September 1979

Part I

Emily Granger's first contractions had begun at about five that morning, greatly irritating her husband, Alan, at least at first. Obviously, once the reason for her early rising sunk into his half-awake mind, he was able to get himself out of bed.

After a few minutes, they arrived at the hospital, and after Emily was taken to be looked at by a gynecologist, Alan was able to find a cup of coffee to keep him awake, though as he sipped at a cup of the hospital cafeteria's rather weak coffee, he realized that his excitement was doing the job as well—if not better—than the caffeine. Today looked like the day that his child would be born. The end of a pregnancy with its ups and downs, and the beginning of a life with a little baby. Surely it was a dream. He pinched himself to make sure it wasn't. There was pain in his cheek, ruling out the dream possibility, and Alan, grinning like the Cheshire cat, ran back up to the floor where his wife was.

Emily's labor was officially clocked as starting at 8:15, and went on for another two hours.

"Come on, Mrs. Granger, I see the head," the doctor encouraged, "just a couple more pushes." Emily growled half in anger, half in pain by way of response. Alan tried his best to remain calm and help her through the experience.

Then, finally,

"Congratulations, Mrs. and Mr. Granger, you have a beautiful and healthy little girl." Alan gave a little nervous giggle, while Emily, still breathing hard looked like she didn't quite believe it had all happened, and relatively quickly at that. But when their baby gave her first cry, there was no doubt that it was quite real. Emily began to cry, while Alan, a most painful lump in his throat, didn't trust himself to speak. The doctor handed him his daughter a few moments later, after a quick bath and putting her into a blanket.

"She's beautiful," Alan said his voice husky and cracking with emotion. He handed Emily the baby.

After some hemming and hawing over the name, it was officially recorded that Hermione Jane Granger was born 10:50 am, September 19, 1979.

There were not many other family members present at the birth of Hermione besides her parents. Alan's mother, Marie had made it up from France, bringing Audrey, Alan's sister with her. Emily's brother Patrick and his wife Fiona had managed to show up as well. The four relatives waited patiently for news. Finally, Alan came out, tired but exhilarated.

"It's a girl," he said to the others, beaming, "she and her mother are resting now. I'll come and get you when they're ready for visitors." Alan finally came back a good half hour later and beckoned his family in. He led them over to the bed where Emily was cuddling her new child. Both were awake, but it looked like Hermione would probably fall back asleep pretty quickly. Hermione was passed between the arms of Marie, Audrey and Fiona, who marveled at the precious little thing, cooing and whispering loving nothings to Hermione.

"That's one beautiful baby," Audrey said, coming up beside Alan, "you must be proud. I'm certainly proud of all three of you."

"Thanks, Audrey," Alan replied.

"She's an angel," Marie cooed, "a grandmother couldn't ask for a better grandchild."

"She's a jewel," Fiona agreed, tenderly kissing her niece, "what's her name again?"

"Hermione Jane," Alan replied.

"I love you, Hermione," Fiona said.

"Isn't she perfect?" Emily asked no one in particular, beaming at her family. Everyone nodded except for Patrick.

"I don't like that kid," Patrick announced, "there's something fishy about her. I don't think she's a natural child." Everyone looked shocked and scandalized. Emily appeared hurt, and on the verge of tears. Alan looked at Patrick with a calculating expression, trying to determine why he would have said something so heartless. Biting back a retort, he went over to join his sister and his mother in comforting his wife. Fiona spoke up.

"That's your niece you are talking about, Pat," she said, though her voice was high-pitched with terror at confronting him, "couldn't you have said something a little nicer?"

"I don't like that kid," Patrick repeated, "there is unquestionably something wrong with her. Come, we will leave them. I suppose if they want to bestow their love on an undeserving child that is their business. Come, Fiona!"

"But Pat…"

"I said, come!"

"But…"

"Now!!" Fiona waited until Patrick's back was turned, gave Emily an apologetic look and kissed her on the forehead, moving a few strands of still-sweaty hair out of Emily's eyes and left.

