giving Adharia a moment to process.

“The Black Heirship, for example,” she continued, “should have gone to my cousin Sirius. But when Sirius was disowned by his rather…”—she hesitated, searching for the right word, finding it difficult to come up with a polite enough term to describe her Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion—“…misguided parents, the title passed to his younger brother, Regulus.”

At that, Adharia scoffed and Andromeda felt her lips twitching in a barely concealed smirk. Clearly, the younger witch disagreed with Andromeda’s word choice.  Presumably Sirius’ doing. The childish man having caused a ruckus at the school the previous year.

Andromeda let it slide without comment.

“Regulus, however, disappeared in 1981, just before the end of the war. With no direct heir left, the title fell to Bellatrix.”

At that, Adharia visibly tensed at the mention of her infamous godmother, fingers tightening around her teacup.

Andromeda pretended not to notice. Now was not the time to open up that dragons nest.

“Bellatrix has since named Gabrielle as her successor, with you as the secondary heir, should Gabrielle be unable—or unwilling—to take the role.”

Adharia nodded slowly, processing, her hands cradling her tea as though it could steady her. Andromeda let her gaze linger for a moment, taking in the sight of her—her eyes alight with new knowledge, a few crumbs from the biscuit she had snacked on dusting her jumper, her small frame curled into the chair in a way that made her truly look like the fourteen-year-old girl she actually was.

Not a pawn.

Not a weapon.

Not a tool for a war she never asked to be part of.

Just a girl, immersed in something she was passionate about.

It was a blessed sight—one Andromeda quietly vowed to preserve, already making a mental note to extract the memory later for Narcissa and Apolline.

She knew her friends would cherish it just as much as she did. Because moments like this? Moments where Adharia wasn’t drowning under the weight of the world?

They were rare.

They needed to be treasured.

"Why not Fleur?" There was an uncertainty in her tone, a hint of the girl who had endured so much, having to fight for a place to exist for far too many years.

The question was valid, though she sensed the hidden ‘why me instead of fleur’ in her question, it hurt Andromeda’s heart to know that the girl struggled to see her worth. To know that she was just as irreplaceable as her sisters.  She allowed warmth to seep into her expression. Silently hoping to ease some of the insecurity that linger around the girl in front of her.

“Well,” she said, setting her tea aside, “this is where magical selection comes into play.”

Adharia straightened slightly, giving Andromeda her full attention.

“This is something that no one—not even the most powerful witches and wizards—can control,” Andromeda explained. “The Veela as a people have one leader to oversee them all. A mammoth task, as Veela exist all over the world. The current leader is Adharia Delacour.”

“Grandmama” Adharia whispered, more to herself than to Andromeda. The older woman understanding that she was simply processing rather than asking a question.

“The title of Veela Leader is not inherited,” Andromeda continued. “It is bestowed by Lady Magik herself. Fleur has already been chosen as the next leader, and because of the sheer magnitude of that role, the magic that has claimed her will not allow her to inherit another Heirship.”

Adharia’s lips parted slightly in understanding.

But Andromeda wasn’t finished.

“You, however,” she added carefully, “have been magically chosen as a secondary heir. That means that while Fleur’s magic will never allow another Heirship to claim her, the same restriction does not apply to you. The hope, of course, is that you will never have to step into the role. But should the need arise…”

She let the implication settle.

Adharia swallowed, eyes flickering back to her tea.

A moment of silence stretched between them, thick with thought.

Then—

"How is an Heir magically chosen?" Adharia's voice was quiet but filled with an intense focus, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. "I don’t quite understand."

Andromeda smiled.

Ah.

Now that was an excellent question. One that had perplexed even the greatest minds of magical history. Andromeda herself didn’t have the exact answer—no one truly did.

“We don’t know the specifics, young one," she admitted, her voice carrying the weight of centuries-old mystery. "It is a question Lady Magic has never deigned to answer, no matter how often we ask. Our best understanding is that Heirs are chosen based on strength, skill, and worthiness. But how those qualities are measured, or what unseen forces guide the decision, we have never discovered. It remains, as so many things in magic do, an enigma.”

