Author's Note: Hello! This is my first fanfic (though I write a lot of
original fiction). I've always had a suspicion that Hermione is too smart
and powerful to be a muggleborn witch, so I came up with this alternative!
There will be plenty of darkness, plot twists, and our favorite characters
seen in new lights. Review please!
****
Chapter 1
Draco was at the edge. He could feel it, the dark abyss that was waiting for him, a scarce half inch from the edge of his toes.
"If you put one toe out of line." came the cold threats of his father from somewhere deep in his mind.
"Yes, father," Draco told the voice, his voice every bit as expressionless as he was meant to be.
But in another part of Draco's mind, he was screaming. Always a jumble of thoughts and screams, of feelings that he shouldn't have. And now, he locked them into a deep recess of his mind, caged by the simple thoughts his father asked of him.
There were always meetings in the Malfoy Manor. It was a place muggles were barred from and no muggle-loving wizard or witch would dare find themselves. Not in these times.
The darkness reeked through the house, the coldness penetrating Draco's thoughts. He was on the balcony, but even in the summer, the air around Malfoy Manor was cold, a sharp blow to his lungs.
The Lestranges were visiting that night. Draco didn't like the way Bellatrix looked at him, her eyes crazy-mad and the darkest black color. It seemed as if Bellatrix an her husband, tainted by their years at Azkaban, knew only one thing, loyalty to the Dark Lord.
Draco realized that he was hungry. He had escaped the strict affair of dinner with the Lestranges by feigning sickness, but now his stomach grumbled in protest. He glided down one of the many extensive hallways that ran through Malfoy manor in a maze that was easy for a stranger to get lost in.
He had to pass the dining room to get to the kitchen, and Draco slowed his steps as he approached that doorway. The door was open a crack; the voices of his father and the Lestranges floating through to where Draco was silently making his way across the marble floors.
Father wasn't being secretive anymore, Draco noted. Normally, a Silence spell and other blocking spells would be placed on the room if deatheater activity was being discussed. But now everyone knew that his father was with the Dark Lord (as if there had ever been any doubt before).
"The Dark Lord wishes your son to take this mission," Bellatrix was saying. Draco stopped, a sinking feeling taking over the hunger of his stomach.
"And what mission would the gracious Dark Lord wish my son to complete?"
"And there is also, of course, a little something I am wondering of you, Luci," Bellatrix's voice was sickly sweet, as if she was talking to a child. "We are remembering. We are remembering the times before Azkaban, slowly. It has taken us more than a year to remember our whittle girl.and the Dark Lord says you can help us."
There was a pause in the room. Draco heard his mother gasp, but it was stifled quickly.
"Does Luci remember what happened? Just where did this precious girl of Bellatrix's go? Not down the drain, or I will be very mad."
"I don't remember a daughter, Mrs. Lestrange. You must be mistaken, I know how Azkaban must have fooled with your mind," Lucius said in an even tone.
"Liar! Don't try to lie to me, or the Dark Lord. He knows you lost her! And she must be found by your son!"
"And how, pray tell, would my son know where this daughter is?" Draco could feel the malice in his father's voice.
"Why don't you remember, Luci?" Bellatrix's voice was again sweet and taunting. Even in her craziness, she still possessed the intelligence and power that had been hers before Azkaban. "A little Dumbydore took her away from you, right under your nose. She must be there, at Hogwarts. And when your son goes back, Drakie will find my little girl, and her powers will be revealed."
Drakie? Draco almost snorted despite the delicate situation he was in. But he didn't, and he realized that the voices from the dining room had stopped. Draco was already storing away the information he had gleaned from that meeting for later speculation. He quickly made his way back to his room; he wasn't hungry anymore.
****
Hermione was looking through old photo albums in the attic. It was summer, and light streamed through the high, circular window and illuminated the dust that floated in the air.
She had come up to the attic to retrieve an old favorite book and her eye had caught the albums lying underneath it. She couldn't help but lift out the treasures of her childhood, a small smile on her face. Her parents really loved her, even if they would rather not place the albums in their spotless living room, they had still created these albums.
Books of Hermione's accomplishments in primary school, albums of their first holidays, birthdays and vacations, all dated throughout Hermione's childhood, and all with her mother's neat handwriting on the back.
Hermione didn't know how long she was up there, but the afternoon sun was receding when she looked at the last album.
She was an infant in this book, the pictures labeled neatly with the date and her age on the back. But Hermione reached to where she was six months old, and the book ended.
That's odd, Hermione thought, that was the last book. There was no baby book, or any other pictures in the trunk where the albums had been placed. The room suddenly grew cold to Hermione, the setting sun no longer reached into the attic, and Hermione felt a shiver.
She hugged the Chudly Cannon's T-shirt closer around her. Ron had given it to her for her last birthday, and she had been initially.well, shocked and then mad. Couldn't he just stick to books? First perfume and then this hideous orange thing? Admittingly, the perfume had been nice, if a little odd.