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Part II

Emily busied herself with the final touches of decoration. It was her beloved daughter's fifth birthday party; a landmark in her young life, and as she hung the last bit of streamer on the sign, Emily reckoned that she must be at least as excited about this day as her little girl would be. Stepping down off the chair she had been using as a stool, she admired her handiwork, wishing that Alan had put a bit more effort into the party, but she had also understood that he needed to keep well-rested for work, while she had been given time off to be a stay-at-home mother until Hermione went off to school. Now, if only that blasted sun would rise in the sky, Emily could go wake up her little sweetheart and begin celebrating.

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"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HERMIONE!" Chorused Emily and Fiona later, as Hermione came downstairs in the arms of her equally happy father. Hermione gave a delighted squeal and wriggled free of Alan's arms and ran up to her mother, who hugged her tightly and kissed her forehead, followed by her being embraced by her aunt Fiona.

"Presents? Got presents?" Hermione eagerly asked after Fiona had let her go.

"Yes," Emily said, chuckling at her daughter's energy, "we have presents for you to unwrap, but let's get some breakfast in you first." Hermione tried to comply, and had managed half a bowl of cereal before her excitement got the better of her, and she refused to—or simply couldn't—eat another bite. She began bouncing in her chair a bit, causing her father to laugh.

"I think we've got enough breakfast in you, love, so do you want to open your presents now?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!" Hermione squealed, positively jumping in her seat now. Alan laughed even harder, as did Fiona. Emily smiled nervously, and lifted Hermione down from her chair before she could accidentally hurt herself.

It was always a blast to watch Hermione open her presents. It was like there was no gift that Hermione would dislike, almost as though she understood that what mattered was more the gesture than the gifts themselves, suggesting a maturity way beyond her years, but from the start, her parents and extended family had noticed the love that Hermione had for books, and how her reaction to receiving books was even more noticeable than anything else, so many of her presents, were, naturally, books, and her parents had been shocked at how Hermione was showing sings of being able to read from very early age.

"Here you go, sweetheart," Aunt Fiona said, giving Hermione another package, "this is for you from your uncle and me." Hermione smiled at her aunt, who smiled back. She then smiled, a little less happily, at her uncle, who sneered at her and averted his gaze. For a moment, Hermione looked confused and hurt, but then turned her attention back to the gift. She had gotten less than a third of the wrapping undone when she could see the pages, and smell the fresh printing. She inhaled deeply, loving the smell of new books, and her previous excitement returned, however, this time, something odd happened. She was reaching to finish tearing off the wrapping paper, but in her excitement, her hands began shaking, and yet, it seemed that, as she moved closer to unwrap the book despite her shaking hands, that her hands were not needed, and the book unwrapped itself. Odd as it was, when Hermione saw the title, 'Sherlock Holmes for kids' she burst into squeals of delight and looked at her aunt.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you! I love it, Aunt Fina!" Fiona chuckled, loving how Hermione could not yet wrap her tongue around her name.

"You're welcome, Hermione, come here," Fiona replied. Hermione obeyed, and Fiona lifted her into her lap and cuddled her, kissing her head numerous times. "I love you so much my Mione," Aunt Fiona said quietly, "happy birthday."

"I love you, too, Aunt Fina," Hermione said, much louder, but earnestly. Patrick, who had attended the party like a ghost, present, but never taking any part in the celebrations, or even seem to acknowledge the others' feelings, finally spoke.

"I don't," he stated.

"Excuse me?" Fiona said, trying to confront him, but the telltale squeak in her voice that meant she was terrified was present.

"I don't love the child. I said it from the moment she was born that there was something wrong with her, and here is the proof. Tell me, is this the first time something like this has happened?"

It wasn't. Alan knew that for a fact, but he would not say it to Patrick. There was something in his tone that made all the hairs on Alan's body, including his immaculate moustache, stand up. But it had happened before. Hermione had been reading in the library on the second floor of the house a few months back, engrossed in a book that Emily had felt way too mature for Hermione, who was still four at the time. Emily had replaced the book on the topmost shelves where even the stepladder they had for high shelves couldn't reach, and you could only get books from those shelves by a combination of the stepladder and an extension tool that Alan had found at the local hardware store that had a gripper perfect for hugging a book's form. When Alan had checked in on Hermione, he found her reading the very same book. Worried, he checked on where he kept the stepladder and extension arm, and neither was where they shouldn't be, and it was plain that she had not moved them. Seeing the tear tracks that suggested Hermione had thrown a private tantrum, he decided to leaver her be, but he had been very worried.

