TW: Sick child
A/N: All my love to TwinRivers for helping me polish this. You are a doll 3
Hermione could pinpoint the exact day that her world changed forever.
December eighth, two-thousand-and-one.
It had been a cold morning, the hazy winter sunshine rising over the horizon to paint the land in a soft glow. At seven o'clock, Hermione was exhausted from the previous night, but unable to rest.
All night, she'd been labouring, hoping that the next push would be the one to bring her baby into the world. It had felt neverending, as if she'd be stuck in a loop of breathe, breathe, push forever.
And then it finally ended, and the relief when the little human that had been nurtured in her body for nine months was placed on her chest—squalling and goopy—was indescribable. More than just relief, more than just happiness, it was something else altogether.
She got to hold her messy little baby to her chest, skin to skin. But it had only been a minute, maybe two, when other hands scooped the babe up and away from Hermione.
It was the most beautiful moment she ever experienced.
To her dismay, it was followed by the worst.
"Something's wrong." It was said quietly from one healer to another as if it weren't meant for everyone's ears. As if it were a secret they were keeping from her.
Hermione fought to keep her eyelids open. She was so tired, and sleep beckoned so sweetly. But something's wrong kept her awake. It spurred her to reach out and tug on the sleeve of the healer standing closest to her head.
"What's going on? Please, can you tell me what's wrong?"
The healer turned quickly, eyes landing on Hermione's concerned face as she explained that there seemed to be some complications. "Her heartbeat is a tad high, and her breathing is distressed. At the moment there's nothing to be—"
Before the healer could finish speaking, the breath in Hermione's lungs froze as the joy she'd felt only moments ago completely drained from her body, which started to shake.
"Not to worry, Mrs. Granger-Potter. Our paediatric specialist is just down the hall."
The hours that followed were a blur. Hermione could only remember bits and pieces, hazy and pale. At first, she thought she'd been in shock, but then a healer was at her side and handing her a vial—something for discomfort, which she guessed she'd be feeling much more of considering the morning's events. Perhaps what she was feeling was a mixture of that and the strange cold loneliness of lying in a hospital bed with nobody there to celebrate with her. And was she even allowed to celebrate yet?
Healers came in and out of the little room she was in, voices spoke in urgent tones. It all happened around her as if she were frozen in time while the rest of the world went on without her.
At some point, Harry was there, and Hermione started crying the minute she saw him. He'd been on a mission in Israel when she'd gone into labour and had gotten stuck trying to come back. There was issue after issue with the International Portkey Office and getting approved to leave early.
He rushed to her side, sitting partially on the bed and gently pulling her to his chest. Her hair was soaked with sweat that was starting to cool, and she was shivering. She tried to speak, tried to explain to Harry what was happening with their daughter, but she couldn't form words past the sobs scratching and crawling their way up her throat.
When Harry shifted, Hermione clutched him tighter.
He couldn't go. She needed him. They needed him.
He didn't try to get her to release him as she'd thought, just tightened his arm around her and waved over a healer who told him someone would be coming to talk to them in just a moment.
When her white-knuckled grip on Harry loosened slightly, he murmured that he'd be right back, and she reluctantly released him.
He was gone for forty-five seconds. Hermione knew because she'd counted. It kept her mind from frantically flipping through all the worst-case scenarios like a broken movie reel.
When he returned, he held a cup of water to her lips, making sure she drank. There was a vacant chair in the corner, so he grabbed it and dragged it to the side of the bed, sitting and taking Hermione's hand in his own.
His thumb brushed gently back and forth over her knuckles as he asked, "Did you pick a name?"
Swiping at the salty tear tracks that were drying on her face, Hermione said, "No. I wanted to wait for you."
He smiled softly at her, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing her fingers tenderly. "I've always liked the name Rowan. They're strong trees, you know. Capable of weathering a lot."
There was a pause as Hermione rolled the name between her fingers.
"And in Norse legend, the first woman was made from a Rowan tree," he continued.
Hermione looked at him, impressed. "How do you know that?"
"I do read, Hermione," he smiled. At her arched eyebrow, he said, "Okay, I may have overheard you talking to your cousin last week about her Myths and Sagas class."
Lips twisting into the faintest shadow of a smile, Hermione said, "I thought as much."
Harry reached up to brush her matted hair out of her face. "So, Rowan then? It's pretty—could call her Ro for short."
