Cursed

If she had been told, a few years earlier, that she'd turn eighteen and discover that she was by no means Muggle-born, but heir to the Ravenclaw household... well, Hermione was almost certain she wouldn't have believed it straight away. Her only, constant, reassurance that it was not, in fact, all a fanciful dream was Blaise; they were into it together.

The carriage jolted to one side, and she yelped in surprise.

"Are we there yet?" she questioned her mother, much in the same way she would so annoyingly do when she was five or six years old.

Annabeth Granger's lips curved upwards.

"Almost," she said softly.

Another jolt and they both widened their eyes, clutching onto whatever was nearby. Her mother's tight bun had loosened and strands of black hair swayed on her face, heightening the paleness of the skin. Hermione had always marvelled at that extremely straight hair, envying the many hairstyles she could pin it to while she, the only witch in the family (or so she had thought), had to resolve to magic when she wanted to subdue her unruly curls.

"What is the boy's name, sweetheart?"

"Blaise."

Annabeth pushed her silver-rimmed glasses back from where they had fallen at the tip of her nose and whispered the name, experiencing – in her daughter's opinion – the same exotic taste Hermione had once felt at pronouncing such a foreign name. But maybe it was all due to the connection that the two families shared, because the look of longing and sadness that flashed through Annabeth eyes could unmistakably be associated with the discovery of her name by Alberto Zabini.

"What house?" the woman demanded, shaking the unfamiliar feeling off.

"Slytherin."

Hermione watched her, trying to decipher her reaction.

"Of course," Annabeth said, "I should have known..."

At the puzzled look on her daughter's face, she explained.

"A guard, no matter what century we live in, should be able to lie, deceive and fade into the background as only Slytherins can do."

"I bet a Ravenclaw would have been just as good..."

Annabeth smiled, "I'm glad to hear you defend your house with such vehemence."

"I'm still a Gryffindor, Mum," Hermione replied stiffly and the conversation subsided.

Annabeth was guiding them down the main street, greeting a few passers-by with a wave of her hand, to which each and every single one of them replied by curtsying momentarily or by tipping their hats.

They had arrived just outside of the small village and a signpost stated proudly that they were now within the territory of Glenonlough; whether the settlement was lively in daytime, it looked mostly creepy in the twilight of the evening.

A cold breeze snuck under Hermione's cloak and brushed her legs; she dared not cast a warming charm though. Was it a wizarding village? She could not tell.

"Where are we?"

Her mother sidestepped a little boy running home with two buckets of water.

"Still in Scotland," she said offhandedly, "Does the place sound familiar to you?"

Hermione regarded her surroundings as they walked, trying to dive deep into her memory and come up with a flying mention of Glenonlough, maybe a famous monument or event that had took place there.

Empty-handed, she shook her head.

"Rowena was born here," her mother informed her, "She installed her family here and the locals still think of the Ravenclaws as wealthy landlords, and nothing more."

"It has been left out of a number of history books!"

"Oh, no, sweetheart," the woman replied, "Nobody was ever told where she was from, I doubt even the Zabinis knew."

"But did the other Founders?" Hermione probed, but wasn't granted an answer because they had reached their destination.

They stood in front of a large art nouveau iron wrought gate. A golden plaque on the side brick column read Ravenclaw Haw in a fancy print and Hermione could swear she saw the styled crow next to the writing ruffle its wings, but she averted her eyes to focus on what stood behind the gate. A garden, the extent of which she couldn't be sure about, was in full bloom; milky lilies, crimson roses and indigo pansies flourished at every corner.

Don't the Muggles notice?

She stared at her mother, who was pushing the iron gate open. Annabeth smiled down at her and gestured for her to cross the threshold into the magically thriving garden. An elderly-looking woman was waiting for them a few steps from the door of the imposing manor house that stood at the end of a narrow pathway; it didn't look more than a couple centuries old, but the bookworm in her told Hermione that if Rowena Ravenclaw had founded it, what she was seeing was a mere improvement or enlargement of the initial building.

