Rose Thorns and Full Moons
theDarkIsRising
"She's odd, don't you think?"
The baker nodded and whispered something in return. Hermione couldn't hear what he said, but she'd heard enough. Both glanced sideways at her; the baker's hands were covered in flour as he cupped them around his mouth. She placed the loaf of bread in her basket and turned away. They were always whispering after her. She paid the girl at the counter and sighed. The marketplace was bustling when she stepped out the door. She carefully sidestepped out of a carriage's way as it came rushing down the street. The wheels clacked over the cobblestone.
Some people crossed the street when they saw Hermione approaching them. One woman, older, with a kerchief tied around her white hair, crossed herself when passing the younger girl. Hermione ground her teeth. A faint cracking sound emanated from a carriage parked next to her. Fissures spread out along its glass windows like a spider web. Looking around quickly, Hermione ignored the breaking glass and hurried away. The cabby kept talking to a potential client and took no notice of the windows. Hermione lifted her skirt so she could move faster. She'd been caught by such an accident before and didn't want to repeat it.
The first time happened when she was only eleven. One of her schoolmates, Blaise, followed her home. He threw stones at her, laughing, calling her a "know-it-all."' That hadn't riled her. Hermione was always at the top of her class. At first, the name calling did bother her. She came home crying to her father. He'd smooth down her untamable hair and hug her. Then he'd pull a book from his satchel – one from the local bookshop, or even better, one from his trips abroad. That always put a smile back on Hermione's face. She'd immediately curl up with it and read until she was done and ready to devour another. No, she didn't become angry until Blaise spoke ill of her father. "Everybody says he's a murder," Blaise said. "Everybody says so. Where's your mum?"
Hermione turned on her heel and with one glance sent Blaise flying through the air, bouncing along the road, until he dragged to a stop in the dirt. He wasn't seriously hurt. But he never followed her home again. Now when people saw her, "know-it-all" became "freak." A year later she'd touched the dying rose bush outside the local inn. It was winter. The vines and leaves were brown and had been pruned back. Hermione rubbed a leaf between her fingers, sad that it was no longer green and there were no longer any flowers. Immediately, color returned to the vines and they began creeping up the trellis. Heady, full roses blossomed in white, pink and gold. A small crowd gathered around, pointing and gasping. Her father grabbed her shoulders. He steered her away, toward home. But people saw and they knew. Some even called her "witch." Her father explained how her mother was gifted, in a sense, but he did not know how or why. He made her promise never to tell anyone about her own or her mother's abilities. Her mother's death cut Hermione even deeper when she realized that she'd never truly understand what strange force flowed through her body. She could never ask her mother to explain. Other, smaller events happened throughout the next seven years. Jars repaired themselves. Candles burned, but did not drip wax. Books opened to where she left off. Rain poured when she cried. Strong winds knocked over boys who laughed at her.
Thus, Hermione was nearly twenty, living with her father, a struggling merchant, reading books and taking care of his household. No man dared ask to marry her. Some made a joke of it, but never too loudly. A few brave souls spoke to her. Hermione guessed they had been dared to do so. One in particular, Draco, came around more often than the others. He was from an old family, one of the oldest in the village. They were all wealthy and owned most of the buildings in town. Her father asked if Draco sought her hand.
"I don't think so and I don't care. He thinks he's being brave," she said. Hermione marked her place in the book and gazed up at her father. His hair was more salt than pepper now and a worried look weighed down his face. Soon, he'd have to leave again and he always hated to do so. Her mother died in childbirth, leaving him a broken man with a daughter to raise. He wanted her to find someone to love as he had loved her mother.
"Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps, he is sincere," he said.
"As long as I have books, I'll have no need for a husband." She smiled at her jest, but he did not return her grin.
"Someday, when I'm gone, you'll think otherwise," he said. Pressing his lips to her forehead, he bid her an early goodnight. His next bartering trip was set to leave at first light. Hermione tried to return to her book, but couldn't. She lay down, thinking about how quiet the house would become and how she would have to face the village alone. As her eyelids grew heavy and sleep overcame her, the candle snuffed out on its own accord.
Under a heavy, gray sky, she waved goodbye to her father. He promised, as usual, to bring her something back, most likely another book. His wagon wheels squeaked across the rough terrain. He waved once more as he entered the forest and then turned his attention back to his horse and the road before him. A flurry of snowflakes dusted the ground as the day wore on.
Within two weeks, snow piled around the front steps and in the crevices of the roof. Hermione looked out the windows again. Her father should have returned by now. His trip was simply to a nearby town, one deeper in the woods, but not terribly far. She fiddled with the cover of her book. She passed a hand over her cup of tea and it soon steamed again. Something was not right. Hermione felt it deep within her bones; this dread felt colder than the wind outside. Maybe he was lost. Maybe he was stuck in the snow. Maybe… Her mind trailed off and refused to finish that statement. She vowed to give him another day to return and then she would go searching for him.
Thankfully, a horse neighing and the stamping of hooves awoke her the next morning. Throwing on a robe, she dashed to the door and flung it open. Her heart squeezed at the sight before her. Her father's cart was gone. He was slung over his horse, slumped forward to the point of nearly falling off. Ice coated his clothing and his hair. But in his hand, he held a brilliant, bright red rose. Rushing forward, Hermione helped him down and they hobbled inside together. Only when he was seated by the fire did he relinquish the flower. Hastily, Hermione sat it atop her most recent book. "For you," her father said, weakly.
She shushed him. "Yes, it's beautiful. But rest now. You'll feel better in the morning."
But he did not get better. The flower stayed fresh, never wilting, never fading as her own father wasted away in his bed. It was queer how the rose needed no water or sunlight and still maintained his color. Hermione held her father's hand and wished him well. She hoped a spark would pass between them and she could make him better. She felt only resistance to her wishes.
"What happened?" she asked.
Usually, he shook his head weakly and would not answer her. He would raise his hand to touch her cheek and then drift back to sleep. "For you," he would sometimes say. Now though, struggling for breath, he told her the story, in bits and pieces. "Lost, so lost. A castle, large, hidden. Beautiful garden. Plucked you a flower. But cursed. Cursed by a beast. Let me ride away. I knew though-I knew-"His words were cut off by his coughing. "My life for the flower. Cursed. Could not stay there and live. Must return. For you."
His eyes grew heavy; he was slipping away. "Father, father," she said, shaking him. "Where is this place? Where is it?"
"Forest," was all he managed to say.
"The flower," she said. Hermione turned and picked it up. It felt heavy in her hands. "If I take it back, will the curse be lifted? Will you get better?"
"No," he pleaded. "Trapped." He tried to sit up. "You will be trapped."
"But you will live." She guided him back to his pillow. He did not have the strength to stop her. Hermione ran to the nearest neighbor and asked them to check on her father. She told them she was leaving and did not know when she would return. Before going, she bent over, kissing her father on the forehead. His eyes remained closed. Her heart racing, Hermione grasped the rose until the thorns bit into her skin. Without looking back, she left and mounted their horse.
"Come on," she said. She guided him toward the trail and toward the forest. Snow fell thickly around them. "Show me where this castle is. Show me where you found the rose."
AN:So, I've never written an AU completely outside of the HP universe, but this has been something I felt compelled to write. I needed to get this out. Is this kind of AU of interest to people? I would keep them quite similar (I hope) to their book counterparts. I think Remione fits so well into this "Beauty and the Beast" paradigm. Should we soldier on? Get to the castle? (Or is this too weird?)