"Ro. I like that." Hermione closed her eyes and imagined herself saying that name years from now when she would lean out the back door of their house and shout for their children to come inside from the garden for dinner. It was a dream of the future, fuzzy on the edges but bright and full of love.
A soft knock sounded on the doorframe, and a healer with tight lines bracketing her mouth entered the tiny room.
"Mr. and Mrs. Potter?"
Harry nodded from his spot beside the bed.
"She's stabilised." The words hit Hermione like a cool mist.
She's okay. She's okay.
For now.
The relief was quickly taken over by fear and worry for the future.
"Do you know what's wrong? What do you mean by stabilised? Is she—"
"Ma'am," the healer gently interrupted, "let me go over a few things and then I'll answer whatever I can, yes?"
Pushing down the panic building in her chest, Hermione nodded.
"Your daughter seems to be affected by some sort of curse, likely tied to her blood."
What? Not even a day old and her daughter was touched by dark, black magic. The worry turned to rage. Curses had to start somewhere, even if it was far back in a family line.
Who did this? They would pay. She would make them pay.
Focus, Hermione. Now was not the time to think about such things. She needed to focus on the now and how to best help her daughter.
"She's doing alright at the moment. Heart rate is back to normal, and she's breathing well with a little help. Whatever it is that's afflicting your daughter is like no magical illness I have ever seen before. After multiple diagnostic scans, nothing new was revealed. Her vitals evened out after a few hours. It looks like the worst may be over. There's no way to know if she may relapse, so you must keep a very close eye on her and bring her in the minute something changes. I'll get you a list of things to look out for. I'd like to keep her overnight. Mr. Potter, I can have a cot brought in if you'd like to stay."
"Thank you, but that's alright. The chair is fine for me."
Hermione huffed out a humourless laugh. If only the healer knew the many unconventional places he'd had to sleep in over the years, from Auror training to weeks-long nights in the field.
When the healer left, Harry turned his gaze on Hermione, still cradling her hand in his own. "How are you hanging in, love?"
As the exhaustion of the last few hours and the night before hit her, she felt tears sting her eyes again. She was sick of crying. Crying did nothing. It wasn't productive or helpful. But she couldn't stop.
"Oh, 'Mione. It's all right, sweetheart. It's all right." Harry stood, scooching Hermione just a tick to the right so he could slide in next to her, sitting up against the headboard of the hospital bed and pulling her back against his chest.
"How could we have let this happen?" She choked out, finally. "Did we do something wrong? I read so many books, I was so careful while I was pregnant. What did we do to cause this, Harry?" Tears still trickled out of her eyes, but her breathing was slowing now that she could feel Harry behind her, feel his warmth and the beat of his heart.
"It's the way of the world, love. Bad things happen to good people. You didn't do anything to harm our baby. Do you hear what I'm saying, Hermione? A blood curse can come from miles back in a family line. It could very well have nothing to do with you." As he spoke, he ran the palm of his hand gently down her arm, soothing her.
"One thing I do know for sure is that we will figure it out. That little girl has the most dedicated, determined, and stubborn—" She pinched his forearm at that remark, and felt his chest rumble with a laugh. "—mother I've ever known. She's—I'm—we're unbelievably lucky to have you. I can't promise you that everything is going to be okay, but know that I will do everything I can, use every resource at my disposal to get the root of this. Okay?"
A small smile touched Hermione's lips. "You always know the right things to say to me."
"Yes well, that's because I'm a genius and a certified official Hermione expert."
She laughed then, a real, genuine laugh, and she started to feel the weight of panic lift.
They would figure this out.
Hermione pulled the hood of her cloak down, shielding her face from view as she darted through crowds of drunk wizards stumbling home or to the next pub.
The Alley smelled like hot garbage. All those warm bodies sweating alcohol from their pores combined with the smell of the unwashed masses to create a truly terrible stench.
Tugging her cloak tighter around her, Hermione hurried to her destination, breathing through her mouth.
Knockturn Alley at night was not high on Hermione's list of places she'd like to be. There was no getting around it this time, though. One of the dilapidated shops was sure to have what she needed.
She peered through the cracked and dirty windows looking for the right place, stopping in front of a particularly rundown shop.
Spotting the wooden sign that declared it an apothecary hanging precariously from the awning, Hermione slowly pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Immediately, she was accosted by a cacophony of strange smells. Not all bad, mind you, but strong nonetheless. Hermione surmised that the grizzled old woman stocking a shelf in the corner must be the owner or at least work there. The interior of the store was black, so dark the walls seemed to absorb light.
