Gattaca and Harry Potter DO NOT belong to me... if they did I would be an exceedingly happy person and richer than the Queen.
Unfortunately, I am neither.
Again, Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and Gattaca belongs to Andrew Niccol (he wrote and directed it, so I am assuming that it is his). NOT ME!
* By the way, I wrote this in an airport, so be prepared for errors and spelling mistakes... let me know if I should continue! (It will be H/Hr, inspired by DH Part 1)
Hermione = Vincent ("Jerome") equivalent
Harry = Irene equivalent
Mundungus = German
Lavender = Anton equivalent
Everybody else = TBC...
PROLOGUE.
The scientists never saw it coming.
The human genome project, a huge success, was a landmark event in the progression of society. Why wonder if you were at risk for Alzheimer's or Diabetes? For a few thousand dollars, you could have a small sample of your DNA sequenced, and really find out what you inherited from mum or dad.
This was the beginning of an immediate craze, where both the health-conscious and the paranoid sent in their fingernails, their eyelashes, their skin samples. Eventually, the rest of the world caught on, and with this the prices of a full chromosome sequencing went down from five figures to four, from four figures to three. It was only a matter of time before doctors were starting to recommend it in their offices, collecting blood samples, saliva, and hair to be sent off to the nearest center. In those days, it would most likely be a good hundred miles away. Later on, about twenty miles away. Today, it would be right there in the office, a five or ten second wait to knowing your fate.
For twenty-five sickles, you could determine your chances for a heart attack, ovarian cancer, male-patterned baldness and the like.
But this wasn't the only change going on in the DNA world. Test tube babies were becoming more common and common, until over 90 percent of births were genetically predetermined. Parents-to-be could select the eye color, hair color, skin tone of their soon-to-be child.
At least, those who could afford it.
Those few children that were "faith children," or "God-born," those that were brought into this world as natural as Eve birthed Cain and Abel, those that knew nothing in the womb but their mother's love – they were at a disadvantage. Not very much at the beginning – a few points difference in IQ or a few milliseconds slower in a 100m sprint – but nevertheless, there was a difference. These differences, however minute in the beginning, grew over time.
These "miracle" children fell behind, the genetically-enhanced taking their place, creating a class of the DNA superior, the "pure" and worthy class. The rich, the genius, the talented – all considered pure by society. Their number grew, while the genetically-inferior, the "muggle" - in some circles, considered to be no better than the mud that caked their shoes on a rainy day – found themselves as the minority.
The no longer had a place in modern society, instead having to move from place to place, finding jobs as janitors, trash-men, factory workers – or even whores. This final profession was unpopular, as most of the superiors were repulsed at the idea of consorting with an inferior, a "mudblood." No, they were too good, too "pure" for that.
They took pride in being "pure" of blood – nothing else was truly important. Job interviews consisted of a blood sample. Entrance to schools and colleges – all that was needed was a hair sample, and a proper DNA sequencing practically guaranteed admission. Ethnicity seemed to have no meaning in this new world... after all, blood had no nationality.
In this world, there were purebloods and there were mudbloods. The polite term was muggles, but no one really bothered. Except for Albus Dumbledore, a celebrated scientist of his age – but no one really saw him nowadays. He had retreated to his home, an archaic castle in Scotland, after a highly unsuccessful political campaign for the rights of muggles.
After years of successes that were meant to change the world forever, his one unsuccessful venture turned out to be the one the world needed the most.
Or, at least, according to one Hermione Granger.
CHAPTER ONE.
Hermione Granger was exceedingly bright. Brighter than any of the other mudbloods for sure – and she could give some of the purebloods a run for their money in the IQ department. Anything she read, from Shakespeare to Dante or Wilde, she could recite practically from memory – and explain in great detail the cultural significance, the major themes, or even the author's life without a moments notice beforehand.
