John Marcus Granger had rescheduled his patients for today and remained at home.  He frowned as he perused the liquor cabinet in the drawing room, wondering what wizards liked to drink when they were socializing.  Then again, could this be considered socializing?  It was more of a quest for information, though he had to take an unusual route to get that information, given that his daughter was being rather reluctant to share it with him.

When his wizard cousin had gone missing it had sent chills up his spine.  He didn't understand everything that happened in Hermione's other world, but he had gleaned enough from snatches of sentences and phrases along with notices sent from her school to know that this He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named character was bad news.  Silly thing, though, to be afraid to even speak a name.  The Headmaster had not been afraid to speak it, though.  John, being a Muggle, had no qualms calling the man 'Voldemort'.  And from what little he had managed to figure out, this Voldemort was something akin to being the Hitler of the wizarding world.  Apparently there had been some incident involving his daughter's friend, Harry, which had resulted in the man's disappearance for some time.  Now, somehow, he was back and it had the wizarding world in an uproar.

He also had gleaned enough to know that this Voldemort had something to do with his mother and her time at Hogwarts.  His newly found relatives said that there might be a blood relation between him and this man, but that they could not verify it for certain.  This was rather silly, in his opinion, since you couldn't fool a calendar.  He knew what day Helena Wiggentree had graduated from Hogwarts and he knew what day he had been born.  He had not been premature or sickly, but robust and healthy.  There was no way he could have been born less than seven months after her graduation unless she had been pregnant before she left her school.  He had been firmly rooted within her prior to her disappearance.  Whatever had transpired between this Voldemort and his mother while at school, it hadn't been pretty.

And yet, his daughter would not tell him.  He wrote her letters asking for titles of books he could read dealing with the time of Voldemort, but she always wrote back stating that they were deadly dull or that she didn't want him to become unduly upset.  He asked the Wiggentrees, but they always became nervous and evasive.  A grown man with a sharp mind, it irritated John that everyone seemed to want to shield him from the truth as though he were only a child.  Finally he had hit upon a brilliant idea.  He used the telephone number he and his wife had been given when their daughter had received her letter all those years ago.  It rang a phone that had been set up inside the Ministry of Magic as sort of a help line for Muggle parents of magical children.  The service was there for their convenience and supplied everything from directions on how to get to Diagon Alley for school supplies, checking the test scores after major exams, even to setting up parent/teacher conferences.  He hadn't wished to bother Professor Dumbledore; that man had too much to do as it was.  Professor McGonagall he knew too well from his daughter's long letters, and he suspected that she would back up his daughter's concerns.  There was one teacher, however, that his daughter was not always flattering of, one he suspected would tell him the truth no matter how ugly and bitter it may be.

There was a faint popping noise behind him, and John turned around.  A man in long black robes now stood in the hallway outside his den, looking back at him.  He had pale skin, greasy, shoulder length black hair, a long nose that looked as though it had been broken more than a few times and glittering, malevolent black eyes.  The man bowed slightly in greeting.  "Mr. Granger."

"Professor Snape, I take it?"

"Correct.  I am informed that you wished to speak to me in person.  If you are concerned about your daughter's performance in my class, I assure you that you have little cause to worry.  Though I cannot approve of her taste in friends, she is one of the brightest students I have seen in some time."

"Well, I'd be rather worried if she weren't."  He offered a nervous smile.  "However, that isn't what I wished to speak to you about.  Please, do come in.  Make yourself at home."  He gestured to a comfortable chair and attempted to look the part of the charming host.  His wife was better at this sort of thing, but if the truth was as terrible as he feared, he'd rather spring it on her himself later.

Snape arched a brow, then moved into the den and sat down.  "There is something else on your mind, then?"

"Yes, there is.  Quite frankly I don't know where to begin.  Would you care for a drink?"

"A brandy, if you have it."  The man looked about the den.  This was both John and Hermione's favorite room.  He had had the walls lined with shelves which were now crowded with books on every subject that interested either one of them. A smile tugged at the corner of the professor's mouth at the sight of so many volumes.  "It doesn't surprise me that there would be a room like this in your house.  Your daughter is notorious for her love of books."

John beamed as he handed his guest a cut glass tumbler.  "Well, she comes by it naturally."  He sat down in a chair opposite his guest, not touching his own glass.  The silence that fell between them grew thick.

"I find it is best to always start at the beginning, Mr. Granger.  Since you do not want to discuss your daughter's academic performance, I take it that you are curious about the more recent revelations in your life."