Adharia frowned, the corners of her lips twitching downward in barely contained frustration. Andromeda recognized the expression well. She had worn it herself at Adharia’s age—when the world of magic refused to yield its secrets no matter how determinedly she sought them.

“Is that why I am Heir to both Ravenclaw and Le Fay?” Adharia pressed, her voice laced with uncertainty.

Andromeda hesitated. The weight of the question was not lost on her.

“Truthfully, I am unsure,” she said, choosing her words with care. “The only way to know for certain would be for you to formally claim your Heirships. In doing so, you would gain access to the histories, the expectations, and the magic tied to both lines. Until then, I can offer only educated guesses. And for that, I apologize.”

The apology was genuine. She could see the hundred and one additional questions forming behind Adharia’s sharp gaze, but she had no answers to offer—not yet. Andromeda wished she did.

“I do think, Adharia, that these are questions best discussed with your parents and grandparents. They may have a deeper understanding of the intricacies at play.” She gave the girl a moment to absorb that before steering them back on track. “For now, let’s refocus on our discussion of magical classifications.”

Adharia gave a curt nod, though the slight narrowing of her eyes made it clear she wasn’t entirely letting the topic go.

Andromeda hid her amusement as she adjusted her position in the armchair, crossing her legs with practiced ease. “It is important to understand that every spell, no matter its classification, has a counterspell—though the effectiveness of such counters depends on the nature of the magic in question.”

She leaned forward slightly, her tone becoming more instructive.

“For example, Protego—the basic shielding charm you learned in your first year—is relatively simple. It requires little power or concentration to cast, yet, when wielded by a skilled mage, it can deflect most Light and Grey spells, and even some weaker Dark spells.”

Adharia’s expression remained focused, absorbing every word like ink soaking into parchment.

“However,” Andromeda continued, “that same Protego would be nearly useless against the more powerful Dark spells. Spells such as the Cruciatus Curse or the Imperius Curse have counters, but due to their dark nature, they can only ever be properly countered by Dark magic itself.”

At that, Adharia’s brows knitted together in thought, her mind already working through the implications.

Andromeda watched her carefully, taking in the way the young witch’s shoulders stiffened, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. She was brilliant—there was no denying that—but brilliance came with its own burdens.

The hours slipped away as their lesson continued. Adharia listened intently, questioning and considering every concept presented to her, her sharp mind working tirelessly to unravel the truths of magic. By the time the clock struck nine, exhaustion had begun to set in. The telltale signs were there—the slight droop of her shoulders, the way she blinked just a little slower, how her fingers toyed absently with the hem of her sleeve.

Taking pity on her student, Andromeda closed the lesson for the evening.

"You’ve done well today,” she said, retrieving a worn yet well-kept tome from her bag and handing it over.

“This text covers everything we discussed. Read it at your leisure.”

Adharia accepted the book with a quiet nod. But just as she turned to leave, something unexpected happened.

She smiled. Not the reserved, polite smiles she had learned to offer in public. Not the practiced smirks meant to conceal her emotions. This was something rare—unguarded, fleeting, but undeniably real.

Andromeda, surprised but pleased, squeezed the girl’s hand gently as she passed.

She remained seated for a long moment after Adharia had gone, allowing herself to savour the small victory.

Progress.

