Author's Note: So I've basically done an AU retelling of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (More leaning towards the Disney version that the original Grimm one). Certain details of the story, I've changed to make it more relevant to the magical world (substituting the poison apple for a cursed locket etc.) and I've also changed some of the details of the HP characters—small things such as Hermione's birthday and parentage and stuff. Also, I got far too into this story when writing it and as a result wasn't able to complete the fairytale, so if anybody's interested, I'd like to continue it once the competition's over :) Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Snow White and the Seven Weasleys

On a beautiful summer's day, in the beautiful British countryside, a beautiful baby girl was born. This particular girl was not like others in many ways. Conceived of two magical parents, her powers were great. Yet it was not this angelic creature's magical ability that set her apart, for many in the land possessed such power. Indeed, it was the mesmerising beauty she had been blessed with, and honest, sweet nature of which few possessed. Her heart was filled with goodness from the instant she was born, her mind filled with wisdom, and her soul filled with grace.

But as the mother of this extraordinary child stared down at her new-born daughter, she knew the weakness she felt in her body was a sign of inevitable and quick deterioration. There are some things that magic just can't cure. What little time she knew she'd have with her daughter, she spent in awe of her. With skin as pale as the whitest snow, lips as red as fresh blood, and hair as soft and brown as a rabbit's downy fur, it was impossible not to be in awe of her. She had just enough time to name her daughter before she died, and the name she chose was Hermione.

Stricken with heartbreak, the father feared he would never find love again, except that which he devoted to his daughter. Forever in mourning of his wife, as Hermione grew and flourished in wit, beauty, goodness, and power, he decided she needed a maternal figure in her life in order for her to unlock her full potential. It just so happened that a pretty and virtuous maiden by the name of Bellatrix Black was in want of a husband. With skin as pale as the whitest snow and lips as red as fresh blood (though ebony curls rather than brunette), she bore a striking resemblance to his daughter. And she too possessed magic of great power, alongside her great ambition and courage. She would be the ideal mother to his little girl, and he married her immediately.

But something grew in Bellatrix's heart which could never pierce Hermione's pure soul—darkness. Bellatrix had loved and had lost, had faced ruin and heartbreak before starting her new life, and had been made bitter and twisted to a point where her mind was poisoned with evil.

Soon, the young girl grew into a young woman, as pure as the snow her skin resembled. It was for this reason that her father fondly nicknamed her 'Snow White', and thus she and her step-mother set their opposition in stone, for one was 'Black' and one was 'White'.

On the dawn of her seventeenth birthday—the day Hermione came of age magically, discarding her adolescence and entering womanhood—Bellatrix sought solace in the magic mirror she kept in her boudoir. An enchanting object, the magic mirror was capable of many things. It foretold the future, showed your heart's deepest desire, acted as a window into the lives of others, and could even be used as a portal. But Bellatrix used it for different, vain reasons.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall," she chanted, "show me the one who possesses the most magical ability in the land. Indeed, show me who is the most powerful of them all."

For years, she had peered into the mirror, satisfied with the image it reflected—herself. But on that morning, the image that appeared in the mirror was not that of herself. Instead, it was the witch's step-daughter, delicately picking flowers out in the woods. Bellatrix let out a deafening howl of fury. "Lies," she hissed. "All lies! How could this be? How could she be more powerful than I? She is but seventeen years old—she has learnt nothing of magic as I have!"

But the image in the mirror never faltered. In fact, it seemed to solidify, to become even clearer, as though to prove to Bellatrix that it very much was the truth. She was filled with rage from head to toe. She would not stand for this—a seventeen-year-old girl as weak and fragile as Hermione couldn't possibly be more powerful than Bellatrix! "Show me, then," she demanded furiously, "what will become of me if this girl lives."

The image in the mirror changed, swirling around in a flurry of colours like disturbed water, and then settled to form something new. It showed Hermione, mature, accomplished, loved. People—all strangers to Bellatrix—surrounded her, looking at her adoringly, and her father was beside her with a smile full of pride and eyes full of love. A dark, shadowy figure loitered at the back of the image, shrouded in black. She was weary and bitter, completely alone as the others flocked to Snow White, no appreciation, no love, no recognition whatsoever.