Of course, no one really noticed or applauded this, not when she was compared to her sister. Lavender (soon-to-be Mrs. Lavender Granger Brown), always stole the spotlight. She was better in every way than Hermione – or, at least, genetically. During the process of engineering the perfect child, the doctor followed procedure and created two male eggs and two female. Immediately, the male eggs were discarded, as Hermione's mother Rosalind (or "Rose," according to her husband, David) wanted a precious little girl, and they then engineered an egg to their specifications.
First, all major diseases and negative genetic predispositions were eliminated, such as alcoholism and heart issues. Next, they chose for themselves the ideal Aryan little girl – blue eyes, blonde hair, and perfect, slightly-tanned skin (they felt that pale skin looked too sickly, and they wanted their little girl to be the very image of health). They selected her height (170cm – not too short, but not too tall as to tower over her mother, Jean) and were on their happy little way.
Of course, even in these days, there is no guaranteed way of giving birth, so the other egg was kept in reserve, just in case the planned egg failed. This natural egg would be inserted into the mother at the proper time, and had a self-destruct function that would engage should the planned birth be successful.
Unfortunately, the natural egg rejected the self-destruct function, and Rosalind Elizabeth Granger gave birth to Lavender Rosalind Granger and Hermione Jean Granger. Two beautiful children to most, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty and a brown-haired, brown-eyed child. However, in this world, only one child was deserving of the beauty – Lavender.
Lavender Rosalind Granger. She got the nice clothing (the satin dresses, silk stockings, and neo-leather t-straps), the wonderful toys meant to stimulate her mind (only to be tossed aside to the delight of her sister), and the better schooling. At her exclusive preparatory, purebloods mingled and learned and had opportunities that one could only dream of.
Hermione never made it past the front gates of the school. With her DNA, the school just couldn't afford to provide insurance for her. She remembered the dread in her stomach as the teacher's eyes drifted towards her mother and her voiced trailed off - "If she fell..."
Instead, she learned from her grandmother, a patron of muggles. While her parents were disgusted at the concept, Hermione reveled in the bloodless atmosphere, were there were no sample tests or pureblood supremacy speeches. Here, she could learn without prejudice, and learn she did.
Shelley, Dickens, Warren – she devoured them all. Her grandmother's library became her calling ground, and Gramma Jean affectionately called her "her little bookworm." Hermione was puzzled at this statement, until Gramma explained to her it was an Old World reference. Her Gramma was one of the few left of the Old World – or, to the educated, Generation Y.
Jean Elizabeth Granger, née Trolland, was born in 1994. She would affectionately refer to her days as a child, free from the demons of DNA sampling, instead drooling over the latest computer or eagerly awaiting the next novel in some book series she enjoyed. They were by some (apparently brilliant) Roweling or Rolling woman – Hermione never really caught the name and dismissed it as the whims of nostalgia.
However, when her Gramma wasn't reminiscing about the past, she was teaching Hermione everything she knew. Of course, she had forgotten a little, and Hermione had to become dependent on some of the subjects, looking up information for herself.
It was on one of these ventures that Hermione discovered her passion, tucked right between Hawthorne and Hemingway. Cassini, she noticed. Needs to be put back in place, she thought to when she went back to the C's, there were other books out of place. Encyclopaedia Galactica, Maps of the Stars (5th Edition), the list went on and on. Curious, she traced the cover of the book residing in her hand with her thumb, before opening it and beginning to read.
Hours later, she had finished, and was staring absently out at the night sky. A shrilly voice interrupted her thoughts – her mother's. Hermione stood up from the ground, and fixed her wool clothing. She looked down at the book, and after a moment's hesitation, put it in her rucksack.
Later in the the tube, she managed a glimpse of the moon as the rail went above ground. The stars were particularly bright tonight, and twinkled at her temptingly.
That's where I want to go, she thought to herself. Lavender pinched her, snapping her out of her trance. She was bored, and how could Hermy stand Gramma, she was soooo boring?
Hermione sighed before talking quietly to her sister. Her goal would never be forgotten.
To see the stars...