Even in the smallest moments, it mattered. Progress was after all - Progress.

~~~~~~~

~ Adharia’s POV ~

~ Great Hall~

~ Tuesday 17^th October 1995~

The Nature of Magic

Magic is not merely power—it is a force woven into the very fabric of existence, an ever-present current that must be understood, respected, and wielded with wisdom. To those who seek mastery, it is essential to recognize that magic does not adhere to mortal notions of morality. It does not judge, does not favour, does not condemn. Instead, it exists in three distinct forms: Light, Grey, and Dark—each with its own methods of learning, means of access, and burdens of control. While it is true that many are born with a certain degree of natural talent in a particular field of magic, often passed down through family lines. All three, with enough knowledge and practice, are accessible to any that wish to wield them.

Light Magic is the art of restoration, protection, and harmony. It is the domain of healers, guardians, and those who seek to mend rather than destroy. Learning Light Magic demands more than just knowledge—it requires discipline, emotional stability, and an unwavering intent to aid others. This path is often taught in formal institutions, healer guilds, or through ancient rites passed down within families of caretakers. To access Light Magic, a practitioner must align their will with the forces of life itself, drawing upon compassion, selflessness, and the natural order. However, Light Magic is not without consequence. Overuse may deplete a caster’s magical reserves, and in rare cases, the healer may even take on the wounds of another as the price for their intervention. Even purity of intent can become a danger—there is a fine line between benevolence and arrogance when one wields the power to save or let die.

Grey Magic is the foundation of everyday spells, enchantments, and elemental manipulations. It is the magic of scholars, artisans, and explorers—neither inherently benevolent nor malevolent, but shaped by the hands that wield it. Of all three forms, Grey Magic is the most accessible, often learned through study, mentorship, or personal experimentation. Unlike Light and Dark Magic, it does not demand purity of heart or darkness of soul—only knowledge, skill, and willpower. Yet, this accessibility comes with its own risks. A poorly woven enchantment may spiral into chaos, a single miscalculation in alchemy could lead to catastrophe, and even the simplest mind-influencing spell might cross the line from persuasion into manipulation. Grey Magic teaches that magic itself is neutral, a tool to be used—but like any tool, it is the user’s intent that defines its morality.

Dark Magic is the most perilous and, perhaps, the most misunderstood. It is the magic of domination, destruction, and manipulation, forged from ambition, anger, and sacrifice. Unlike Light and Grey Magic, which can be practiced through mere knowledge and discipline, Dark Magic exacts a price. Some learn it through ancient bloodlines, others through forbidden texts, and some through pacts with forces beyond comprehension. Dark Magic is seductive, feeding on emotion, pain, and the desire for control. But to wield it is to walk a dangerous path—one that often consumes its practitioners. Overuse can corrode the soul, warp the mind, or summon entities that demand more than one is willing to give. The greatest deception Dark Magic whispers is that one can master it without cost.

Each path comes with its own burdens. Light Magic, though revered, may interfere with the natural order, prolong suffering, or foster dangerous dependencies. Grey Magic, while versatile, can lead to careless misuse or subtle corruption. Dark Magic, though feared, is not always wielded for evil—but its dangers cannot be ignored. Those who seek to learn must understand not only what magic can do, but what it demands in return. The question is not merely what power you seek, but what price you are willing to pay.

~~~

Adharia hummed under her breath as she read the passage for what must have been the twentieth time, her fingers absently tracing the worn edges of the page. Andromeda had given her this text weeks ago, and still, she found herself returning to it—mulling over the words, dissecting each phrase, searching for an advantage hidden between the lines.

The progress she and her sisters had made in their training was undeniable. No longer were they tentative, uncertain, struggling to align their magic. Now, they moved in perfect synchrony, their combined power flowing as naturally as breath. Even their family and Andromeda Lestrange had taken notice. The first time they had duelled together, they had barely lasted minutes before being bested. Now? Adharia could hold her own against Andromeda herself. She still lost—eventually—but each duel lasted longer, each exchange growing more even. The older witch had begun to push her harder, no longer holding back quite as much. That alone told Adharia everything she needed to know.

She was growing stronger.

With the increase in her magical ability had also come something else—a growing confidence that had begun to enhance the girl she was.

A change that had not gone unnoticed by all those around them.

She hadn’t realized how much had shifted until one evening, standing before the ornate mirror in her chambers, she met her own gaze and no longer saw the frightened girl she had once been. There was still uncertainty, of course—there always would be. But there was also something new: certainty, purpose, a quiet, unshakable resolve.

That realization had been a strange one.

Adjusting to her new life had been no easy feat—juggling her family, the emotional weight of their reunion, the frequent letters exchanged between her and Dora, and, of course, maintaining the farce of Hermione Granger. She had to keep up appearances, had to play the part of the grieving, lost little girl, had to endure the presence of Harry Potter and his insufferable best friend. At first, it had felt overwhelming—each responsibility pressing in on her like a tightly wound Devil’s Snare, suffocating, smothering, blocking out the light.

Surprisingly, it had been Dora’s words—scribbled messily in one of her many letters—that had given her clarity.

