Chapter 3: The Epiphany, the Angel, and the Devil
A/N Thanks to all the readers who are giving this story a chance and followed/favorited. It really means a lot. Special thanks to all of you who haven't given up on this story despite the woeful, pitiful attempts of consistent updates. Any who, this chapter is officially re-edited. I'm not doing huge edits. It's more of a fixing POV and grammar things kind of edit.
Hermione's POV
Beads of sweat trailed down the contours of her face, her damp t-shirt clinging to her back after hours of tending to her mother's prestigious rose beds. Smiling as she watched the sun bring life to the sky, she straightened and wiped the sweat off her forehead. The house was spotless, breakfast was made, the gardens left nothing to be desired, AND only minimal blood had been spilled. Despite the fact that the she was sure that the rose beds still hated her, they had at least gradually taken mercy on her poor soul over the years. The garden was just as untamable as her hair and it was truly a miracle that her skin didn't have any marks to commemorate their many brawls. She sighed heavily, her fingers unconsciously running over the raised skin on her shoulder. Considering her home life, it was truly a miracle that she only had the one scar. It was a constant reminder that it was better to brawl with the wild beauty of nature than her parents. THOSE brawls always ended badly. Despite the painfully forceful way in which it always manifested, she had always been grateful that her magic could protect her. However, it hadn't been until she had gone to Hogwarts that she had realized that her violent bouts of accidental magic were not normal. Having heard everybody's accounts of their own accidental magic mishaps, nothing even came close to her particular experiences. She shuddered again running her thumb over her shoulder. Bruises faded, cuts healed, memories could be forgotten, but scars… scars didn't disappear.
It was a good thing they didn't. It had been so many years ago. The memory felt fuzzy around the edges, but every time she ran her thumb over the scar, fragments would resurface vividly. It was as if the sensation of the puckered skin under her fingertips was the only thing that kept the memory within her mind's grasp. It was the only thing that kept the fire she needed alive. It wouldn't let her forget.
Deep in Hermione's mind…
"You stupid, incompetent beaver!" her mother shrieked using everything within arm's reach as projectiles.
So blinded by her fury, the mother failed to notice how the small girl's body began to glow as each pot, pan, plate, and whatever else the well-equipped kitchen provided hit their mark. It seemed that with every hit, the wind would swirl more and more violently around the girl's tiny five year old body. Soon enough, the entire house was rattling under the wrath of the wind. The glow around her body flashed a brilliant green, and as if drawn in by her ethereal form, the very weeds she had refused to pull slithered into the house, ensnaring the woman's wrists just before her fingers could wrap around the knives.
The little girl closed her eyes violently, refusing to let any more tears fall. Her own mother wanted her dead. The pain in her heart made her question whether the weeds had really stopped her in time, or if the knives had hit their mark like everything else. She had known that her parents weren't particularly fond of her, but she had never thought that the woman that called herself her mother would be ready to kill her. Her own mother wanted her dead.
The tears that had been rolling down her cheeks halted midway, and drifted into the air in front of her. Time seemed to stop. Everything rose up slowly until it was suspended in mid-air, frozen in front of her. Eyes flashing open, everything slammed loudly onto the roof.
"NO more. No more!" the small girl yelled, her body bursting into flames. She glared up at her mother's shocked form until she gave a weak nod that seemed to appease the girl. Her mother stared fearfully as everything floated down to its original spot, the flames dying down, leaving her vulnerable once more.
"Go to your room. Now! You won't be eating a single meal for the next three days, and count yourself lucky, you little beast," her mother hissed.
"Yes, ma'am," she murmured, all but running up the stairs, into her room. She had done that. She didn't know how, but whatever she had done, it had saved her life. She couldn't stay here. That woman was no longer her mother. This was no longer her house. She was not a Granger. She did not belong here. She needed to leave. She would leave if it was the last thing he did. Once she was old enough, she would leave and never come back.
Hermione's eyes went wide. That had been much more than the fragments she usually recalled. Why had it been so clear this time? Actually, why was a memory that traumatic so hard to recall? It seemed like the only thing that anchored it into her mind was a scar, but the scar had been made by a flying plate of all things. Nothing else had managed to physically scar her throughout the fifteen years she'd been alive. Why the hell would such a traumatic event only be retained by a small scar? Everything was pointing to one thing: obliviation. Whoever had been stupid enough to obliviate her at such a young age certainly hadn't counted on the fact that her body and magic would have adapted and found a way to protect her. Now, the question was who and why. Could it have just been the accidental magic squad? Or was something bigger at play? Even if it had been the accidental magic squad, they should have known how risky the mind magics were for young children. Whoever had done this to her had risked her mind and magic. She needed to get to the bottom of this one way or another, but for now it was time to get to Mr. Roberts'.
A/N And that was the second "real" chapter. It's more set up and background, and I think the first few chapters are going to be set up, but it'll pick up soon.
This chapter has been reviewed/edited.
