my heart lingers in your hands
Chapter 1
Not all nightmares go away over time. Sometimes they grow as we do and one day we look back and see that they have transcended all the limits we tried our best to put on them to keep them contained – restrained away from us.
And perhaps it's better to have this constant throbbing fear to keep us going rather than biding our time and living fearfully, jumping at every shadow and waiting, with dread that cripples the lungs and atrophies the limps, for another nightmare to take the place of the one we'd just escaped.
Sometimes, there's comfort in familiarity, no matter how dark and dangerous.
When love rules, all hearts kneel.
—unknown
The creature had horns when it came to her window.
She saw it first as the shadow of a tree, then she looked closer and it was a crouching figure.
Its face was bathed in darkness, only its outline was clear as it dug taloned feet into the frame of her window and peered into her room.
It did not enter and she soothed herself with the thought that it would not until she gave it permission, like one of those fae things Nana used to tell her about.
That thought led to a spiral of anger and grief and numbness that briefly made her forget about the creature hovering at her window. (She wanted very much to call out to Nana, but the woman would not respond – not to anyone other than a medium, that is.)
Hermione looked back at the creature and watched with wide eyes as its horns grew from a fist size to that of a forearm's.
"Brat," it said in a raspy, low voice. A voice that Hermione found both frightening and morbidly fascinating. (A voice that was so different from the one she had heard it speak in before.)
She couldn't think; her lungs constricted as fear clamped her airways shut.
Like the child she was, she ducked her head under the covers and willed the evil to go away. The creature growled menacingly, causing her to press her body deeper into the mattress, as if the stuffing and cloth might somehow absorb her into its fold and protect her.
The creature shrieked, and it was a blood-curdling sound that chilled her to her bones.
Where were her parents, she wondered desperately, surely they had heard that awful sound?
She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed, repeating one word over and over again.
God, god, god, god.
As if her prayers had been answered, the shriek cut off and the air grew silent.
Feeling braver than the situation called for, she peeked one eye over the covers, not sure what to expect and not daring to hope.
The creature was gone.
She was still wide-eyed and trembling when the clock struck midnight and she turned nine – eight hours after the burial of her Nana.
There was a witch inside of her, and it wanted to come out.
—born as a nebulae
Hermione had always known about her heritage and imminent power. She'd always known her Nana was the longest living witch in her family in the last three centuries. She'd always known that Nana's death would transfer all the older woman's powers onto her – the heir to the dwindling Northern Witch Coven – and make her near invincible (because Nana's wasn't the only ancient power she would he hosting then).
She knew all this, and she dreaded it.
Dreaded it because she also knew that Nana had made a pact with the fae prince when Hermione was seven and on her way to Death's doorstep.
Dreaded it because her protectors had denied her answers and not knowing the darkness she was to step into was worse than her darkest nightmares.
It happened like this:
Since before she could form all the shapes of the words she was learning, Hermione had an innate curiosity and disregard for limitations that was not encouraged in witches – and she questioned everything.
Her little family of Mama, Papa, and Mione often visited her Nana at her large house by the woods. There, she and Nana went into the shed in the backyard that stretched on for ages and they practiced magic!
Mione learned how to float her favourite books and light candles and finally, finally, she fluttered her fledgling magic in the air between solids and rang the old bell that made an awful clanking sound. Nana was so proud of her, called her the Brightest Witch of Her Age. Mione beamed in pride.
"That's a very clever thing you did, my sweet," Nana said to Hermione, patting the young witch on her busy head. "What would you like for your reward?"
Hermione scrunched her eyebrows together in thought. She looked about the rusty shed for something of note. Her brown eyes landed on a shelf of dusty books that she wasn't allowed to read (not yet, Nana said).
She thought about trying her luck and was about to open her mouth to ask when a flash of something impossibly pale and iridescent caught her eye.
"What's that, Nana?" Hermione's little pointer finger was trained on a shelf of objects opposite the door. Specifically, on a long stick the colour of bone that was placed in a glass case and wedged between a cauldron and a gas lamp.
Nana grew quite as the proud smile on her face slid off. Her eyes were glazed as she walked to the shelf and removed the stick from its dusty case.
She held it reverently between her frail hands. "This is a very special wand," she said quietly.