**Oh, love, I can only imagine how overwhelming it all must feel. But if I’ve learned anything in my time as an Auror, it’s that sometimes the most daunting tasks are the most rewarding. You are not alone, Ari. I need you to remember that. You have an army behind you now—one that will stand at your side as you take back what was stolen from you. But most importantly, this is your life. Your path to choose. And those who love you—truly love you—will never let you walk it alone.**

Something about that letter had unravelled the tight knot in her chest. The sincerity in Dora’s words had broken through the tangle of doubt, grounding her, reminding her that she was no longer fighting alone.

From that moment, everything became clearer, easier.

Especially playing Dumbledore and his precious ‘Boy Who Lived’.

Harry Potter was, in many ways, an enigma.

She had expected him to be insufferable—arrogant, reckless, blindly trusting of Dumbledore’s every word. And at times, he was. He had a hero complex the size of Britain, a deeply ingrained need to shoulder burdens that were not his to bear, and an almost tragic willingness to throw himself into danger if he believed it would spare someone else pain.

But beneath all that—beneath the legend, the prophecy, the weight of his own tragic past—there was a boy.

A boy who had grown up unloved and unwanted, who had spent years starving for affection, desperate for a place to belong. It was in that quiet desperation that she saw the real Harry—not the Chosen One, not the Gryffindor Golden Boy, but a child who had been conditioned to believe that love was something he had to earn.

Dumbledore had moulded him perfectly.

It was painfully obvious how much the old man had shaped him, feeding him just enough kindness to keep him loyal, but never enough truth to set him free. Harry’s entire worldview had been constructed around self-sacrifice, reinforced at every turn by people who praised his bravery while simultaneously ensuring he remained dependent on them. It was manipulative. Cruel. And yet, Harry remained blind to it, too caught up in his unwavering trust in Dumbledore to ever truly question it.

She had watched him closely since their so-called "reconciliation." Had studied the way he carried himself, the way he interacted with others, the way he instinctively downplayed his own suffering whenever someone else was in pain. He was selfless to the point of recklessness, conditioned to believe that his worth was measured in what he could endure.

And that was why he would never escape Dumbledore’s grasp.

Because Harry Potter had been taught to see his own suffering as necessary.

Had things been different, in some other life, they might have been genuine friends—perhaps even siblings. She could see the potential for it, in the way he cared so deeply, in the way he always sought to protect rather than harm. But he was too entrenched in Dumbledore’s games, too conditioned to believe that he was meant to be a martyr, to ever truly be free.

And that was the greatest tragedy of all.

Ronald Weasley, however, was another matter entirely.

If Harry was an enigma, Ron was a walking contradiction.

He was prideful yet insecure, loyal yet resentful, desperate for attention yet terrified of not being enough. He had grown up in the shadow of five older brothers, constantly vying for recognition, only to find himself eclipsed once more by Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the best friend who would always outshine him.

And it grated on him.

She had seen it in the way he flaunted his moments of victory, in the way he took pleasure in belittling others to make himself feel superior. It was an unfortunate pattern, one that made his resentments glaringly obvious. He had never handled competition well, nor had he ever learned how to process his own emotions in a way that wasn’t externalized as anger.

His immediate reaction to her feigned grief had been hostility. Mocking. Dismissive. Cruel, even. While Harry had offered comfort and tentative concern, Ron had met her pain with thinly veiled derision, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to separate her from the girl he had spent years resenting.

Some things never changed.

He still viewed her as the insufferable know-it-all, the one who corrected him too often, bested him too easily, embarrassed him too publicly. The fact that she had supposedly suffered a great loss meant nothing—because in his mind, she was still Hermione Granger, the Muggle-born bookworm who made him feel small.

And yet, his friendship with Harry forced him into begrudging tolerance. He had stopped openly mocking her, but the resentment had not faded. It was there in every sideways glance, in the way he barely acknowledged her existence unless he needed homework help, in the way his frustration with her always teetered on the edge of something nastier.

He was bitter, but too much of a coward to say it outright.