He had been worried tonight too, but what scared him was not the thought of the supernatural powers she seemed to have, but more the fact that no one knew what it was that caused her to have these powers. Alan feared that it might be some new condition, and he didn't like that, especially if years later, children showing these powers would be diagnosed as having 'Granger's Syndrome'. And yet, despite his fears about her powers, Alan still loved Hermione with all his heart, and stood by her through it all. Apparently, Patrick thought differently. When he finally spoke again, his voice was like ice.

"Go to your room, child. Go and do not come out for the rest of the day. Do you want to burden your parents with your unwanted attentions? I hope you show more gratitude in the future than you have displayed tonight, young lady! Your parents have been overly loving to scum like yourself. You are not worthy of their love! Go to your room."

"I hardly think you're in any position to order my child around," Emily said angrily. Patrick did not appear to hear her.

"You are scum, child. Go to your room!" He all but screamed at Hermione. Hermione took off running, her head bent as far as it could go, trying to hide her tears, though her sobs were unmistakable as she ran as fast as she could.

"You are not my brother, asshole!" Emily said gruffly as she fought her own tears, taking off after Hermione. Alan was shocked by Emily's strong wording. As long as he had known her, she was not one to swear, nor had he ever seen such a murderous stare on her face before, suggesting that she would have liked to scream her words to him as she strangled him. To himself, Alan admitted that the thought of strangling Patrick was quite appealing. Fiona silently slipped into the kitchen, a place Patrick never bothered to enter. At their house, a kitchen was a woman's domain, so she felt safe to cry there undisturbed. This left Alan alone with his brother-in-law, a man he disliked with immeasurable intensity.

"Thank God they are gone," Patrick said casually, lazily gesturing to where Emily and Fiona had sat, "now we can talk as men." Alan seriously doubted he wanted to talk 'as men' with his despicable brother-in-law, but he remained silent. "Now," Patrick said, as though he were discussing a mere business proposal, "about that child of yours. I don't know why you and your wife never listened to me, and frankly, I don't care. I do want to offer you some advice, however. I suggest that you beat this unnatural power out of her. If the devil is inhabiting her body, a good belting session would cure that. I'd be more than happy to loan you a belt I have, which is leather and nicely thick. What do you say?"

"Never," Alan said through gritted teeth, "I will never, ever put an unwanted finger on my angel." Patrick snorted.

"An angel, my angel," he said mockingly, "more like the Devil's child, if you ask me. In fact, I seriously doubt that your wife ever actually carried that worthless being…"

Stay calm; stay stoic Alan chanted to himself as Patrick continued to insult his daughter.

"…Must have been inhabiting her body at the time. If you like I can call a good friend of mine who is a respected exorcist, get the devil out of both their bodies. Or, you could find a foster home for her. Or better yet, turn her outside in the winter, naked, and never take her back …"

"GET OUT!!"

"Or at the very least, just ignore everything she says and starve her…what?"

"Get…the…fuck…out…of…my house! Emily's right, you are no brother of mine, and you are most certainly not welcome here!! Get out, you git, g'wan! Go! Out! Out! I've known you since we were in high school together, you bully, and I will not have a bully helping me raise Hermione. Get out and never come back, you piece of shite!!"

"My pleasure," Patrick said coldly, "since you have no interest in me helping you get rid of a dangerous demon. Fiona, come!"

"No." Fiona said, coming from the kitchen, her eyes still puffy and red, tear tracks down her cheeks obvious. Her voice was steadier than Alan had ever heard it when she confronted Patrick. "I will not come with you, you abusive ass. I will stay here with my family. May you rot on your own, you pathetic loser." Patrick made no reply but strode forward to where Fiona stood resolutely beside Alan and socked one at her forehead. Caught unawares and somewhere in-between consciousness and unconsciousness, she fell. Alan caught her, but with a sneer, Patrick had grabbed his half-conscious wife from Alan's arms and forced her bodily out the door.

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Emily stood outside Hermione's shut door for a few minutes listening to her daughter's heartbreaking sobs. It was clear from her tears that Hermione's hurt went beyond mere sadness and embarrassment at Patrick's insults, and it was all Emily could do to keep from crying herself. After a few more minutes of listening, she knocked softly, and without waiting for an answer, entered. Seeing Hermione cuddled up to her pillow and to her favorite stuffed dog at the same time, Emily did start to cry, and picked up Hermione and hugged her with all her might and love.