Annabeth and the woman hugged in silence for a long time, and when they separated, they both had tears in their eyes. Hermione recalled her conversation with her mother upon leaving the Hogwarts' grounds.

"Does anybody still live there?"

"Yes," Annabeth had said simply, but with a deep sadness in her voice.

"Sweetheart," her mother called, "Allow me to introduce you to your great-aunt, the Lady Seònaid."

"Janet," the woman interrupted, "I don't expect you to call me by my Scottish name," she said, extending a hand towards her niece.

Hermione took it smilingly, "Nice to meet you."

The Lady Seònaid brought them inside the manor house and had a pretty house elf serve them tea in a small, creamy-wallpapered parlour. Hermione couldn't help but wonder if her mother – had Voldemort never risen – would have been brought her to live in Glenonlough.

"So," Janet began, "You have already met your Defender, I've been told."

"I have," she replied, toying with the silver spoon in her hand.

The Lady Seònaid turned to her mother, "Have you, Annabeth?"

"No, milady," she paused, "I didn't think it was necessary."

"Well, of course not," Janet laughed, "But you would have been able to tell more than your self-conscious daughter."

The elder woman's eyes glinted as she sipped her tea and Hermione blushed, if only slightly.

Out of the blue, another woman Apparated in the room.

"Ye set off the wards, ye did!" she chided, "Ye said ye wouldn't get here afore gloamin!" [2]

"Now, Rachel," the Lady Seònaid interposed, "I was strolling outside and I saw them right away, so no harm done."

As the woman with the striking Scot diction spoke, Hermione eyed her. Rachel was richly dressed in brocade, but, probably in her hurry to admonish them, she seemed to have forgotten to wear a cloak against the cold conditions and sported a large tartan scarf instead; pinned to her bosom with a brooch, it showed off its dark blue, silver and bronze hues. Her black hair was coiffed in a long braid that swayed while she waved her hands in the air, pointing her index finger at Annabeth with a 'I'm-the-boss-here' look on her face.

"... could've Stunned ye!"

"I said I'm sorry, Rachel!"

The woman clutched to her tartan, supposedly trying to calm down, and Hermione noticed that she looked around the same age as her mother.

"Guid," the Lady Seònaid was saying, lapsing in her mother dialect momentarily, "I suppose there's no point in wasting any more time with chit-chat," she looked directly at Hermione, "Would you like to see our family tree, dear?"

The room was the size of a cathedral, magically enhanced year after year, century after century, to commit to memory the thousands of Ravenclaw's descendants that had been born. It was a family tree similar to the one Hermione had seen at Grimmauld Place, though certainly more extensive. The Lady Seònaid introduced the room briefly; some historical facts, a few anecdotes, and then she showed her where her own name stood on one of the lower parts of the western wall under a miniature of her own face.

Does Blaise's tree reach as far as mine? she pondered, and where has his family come from? Is there a room just like this at his grandparents' house in Italy?

She would have to make a point to ask him, as soon as she was back at Hogwarts.

"Dad is not on the tree," Hermione commented.

Her mother nodded, "It's a matriarchal tree, sweetheart," she explained, "therefore the husbands are not recorded as they were not deemed important enough by who created the tree."

Hermione frowned, fearing she already knew the answer to her following question, "And who might that be?"

"Rowena," the Lady Seònaid said.

The eyes of the four women turned to the wall where their ancestor's miniature shone in its centuries old glory.

The woman named Rachel cleared her voice, "We should go," she began, "Everybody will be waiting to meet her."

Everybody?

Hermione was suddenly alarmed, but the other women took no notice of her raised brows and started walking back to the entrance door. The Head Girl glanced around the huge room; it'd be impossible to memorise all the names of all the witches remembered on those walls, so she just closed her eyes and called on a simple prayer towards them all.

Please, let me find a way out of this.