Dumbledore, at least, seemed satisfied with her performance. The old man had finally stopped watching her quite as closely, pacified by the illusion that she had fallen back into step with his favoured Gryffindors. That suited her just fine.

Let him believe what he wanted.

It would only make his eventual fall all the sweeter.

But for now, she had other things to focus on.

The impending selection of the Triwizard Champions had set the entire school ablaze with excitement, and for once, Adharia welcomed the distraction. The tournament had become the sole fixation of nearly everyone at Hogwarts, from students to staff, and even the most astute professors had their attention elsewhere. It was, quite frankly, a blessing.

With so many eyes turned toward the upcoming event, she and her sisters had far more freedom to meet in secret. Their training sessions, once stolen moments of caution, had become more frequent, more natural, allowing them to hone their magic without fear of prying eyes. It was intoxicating—the feeling of belonging, of power finally flowing freely through her veins, of standing beside the sisters she had ached for without knowing why.

Fleur was everything Adharia had ever dreamed of being.

Elegant. Fearless. A force of nature wrapped in silk and steel. She carried herself with an innate regality, the kind that came from both breeding and sheer presence. And yet, despite her undeniable strength, she was kind—a protective, steadfast presence who had taken to Adharia with the ferocity of an older sister making up for lost time.

Then there was Gabrielle—a whirlwind of mischief, passion, and unshakable confidence. Where Fleur was poised, Gabrielle was wild, an untamed flame that dared the world to try and contain her. She had a habit of speaking her mind without hesitation, of laughing too loudly, embracing too freely, and loving without restraint. And for the first time in her life, Adharia found herself craving that warmth, drinking it in like a starved thing.

The bond between them had formed effortlessly, as though they had never been apart. And perhaps, in some way, they hadn’t. Perhaps magic—true magic, the kind that existed beyond spells and wands and incantations—had always tethered them together, waiting for the day they would finally reunite.

And they weren’t the only ones.

Cho and Luna had begun joining them in their stolen gatherings, their presence only solidifying what had already been building between them.

With Cho, it had been inevitable. Their friendship had been forged long before Adharia knew who she truly was, and through it all, Cho had never wavered. If anything, learning the truth had only strengthened her resolve to stand by Adharia’s side.

Luna, however, had been a surprise.

Adharia had only learned of her unexpected connection to Gabrielle after watching the two interact—the easy familiarity, the laughter, the shared secrets passed between them in glances rather than words. It was clear that Luna had been a friend to Gabrielle long before she had been one to Adharia. And in hindsight, that should have told her all she needed to know.

Because Luna Lovegood was never truly surprised by anything.

Telling her had been... anticlimactic.

When they had finally revealed the truth, when Adharia had spoken the words that had shattered the foundation of her identity, Luna had simply blinked—as though she had been waiting for the rest of them to catch up.

"Oh, that makes perfect sense," she had said, voice as light as ever. "You always felt familiar. Like something half-remembered, just on the edge of a dream. I thought you’d figure it out eventually."

As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As if discovering that she was not Hermione Granger but Adharia Apolline Delacour was some mundane revelation rather than the single most earth-shattering truth of her existence.

At the time, Adharia had been utterly thrown by Luna’s lack of reaction.

Hadn’t she understood? This wasn’t some idle curiosity, some whimsical flight of fancy—this was her entire life, her stolen past, the very essence of who she was.

But now… now, she could see it for what it was.

Luna had always seen things others couldn’t. She had never been bound by the rigid structures of reality the way others were, had never accepted the world at face value. And so, of course, she had known—or at the very least, had felt the truth long before Adharia had.

When asked why she had never said anything, her response had been as effortless as ever.

"It wasn’t my story to tell," she had said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Besides, the Hermione Granger I met in my first year would never have believed me. And that would’ve been terribly lonely, don’t you think?"

And, damn her, she had been right.

The Hermione Granger that had walked through Hogwarts with her nose buried in books, desperate to prove her worth, desperate to be wanted—that girl would have scoffed at the very idea. That girl would have alienated herself further, would have rationalized and denied and shut out anyone who dared to suggest her world was not as it seemed.

And that, perhaps, was the greatest truth of all.

She was not that girl anymore.