This wasn't your typical apothecary, that much was clear. There were jars for sale full of plants that Hermione had read on The List of Banned Herbs and Botanicals in Magical Britain when it had been published last year.
It was precisely the kind of place Hermione needed. Her shopping list was rather colourful, and there were a few things she required that she couldn't get anywhere else.
Hermione quickly scanned the aisles, having difficulty finding what she came for.
The woman in the corner shuffled over, cane tapping the floor with each step she took.
"Hullo there. How can I help ya, dear?"
Despite her rather haggard appearance, the woman had a kindness about her that Hermione appreciated.
With a quick look around to make sure no one was nearby, Hermione whispered, "I'm in need of the substance produced by Pritcher's Porritch."
The old woman smiled, revealing a blackened tooth. "No need to whisper, lovey. Just you and me here. I've got a jar o' the stuff in the back. I'll go grab it for ya."
"Thank you!" Hermione said to the woman's retreating back. While she waited, she strolled around the shop, seeing some ingredients and potions that she'd only ever read about in books.
She didn't plan on dabbling in grey-area magic again in the future, but if she did, she would have to remember this place.
A rhythmic tap tap heralded the return of the shopkeeper. "Here ya are, dearie. How much do ya need?"
"Two scoops, please."
Nodding, the woman spooned out two dollops of the thick blueish liquid into a little jar, screwing the lid on and handing it to Hermione.
It was already getting dark, and she needed to be home soon. As quickly as she could, she paid the shopkeeper and thanked her for her help, dashing out of the store and hurrying down the dirty cobblestones.
It has to work.
When she safely could, Hermione Apparated to the forest that ran along the back of the old cabin they were staying in. They'd been there for so long, Hermione thought of it as theirs, but it really belonged to a cousin of her mother's who had graciously agreed to allow them to stay for as long as they needed.
They hadn't planned on it being so long.
But their daughter just kept getting sicker and sicker, her tiny body ravaged by some dark and twisted curse. She was suffering, and it broke Hermione's heart.
Hermione and Harry had been hopeful when they left the hospital, but not even two weeks later, Rowan grew ill again. Again, they took her to the hospital to see the healer who'd been there for her delivery, just like they'd been instructed. And still, the only thing that showed up on tests was an indication that something nefarious was tied to her blood.
Hermione had prayed they'd know more about it, that someone, somewhere would know what was happening to her daughter. In the last six months, they'd been everywhere: St. Mungo's, curse breakers, Muggle doctors, they'd even seen a shaman that had claimed to have powers of healing.
They came back from each expedition with the same answer: "Something is wrong, but we don't know what."
Even Bill came all the way from Egypt to help, and after his day spent working over Rowan, his voice telling them that there was nothing he could do to save her was the most difficult one to hear.
As they went through doctor after healer after expert, it got to the point where the healers taught Harry and Hermione how to perform the diagnostic spells, so they didn't have to bring Rowan in every time they tried a new method of removing the curse. After each try, they'd cast the spell on their child, and each time, their hearts would sink as it revealed no change.
Out of options, Hermione did what she knew best: research.
She sent letters out to anyone who could have even an inkling of what was wrong with Rowan. She spoke to specialists all across the magical world, coming up empty-handed each time.
She decided to make a trip to Hogwarts, and search the Restricted Section for something, anything that could help her heal Rowan.
Desperate, yes, but she didn't care. Rowan and Harry were her light, her heart, her everything. Seeing her child suffer with no clear way to help was the single most painful thing she'd ever experienced.
The cabin was small and cosy. Hermione had warded it top to bottom and had a few spells continuously going to keep the interior warm.
She walked in and found Harry asleep on the couch, their daughter resting peacefully on his chest. Hermione had read many books and countless articles on child-rearing, and she knew co-sleeping could be dangerous, but they looked so perfect lying there, so whole and safe, that she didn't have the heart to rebuke Harry just yet. Instead, she grabbed a knitted blanket from the basket she kept beside the chair and carefully laid it over them, keeping the edge of the blanket away from the baby's face.
Seeing them there cemented Hermione's determination to find a solution for them.
Next to the raggedy chair in the corner, there was a pile of books with topics ranging from dark curses to blood maledictions, voodoo to ancient magic.