But in the comfort of her home, she had instantly felt closer to Ron wearing the shirt. She knew he would give that lopsided smile and tease her for wearing it, but he couldn't see her now.
And she was letting these thoughts run her away from the matter at hand. Hadn't her parents taken pictures of her as soon as she was born and home from the hospital? Hadn't her parents loved her at first sight? They had taken tons of pictures of her at every other age.
You're letting yourself get carried away, Hermione scolded herself. There is probably a simple solution for this.
Determinedly, for Hermione always pursued information in something she didn't know, she made her way downstairs.
"Hermione," acknowledged her mother, bustling about the kitchen. "Won't you help me dear? The lettuce needs to be washed and chopped."
Annie Granger was short, with a practical bob of brown hair streaked with gray. With pleasant features and a keen eye, Hermione wished she was more like her mother was at her age. The older photos of her parents before she was born and of her mother in High School showed a beautiful young woman with wavy brown hair and astounding blue eyes. But Hermione's hair was bushy rather than wavy and her eyes were a lighter shade of her father's brown, and she wasn't near as beautiful as her mother had been.
"What in the world are you wearing, Hermione?" her mother asked, hands on her hips.
Hermione blushed. She had forgotten that she was still wearing Ron's orange shirt. And dinner at the Granger's was normally a small, but nice and proper affair.
"It was a gift from Ron. Don't worry, I'll change before dinner," she reassured her mother. Hermione took the lettuce out from the refrigerator and began to run water over it.
"I was looking through photo albums this afternoon," Hermione told her mother, who was busy at the stove.
"Did you want to take some of them with you, when you leave?" Her mother asked. This was Hermione's last summer with her parents, the summer before she would finish Hogwarts in her seventh year, and fully become part of the wizarding world.
"Oh, no, really! I'll visit you enough, mother," Hermione said. She felt her stomach flutter slightly, her nerves hanging by a thread. "What I wanted to ask you was whether I had a baby book or not."
"I don't believe we ever filled in one of those books, but there should be plenty of pictures."
"But there aren't any pictures of me from before I was six months old up there." The two women were now facing each other, each having turned away from their duties. Hermione could see the blank look upon her mother's face.
"They must be misplaced somewhere.I've been meaning to clean out that attic for the longest time." Annie turned back to stirring her stew.
"So there are pictures of me, right? I mean, you remember an album with pictures of me when I was born?"
Her mother was silent for a moment, her face turned away. "Of course," she said.
But Hermione couldn't help but notice the flash of a confused look upon her mother's face before she preoccupied herself with the stew.
Something was definitely wrong, Hermione thought, a tiny knot beginning to form in her stomach.
****
Chapter 1
Draco was at the edge. He could feel it, the dark abyss that was waiting for him, a scarce half inch from the edge of his toes.
"If you put one toe out of line." came the cold threats of his father from somewhere deep in his mind.
"Yes, father," Draco told the voice, his voice every bit as expressionless as he was meant to be.
But in another part of Draco's mind, he was screaming. Always a jumble of thoughts and screams, of feelings that he shouldn't have. And now, he locked them into a deep recess of his mind, caged by the simple thoughts his father asked of him.
There were always meetings in the Malfoy Manor. It was a place muggles were barred from and no muggle-loving wizard or witch would dare find themselves. Not in these times.
The darkness reeked through the house, the coldness penetrating Draco's thoughts. He was on the balcony, but even in the summer, the air around Malfoy Manor was cold, a sharp blow to his lungs.
The Lestranges were visiting that night. Draco didn't like the way Bellatrix looked at him, her eyes crazy-mad and the darkest black color. It seemed as if Bellatrix an her husband, tainted by their years at Azkaban, knew only one thing, loyalty to the Dark Lord.
Draco realized that he was hungry. He had escaped the strict affair of dinner with the Lestranges by feigning sickness, but now his stomach grumbled in protest. He glided down one of the many extensive hallways that ran through Malfoy manor in a maze that was easy for a stranger to get lost in.
He had to pass the dining room to get to the kitchen, and Draco slowed his steps as he approached that doorway. The door was open a crack; the voices of his father and the Lestranges floating through to where Draco was silently making his way across the marble floors.
Father wasn't being secretive anymore, Draco noted. Normally, a Silence spell and other blocking spells would be placed on the room if deatheater activity was being discussed. But now everyone knew that his father was with the Dark Lord (as if there had ever been any doubt before).
"The Dark Lord wishes your son to take this mission," Bellatrix was saying. Draco stopped, a sinking feeling taking over the hunger of his stomach.
"And what mission would the gracious Dark Lord wish my son to complete?"
"And there is also, of course, a little something I am wondering of you, Luci," Bellatrix's voice was sickly sweet, as if she was talking to a child. "We are remembering. We are remembering the times before Azkaban, slowly. It has taken us more than a year to remember our whittle girl.and the Dark Lord says you can help us."
There was a pause in the room. Draco heard his mother gasp, but it was stifled quickly.