She had grown, had shed the illusions that had once defined her, had found herself reborn in the arms of a family that had never stopped waiting for her return.

And in the quiet moments between stolen gatherings and whispered secrets, Adharia found herself daring to believe—not just in the path she had chosen, but in the people who walked it beside her.

She was not alone.

Not anymore.

"Hey, Hermione."

The very girl she had just been thinking about plopped herself down beside her at the Ravenclaw table, moving with the effortless ease of someone who belonged there—which, in Adharia’s opinion, she absolutely did. Luna never asked for permission; she simply existed where she pleased. And before Adharia could even greet her, the blonde reached over and plucked a roast potato straight from her plate, popping it into her mouth with a cheeky glint in her dreamy, silver-blue eyes.

Adharia let out a laugh, light and genuine, a sound that had begun to draw notice from those around her. The change in her had not gone unnoticed. After all, until this year, Hermione Granger had barely smiled, let alone laughed.

"Hungry, are we?" she quipped, rolling her eyes but making no move to stop her friend from pilfering another bite. Instead, she closed her book with a decisive snap and tucked it away into her new leather book bag—one far superior to the fraying one she had once carried.

Dark, supple leather, charmed to be bottomless, and adorned with the Delacour house emblem. At least, that’s what it truly was. Anyone else who saw it would simply register it as a Ravenclaw crest—a clever charm that ensured no questions would be asked. It had been a gift from her Maman, passed discreetly through Andromeda, who had justified it to Dumbledore as a professor recognizing an academic barrier for a student and seeking to rectify it.

An excuse that the self-proclaimed mastermind had accepted without question.

Adharia found it almost laughable, really—how a man who had spent years meticulously orchestrating the course of her life could be so blinded by his own arrogance that he never even considered the possibility that she and her family knew exactly what he had done. He had built his web carefully, ensuring that Hermione Granger—the loyal, eager-to-please Ravenclaw—would never question his wisdom.

But Adharia Delacour?

She was not his pawn.

She had never been his pawn.

A soft giggle pulled her from her thoughts.

Luna, as always, seemed entirely untouched by the weight of the world, her laughter light and carefree as she winked at Adharia before casting an amused glance toward Gabrielle—who sat at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with Fleur and the rest of the Beauxbatons delegation.

The answering smirk from her older sister was enough for Adharia to piece it together.

Ah.

So this had been Gabrielle’s idea.

Typical.

If her audacious, troublemaking older sister thought she could get away with setting Luna up to play food thief, then Adharia could certainly return the favour.

Without missing a beat, she subtly slipped her wand from beneath her robes, barely flicking it as she cast a silent Vanishing Spell on Gabrielle’s plate.

It was almost immediate—the quiet little squeak of indignation from the other end of the table.

Luna, predictably, burst into outright laughter, and Adharia barely contained her own satisfied smirk as her sister’s gaze snapped up to meet hers. Gabrielle's expression was a hilarious mix of betrayal and reluctant pride. She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes wide with faux outrage, as if personally wounded by the act.

Adharia only grinned, unrepentant.

Two could play at that game.

Their silent battle of wills was interrupted by Luna, who had finally calmed her laughter enough to speak.

"Cho and I are going to the library after dinner," she announced, loading her own plate at last. "Do you want to come with us?"

Adharia sighed, offering a regretful smile before lowering her voice.

"I can’t, Luna. I, unfortunately, must go play nice with Harry and Ronald."

The very mention of Ronald Weasley’s name made something sour coil in her stomach, the distaste evident enough that Luna shot her a sympathetic look.

Not that it stopped the younger blonde from being thoroughly amused.

"And what thrilling adventure awaits you three tonight?" Luna asked, her baby-blue eyes glittering with interest.

She may have felt bad for Adharia, but she certainly found no shortage of amusement in her deep-seated dislike for Ron.

Adharia huffed.

"Harry said he has a bad feeling. Wants me to meet him by the Black Lake after dinner."

Luna arched a delicately curious brow.

"A bad feeling?"

"That’s all I got," Adharia sighed, rubbing her temple as if already anticipating the headache. "I can only imagine that whatever it is, it’ll be utterly exhausting."

Luna tilted her head. "Because of the mystery? Or because of the company?"