Hermione lifted a heavy hardback from the top of the stack, carrying it to the little table that sat along the wall between the open kitchen and the sitting room. She flipped through the pages carefully, turning each one gently so as not to damage the worn paper.
Finally, she reached the section she was looking for, and she ran her index finger along the page as she read.
The passage spoke of an ancient and obscure ritual that had been used in the middle ages to remove blood curses from those afflicted. It was dark magic, grey, at the very least, but it was something.
At this point, it seemed to be their only option. Hermione had read the passage so many times she practically had it memorised. She ran down the list of supplies she'd need in her head, confident that she'd procured them all. All that was left was to get everything set up for tonight—the ritual had to be performed under a full moon, and she'd need a few drops of blood from all three of them.
The blue goop she'd purchased from the shop in Knockturn Alley would need to be boiled, along with sage and some animal bones. Hermione had foraged the day before, finding the dry bones of a small creature that had been decaying on the forest floor.
It would have to be performed at midnight. She was thankful Harry had gotten the baby to nap because a cranky six-month-old would make a complicated and involved ritual even more difficult.
The preparation went by smoothly, with Hermione scurrying in and out of the house, fetching ingredients.
By the time she was done, it was nearly eleven-thirty and time to wake Harry.
Pulling back the knitted blanket covering the sleeping figures on the couch, Hermione slipped her hands beneath the baby and lifted Rowan off Harry's chest to rest on her shoulder.
She knelt on the floor near Harry's head, using her free hand to brush the too-long pieces of fringe from his face.
"Time to wake up, love."
He opened sleepy eyes, blinking up at her for a moment before recognition hit him. He shrugged off sleep like it were a robe around his shoulders, and sat up, eyes clear and voice steady.
"It's time?"
"Just about," Hermione said, rubbing Rowan's back in soothing circles as she began to wake up, making little snuffling noises into Hermione's shoulder.
A smile crossed Harry's face as he gazed at the two of them before his expression settled into seriousness.
"What can I do?"
When Hermione first discovered the ritual, she'd researched and cross-referenced, making sure she knew all there was to know about the process. It wasn't wise to wade into the murkier waters of magic without knowing what you were doing.
Harry hadn't questioned her decision to attempt a ritual on the dodgy side. This kind of magic skirted the line of what was legal, going just beyond. As an Auror, she'd thought maybe he'd have doubts about trying something like this.
Really though, she shouldn't have been surprised. This was Harry—her Harry—and nothing mattered more to him than the people he surrounded himself with whether they were blood or not.
If there was a chance they could heal their daughter, Hermione knew Harry would do anything, even risk his job, if there were even a sliver of a chance that it could work.
There, in that moment as she held their daughter to her chest and looked into the eyes of the one person that had always been there for her—ready to charge the battlements and storm the castle if anyone so much as looked at her funny—Hermione felt a deep warmth settle into her chest.
This would work. Half of magic was intent, and if she didn't believe they would succeed, it could alter the effectiveness of the ritual.
We will make this work.
Hermione set the baby in her bassinet as she and Harry organized and got all their materials ready. When it was close to midnight, Hermione carefully levitated the bassinet through the door and outside into the yard. It was early summer, and the air was still warm, a slight breeze rustling the trees.
Harry picked Rowan up and cradled her in his arms. This was the part Hermione was really not looking forward to. For the ritual to work, she'd need to add blood from all three of them to soak the dry bones.
The idea of causing her daughter any pain at all made Hermione want to vomit, but she took a deep breath and approached Harry with a small knife. They did him first, slicing his palm and letting the drops fall into a wooden bowl. The whole time, he talked to Rowan, low and soothing, trying to show her with his actions and tone that it wasn't scary, and that he'd be right there to comfort her.
He held her in his arms, head resting at his elbow. Harry cupped his hand around the side of her face, shielding her from the view of her mum coming at her with a knife.
Hermione made the smallest slice she could, letting a few drops fall into the bowl. Rowan let out a screech of pain, and Hermione's heart twisted in her chest. She heard Harry speak through the noise. "'Mione, she's okay, alright? It's okay. There's no other way."
He was right, but it didn't make her guilt at hurting her daughter any less. As quickly as she'd made the cut, she'd healed it, kissing the baby's palm and cooing at her. "There we go. All gone, see? No more pain, my love."
The final slice was made in Hermione's palm, and she watched as their blood mixed together in the little bowl, dark and shiny in the moonlight.