"Can this be true!?" Bellatrix shrieked at the mirror. "I will be disregarded in place of her? She is weak and foolish and naïve—she will never be more accomplished than I! And what of my husband? He will not love me? He will love her more? They all will!?"

She turned away from the mirror, her lips still curled into a snarl. Snow White would not steal her glory. Bellatrix would see to it that this mere girl would never be more loved, never be more wise, and never be more powerful than she was.

"We'll see how truly powerful she is," Bellatrix murmured darkly. "And then we'll see who truly deserves the adoration that will supposedly be lavished upon her."

Consumed by envy for the young witch, Bellatrix formed the perfect plan to see she would never trouble her again. Stupid, stupid girl, out picking flowers, for goodness sake. She would get the fate she deserved.

Hermione plucked the delicate flower from the ground as gently as she could and stopped to admire its beauty. "Belladonna," she murmured. "Perfect." She placed it in the basket with the others.

Fascinated by reading up on the magical qualities that some plants possessed, she had eagerly gone out into the woods. She was almost certain she could craft a Healing Potion. Plenty had been made, and in many different variations, but Hermione felt like there was something missing. She knew there was a simpler way, far less complex than those she'd read about; she just needed the right ingredients. This could be a breakthrough in their land. If she could somehow craft a much simpler and ultimately stronger Healing Potion, she could save countless lives; she could heal people of ailments thought to have no remedy!

A small, blue flower caught her eye. It was hard to spot as it was concealed by the shadow of a tree, but she had seen it nonetheless. "Dittany," Hermione affirmed aloud. "Thought to be useless. But I wonder..." she murmured, plucking it anyway. Could this be the key ingredient to an instant Healing Potion? Could this be the vital thing needed to cease bleeding and reseal wounds?

Often disregarded and deemed useless, Dittany could well be the very thing she'd been looking for.

A rustle from behind a tree startled Hermione. The cracking of a twig filled the silence that the woods had been enveloped in. A harmless woodland creature—or an enemy? Hermione rarely left the house, being so engrossed in her books, and she had no specific enemies. But there were always things lurking in the woods, threats to her safety.

"Who's there?" she bravely called out. "Animal or human?" As if an animal could respond... "Friend or foe?" As if a foe would respond...

Hermione had entirely convinced herself it was nothing more than a deer when, suddenly, a man appeared from behind the trunk. He was young, was what she noticed immediately. Around her age, actually—no more than a boy. The second thing she noticed was that he was deeply beautiful. With his pale skin, delicate features and pointed chin, eyes that were soft and grey, and hair that was so blond it was almost silvery, he was mesmerising to behold. The third thing she noticed, which perhaps should have been the first, was that he was aiming his wand at her, and his face was set into an expression of hard determination. He clearly meant her harm.

"Who are you?" Hermione demanded, slowly reaching for the wand concealed in her basket. She had read about defence spells and duelling, though she had never actually engaged in a fight before. He would have the advantage over her.

"You don't need to know," he said. "I'll be the last person you talk to. Mine will be the last face you ever lay eyes on. That's all you need to know."

Hermione had a firm grip on her wand now. Expelliarmus was the spell that came to mind. She could disarm this young man and flee. But he could easily attack first. He could easily chase her and disable her. And then what?

She sensed something in the gentle glimmer of his eyes, in the subtle tremor of the hand aiming his wand: fear. He was terrified, yet disguising it with an air of interrogation.

"If that is, indeed, true, then I think it fair for you to tell me your name," Hermine said in a measured voice. "Out of respect for me. That is my last request, so tell me—what is your name?"

He hesitated for a while, gulped, and then said, "Draco Malfoy."

"And why do you wish to kill me, Draco?"

"She told me to. She wants you dead—she told me to bring her your heart," he stuttered, his voice getting shrill.

"Who?" Hermione asked in the same calm manner, though fear was creeping into her body. She knew few people. There could only be one who wanted her dead...

Draco glanced around nervously, lowered his wand, and then looked her dead in the eye. "Bellatrix—my aunt—your step-mother. She told me you were dangerous, a threat to her. She gave me this task, told me I'd be rewarded if I was successful and punished if I wasn't..."

He may have been a man, but Draco had the fear of a child.