Adharia shot her a pointed look.

The latter.

Always the latter.

Harry and Ron together were draining in ways she could hardly articulate. Harry was the perpetual martyr, shouldering burdens like they were his only currency, always caught between brooding self-sacrifice and reckless heroics. And Ron?

Ron was… well.

Ron was always fighting for validation, always bitter when it wasn’t handed to him. She had long since stopped making excuses for it.

"Sounds mysterious," Luna mused, finally digging into her meal. Adharia gave a noncommittal hum, reaching for her own fork once more. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Harry was being paranoid.

Maybe tonight would be nothing more than cold air and wasted time.

But deep down, in the quiet corners of her mind, Adharia knew better. She had learned, painfully and thoroughly, that bad feelings were rarely just bad feelings. And whatever this was—it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

It never was when Harry Potter and Ronald bloody Weasley were involved.

~~~~

~Adharia’s POV ~

~ Black Lake, Hogwarts~

~Later the same day~

The crisp autumn wind whipped around Adharia, tugging at her cloak and sending loose strands of her dark curls dancing across her face. She barely noticed. The chill was invigorating, a welcome contrast to the feverish heat that still clung to her skin on occasion, a lingering side effect of the forced suppression of her magic for all those years. The damp air settled over her like a balm, soothing in a way she could not quite describe. She sat upon a pile of rocks nestled beneath the largest willow tree at the edge of the Black Lake, its long, swaying branches rustling with the wind. She watched the water, its surface restless, rippling with something close to agitation. The lake had not been still since the arrival of the Durmstrang ship, its enormous, eerie vessel disrupting the balance of the lake’s creatures.

Adharia could not blame them for their displeasure. The Durmstrang students were crude, boisterous, and carried themselves with the kind of arrogance that reminded her of the most insufferable pure-blood heirs she had ever encountered. She had little fondness for their presence either.

Still, she only hoped that the lake’s creatures would not hold Hogwarts accountable for the intrusion.

A particularly strong gust of wind sent a shiver down her spine, but she did not pull her cloak tighter. She welcomed the bite of it. The aches that still lingered in her bones were far less severe now, though her body was not yet fully recovered from the trauma it had endured. Her grandmother suspected it was the result of her Veela blood awakening earlier than expected—too soon for her body to endure the transformation without consequence. Her magic had been bound too long, and now, as it slowly unfurled within her, she was left to suffer the painful transition.

Yet another curse placed upon her by Dumbledore’s manipulations.

She exhaled, her breath visible in the crisp evening air. Just a few more minutes. That was all she wanted—to sit here, alone with the sky darkening over the lake, the lights of the castle reflecting on the restless water. Just a moment longer before she had to play the role she had perfected over the years.

“Hermione! You made it!”

The enthusiastic voice cut through the wind, and she barely refrained from groaning aloud. Of course. Her moment of peace had expired.

She looked up, watching as Harry and Ronald approached. Harry, as usual, was bundled in his robes, his Gryffindor scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Ronald, similarly dressed, had forgone his uniform scarf in favour of the atrocious knitted jumper his mother had gifted him the previous Christmas—the one with the hideous orange R emblazoned across the front. The colours clashed violently with the rest of his attire, an eyesore even from a distance.

Adharia knew the tradition well—Molly Weasley had been knitting those sweaters for her children since Bill’s first year at Hogwarts. She had even made one for Harry, which he had, in an uncharacteristically candid moment, admitted to appreciating. But he had also confessed, with a grimace, that he absolutely hated the colour scheme. Ronald, meanwhile, had been too busy shovelling food into his mouth to notice their conversation.

Adharia had been grateful in that moment—grateful that, despite everything, she was not considered part of the Weasley family. She had endured years of ill-fitting hand-me-downs at the orphanage, but even she would never willingly wear something so appallingly ugly.

“Hi, boys,” she greeted, infusing her voice with just the right amount of warmth and curiosity to sound natural.

Harry dropped onto the rock beside her, flashing her a smile—one that did not quite reach his eyes. She could sense the tension in him, the way his shoulders were held too tightly, the nervous energy simmering just beneath the surface.