John gave a relieved sigh.  "Yes, I must admit that I am.  My daughter, apparently, has seen fit to reverse the roles of child and parent in this case and my relations are not exactly forthcoming.  I realize that this… this Voldemort character was someone feared and loathed, but no one seems to be willing to tell me why.  I've done the math, and given the information I've been able to pull out of them so far, I've accepted that he is most likely my father.  But I must admit; if my own blood kin are going to look at me with pity in their eyes every time the subject comes up, then I feel I have a right to know why."  His frustration at the entire affair had become evident through all of this.  The professor studied him quietly, and then nodded.

"You're right.  Normally I would say that a non-magical person doesn't need to trouble himself with such matters, but you are closer to the problem than many wizards.  However, I am surprised by your daughter's reluctance to tell you about it.  She should have more faith in you than that.  I suggest, Mr. Granger, that you finish that brandy and pour both of us another.  Believe me when I tell you that you want to be a bit numb when you hear this."

~***~

"Where you going?"  Ron frowned as Hermione bade Harry and himself goodbye just as they were getting close to The Three Broomsticks. 

"Oh, my aunt, Lucille, and my mum are meeting me at Gladrags.  I'm to have new dress robes made."

"What's wrong with the ones you already have?"

Hermione sighed and shrugged.  "I don't know.  It has something to do with a party the Wiggentrees are having this Christmas.  Aunt Lucille said I'm to have a 'coming out party'.  I thought my robes would be fine as well, but she's insisting that I need something special."

"Oh!"  Ginny, her fingers wrapped in Harry's, smiled.  "You're getting whites."

Ron looked impressed.  "Hadn't thought of that, but they're certainly important enough to have a proper coming out for you."

Hermione looked from Ron to Ginny and back again.  "Considering that I'm not really all that great at the intricacies of social behavior in the wizarding world, could one of you fill me in?"

Ginny grinned.  "Well, a long time ago it would have been for a different purpose, but the really high standing wizarding families still give their daughters a coming out party.  Usually it's when you're sixteen, but they didn't know about you then, did they?  It used to be that they waited until you were eighteen, because the party meant that you were being put out there to find a husband, but that died out with the old 'marriage mart' idea back in the Regency days."

Ron grinned as well.  "You'll hate it, Hermione.  You're going to have to dress up in a gown you could get married in and dance with a bunch of lecherous old men.  All the important families will be there, just so your new kin can show you off properly.  You ought to make sure that we get invitations.  I'd like to see you trying to keep Old Man Diggle's hands to himself."

Hermione made a face.  "Great, just what I need."  She gave a now dubious look towards Gladrags.  "Think I could run for it?"

"Run for it!?"  Harry reached out and gave her hair a firm yank.  "You're a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin.  Now get your adorable derriere in that shop right now, Missy."  His hand pressed against her shoulder and gave her a firm push.  Hermione gave her friends a scowl over her shoulder, and then forced herself into Gladrags.

The little silver bell that hung over the door chimed as she entered.  Lucille and her mother were already there, Lucille in immaculate robes of burgundy and her usual long black gloves, her mother dressed in slimming dress pants and a thick sweater.  They both turned towards her when the bell chimed, gracing her with brilliant smiles.  Her mother held out her arms and wrapped her up in a warm hug while Lucille continued to smile, her affection in her eyes. 

"We were beginning to wonder if you would show up.  I was telling Lucille how you usually try to ditch out of fittings."

"It's not the fittings I'm running from; it's that so-called dressmaker of yours.  I'm positive she time warped from a Nazi Concentration Camp." Her mother's dressmaker was from Berlin.  She was tall and leggy with blond hair that was always in place and a bossy attitude that made Hermione look shy and timid in comparison. 

"She's definitely got her own mind, but she gets the job done." 

"Well, she isn't here today."  Lucille looked towards the back of the shop where a bolt of cloth was now levitating from the storeroom.  "Madam Tolliver will be making your robes.  She was just a girl when I was at Hogwarts, but she quickly mastered how to do touch less stitching."

"I'm not sure I fully understand this concept."  Hermione's mother was watching the bolt of cloth as well.  "It's hard to imagine that everything from the cloth to the final project won't be touched by human hands until the night of the party."

"Well, with the exception of my having to try it on for the fittings.  But I've already explained why it's done this way, Mum, even if it is a bit overkill for me."

"Better not to tempt the fates, Hermione.  More than one Wiggentree has started with a very mild form of the curse, only to find it grow to something far more debilitating.  Even though you only see the Visions in dreams, you should practice as many of the precautions our family follows."  Lucille looked down at Hermione's slender, graceful hands.  "You haven't gotten yourself any gloves, I see."