A few feet to their left, she'd created a ritual circle out of stones, each one marked with a rune. With a flick of her wand, the triangle of twigs in the middle of the ring caught fire and became a steady flame.
Setting aside the container with the blood, she reached for another bowl, settling it into the top of the iron stand Harry had built especially for this moment. It fit the bowl perfectly and held it at the right height above the fire.
Hermione reached for the book she had dragged outside and began the ritual. Harry watched from a short distance away, keeping Rowan occupied by letting her gum at his finger.
Two spoonfuls of the Pritcher's Porritch substance went into the bowl, followed by salt and a pinch of cumin. It had to boil, so she let it sit and continued to prepare the bones.
To properly prepare them, Hermione had to say a complicated incantation with words she was unfamiliar with. She could only hope she was pronouncing it correctly. The incantation came out smoothly, and as soon as she finished speaking, the bones grew hot to the touch, nearly burning her, and she laid them on a rock next to the fire.
They had to be sprinkled with water from a mountain stream, something she'd gathered earlier in the day. Dipping her fingers into the little cup holding the water, she let droplets fall on the bones, watching in fascination as each drop sizzled and disappeared into steam as if the bones themselves were on fire from the inside out.
When the bowl over the fire was at a steady boil, Hermione gathered the bones and set them in the bowl holding the blood, letting them soak it up as they each became stained a deep red, then transferring them to basin above the fire.
Incantations like this one were meant to be spoken in a precise matter—the right tone, the right volume. The book she'd borrowed—well, stolen, at this point—from the Hogwarts library was an old tome written entirely in French. Hermione didn't speak French, so she had carefully practised, making the words of the incantations familiar on her tongue, repeating them over and over last night to an overtired Harry who had put off sleep after a hard workday so she could practise on him.
The last step before the incantation was to light the sage. She grabbed the little bundle of dried sage, sticking in the flames until it started to smoke.
As she watched the sage crumble into pieces and dust the top of the concoction in the bowl, she read the incantation:
Avec cette offre
Je demande humblement aux pouvoirs en place
Venir sur ce plan terrestre
Et accepter ce sacrifice, donné gratuitement
Protège mon sang
Nettoyer le sang de la mine
Unifier mon sang
There was a spark, a flash of light in the bowl as the flames suddenly went out. Hermione looked at the sky as the smoke swirled up into the darkness, praying to whatever god was listening that they had been successful.
She turned to look at Harry, so strong and steady, holding their daughter in his arms.
With sure steps, Hermione moved to stand before him, wand out to cast the diagnostic spell taught to them by the healers.
This is it.
If the ritual hadn't worked, they were done. They'd exhausted all their options. Anxious tears burned Hermione's eyes, making the world a little softer at the edges. As the spell moved through Rowan's body, Hermione didn't dare breathe, eyes locked on the baby in her husband's arms.
The results appeared in midair, spelt out as clearly as if they'd been written with a quill.
Distantly, she heard Harry shout, joy evident in his voice, but she couldn't tear her gaze from words written in the air.
Clear
Her baby's blood was clear, rid of the horrible magic that had been making her sick. She was safe.
Rowan is safe.
Hermione could hear her heart beating in her ears, and she felt like she'd just dropped from a great height, her body jittery with adrenaline. She hadn't realized she'd fallen to her knees in the dirt until she came out of her daze, pressed to Harry's chest as he clutched at her, Rowan in his other arm.
He was crying, and Hermione was crying, and Rowan was crying because Mum and Dad were falling apart before her eyes, and she had no idea what was going on.
With a smile on her tear-streaked face, Hermione reached for Rowan, taking her from Harry's arms to calm her and let her know everything was okay. Hermione planted kisses on the baby's forehead, her nose, her perfect chunky cheeks.
Over Rowan's downy head, Harry caught Hermione's eye, looking at her with so much love, she thought she might melt into a puddle under the force of his gaze.
"Told you we'd figure it out. You'd figure it out. You're brilliant, witch. And our daughter is damn lucky to have you as a mother."
Using her free hand, Hermione swiped at her eyes with a watery laugh. "Stop that. I don't want to cry anymore, all right? Only happiness now."
Hermione pushed down the niggling feeling of concern trying to take root in her brain. She'd face the repercussions of dealing in darker magic at a later date. Now was the time to celebrate.
She looked down at Rowan, cooing at her to make her smile that sweet little grin. "Isn't that right, baby? Yes, it is! Only happiness from here."