Ron, on the other hand, remained standing, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His expression was his usual mix of boredom and impatience, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. He scowled slightly, his wind-chapped lips pressed into a thin line.

For a moment, none of them spoke. They simply watched the lake, the wind howling softly through the trees around them. Adharia kept her silence, observing from the corner of her eye as Harry fidgeted with his scarf, his jaw tightening as he struggled to put his thoughts into words.

“I wasn’t really sure where else we could meet,” he admitted after a long pause. His voice was careful, almost apologetic. “Somewhere private. Somewhere we wouldn’t be overheard.”

Adharia merely shrugged, a silent gesture of indifference. The location mattered little to her. She had always preferred the outdoors, found solace in the open sky and the rush of the wind against her skin. Her grandmother had once told her it was her Veela blood, that their kind was most at peace when surrounded by nature, where their magic could stretch and breathe.

“What’s going on?” she prompted instead, offering Harry a flicker of encouragement.

His answering smile was small, almost grateful. But the worry in his green eyes did not fade.

“I don’t know, Hermione,” he admitted, running a hand through his already untidy hair—a nervous habit she had long since noticed. “I just have this feeling… that something’s going to happen. Something bad.”

She arched a brow, tilting her head slightly. “Something bad?”

Harry exhaled, shifting uncomfortably. “Like in first year,” he explained, his voice quieter now, as if saying the words aloud would make them more real. “The night Quirrell tried to steal the Philosopher’s Stone? I had this feeling then too, like something terrible was coming.”

She nodded, recalling the way he had described that unease before.

“Well, it’s like that again,” he continued, his brows drawing together. “Only worse. It started a few days ago, but I ignored it at first. Let’s be honest, my entire life is bad luck.” He let out a humourless chuckle, shaking his head. “But today, in Defence… Moody was acting weird. Cruel, even.”

“He wasn’t being cruel, Harry.” Ron’s interruption was immediate, his voice sharp with irritation. “We need to know about the Unforgivables. That’s just how it is.”

Adharia clenched her fists, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. It was not the argument itself that annoyed her—she did not particularly care about the inner workings of Harry and Ronald’s friendship. What irked her was Ronald Weasley himself—his constant need to assert his opinions, to act as if his thoughts were the only ones that mattered. His arrogance, his sense of entitlement—it reminded her far too much of Dumbledore.

“Did you see Neville’s face?!” Harry snapped, his frustration bubbling over. He turned sharply to Ron, his green eyes flashing.

Ron, to his credit, looked momentarily abashed, his shoulders slumping. But his expression quickly darkened again.

“Well, yeah,” he muttered. “I mean, that was a bit much. He probably shouldn’t have used the Cruciatus in front of him. But that doesn’t mean he was being cruel.”

Adharia’s gaze flickered between them, her mind whirring at the mention of Neville Longbottom. She knew the name, of course—recognized him from her classes.

“Neville’s parents,” Harry explained, his voice quieter now, laced with something heavier. “They’re in St. Mungo’s.”

She frowned, piecing the fragments of memory together.

“They were tortured,” Harry continued, jaw tightening. “With the Cruciatus Curse. Bellatrix Malfoy, Rabastan Lestrange, and the Carrow twins did it. It was the same night Voldemort killed my parents.”

Adharia’s breath caught in her throat.

Bellatrix Malfoy.

The name reverberated through her mind, each syllable sharp and unforgiving. She knew that name—not just from whispered conversations in the halls or the occasional reference in a textbook, but from something much more personal.

Her godmother.

A woman she had only heard of in hushed, careful tones, always referenced with an air of caution. Her parents had refused to speak of her in detail, brushing aside her questions with vague reassurances—not yet, ma chérie, now is not the time. But why? Why?

And now here was Harry, saying her name in the same breath as torture, pain, and cruelty.

Adharia forced herself to remain utterly still, though her heart was hammering wildly in her chest. The world around her seemed to slow, the wind howling in the background like a distant scream. She tried to make sense of it, tried to connect the Bellatrix Malfoy she had imagined—the godmother she had never met, the woman her parents refused to discuss—to the Bellatrix Malfoy Harry spoke of now.

But she could not.