Warning: This story is rated M for a reason. Story will eventually contain graphic images, violence, torture, implied child molestation, murder, and rape. Read at your own discretion.
Disclaimer: I have no rights to J.K. Rowling's intellectual property. Godric is of my own invention, but other characters, settings, etc. from the Harry Potter series are solely the property of J.K. Rowling.
Format: A line break indicates a change in point of view. Each chapter will be Godric's POV first and then Hermione's. Godric's POV takes place six months prior to Hermione's and moves forward into the present. Hermione will take place during the same moment in time throughout the story.
Summary: A story of transformation from insecurity to insanity through the eyes of a young man, as a mother reminisces about her estranged son over the course of a funeral.
Godric
Chapter 1
I stare into the mirror before me. I'm pale. Not that this is strange, but sometimes I wish I had more color. People wonder how I can find a way to criticize myself. I hear all too frequently about my positive attributes. Honestly, I don't see it. I'm tall, but too tall in my opinion. I would be thankful to lose two or three inches. I'm thin, a skeleton really. I guess you can see the outline of some muscle tone on my chest and stomach, but does that really imply physical strength, or am I just drastically lacking in body fat? Truly, I think I missed a dose of testosterone during puberty because my chest and stomach are almost completely hairless.
At least I have my face. I don't really grow facial hair, but I don't think it would suit me if I did. I watch as I trace one of my abnormally long fingers over my jaw line. I look older than fifteen in my face; I'm reminded constantly by the girls at school. I really can't complain about my hair. The black waves never disobey, whether I want to look professional or like I just got out of bed. Tonight, I've chosen the former. It's an important night.
I remember the real reason I am standing here in front of this mirror scrutinizing every detail of my physique. I really don't look anything like him. Why am I scanning my features so intently? Why am I trying so hard to find a resemblance?
I guess I don't want it to be true, deep down…however deep that may be. The other option is hard to face. But look at me! It must be true. Yet, I don't want my entire life to be a lie. I don't want to admit that the only person I can trust is the man who I have been taught all my life to fear and despise.
I scan my body again. No, not a single freckle. My hair is jet black; as far from red as can be. My eyes are my mother's, a plain brown. At least that rules out adoption. The facial structure is entirely wrong and inconsistent with those of my younger siblings. The only thing I share is the last name. Weasley.
Quite frankly, the name never seemed to fit. Ask anyone at school. The name has caused me just as much trouble as the man in my life who bares it. I wanted to blend in at Hogwarts. I spent my childhood sticking out from my family. They must know the truth. Why else would they treat me like I'm not truly a Weasley? But it really isn't everyone. My mother, thank Merlin for my mother. Without her, I fear I would be a different person.
But am I still the same person I was before I came back from Christmas break? Sure, I've always felt out of place; the stares when my name was called for the Sorting five years ago come back to me, blinding the mirror image in front of me as the memory rushes forward. My appearance stunned them of course. I look like no Weasley ever before me. The look of confusion on everyone's face when I was sorted into Slytherin may never leave my subconscious. Always sitting in the back of my mind, reminding me like a little alarm I can never silence, screaming, "You're different…You're different." But could the meeting have changed my perspective?
I shake my head. I don't like to think about it. But my mind drifts to the offer. Perhaps it can be silenced, perhaps He can make it go away. I've been offered a mask, a removal of my name, a chance to become a nobody. To become faceless, nameless, it's all I've wanted for as long as I can remember.
My name. I hear it being called from down stairs. Dinner time, Godric. My name. Oh, the irony. Did they realize the irony in it? How could it not be intentional? Was it chosen as a talisman to ward off His evil? Or was it more of a metaphorical middle finger to the true blood running through my veins?
I take a deep breath, start to button up my white cotton shirt. I move slowly, carefully sliding each button into place. I'm stalling. I almost forget to take note of the lack of pushing and shoving outside my door. My younger brother and sister are not here to race each other down the stairs to dinner. They are with my grandmother and grandfather. One of the reasons why I chose this night. They didn't need to hear the truth; they're too young to understand. I breathe again. It's amazing the amount of stress that can be released in a single exhale. I pretend the condensation forming on the mirror is the last of my hesitation. It is time to stop stalling. It is time for confrontation.
Godric was such a lovely child. So quiet, so well-behaved. He learned so quickly. I remember the first time he used magic. He was three years, two months, and 25 days. All of us were in the backyard. Ron, Harry, Ginny, they all sat enjoying the first beautiful sun of the spring. I sat with my husband, near the shade, with sleepy eyes. I always had a problem with Godric's silence. It had a tendency to worry me more than the occasional crashes and bangs that occurred with Rose and Hugo later on. He was always disappearing. The previous night I had spent hours trying to find him. I had gone in to check that he was fast asleep to find the blankets without their usual mound of breathing cotton. I panicked and began ripping every piece of the house apart in search of my little boy.
It was Harry who had found him. Godric sat below the oak tree outside in the full moon light. The way his pale skin shone in the night was so eerie. For a moment, I wasn't just frightened for him, but of him. But then his little voice rang out over the quiet night. Hi, Mommy. It was so faint, so innocent. I immediately rushed forward to my little boy, sat down beside him and held him close. He wrapped his little arms around me, but made no inclination to be brought inside. So we sat there and talked of what stars were made, of what was for lunch tomorrow, of why he wasn't allowed to go past the elm tree across the yard.
Godric was sitting again at the base of that great oak on that warm, spring day. I was only half aware of what he was doing. I recall a stick in his hand, muttering incoherent words and waving it around like 'Mommy and Daddy and Uncle Harry do.' My eyes had started to drift shut. Those rays were so soothing. But then a shake quickly jolted me out of my respite.
"Hermione! Look!" Ginny was shaking me, pointing up in the tree where my three-year old son was now sitting twenty feet above the ground. He was holding a squirrel, stroking its fur as it struggled to free itself from the tiny fingers.
"Mommy! Look what Godic found!" His little giggle and absence of r's made him seem so much younger, so adorable, but a cry soon rang out as the squirrel decided it had had enough of struggling and clamped its tiny teeth into my baby's flesh. The squirrel scurried forward across the branch Godric was straddling and jumped to a neighboring tree. A comic look of shock and disappointment was upon my son's face at the betrayal and loss of his new furry friend. He turned down to me, stretched out his arms, and began to cry.
I felt so much love for him in that moment. Such a warm feeling of motherly pride as my baby cried for me. He used magic for the first time; he wanted to be with the squirrel and he made it happen. But now he needed me. I vowed I would always be there to protect him. But haven't I failed?
I am snapped back to reality as I realize Harry is done talking. Ginny rises and hugs her husband as he walks back to his seat beside me. Both of their faces are stained with the tears of the last few days, and it is now Ginny's turn to go up and say a few words. I look up at the clear blue sky, the branches of the old oak tree swinging in the breeze. Little leaves causing dancing shadows in a mix of light and dark upon the faces of everyone present. I can not help but think it is a beautiful day for a funeral.