"Oh, surely I don't need to take things that far just yet.  Not while I'm still taking classes, anyway.  I'd always be replacing them because they were ruined by a potion or some wayward charm."

Lucille sighed and shook her head.  Madam Tolliver called them into a closed off room lined with mirrors and told Hermione to remove her robes.  She stripped down into her underthings and stepped onto a raised platform.

"Now, hold your arms out to your sides, Dear.  It might help you if you close your eyes at first." 

Hermione took her advice.  Lucille had explained this process to her in detail.  Magic had been used from the beginning of this process, first put to use in the harvesting of the cocoons of the silk worms.  They had been handled by levitation charms and other spells, never touched by hand.  The weaving and dyeing was also done by magic, and no delivery man ever had handled this bolt of silk.  It was a creamy, golden white and unblemished by bodily oils or warped weave.  That part didn't bother her.  It was the knowledge that Madam Tolliver was about to use magic to manipulate who knew how many different seamstress tools to make the robe.  She heard the soft rustle of the cloth as it spun off the bolt and began to float around her.  Curiosity made her open her eyes to see a length of softly gleaming silk drift before her… and a silver pair of shears zoom past her ear.  She snapped her eyes shut again.

The sound of scissors filled the little room.  It sounded as though there had to be at least a dozen different pairs, and all the while Madam Tolliver was talking to her mother and Aunt Lucille.  "This shade is perfect for her.  Bright white would wash her out, but this will make her glow."

"I thought it might.  Helena had been breathtaking in softer colors.  Did the decorations come in yet?"

"What did you order?"

"Oh, I think you'll be please, Mrs. Granger.  Ms. Wiggentree has had some of the finest pearls to be found in both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds brought in for this."

"Pearls?  Isn't she a bit young for pearls?"

"Isn't that a bit flashy for a set of dress robes that I'm likely to wear only once?"  There was a cool sensation as the silk was brought close enough to lie against her skin.  Apparently the initial cutting was done.

"We can use them again when we make your wedding robes, dear."  Madam Tolliver's voice seemed almost playful.  "My, but you do have a lovely figure.  Lucille, you'd best look into talking the Ministry into loaning you a hit wizard or two when she steps out in this.  There might be a riot."  Hermione felt her skin heat with a blush.

The fitting lasted for hours.  Her mother and aunt chatted to one another through most of it, mostly her mother telling the most embarrassing stories of Hermione's childhood.  When she had tried to protest Madam Tolliver had snapped at her to be still.  Hermione obeyed and sent up a silent prayer that her mother didn't bring any naked baby pictures with her.  Standing still with her eyes shut, however, wasn't very comfortable at the moment.  Madame Tolliver was stitching the robes now, and the fabric tugged in about five places and tiny needles darted through it without the guidance of a human hand.  Her arms had long since begun to ache, but Madam Tolliver's cure for this had been to cast another charm to suspend them outwards.  She dreaded the discomfort she would have in her shoulders come morning.

Finally, the robes were mostly stitched and she no longer had to wear them.  Using yet another levitation charm, Madam Tolliver removed them from her and moved them to a dressmaker's dummy.  "I'll just put in the finishing touches and add the beading.  It should be ready for you to pick up a few weeks before Christmas, Lucille."

"Thank you.  Please send the bill to the estate."  Lucille turned towards Hermione and her mother.  "I must be going.  There are matters to be seen to."  A rush of guilt washed over Hermione.  She had completely forgotten what else was happening.

"Has… has there been any word about Thomas?"

Lucille sighed and shook her head.  "Nothing.  I've never seen Alexander like this.  His mother has been gone for so long and he and Thomas…"  She faltered, and then put on a brave face.  "Well, we Wiggentrees are not entirely without our resources, are we?  Those of us who aren't mediwizards will most likely be aurors.  If anyone can find him, we can."

Hermione looked at her mother and saw that she was frowning.  "Should we postpone this coming out, then?  What if it has something to do with Hermione?"

"Then postponing it will look like an act of fear.  We will not be cowed into hiding.  Let those who would do us ill come."  There was a fierce light that sprang to life out of nothingness within Lucille's eyes.  "They cannot touch us.  We will have this gathering, and the Wizarding world will know that Hermione is a true Wiggentree."  She touched Hermione's cheek with a gloved hand, her body heat filtering through the soft kidskin, then apparated away.

"Well," her mother said, hands on her hips, "that would certainly cut my morning drive to the clinic down.  Do you think you could figure out a way I could travel like that?"

"I could… but you wouldn't like it."  Hermione threaded her arm through her mother's and pulled.  "Come on.  I want to show you Hogsmede."'