Hermione perked up in interest. "A wand? Like in the old stories? But I thought witches didn't use wands anymore. Is it yours? Will I have it? Can I—"
"Slow down, my sweet," Nana said with a laugh, expression lightened in the face of her granddaughter's rapid-fire curiosity.
Hermione stared up at the older woman expectantly, brown eyes shining with a need for answers.
With a shake of her head and a chuckle, Nana sat down and patted the seat next to her. Hermione scrambled into the chair, having to get on it on her knees before she straightened herself and sat properly.
"I'm going to tell you a very old story, darling, about our history. Would you like to hear it?"
Brown curls bounced and tangled as Hermione nodded her head fervently.
Nana gave her a stern look and wagged her index finger at Hermione. First, you must promise not to tell your parents."
Hermione made to nod her head but paused. Not tell Mama and Papa? But they said never to tell lies. She pursed her lips. It wouldn't be lying, she thought, she'd only not be telling them something. There was a difference!
Smiling at her clever reasoning, she nodded her assent without hesitation.
Nana smiled fondly and began her tale.
"Once long ago, in a land not so far away, fae and witches lived alongside each other, separated only by a long line of ash trees and their own prejudice. They both had magic, same yet also different. The fae were wild creatures and their magic matched their essence. They were prone to magical outbursts spurred by strong emotions, and these outbursts sometimes breached the line of trees and impacted the lives of witches. The witches were still discovering all the possibilities of their magic and so could not protect themselves as well as we can now. Their numbers suffered greatly in those early days and they grew fearful of the careless fae. The Great Houses convened and decided they needed to strike against the fae, for the survival of the four Witch Covens.
"But the witches did not know their enemy, and so they devised a plan to send a brave, clever witch into the faelands to find their enemy's weakness. They chose a young man of House Dumbledore, named Albus Percival Wulfric Brian. Albus was the most talented youth and eager to prove his worth to his Coven, therefore he was the perfect choice. The witches put their wands together and cast a glamour over Albus to make him appear fae, they then shrouded him in protective wards and sent him into the ash woods. Not much is said about his time with the fae, only that Albus did succeed – but not in the mission he was given.
"You see, my sweet, Albus was very clever. He saw and learned the ways of the fae, he drank their wine and ate their food and he befriended them until they loved him better than their own. He befriended the king, too. Gellert had been ruling for a century and he was wise, yes, but he was also rash and powerful and those two never went well together when it came to the fae. Gellert alone caused half of the outbursts. Albus performed many rituals to help keep his friend's magic contained but nothing worked. One day, as Albus was cleaning his hut, he came across his wand, which had been hidden away for safekeeping. His quick mind realised that what the fae king needed was not a containment on his magic, but an anchor, something to channel his erratic magic through to make it easier to control.
"Albus traveled back to the witchlands and sought out Garrick Ollivander, the great wandmaker. With the knowledge Albus provided about the recipient, the wandmaker created a unique and powerful wand – he named it the Elder Wand. When Albus returned to the faelands, he cast off his glamor and presented the wand to Gellert. At first Gellert felt betrayed that his closest friend had deceived him about his true nature all along, but because of the love he had for Albus, Gellert forgave his closest friend and accepted the wand. And one swish of his new wand was all it took to convince the fae king that this was what the fae had needed all along. Gellert ordered Albus to have wands made for all the fae and Albus was overjoyed to have found a way to bring the magical groups together.
"Years passed, and the fae and witches grew less hostile. They were free to roam the lands of the other, so long as they did not harm anyone or enter with destructive intent. While the majority were happy, there was a group of fae who were not pleased by any of this. They called themselves the Knights of Walpurgis.
"Fae are wicked and spiteful by nature and these Knights were more so. They abducted Albus' sister, Ariana, and cursed her into madness. Albus was devastated when he discovered this nefarious deed and, in his rage, he waged a great duel against Gellert. Gellert tried to reason with his closest friend but Albus was unreachable in his grief and anger. Albus struck down the fae king, took the Elder Wand for himself and fled to the witchlands.
"The fae were enraged beyond comprehension at the death of their king. Many snapped their wands and let their magic run wild in hopes of harming the witches. Albus had arrived in time to warn the witches of what he'd done, so they had enough time to put up protective wards that barred the fae from breaching the ash trees.