And as she thought that, she fought not to look up at Helena Ravenclaw's miniature and remind herself of what could go wrong if they didn't succeed in properly breaking the vow.

"Good gracious, lassie!" Rachel bellowed from the corridor, "Are ye coming or what?"

"Rachel...," the Lady Seònaid warned in a soft voice.

Hermione scuttered along them, trying to catch her mother's gaze and failing miserably by the time they all got to a stupendous hall that – by her imprecise calculations – must have been in the heart of the Ravenclaw Haw. A crowd of wizards and witches, both young and not-so-young anymore, animated the area and several house elves popped in and out of sight carrying drinks and appetizers.

A very young house elf was waiting for them at the eastbound entrance.

"May I announce the heir, Lady Seònaid?" he asked, bowing to his alleged mistress.

"In a moment, Conn," Janet turned to the younger of the group, "Hermione, dear, I hope you understand the magnitude of your ceremonial introduction to the rest of the family," she took her hand, "I have been told how difficult it has been for you to adjust to your new identity."

Rachel scoffed beside them.

"I understand," Hermione stated forcefully and held her chin up to show her resolve to the older woman.

"Guid... You may commence now, Conn," the Lady Seònaid said mannerly.

The young house elf nodded and, with a swift snap of his fingers, Hermione's cloak vanished together with that of her mother. Another snap, and a chorus of trumpets rang through the hall, calling the crowd to attention. A final snap and the heralding stopped short; Conn bowed to his mistress, who pointed her wand to her throat while the eyes of every witch and wizard in the room slowly turned to her and those around her.

"Sonorus," she muttered, "Thank you all for gathering here at such short notice," her voice reverberated, "I am now pleased to reacquaint you with my beloved and long lost niece, Annabeth."

"Hear, hear!" someone shouted in the distance.

Hermione's mother stepped forth and waved her right hand briefly; a gesture that looked more symbolic than an actual greeting.

The Lady Seònaid carried on, "And introduce Rowena Ravenclaw's heir, Hermione Jean.."

She then pushed the girl forward and clapped her hands; the crowd joined her, but no shouts were heard, though several witches shove their neighbours aside to get a closer look at Hermione.

"Calm doun, ye!" Rachel barked.

But it was only when the Lady Seònaid spoke that some peace returned to the place. In a smooth, but commanding voice, she asked everyone to compose themselves and allow the heir to take part in the festivities arranged in her honour without being hassled.

Hermione struggled not to snap whenever the word heir was used instead of her name, as if she were a pretty little bust to display on the mantelpiece. Her mother escorted her around the hall – the Stone Hall, as it was called – and pleasantly chattered with a few guests, promptly mentioning her daughter when the inquisitive eyes became too much to bear. It went like that for half an hour; Hermione's feet were giving clear signs of fatigue, but she echoed her mother's behaviour in everything. They both smiled politely at every witch and wizard who presented themselves, they both had a kind, if trivial, word for everyone and they both avoided looking at each other.

"Annabeth!" a young man cried in recognition and enveloped Hermione's mother in a tight, familiar embrace, "I kept telling her things would work out," he said after they separated, "But you know, my opinion was never valued around here," he turned conspiratorially to Hermione, "Too much feminism in this house."

"Don't listen to David, sweetheart," Annabeth said in a playful tone, "He always was the court fool."

"Better fool than heir these days, wouldn't you agree...," he paused, "Hermione, is it not?"

"That is enough, Daibhidh."

The phrase came as a bucket of cold water from an even colder-looking woman, whose age range could be safely assumed to be between one and two thousand. Both her mother and the young man shivered visibly, and Hermione felt the sudden need to run and hide. It became apparent that the newly arrived witch had been looking for her because she started walking towards her with a purposeful stride in her step.

"Lady Una," Annabeth curtsied.

"You should not have brought her here without my approval," the witch said briskly.

"I-I apologize," her mother stuttered.

"You got carried away, Annabeth," she said, as if it were a daily occurrence, "and though understandable, it is shameful that a former member of this house –"

"Former, milady?"