"Stop, mommy," Hermione said achingly forcefully, "you don't love me, so don't play pretend that you do."

"I love you with all my heart, Hermione, don't ever think that I don't." Hermione sobbed harder. "I don't ever want you to feel alone or unloved, because whatever he said, you are not a bad person, unlovable or unworthy of my attention or your father's attention, because you are a wonderful little girl, Hermione, and I'm proud to be your mother. We all have faults, and if that idiot can't see it, it is his loss. Do you understand me?"

"Why doesn't he like me, mommy?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. He will not be welcome here any more."

When Alan came back up, Hermione and Emily were still cuddling. Hermione had fallen asleep, tears still clinging to her eyelashes, while Emily tried to sing her lullabies, even though she was still crying. Alan sat down on the bed with them and hugged them both, kissing first his daughter and then his wife.

"I'm so sorry, my Mione," Emily said, addressing her with Fiona's nickname, "that you didn't have a happy birthday." She lay Hermione down and changed her into pajamas and tucked her in, never breaking eye contact, and brushed the remaining tears away. She looked at Alan.

"I want to spend the night with her; remind her that she is loved."

"I'll leave you two alone, then, shall I?"

"No, Alan, I want you to be here too."

"Alright, but I don't think it would be appropriate for me to be in the same bed with you two."

"Perhaps not," Emily said, giggling for the first time that night, "but we can make you a pallet on the floor."

"Deal," Alan said.

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Part III

When Patrick got home that night he was in a state. It was frightening to see him so angry, and Fiona reckoned she never did see him quite as angry as he did now. Her fright, however, didn't seem to be able to counteract her anger at him. He was a randy fucker, selfish and heartless, and no other words could describe him…at least that she could think of at that moment. Perhaps tomorrow, she would know what to say…and it would be strong.

"Tell me, dear wife, why you stood up for, and worse, cuddled, that piece of shit born of the person I once thought related to me. ANSWER ME, idiot!" His fist against her face hurt like the dickens, but the physical pain he could inflict would never amount to the emotional pain he had caused her, and would only scratch the emotional pain he had caused Emily and Alan, who were the ones she considered her rightful brother and sister, having been an only child.

"I said, answer me!" Patrick roared, slapping her again. This time, he hit her in the lungs, knocking the wind out of her. "Oh, so you can't answer me," Patrick said, breathing as though he had run a marathon, "well I don't care what kind of state you are in, until you fucking answer me!! Why did you fucking do it??! Speak the fuck up!!" He hit her again and again. Finally, she found her voice.

"I will tell you nothing," she spat, "you fucking wanker!" That was the breaking point for Patrick. He shoved her bodily against the wall, and ripped her pants and underwear from her, not caring if he hurt her in the process, and began to rape her as well as hit her. Finally, as he hit her square in the nose, breaking it, she fainted as blood spurted in rivers from her nose. Disgusted with her weakness, Patrick withdrew himself from her, and threw her on the floor and kicked her again and again. His foot made contact beside her ear and as blood flowed from that injury as well, he felt he had finally made his point. Nevertheless, he had to make absolutely certain.

"You are never to see that child again." He stated in a deadly whisper, bent down beside his unconscious wife's bloodied ear.

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Patrick had not paid much attention to how much noise he had been making, however, and had not thought to close his curtains, and to his misfortune, a young neighbor, Christophe Laney, a twenty-something student at the London Music School, who had moved into the neighborhood during the final half of his senior year, and had heard the ruckus caused by his known less-than-friendly neighbor, and as he had been outside doing yard work, decided to investigate, and had seen through the windows the event taking place inside, and had quickly and quietly phoned the police and the ambulance.

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"Police! Open up!"

"Go away, fuckers!"

"Open up!"

"I'm armed, you wankers, I warn you, I'm fucking armed!" The police didn't wait around any more, and kicked the door down. Patrick fired off a couple shots, which was all he had left, and wounded one of the policemen, but the other two quickly subdued Patrick and handcuffed him, leading him away. After the danger was removed, the medics stormed the building and attended to the wounded policeman and quickly loaded Fiona onto a stretcher and got her into the ambulance and sped towards the nearest hospital.