"The fae grew angrier and more restless, but they could not directly retaliate against the witches because of the wards. The Knights of Walpurgis came up with a wicked plan and spread news of the existence of witches in every village in the land and they used their magic to spur the hate of mortals. Thus, the despicable Witch Trials began.
"Witches had lived amongst mortals for ages in peace and autonomy. They'd never before been hunted so relentlessly. Wands were immediate identifiers and so they were discarded. Their magic became erratic with no wands to channel them through. We lost many elders and our connection to the land grew weak. It was the darkest years in our history.
"A decade after the hunts began, after we had lost nearly half of the Four Witch Covens, Albus took charge and led us into victory. He confronted and defeated the leader of the Knights of Walpurgis, Salazar Slytherin. Albus, as the winner of the duel, had a right to Slytherin's wand and made to seize his battle spoil, but was intercepted by Slytherin's grandson, Marvolo. Young Marvolo accepted the defeat on behalf of the fae and bargained the keep of Slytherin's wand, Basilisk, for a promise that the Witch Trials would end. Albus accepted with the condition of an Unbreakable Vow and within a fortnight the hunts ceased completely, and the mortals were eradiated of their unnatural hate for witches.
"Although the witches were no longer being hunted, the horrors they'd lived through haunted them for the rest of their days. Being away from their magic for so long had left severe consequences. They tried to bond with new wands to restore their magic to its former glory, but it would not take. The witches grew so desperate that they resorted to performing dark rituals. Nothing worked. Some kept trying but many had given up and moved on and accepted the truth for what it was: magic would never again return to what it had once been.
"A year after the Defeat of Slytherin, a young woman of House Bones, Amelia, had given birth to a boy. He was sickly, and the healers could do nothing more to save him. Their potions were not strong enough to combat whatever ailed him. He was predicted to die within a week. In her desperation Amelia trekked to the highest hill in the witchlands on the night of the next full moon. There she beseeched the old gods to help her son and offered her life blood in exchange for his health.
"There was a shift in the air as her rich, red blood touched the grass and stained it crimson. The moon rays shining down on that hill shone brighter than the sun for a moment, so bright it was seen for miles in every direction. Amelia believed the light was a sign from the gods and her spirits were lifted. She rushed back home to her son but when she got there, she was devastated to find that his condition had not changed. She cursed the old gods and cried and screamed herself hoarse. When her fatigue caught up to her she succumbed to the dark with her boy clutched to her bosom.
"The next morning, Amelia was woken by the loud cries of her son. This was a miracle, for the boy had been too weak to utter a sound since his birth. The healers were called at once and they declared him a perfectly healthy baby. The witches were amazed, but Amelia…she was just grateful. There was a lightness to her that hadn't been seen in a witch since before the Trials began.
"Another young mother, this one called Agatha, of House Longbottom nee Prewett, was plagued by sleepless nights due to her ill daughter. Once again, the healers could do nothing for the child. Amelia took Agatha to the hill and instructed her to do what she had done a few moons ago. The two mothers waited anxiously for the girl to get better and, by the miracle that is magic, she did. Soon after, every mother – and sometimes father – of a newborn child made the trip to the hilltop to offer their blood in exchange for the health of their babes.
"As the months went by, the witches found that the families who had performed the ritual were much more in tune with their magic, like in the days Before. And that is how the Ritual of Renewal was created. On the birth day of a witch family's heir, the family's paterfamilias or materfamilias offers a blood sacrifice and binds their magic to the heir's core, so that when the head passes, the magic may be transferred to the heir and make them stronger. If the heir dies before the head, the next child becomes heir.
"But as the magic of the witches became more stable and powerful, Prince Marvolo of the fae could not contain the remaining knights of Walpurgis for long. The wards held them off, but consistent attacks made certain parts weaker. Centuries passed, the witches established great cities for themselves and made advancements in the mortal world for the betterment of humankind. The fae grew stronger, too. The few that had kept their wands passed it onto their heir, similar to the Ritual of Renewal.
"One day, years and years later, when the words Witch Trials no longer caused a panic, an incredibly powerful fae slipped through a crack in the wards, on All Hallows' Eve, when the veils are at their thinnest. Near the ash trees, two Ritual of Renewals were taking place. The witches were left vulnerable as they were too immersed in the ritual and had not cast protective wards around the spell circle, deeming it unnecessary since the trees were already warded. Three witches were lost that night. A young couple – whose son was one of the babes being blessed – and your grandfather."