"You left, did you not?"

"Out of necessity!" she retorted, "Milady," she added as an afterthought.

The lack of respect did not go unnoticed by the Lady Una, but she merely turned her back on them and urged them to follow her.

They were back inside the small parlour; Hermione, her mother, Janet and the old witch.

"You must be the girl we've heard so little about," she gestured for Hermione to move in closer, "Annabeth's half-blood, correct?"

"Yes."

"Yes, milady," the Lady Una countered, "I have been a witch far longer than you."

Hermione assented through clenched teeth and, for once, wasn't pleased to heed the counsel of an adult. Especially when she was being judged on account of her blood status.

The lady circled her; she observed her hair, touching it occasionally. Hermione finally understood why her mother had insisted on combing through it via magic before they had left Hogwarts. The Lady Una tsk-ed at her simple black dress, and eventually told the other women to sit while she took one of Hermione's hand in hers.

"You write a lot," the old witch stated.

A proud smile crept on her lips, "Yes, milady."

"Take better care of your hands, Hermione," she went on, "You will still need them once school's over."

Overall, she didn't sound pleased with the heir.

Annabeth Granger sighed deeply from her seat in the jolting carriage.

"It is time," she said in a grim voice, "for me to tell you what I should have told you a long time ago. I ask only a little patience," she looked at her daughter, "I am going to tell you everything... You will have your chance to yell at me when I am done. I will not stop you.," [3]

Hermione wanted to intervene by saying that whatever she was going to say wouldn't change a thing, that she would still be her mother, but then she remembered the betrayal she had felt in the previous months and kept her mouth shut. These days, patience was not one of her virtues; nevertheless, she was desperate for the whole story.

"I grew up here, you know," Annabeth began, her eyes drifting to the slowly fading outskirts of Glenonlough, "My nurse taught me Greek and Latin, but she spoke little if no proper English, only the regional dialect," she grimaced, "The Lady Una took to tutoring me then... around my eighth birthday if I remember correctly.."

"I was shunned at Hogwarts, mainly because I was not used to being on my own and also because I could not speak the language as fluently as everyone else," she gave Hermione a small smile, "I spent all my spare time with Rowena in the Gallery."

"You were one year ahead of Harry's parents," Hermione interrupted.

Annabeth frowned, "I was? I have no memory of them."

"It doesn't matter," she quickly amended.

"Your Defender's father graduated at the end of my first year," her mother continued, "I was told when I got back home that summer, by the Lady Una of course," she sighed, "I was disappointed I wouldn't meet him at Hogwarts, but as my seventeenth birthday approached, I thought that at last he'd be introduced to me."

"What happened?" Hermione asked, genuinely engrossed in the tale.

"There had been rumours," Annabeth replied, "throughout my school years, but I would be lying if I said I ever took them seriously.."

"My mother...," she shook her head, "My whole family decided to shut down Ravenclaw Haw and we all scattered," she fumbled with her hands, "I was sixteen when the Lady Una took me aside while my parents were packing our essentials... She flat out told me I wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts, she stressed the morbid interest the then swiftly-rising Dark Lord had taken in the Founders and that, as the sole heir, I was to be kept safe."

"How did she know about his fascination with what had belonged to the Four Founders?" Hermione asked bewildered.

"Dumbledore, I presume," she looked outside the carriage once more, "I cried back then because I didn't know what else to do... I asked about my Defender and I remember shouting quite a lot when the Lady Una said it was too dangerous to have us meet, that his family had already withdraw to live a quiet inconspicuous life in the Mediterranean."

Hermione stood and seated herself beside Annabeth, a burning question on her lips.

"Why didn't you go after him?"

"Because one year later it was clear that we were at war, and I had my legacy to think about, so I swallowed the dull ache that had begun to haunt me and fled the wizarding world."

"But," Hermione's mind boggled, "what about your parents?"