By the time Fiona was wheeled into the emergency room, she was only just clinging to life. She could hear the busy sound of the many doctors and nurses barking orders and instructions at each other, but she didn't even open her eyes. At times, the voices of the doctors became more distant and white began to replace the black of her closed eyes, and she could swear she heard another voice, gently calling her name.

"Fiona? Fiona…" the voice sounded a lot like her mother's voice, and she found it very comfortable, and tried to relax and let her mother's calls soothe her, but every time her muscles tried to relax, pain shot through her almost past the point of endurance.

"Fiona? Fiona, can you hear me?" someone was still calling her, but the voice was quite different. It was much lower and more masculine, and yet the smoky quality suggested someone who did smoke, and that ruled out her father. The second man's voice grew in intensity, and finally, she opened her eyes. Soft white lights shone down on her from the ceiling—she was obviously lying down—and many faces, at least half a dozen doctors and nurses looking down at her. One mumbled something about blood loss, another, some sort of damage—she couldn't make out the specifics. Fighting her screaming muscles, she struggled to a more dignified position, despite the hand of one of the nurses trying to get her to lie back down.

"Where is…my…Mione?" Fiona asked before slumping down into the coma from which she was never to wake. Five hours later, a hemorrhage took her life.

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Part IV

After the day of Patrick's arrest and the subsequent death of his wife, many things happened in the lives of Patrick's estranged sister and her family; too many, perhaps, to be recalled here, so I will try to be succinct in recalling what is needed for the story.

Patrick was tried by the Superior Court of London, and found guilty of all charges pressed against him, and for homicidal abuse, sentenced to life in prison. No one, not even his mother, the only one besides his sister, to survive him, bothered posting bail. Mrs. Gleason said, through her sobs, that she had never been more ashamed of her son, and agreed with Emily that he could no longer be called part of the family.

The funeral for Fiona had been a most distressing affair for Hermione. She grieved as only a five year old who realized that someone that they loved so deeply had died. She wriggled free of her mother's embrace and had jumped into Fiona's coffin, lying on top of her, sobbing so miserably that no one, not even the slightly scandalized-looking priest made any effort to restrain her. In his eulogy, old Mr. MacKinnon, Fiona's father, indicated that his daughter was as loved as she was loving, citing Hermione's grief as a perfect example.

"She died by the arms of a man who was unworthy of the love my daughter gave him. She died because our tolerance of domestic violence is way too high. I don't want to be the one saying goodbye to my daughter; she should be saying goodbye to me. My time on earth is almost done, but hers had barely started." He concluded. Alan, Emily and Hermione had all given Mr. MacKinnon hugs and made their own final farewells to the one who had been horribly abused but still remained as pure of heart and loving as few people were.

Patrick had died in prison when Hermione had entered her third year at the school she went to, Hogwarts. For her mother, Patrick's funeral had been one of the toughest events she had ever been to. She willingly said goodbye to the man who had caused her beloved daughter and the rest of her family so much pain, but her memories of Patrick as a big brother when she was young could not have been more of a contrast. She wept bitter tears that day, as she fought not only her feelings for her late brother, but her fears for her beloved daughter who was away from her at school while in danger of a man called Sirius Black.

Many years later, at the funeral of her parents, Hermione wondered if the world had closed up around her. She had lost so much, she realized, as she gazed down on the two people in her life who had given her so much. They had given her so much unconditional love, even after she had become a witch, and had been the only ones who could call her 'my Mione' after Hermione decided, in the wake of Aunt Fiona's death, that only those who she loved could call her 'Mione' or 'my Mione'. Looking down at her parents, she felt a loneliness so intense cloud her that it almost seemed to strangle her.

"I love you both so much," she said through her tears. What else could she say? What else did she need to say?

"Hey, Mione, how are you doing?" Her husband, Harry Potter asked her.

"Please, don't stop calling me that," Hermione said.

"Why?"

"So I can remember that…that they loved me; that I am loved." Harry kissed her deeply.

"They always loved you, Mione, and so do I. I love you Hermione, and I will for all time. So will your parents and your aunt. You will always be their Mione."

The End