Annabeth Williams had always wanted to be a primary school teacher, she enjoyed children and had absolutely adored Mrs. Smith her primary school teacher. She enjoyed the thought that she could sit and dictate when children took naps; at 8 that had seemed like the most important job then at 11 she had gotten her letter.
Magical Britain sounded amazing, and Diagon Alley bore witness to that wonder. When Anna had stepped into wizarding Britain (through a wall at an old pub that no one could see) she saw golden flyers, objects whizzing , colorful signs that shouted their welcome when she walked past and the world had seemed wonderful. Magical Britain had been loud and bright with little children scurrying around in flowing outfits that didn't dirty at hems while she stood drab and grey and the sound of bombs reverberating in her skull.
That was seventeen years ago.
There were no wizarding primary schools she later learned but by then she wanted to be a healer, then an auror, then a professional quidditch player even though she didn't have the skills. She wanted to fly up high and hear the thundering crowds scream her name in adoration; she wanted their cheers to replace the sound of bombs that she dreamt of. As she learnt and grew, that magical Britain wasn't quite as magical for some. That everyone knew everyone and if you didn't have an easily identifiable last name you meant nothing. " , I've never heard of another Williams" some would say, their noses wrinkling up in thinly veiled disgust "muggleborn?"
Being a teacher in the muggle world had been a dream, being a governess to rich pureblood children was more of a livelihood.
Annabeth wasn't impressed by the Potter Manor, she had seen bigger and better houses. If anything that did, was Euphemia Potter's warm smile as she invited Annabeth in.
"Just one hellion" Euphemia later said, over tea "my daughter is an angel except somehow the combination brings out the worst in both"
As if almost in agreement a loud thump echoed through the house, Annabeth looked in surprise as Euphemia siped on unaware, another loud bang "maa" She could see that her work cut out when a boy of 6 barged in, his hair bright blue and smoking "look at what Hermione did to me" he wailed. There was a girl right behind him, her hair almost cracking with static holding what appeared to be a dripping book "I will do much worse James if you don't fix this"
Euphemia waved her wand in exasperation fixing them both "What have I told you about pranks James?" The boy was still grinning, looking at his reflection attempting to flatten his messy hair. The girl on the other hand was sniffing the book "It still smells weird" she complained.
"And no more unsupervised magic" she scolded the girl, Annabeth resisted the urge to point out that young children had no control over their accidental magic, but she resisted. Her career had taught her well enough that rich women seldom liked being corrected, the young girl looked chastised however "I know mother" she said "James is just the worst"
Annabeth settled into life with the Potters' easily enough. She probably didn't contemplate that she would end up living there for another five years, going from nanny to long-suffering governess and in later years a dear friend to the family.
For the longest time she believed that they were twins, their ages seemed similar enough and even though the children had different coloring, something about their mannerisms, the similar curve of their smiles.
Annabeth had a full time job with James, the child with messy hair who could never stay still. James was small for his age and managed to fit in the most unlikeliest of places. Once after setting off a chain of dungbombs managed to apparate into the attic crawl space only to scream when he has discovered spiders up there. James would have been a handful as a muggle child, with screams and his love for climbing on top of things. When Potter manor with it's chandeliers and huge banisters seemed built for a child like him, but unfortunately James Potter was a magical child. This meant unsupervised broom rides where he managed to pour syrup over everything, or the day that he turned their hairs blue. The endless supply of frogspawn in his pocket, nose biting teacups, screaming sheets and his shins forever bruised searched out new and annoying ways to interrupt his sister's reading.
Hermione Potter on the other hand was a quiet child, she stayed indoors and occasionally wandered outside with giant tomes that seemed impossible for a 7 year old to carry, as she grew older so did the volume of her books. She did not like Anna following her and the tracking spells slid off her cloths the second she stepped outside the house. But occasionally Anna would catch her, hauling giant books and climbing up trees with ease.