Annabeth shifted uncomfortably in her seat and her eyes were suddenly very wet.

"Death Eaters," she said hoarsely.

"So, how did it go?"

The straightforward question induced Hermione to mull the previous evening over. She really thought it had been a complete disaster, having failed to make a good impression on the Lady Una (how exactly were they related anyway?) and grieving her mother with painful memories.

But Blaise needn't know that.

"I didn't learn anything useful," she said.

He nodded and turned to the book he had been reading, Debts, Vows and Bondings: An Insurance Handbook. Hermione stared at him for a long minute, then took a blank piece of parchment out of her desk and inked her quill. She wrote down everything they had found out about Rowena and Stefano's Unbreakable Vow; from the time period to what Alberto had told her in the Gallery. When something finally clicked inside her brain, she smiled; revising was always beneficial.

"Blaise," she spoke, instilling what she hoped was an imperative tone in her voice.

"Yes?" he replied, lazily turning a page of the book.

Hermione straightened her back and raised her chin, "Get up," she issued.

Nothing happened, but Blaise looked at her with a wary look before slowly standing and setting down the tome. She tried a different approach and closed her eyes.

Blaise, close the book!

"What the hell is this about?" he asked her, but at the same time he lifted the leather cover of Debts, Vows and Bondings: An Insurance Handbook and shut it.

They stared at each other in silence.

Hermione decided to push him further, "Aren't you forgetting something?" she dared in a sing-song voice.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," the Slytherin boy widened his eyes, but couldn't stop himself from uttering the servile phrase.

It's true, then.

Hermione nodded, You're cursed.

Indeed... it feels like a weak Imperius.

She didn't ask how he would know that.

"This is the last straw," she declared instead, "They are making you do it! I knew that it was wrong, I said so from the start! But did anybody listen? Of course not!" she gesticulated furiously, "You've all been blinded by that... that... that woman!" she pulled at her hair, "What was she thinking! She made a deal with the devil, and these are the consequences!"

"Hermione!" Blaise called, cutting through her tirade.

He crossed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her. At first she struggled against his embrace, but Blaise's grip was firm and eventually she let her whole body go limp and rested her forehead on his sweater.

You smell nice.

I brew scented fabric softeners in my spare time.

Hermione chuckled, "Thanks," she told him, looking up in his eyes.

"It's just a matter of time," he whispered, "If there is a solution, we will find it."

She wanted to argue that the 'if's were of no use in their current situation, but Blaise seemed to guess her line of thinking for he lowered his lips on hers before she could voice her objection.

"I renounce any impure thoughts," he muttered, then kissed her again, "actions and words," a third kiss, "about and to you," he finished with a smile.

Hermione's brow furrowed, "I beg your pardon?" she inquired uncomprehendingly.

"It's part of the vow, the last part to be exact," it was his turn to frown slightly, "My father told me, I thought he would have told you first."

"Well, he obviously didn't," she responded, clearly affronted.

Blaise's smile did not falter, "I have the whole thing written down back in my dorm."

"What's this stuff about impure thoughts?"

A wide grin, "That's our solution."

A/N: (2009-11-01) Scottish/Gaelic/whatever-you-wanna-call-it has slowed down this chapter A LOT! But I wanted to add a degree of realism to Hermione's excursion in the Highlands, so I researched... and researched... and realised you'd probably get the hint with a few words instead of full untranslatable sentences.

Footnotes

[1] Glenonlough – completely made up.

The Sorting Hat speaks of Rowena Ravenclaw as 'Fair Ravenclaw, from glen'.

A glen is, according to my dictionary, a narrow valley, a glenn in Gaelic.

A lough is the English spelling of loch, also Gaelic.

A haon, shortened to 'on' by yours truly, means one.

sources

wiki / Sorting_Hat

irish / ir_

[2] gloamin : twilight, sort of

guid : good

doun : down

sources

wiki / Wikipedia : Scots-English-Scots_dictionar

[3] can anyone guess which of the books this is from? ;)