~***~

Severus returned to the school late and inebriated.  John and his missus certainly had excellent taste when it came to brandies and cognacs.  Too bad that John was unlikely to have a potion to rid him of the hangover they both were going to have the following morning.  

The first few drinks had made it easier to start talking.  Once he had started, Snape had found it difficult to finish.  In truth, he was irritated at Hermione for not answering her father's questions herself.  If any man deserved to know the ugly truth, he did.  He should know what sort of creature had sired him so that he could prepare himself in the event that he ever had the unfortunate experience of meeting him.  It wasn't the daughter's place to protect the parent, even if she were a witch and the parent a Muggle. 

In turn, John had told him some things.  After he had heard all about Voldemort's evil ways, about the bloodshed and the violence, he had fallen silent for a long moment.  When Snape had thought he'd been given enough time to stew, he inquired on his thoughts.  The man had looked up from his glass, eyes filled with anxiety and shock as he answered, 'I guess that explains it.'

We had trouble, Emma and I, when we were trying to conceive.  There were several miscarriages, and none of them with any sound medical reasoning behind them.  We tried everything from changing our diet to ignoring our conservative upbringings to give the 'new age' tricks a try.  When we found we were pregnant again we were to the point that we didn't dare hope it would carry out until the end.  We were so careful, following every order given to us by the doctor, and eventually Hermione was born.  We were thrilled, and I'll admit that we've spoiled her shamelessly because of it. 

We almost lost her, though.  Mother… she came to see us after Hermione was born.  She had been ill for over a year, fighting breast cancer and too weak to travel most times.  We were sitting downstairs when we heard the baby crying and Mother said she would see to her. Neither of us thought anything about it, and I remember that Emma had her hands busy at the time.  She finished quickly enough and hurried upstairs.  She was breastfeeding Hermione, see, and she thought that she might be hungry.  Next thing I knew Emma was screeching like a banshee and there were noises coming from upstairs.  I ran up and found my wife fighting with her.  Mother was holding a little pillow that was usually in the rocking chair in her hand and Emma was yelling for me to get the baby.  Hermione… she wasn't breathing.  I tried to remember everything I had learned about CPR on children and managed to resuscitate her.  Emma fought Mother to the ground and said that when she had come up, Mother hand been holding the pillow over Hermione's face, trying to suffocate her.

The doctors thought that the illness had been too stressful on her.  We admitted Mother into a hospital where they could treat her.  Eventually, they told us she was stable.  We didn't trust her with Hermione for a long time, but she did seem better.  After a few years we relaxed a bit.  Mother came to live with us here.  She was all alone and needed someone to look after her, or so we thought.  She took to baking sweet biscuits for Hermione, in spite of our disapproval.  Then, Hermione started to get sick.  She became weak and started throwing up often.  Her hair became brittle and she started losing too much weight.  She was six at the time.  The doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong, but Emma started to wonder.  She took one of the biscuits to the doctor to have it tested and found that the sugar frosting was laced with arsenic.  Emma and I don't eat sweets, so we had not been poisoned.  Mother was trying to kill or daughter again.

Emma and I discussed it.  Emma took Hermione away to a private hospital in another city.  They stayed there until she regained her strength.  I stayed behind and had Mother committed.  All the while we told Hermione I had stayed because the cancer was back, that Mother was dying.  I paid to have a headstone placed in a cemetery near by so that when Hermione came home, she wouldn't know the difference.  As far as she is concerned, her grandmother died that year.

Snape knew what doubts were now plaguing the man.  He was thinking of all those miscarriages, all those failed attempts at fatherhood.  Now that he knew more of the beast who had started Helena's downward spiral into madness, he had to wonder if there wasn't something more sinister behind his wife's difficulties.  Severus believed that there was.  Only a man as vile as Voldemort could snap a woman's mind so badly that she would resort to murdering her own grandchildren before they were even born.  It appeared that Helena Wiggentree had become obsessed with denying the Dark Lord his desired heir, no matter the cost. 

Snape drained a vial of hangover cure before climbing into bed.  It had been a draining day for him.  Talking about Voldemort brought back memories of his own crimes and of the blood on his own hands.  It was something he was still paying for and he doubted that he would ever find absolution.  Perhaps he could go a long way towards it by putting all his cunning towards protecting the girl now.  After that article in the paper there was very little time before Voldemort began to consider the chances of a blood relation between himself and the Head Girl.  Severus had not been joking when he had told her that the wizard would have use for a healthy girl of breeding age.  It was too late to corrupt Hermione Wiggentree-Granger, but a babe would be an easy game. 

The cynical part of him pointed out that it might be a great deal easier if they could just find a way to kill the bastard and be rid of him for good.