She had no talent of knitting and refused to sit still to paint. She looked bored and annoyed, reluctantly sat for her piano lessons when Fleamont commented on how much he loved his mother playing the piano. "Your grandmother was a proficient player" he said "she would have loved to teach you" So Hermione with long suffering sighs quite dramatically huffed and puffed her way through the piano lessons. Twice a week for an hour, she would press the keys and growl at her instructor while James managed to break the strings off his magical violin and grin. But she slowly progressed unlike James who drove his instructor away. She had no natural talent for it, it did not come easily to her as reading and understanding, it did not bend to her will like magic did. Frustratingly slow she learned to play simple pieces to her mother and father who stood in rapture and whispered "brilliant" to each other. By eleven she would sit dutifully, her fingers moving along the keys with ease, it would be years later that she found joy in her talents. For now there were tunes that cost a great deal of concentration to enjoy the music that she produced.
Annabeth had her hand in raising plenty of pureblood children, self-important lot who prided their children and guarded their family name like dragons and gold. There was the old families who swore on their blood and reluctantly led Annabeth into their houses. Their houses that twisted and turned with ornate carving and "painting from the seventeenth century" all maintained by magic and aging house elves, there was money and valuables and inbreeding, like the Crabbes that produced lumbering mean spirited sons. But there were Prewetts too, with their twins that managed more trouble than James, all smiles and sparkling blue eyes. Older houses and kinder people who welcomed Annabeth in just as easily, but blood was blood she saw. And all for the light and liberal side still had lines that could be traced back centuries, so perhaps they didn't agree with Grindelwald and his plans of killing muggles and muggleborns but didn't quite welcome their sons' bringing in wives whose names they couldn't recognize.
Like most pureblood children the Potters' grew in relative isolation, Fleamont a was too old to work usually puttered away in his lab with new and impractical inventions. Annabeth knew enough that the tiny colorful bottle of Sleekzy was 's invention, and that the new money meant that Fleamont and Euphemia were invited to a lot of ministry and private functions. Anna usually took the time to travel back to her own house and relax and leave Euphemia to try and coax James into dress robes and pry books away from Hermione's surprisingly strong fingers.
It never occurred to her that James who whined about the robes was more eager to go than quietly sulking Hermione.
"I will go with Annabeth instead" the eleven (almost twelve) year old loudly proclaimed, seemingly hiding behind her voluminous skirt.
"No Hermione that's not an option"
"But I don't want to" "They don't like me there"
It was strange to think of Hermione as a child, she always had her hair in a severe bun that always reminded Annabeth a little too much of Irma Crabbe. She was the sort of child that insisted on proper grammar and a little too much of spell theory that even her seven years of Hogwarts' education didn't prepare her with. But this was a girl, only 11, her hair curly and in disarray, her mouth too big for her face "You know they tease me mother, Lynette Rosier is a horrid girl" she stamped her leg at the name and moved further away from her mother "I would rather die than go to her party"
Annabeth resisted her urge to laugh. Hermione was strange one, unlike any child she ever saw. Her magic a little too controlled to be accidental without a wand, a strange kind that made tulips and lilies bloom all year around in their garden, the kind of magic that slid your eyes away from trees when she was hiding, her eyes that always seemed to hold secrets. But here she was, her big brown eyes filled with tears as she hid behind Annabeth "You can't make me go mother"
Finally Euphemia had to resort to the same freezing charm she used on James to force the dress robes on her.
"You need to know them better Hermione" "When you go to Hogwarts they will your friends"
Hermione didn't mask the horror that passed through her face.
Verse ii
Hermione was almost six months to her twelfth birthday when she got her Hogwarts letter. The same eggshell parchment with green ink and the red wax seal that every wizarding child had dreamed of getting. The owl had dropped off both the letters at the same time, a fact that Hermione secretly hated. But James set off firecrackers indoors threatening to burn her books that she had to chase him around the house instead of celebrating.
It was a happy day nonetheless, Euphemia made every dish that the siblings had ever mentioned liking. Much later, bellies aching she climbed the tree house with James, who sneaked in another plate of fudges.