Hermione gasped, the first sound she'd made since Nana began the tale.
"He fought off the fae and managed to take his wand, expel the creature back to the faelands, and close the breach in the wards. Sadly, this great expenditure of magic was too much for him, and he died soon after," Nana explained.
She took a deep fortifying breath and carried on. "His magic passed to his heir, who was not yet one year old, immediately after his death. That had never happened before, and your parents and I were greatly concerned about what that amount of matured power would do to your developing core. Thankfully, as the years went by and you grew, no consequences presented themselves. We hope this continues until you are of age and have fully matured. This is why you must not tell your parents I told you all this. No doubt your mother will one day tell you a sugar-coated, shorter version of this tale. Not many are even aware that there is more to the history of witches than what Beedle the Bard has written in his nursery book."
Hermione nodded her head, a frown twisting her lips as she thought how unfair it was that Mama had planned to keep something like this from her. Thank goodness she had Nana!
Her eyes alighted once again on the pale wand, still clutched between her grandmother's fingers.
"Is that the wand Grandfather won, Nana?"
"Yes, darling. This is the rightful wand of the fae prince – the fae who attacked us. Originally made of yew wood and later infused with bone fragments of his mortal father, dipped in the silver blood of a unicorn and allegedly blessed by a phoenix bird. It used to belong to his ancestor, Salazar Slytherin."
"The bad Knight?!"
Nana nodded, her lips pinched in displeasure at the very thought.
"What a horrid family they must be. And he's a prince? Princes are not supposed to attack people, that's so—so unprincely!" Hermione huffed and crossed her arms in indignation.
Nana chuckled, although it was more humorless than amused. "I quite agree, love."
Hermione cocked her head in thought. "What about the king? Is he also evil?"
There was a pause before Nana said gently, "The fae prince killed him." She didn't want to tell the young witch such horrid things, but she couldn't bring herself to lie to her granddaughter.
Hermione gasped. "He killed his father?"
Nana shook her head. "His uncle was king because his father was not fae. The fae prince killed King Morfin – son of Marvolo – in order to inherit the throne."
Hermione scrunched her nose in distaste. "Why couldn't he just wait? He was a prince, he would have been king soon!" Hermione was desperate for answers, none of this made sense to her. How could someone kill their father – or rather, their uncle!
Nana shook her head again. "Fae live for centuries and Morfin had barely begun his rule. The fae prince grew impatient, because he knew he would have to wait a long time before he became king."
"Then why is he still just a prince?"
"He is not yet of fae age to be crowned king, but he rules nonetheless, because he is the last of his blood."
Hermione turned that over in her head. This was a fairy tale story if ever she'd heard one. But it was one of those dark fairytales, with dragons that won and princes that turned out to be bad. However, there was still one tiny piece missing…
"Nana, you've told me about Gellert and Salazar and Marvolo and Morfin, but you didn't say the fae prince's name. Why?"
Nana's browns eyes, so much like Hermione's, took on a pained look. "It is forbidden. There is a powerful taboo on it. The fae prince detests his given name because it was the name of his mortal father and the new name he fashioned for himself is dreadful and I refuse to use it," she sneered with vehemence.
Hermione touched the woman's arm lightly and looked up at her with wide eyes. "Then what do we call him?"
Nana sighed. "I suppose if you must, you can say He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
Hermione mouthed the words to herself and giggled. "That's silly."
Nana smiled and tapped Hermione's nose, countenance finally brightening. "I know, my sweet."
Hermione's hand drifted down from its place on Nana's arm until her fingers were just a breath away from touching the wand. There was something about the wand that called to her, like a siren's song to a lonely sailor.
"Nana," she began slowly, eyes fixed on the paleness of the wood. "May I touch it?"
Nana was looking down at her with a strange look in her eyes, one Hermione was sure she hadn't learned the word to identify yet.
The old and young Granger held each other's eyes for an unidentifiable time, until Nana gave the tiniest nod of her head.
Hermione's heart leaped as her small fingers closed around the slim piece of wood and held it in front of her face. Something shifted in her. Shifted and slotted itself into its proper place, she could feel it.
This wand – it felt like hers.
(Somewhere, in a land not so far away, separated only by a long line of ash trees and protective wards, a fae prince lifted his raven head and fixed his dark eyes beyond the tree line.
I found you.)