"You don't look like a murderer to me, Draco," Hermione said with a kind smile, loosening her grip on her own wand. Her fears had been true, then. Bellatrix wanted her dead.

"I don't want to kill you," Draco admitted sheepishly. "I've been... watching you," he confessed. "You talk to the birds, you're so gentle with the flowers... You don't seem dangerous to me. I can't—I can't kill somebody who seems as innocent as you."

"You don't have to," Hermione murmured softly.

Draco's free hand clenched into a fist. "I do," he said determinedly. "If I fail—if I return to her without your heart—she'll kill me instead."

"You can have my heart," Hermione said tenderly.

Draco gulped again, turning as pink as the belladonna in her basket. "I—I—what?"

"If she intends to kill you then you must do as you were instructed. It's me she wants dead. Bring my heart to her, and she'll reward you."

"You would sacrifice your life for mine?" Draco asked, incredulous.

"Only as long as you promise to continue my work in my place. You see, I was working on a Healing Potion—a simpler yet stronger cure for magical maladies. It seems ridiculous, but I think Dittany may very well be the answer I've been looking for. Take my basket," Hermione ordered, handing it out to him, "and please help yourself to the books in my room. I've written down all my notes and findings so far—you're most welcome to them if you can assure me you'll carry it on."

Draco Malfoy could do nothing but watch her in dumbfounded awe. "No," he said decidedly. "No, I cannot—I will not—kill a girl as virtuous and good as yourself. Your heart is pure, and I can't take it to someone whose own heart is so dark and full of hate. You have to leave immediately."

But Hermione was filled with panic. "Oh, but she will kill you then, and I could not live with myself for costing another's life. I am trying to save lives, not take them!"

"You must go. Don't ever return to the house where she dwells. I will do all I can to protect you. I will take an animal's heart in place of yours. She won't know the difference, and once she believes you to be dead, she won't pursue you. Go—go now!"

There was such a fierce passion in Draco's eyes that Hermione couldn't help but obey, gathering up her skirt as she ran, preparing to dodge through trees in pursuit of safety. But just at the last moment, just as she was about to disappear into the thick copse of trees, she stopped abruptly, turned her head to look at her saviour with one final fond glance. "Thank you," she mouthed.

Draco gave a courteous nod of his head, and then she was gone, fleeing into the darkness.

Hermione ran until her legs would carry her no further. Her heart was racing, her hair was slick with sweat, and her feet were weary and achy. She needed to rest, but she forced her body onwards. The trees were beginning to thin, and she could make out a clearing ahead.

Bursting from the trees, Hermione's eyes widened at the sight before her. A house—a quaint little house! There was no telling who lived here, but she was desperate. The house seemed to exude magic, and it gave off an overwhelmingly friendly atmosphere. She felt, or rather hoped, that she would be welcome there.

After rapping on the door several times and receiving no answer, she pushed the door open herself and tentatively made her way into the house. The sight of its interior filled her with delight. Pots and pans were scrubbing themselves clean of their own accord. A peculiar clock stood in the corner, not showing the time, but seeming to show the location of whoever's faces happened to adorn those spoons that were all pointing downwards. And in one of the rooms, there were seven beds lined up, all neatly made.

Hermione walked alongside them, running her hands over the wooden frames, saying the names that were etched into them under her breath as she went along. "Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Ron, Ginny..."

She yawned as she got to the end. The house was deserted, but it gave her a good feeling—as though the owners of it would not be upset or angry with her presence. Surely they would not mind if she were to stay a while whilst she rested her weary legs...

Bellatrix Black had placed the heart in a box that she kept on her dresser. It was her prized possession. "Most powerful witch in the land," she scoffed, "and yet your heart lies in this box of mine."

She had been ecstatic when Draco had brought it to her. And now she had just one thing to check before she was content.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, now show me who's the most powerful of them all." It was impossible to disguise her smirk. She watched her own reflection, strong, confident, deeply proud. But to Bellatrix's horror, the image began to morph until she found herself once more looking into the eyes of the girl they called Snow White.

"IMPOSSIBLE!" she screamed. "I have her heart here. If she lives then show me her location!"