"Does Luci remember what happened? Just where did this precious girl of Bellatrix's go? Not down the drain, or I will be very mad."
"I don't remember a daughter, Mrs. Lestrange. You must be mistaken, I know how Azkaban must have fooled with your mind," Lucius said in an even tone.
"Liar! Don't try to lie to me, or the Dark Lord. He knows you lost her! And she must be found by your son!"
"And how, pray tell, would my son know where this daughter is?" Draco could feel the malice in his father's voice.
"Why don't you remember, Luci?" Bellatrix's voice was again sweet and taunting. Even in her craziness, she still possessed the intelligence and power that had been hers before Azkaban. "A little Dumbydore took her away from you, right under your nose. She must be there, at Hogwarts. And when your son goes back, Drakie will find my little girl, and her powers will be revealed."
Drakie? Draco almost snorted despite the delicate situation he was in. But he didn't, and he realized that the voices from the dining room had stopped. Draco was already storing away the information he had gleaned from that meeting for later speculation. He quickly made his way back to his room; he wasn't hungry anymore.
****
Hermione was looking through old photo albums in the attic. It was summer, and light streamed through the high, circular window and illuminated the dust that floated in the air.
She had come up to the attic to retrieve an old favorite book and her eye had caught the albums lying underneath it. She couldn't help but lift out the treasures of her childhood, a small smile on her face. Her parents really loved her, even if they would rather not place the albums in their spotless living room, they had still created these albums.
Books of Hermione's accomplishments in primary school, albums of their first holidays, birthdays and vacations, all dated throughout Hermione's childhood, and all with her mother's neat handwriting on the back.
Hermione didn't know how long she was up there, but the afternoon sun was receding when she looked at the last album.
She was an infant in this book, the pictures labeled neatly with the date and her age on the back. But Hermione reached to where she was six months old, and the book ended.
That's odd, Hermione thought, that was the last book. There was no baby book, or any other pictures in the trunk where the albums had been placed. The room suddenly grew cold to Hermione, the setting sun no longer reached into the attic, and Hermione felt a shiver.
She hugged the Chudly Cannon's T-shirt closer around her. Ron had given it to her for her last birthday, and she had been initially.well, shocked and then mad. Couldn't he just stick to books? First perfume and then this hideous orange thing? Admittingly, the perfume had been nice, if a little odd.
But in the comfort of her home, she had instantly felt closer to Ron wearing the shirt. She knew he would give that lopsided smile and tease her for wearing it, but he couldn't see her now.
And she was letting these thoughts run her away from the matter at hand. Hadn't her parents taken pictures of her as soon as she was born and home from the hospital? Hadn't her parents loved her at first sight? They had taken tons of pictures of her at every other age.
You're letting yourself get carried away, Hermione scolded herself. There is probably a simple solution for this.
Determinedly, for Hermione always pursued information in something she didn't know, she made her way downstairs.
"Hermione," acknowledged her mother, bustling about the kitchen. "Won't you help me dear? The lettuce needs to be washed and chopped."
Annie Granger was short, with a practical bob of brown hair streaked with gray. With pleasant features and a keen eye, Hermione wished she was more like her mother was at her age. The older photos of her parents before she was born and of her mother in High School showed a beautiful young woman with wavy brown hair and astounding blue eyes. But Hermione's hair was bushy rather than wavy and her eyes were a lighter shade of her father's brown, and she wasn't near as beautiful as her mother had been.
"What in the world are you wearing, Hermione?" her mother asked, hands on her hips.
Hermione blushed. She had forgotten that she was still wearing Ron's orange shirt. And dinner at the Granger's was normally a small, but nice and proper affair.
"It was a gift from Ron. Don't worry, I'll change before dinner," she reassured her mother. Hermione took the lettuce out from the refrigerator and began to run water over it.
"I was looking through photo albums this afternoon," Hermione told her mother, who was busy at the stove.
"Did you want to take some of them with you, when you leave?" Her mother asked. This was Hermione's last summer with her parents, the summer before she would finish Hogwarts in her seventh year, and fully become part of the wizarding world.
"Oh, no, really! I'll visit you enough, mother," Hermione said. She felt her stomach flutter slightly, her nerves hanging by a thread. "What I wanted to ask you was whether I had a baby book or not."
"I don't believe we ever filled in one of those books, but there should be plenty of pictures."
"But there aren't any pictures of me from before I was six months old up there." The two women were now facing each other, each having turned away from their duties. Hermione could see the blank look upon her mother's face.
"They must be misplaced somewhere.I've been meaning to clean out that attic for the longest time." Annie turned back to stirring her stew.
"So there are pictures of me, right? I mean, you remember an album with pictures of me when I was born?"
Her mother was silent for a moment, her face turned away. "Of course," she said.
But Hermione couldn't help but notice the flash of a confused look upon her mother's face before she preoccupied herself with the stew.
Something was definitely wrong, Hermione thought, a tiny knot beginning to form in her stomach.