"You are going to blow up like Gertude" Hermione commented climbing up the treehouse. James chose to smile with his teeth colored chocolate brown instead "you think we will be in the same house"
Hermione didn't want to think much about that.
"Well mother and father were" She paused, she had actually forgotten her mother had been Slytherin, her real mother. Dorea Black whose smiles stood vague in her memory, guilt clawed up her throat suddenly. She had forgotten that she was orphan, she had a family before.
She could feel James' hands around her "Hermione, its' ok, it's going to be okay" She could feel it her head, she buried her head against her brothers bony shoulders. His thin frame was an anchor "how could i forget them?"
"Because it was so long ago" it was matter of fact, she wanted to rage and scream. How many people had she already forgotten, the familiar grey of her mother's eyes, her father's smile, Charles when he came back from school and gave her sherbet candy that made her float. She wondered if they were real, if it was her mind conjuring comforting images. For now she held James, who sat still and uncomplaining and she breathed in remembering that he was real, she was real and alive and had a family.
Fleamont potter had wondered how to deal with this when the time came. She took both his children to get their wands. James had mahogony, 11inches, pheonix feather like his father "Pliable", Hermione on the other hand got 10 3/4, vine wood, Dragon heartstring "Stubborn" Olivander said "just like your fathers", and for a second with her wide eyes, Hermione reminded him of Charles so much that his heart ached.
for when Hermione came into Candid court she was not yet four, after a heavy bout of magical influenza the little girl came pale and thin, weary and an orphan. But she healed, like all little children, grew with James, like James. There were days they would run around the house, screaming and chasing each other, and other days in the dining room that their spoons would move in unison almost like they were mimicking each other.
Hermione and James were siblings, they fought, annoyed each other yet spend hours in their tree-house whispering and giggling with secrets that only they could share. And on days that he watched them laugh and grew, he did not have the same freedom of growing or moving on.
Fleamont was nineteen when Charles was born, all pink and squalling and so small that he was afraid he would drop the baby. And he was sixty when he had to bury his brother, along with his wife and underage son. Charles jr was only fifteen, he had only started to see the world. And on the days that his bones ached, he would see a flash of dark hair and think "Charles" and on days when James smiled a certain way, when he raced his broom, when he slid down the banister it was "Charles Charles Charles" and he would see Hermione "papa" she would say hoisting up a tome on spell theory "what does this word mean?"
"Papa" she would exclaim running up to him everytime he brought her a book she liked, her tiny fingers and soft hands. On days she would curl up on the couch snuggling near Euphemia "ma I am sleepy" that at first she would demand kisses for bruised shins and later wrinkle her nose "there is no magic in kisses" Lots of days he felt like a thief who had stolen away Charles' child and raised her as his own.
It felt strange the day he took the children down the vaults. He purchased customized pouches and told them all about money management even when James attempted to buy a golden cauldron soon after. But most importantly he took Hermione down to the other Potter vault, she stood there in silence "this was your parents"
Charles and Dorea never left a will, the probably didn't forsee that their four year old would be the only one left in the family. The nearsightedness was ultimately what gave her custody to Fleamont much easier. Walburga would have fought, perhaps even Cassiopeia not because they had a genuine interest in raising Hermione right. Only to prove their point, but no one had an interest in raising a Potter.
There was plenty gold in the vault of course, other than the inherited wealth Charles' earned enough as an auror and Dorea brought in her own family wealth. But Hermione's eyes were drawn to the chest, the family armorie, spellbooks and most importantly the pictures. There was one, magically preserved Charles and Dorea stood proud with their son and in Dorea's arms was Hermione, looking outside the frame and smiling as her mother shifted her. It seemed almost like a cruel mimicry, the stray strand of black hair that fell from her mother's bun. The crow's feet when her father smile, the second of irritation that passed through her brother's face, she felt like a voyeur, like an outside looking it. She quietly pocketed the photo, determined that if nothing else, she would preserve them in her memory. Her family deserved that.