The mirror obediently changed, revealing a run-down house in the depths of the woods. With a cry of fury, Bellatrix plunged a dagger into the boar's heart. "I will kill her myself," she declared.

After seizing her wand, and a cursed locket that had been resting on her dresser, with a sweeping of her travelling cloak, Bellatrix was gone, set on killing the girl who exceeded her in every way.

"Who is she?"

"Where did she come from?"

"For goodness sake, Fred, don't poke her!"

"Honestly, Ginny, it was only gently."

"Should we move her?"

"Should we wake her?"

"If you idiots keep talking so loudly she's going to wake up anyway!"

"I don't understand why she had to go in my bed..."

"Trust me, Ron, this is the only time a woman is going to be in your bed."

"I'd have thought you'd be overjoyed!"

"SHUT UP!"

"Oh, now you've done it."

Feeling drowsy, yet somewhat refreshed, Hermione opened her eyes. Seven faces were peering down at her, all with shockingly bright red hair. One was blushing furiously. She sat up sharply.

"I'm so sorry," she gushed. "I was so tired and I knocked and when nobody answered and it seemed as though nobody was home, I just thought... Oh, it was so wrong of me, I know— to just intrude in your house—but I was so very tired, and I—"

"Who are you?" the one with curly hair and glasses demanded.

"Nice, Percy, always keeping it polite," one of them muttered under their breath.

Hermione examined them all in detail. The one with long, wild hair, she figured was eldest, and then there was one with a stocky, muscular build, and the one with the glasses. The next two were shockingly identical; even their eyes had the same glint of laughter. It had been one of them who had made the remark. The next—the one who was blushing so much his face matched his hair—seemed the most similar to her in age. Unkempt hair and dozens of freckles, he had a sort of wild, boyish charm about him. The final one was the shortest, the youngest, and was a girl.

"What's your name?" the eldest one prompted, in a far kinder tone than the one they'd called Percy.

"Her—" Hermione began to say but stopped herself short. "Snow White," she corrected bashfully. She needed to recreate herself—create a new identity. "Snow White," she said more definitively, for it was only her father who called her that name.

"Odd," one of them muttered under his breath.

"Oh, like Ronald's any better," one of the twins scoffed. Ron scowled at him.

"Please excuse our brother," the other twin said, "he's partial to frequent bouts of sulkiness."

Hermione smiled. "I am sorry for coming into your house like this. It was unbelievably rude of me."

"Not a problem," the second eldest chirped. "You look like a girl with a story, and we like stories." They all leant in eagerly.

"Well, okay then," Hermione said shyly, and with growing confidence she told them the sequence of events that had led to her stumbling upon their house.

"We call it the Burrow," the girl piped up. "And you're welcome to stay."

"Shouldn't we discuss this?" the bespectacled one hissed.

"No," she decided. "Do you know what it's like to have six brothers? Six! I need another girl around here."

"So, what's your story?" Hermione asked brightly. "I mean—what are you? What do you do?"

"We," one of the twins declared proudly, "are Weasleys."

"Weasleys?"

"Weasleys."

"I'm afraid I don't—"

"It's our surname," Ron said irritably. "Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Percy Weasley, Fred and George Weasley, Ginny Weasley"—he pointed to each in turn and then pointed to himself—"Ron Weasley."

"Nice one, Ron," Ginny muttered. "Almost as friendly as Percy..."

"We're wizards," Bill explained. "All siblings. We live out here in the woods, rumoured to be home to all number of the most magical creatures, plants etc. Unfortunately, our parents passed away, but we've made a life for ourselves out here. And you are very welcome to stay."

"I am?"

"She is?"

"Shut up, Percy, of course she is. We're not going to let her be killed by her psycho step-mother." Ginny gave an accompanied roll of her eyes to match her impatient tone. She then addressed Hermione. "You may have a peculiar name, Snow White, but we're Weasleys, and we would never abandon a fellow witch in danger. You have the promise of me and my brothers that we will keep you safe. You may stay here as long as you like."

The others mumbled in agreement.

Hermione beamed, and thus the legacy of 'Snow White and the Seven Weasleys' began.

Originally written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 2—Round 12

Team: Holyhead Harpies
Position: Captain
Task: Use the fairytale of Snow White as inspiration