With great effort the baby stood, using the coffee table to balance herself. Cynthia Granger looked up from her book just in time to see little Hermione take two steps forward. And then she fell, landing upon her bottom. With a sigh Cynthia put down her copy of 'Pride and Prejudice' as she prepared to comfort the girl.
Hermione burst into tears, her hair changing from brown to an angry red. Cynthia stood, only to stop short as she noticed something unusual. The shadows about Hermione twisted and turned, growing larger and darker the longer she cried. They took semi-monstrous shapes which to Cynthia looked more like screaming faces and growling animals than anything else.
It was all she could do not to throw up. That wasn't accidental magic.
Cynthia scooped Hermione up and cuddled her to her chest, careful to avoid the girl's sharp little claws.
"Shh, shh, it's alright," said Cynthia, sitting back down in her chair.
To her relief, as Hermione calmed, the shadows calmed, until finally they returned to normal. Cynthia honestly had no idea what she would have done, otherwise.
She'd heard the stories, of course. Her father may have been cast out of the House of Black for the "crime" of being born a squib, however he'd been sure to pass on the family history and lore to both of his children. Still, Cynthia could not help but pray that the stories had been just that; stories.
It was said that the House of Black had been founded, some seventeen hundred years prior, by Mab the Black-in her honor, their family had always used a surname which was some variant of the word black. Despite what the non-magical population thought, Mab was not one of the mercurial fae, as she had been portrayed in 'Romeo and Juliet.' In actuality, she was the result of a tryst between a witch and a Grim. From her non-human father, Mab had inherited quite a bit; claws sharp enough, strong enough to cut through bronze, fangs, enhanced senses, the ability to change her soft tissue and pigmentation to suit her needs-she was the first metamorphmagus-and most damning of all, the ability to control shadows, a connection to the Shadowlands. If Mab had been born eight or nine centuries later, her contemporaries would have put her down like the mad dog she was.
All of Mab's descendents inherited some of her power. That usually wasn't much of a problem. It was simple enough to bind the powers of a witch who married outside of the family and ensure she did not pass down these abilities to her children. Squibs were usually dealt with "appropriately," although Cynthia still had no idea why her father had been permitted to leave the family alive and whole, on the condition that he never again use the name; Black. The problem was that occasionally members of the family inherited Mab's control of and connection to shadows.
It started with the voices, Marius had said. Those connected to the shadows heard voices nobody else could hear. Every time the child used their connection to the shadows, the voices grew stronger. And then they figured out how to become a shadow. The shadows twisted and corrupted their users until almost nothing of the person they had once been remained. The Blacks, as a whole were feral, dangerous people at the best of times. Under the influence of the shadows, they became true monsters. Eventually, each and every one of them had to be killed.
Except… what about Mathilde or Richard? No. Cynthia shook her head. While Marius had told her tale, he's also made it clear Mathilde was more myth than anything else. There was no way she would have been able to control the shadows, instead of having them control her. Mathilde did not wander the world with a pack of Grims. As for Richard, he had died nearly two hundred years prior, killed by a Potter at the eve of the last battle between the Ministry and the Dark Lord Kieran's forces. And considering which side he had been on, it was obvious the shadows had corrupted him already.
There was only one choice. She would not loose her baby. She would not allow the shadows to steal her daughter from her.
"Are you sure you want me to do this?" Andromeda asked softly. "This is dangerous."
"I know." Cynthia nodded. "Better she inherits nothing from Mab than to loose her to the shadows." Andromeda had made it clear that sealing the abilities of a child this young could be deadly. Still, at least this way there was a good chance Hermione would survive. If she did nothing, Cynthia knew her daughter would eventually die-probably by another's wand, or perhaps by a gun. She hated to think what somebody corrupted by shadows could do in this modern world. "She'll still be a witch."
"If you're sure."
With careful strokes, Andromeda Tonks nee Black began to paint a rune array upon the stone platform. The platform was at the center of a circle of stones hidden by heavy wards in a small field near Manchester. It was one of the few unbroken circles of stone which the druids had managed to hide from Roman wizards.
It had taken a couple weeks to find a disowned member of the House of Black who had been able and willing to bind Hermione's powers without attracting unwanted attention. Andromeda had been a little surprised by the request; however she'd been more than willing to help once she had confirmed Hermione's connection to the shadows.
Hermione yawned, then began to babble at Cynthia and Andromeda. She was too young to speak just yet, although her noises were beginning to resemble actual words more and more each day.
Cynthia carefully stripped Hermione and held her out so that Andromeda could paint the appropriate runes upon her skin and then she made several marks upon her own face. Once painted, Hermione was put in the center of the rune array.
"Stand back," said Andromeda.
With that, Andromeda began to chant, her arms held out, palms up, as if beseeching the sky for help. The air crackled with power and the runes began to glow as the shadows of the trees around them curled inwards in a circle, leaving on the stone circle in the sunlight. Cynthia shivered, curling in on herself as the chanting reached its peak.
There was a flash of light as the various runes lit up as brightly as searchlights and then faded once more. The tide of magic broke, fading into nothing as the shadows retreated. The moment Andromeda stopped chanting, she fell to the ground, unconscious.
"No," whispered Cynthia as Hermione came back into sight. "Please, no."
Hermione lay upon the platform, completely still. Unwilling to believe her eyes, Cynthia checked for a pulse. Unable to find one, she lay her head gently upon Hermione's chest. There was no sound of a heart beat, no breath.
Cynthia gathered her daughter's body into her arms and fell to her knees. She should have taken the chance. She should never have asked Andromeda to seal Hermione's powers. Surely she could have used Mathilde as an example of strength of will.
With great, hiccupping sobs Cynthia began to cry, rocking back and forth slowly. Her baby was dead. She'd killed her daughter.
She wasn't quite sure how long she sat there, however eventually something caught her notice. Cynthia looked down, wondering what had touched her face. The blood drained from her face as she swayed faintly from side to side. Cynthia felt as though she might faint.
Hermione was looking at her, one of her small hands touching Cynthia's face. Her daughter was alive.
How was this possible? Hermione was dead. Cynthia had had to attend medical school to become an oral surgeon. She knew Hermione had been dead. A trill of fear flowed through her as she thought back to her brief affair with the man she knew only as Jake.
"Cynthia, you're crying," Andromeda said softly.
"I'm just… so happy," said Cynthia.
Nobody could ever know what had happened. She could only imagine what the Ministry-let alone the non-magical government-would do if they found out.
