1. persephone in the garden.
Hermione Granger reached up to the sky and tried to watch the sun through the tiny fingers of her hand. The wild grass shook in the wind around her, ruffled the lake, and made the loose flower petals dance, with the breeze brought in from the grounds of the cabin where she lived with her father.The potioneer's daughter made a satisfied sound, rested her fingers on her stomach, and realized that the gray clouds behind the blue looked like a picture painted by Monet. It was a peaceful day; she didn't have a fever once, she didn't throw up, she felt particularly weak that day. but she didn't want to lie in bed and waste such a beautiful afternoon, so she didn't tell Heldor, the kind and very concerned father, about how she was feeling. Hermione liked to go down the small hill to see the lake. She would sit with the fabric of her dress, touching the grass and hiding her legs. The wind was pleasant, and the scent of nature brought her calm, sweet, gentle and fresh.
She likes to stick her fingers in the dirt and plant other species of flowers and plants with her father. He was a magician and always showed her a new spell. The little girl's brown eyes widened in pleasure, seeing a cut seedling of a plant grow rapidly after a few nods from that thing her father called her wand.
Hermione was not allowed to have a wand and would likely never have one, though.
She was not an ordinary child, but not for good reasons. The girl was born very weak and almost didn't survive.
Her father always brewed potions for her, most of which kept her heart from failing while she was walking or playing; but they didn't stop her from getting terribly ill often. Magic was a catalyst for her deteriorating health, even if she performed a few accidental magic works.
Hermione was used to seeing the sky through the starlit window of her comfortable bedroom. Some fireflies around the house clustered on the other side of the glass. The girl wasn't arrogant enough to assume they came especially to see her, but she liked to think so. She loved it too; however, it was no better than seeing the sky open and powerful; Hermione lay down on the grass and took a deep breath, felt the clean air enter her lungs.
Hermione had turned eight, and there were still many things she couldn't explain. There were a lot of sensations she couldn't put into words; they were like the puzzles she possessed when a piece was missing, except Hermione didn't know why she felt confused at specific times in her life.
Hermione sat up, and crawled towards the edge of the lake. She stared at her reflection; a little girl with round pink cheeks stared back at her. Hermione's lips were red petals, freckles on top of her nose and on top of her cheeks; her eyes were brown, the same color as her hair. Her hair, Hermione never understood it, was straight strands of a dark brown tone that didn't touch her shoulders; a blue ribbon pulled the strands back, and the ends of that ribbon could be seen near the side of her head. It was possible to see the blue buttons on her ruffled dress; she looked down and noticed how dirty her white tights were with dirt.
The girl's strands of hair slipped close to her cheeks; they were light and easy to care for. Hermione thought her hair was so weird and she couldn't even explain why. When her father ran the brush through the strands, she curled up, thinking how much it must hurt, and when he was done, she thought about how it should be more…Frizzy? Impossible to handle?
It was always like a void, a shadow hovering over her mind. That was her, Hermione was sure; however, something about her didn't feel right. Thinking about it gave her a headache, and she always threw that feeling back in her mind, like it was something very wrong to think about.
The breeze became stronger.
The potioneer's daughter coughed, and flinched; the night began a leisurely ride through the twilight. Hermione got to her knees and got up from the floor, she bent over and patted her knees, trying to get the dirt out of her tights; the edge of her white dress was filthy.
She thought about her aunt; the woman would probably complain to her father. Aunt Mia was loving and patient, but she was also very strict regarding her manners.
"Don't listen to Euphemia, you don't have to be like her." Heldor, her father, would say, every time Uncle Fleamont and Aunt Euphemia had visited.
Hermione didn't know if she would want to do something like that, Euphemia was a tall woman with dark eyes and her hair was the night falling down her back, she was beautiful like the goddess Nyx. For the little Hermione, anyone would like to be like Aunt Mia.
The darkness in the sky was struggling to reach its apex; the gray clouds began to become more present than the blue ones; the color of the sky was red and gray. Hermione stared at the immensity above her head with bright eyes. The first drop of rain hit the tip of her upturned nose; she blinked rapidly and wiped her wet skin with the sleeve of her dress.
"Hermione!" She looked up to the top of the shallow hill, her father waving. He wore a brown coat and baggy pants, a worn vest over his old button-down shirt, and his hair was a mass of messy curls; the strings attached to the sides of his glasses kept the object from falling to the floor, and it hung in the neck. Hermione sighed, hurried on and started walking, her blue shoes splashing across the dirt as she walked, trying not to slip, and ignoring the weakness that had intensified her small body, she started to slow down at the sight of her father's critical gaze. "Don't run, you know it's not necessary to run."
Her father's voice was stern and gentle at the same time, he placed his hand on her head when she got close enough to stroke the top of it.
"I didn't run, I already learned how fast I can walk quickly without getting too tired" she revealed in a didactic way; Heldor raised his eyebrows with amusement. He was already used to the eloquent tone of his eight year old daughter. "I just felt the breeze, it's not good for a kid like me to be locked up in the house."
"A child like you?" Heldor opened the door for her; Hermione stepped through the threshold and turned to look into her father's face.
"A sick child."
"You're aren't a sick child, only a child who happens to be sick. But you'll be fine."
"Muggle books say fresh air is therapeutic."
"Oh. Do you know what therapeutic means?" Heldor gave a small defiant smile; Hermione's expression was bright with excitement.
Rain poured down from the sky just as he closed the door.
"Relating to something that is good for your body and mind, also related to treating illnesses." She explained and started to take off her shoes; she placed it behind the door her father had closed. Hermione looked at her father expectantly. "Did I get it right?"
"As always because you are absolutely brilliant." Heldor bent down and kissed her forehead.
"Thank you." She said satisfied and with a blush on her cheeks.
The rain seemed to be trying to drown out the sound of Dinah Washington's voice coming out of the gramophone's bronze tulip. Hermione passed through the living room; the sofa was old but very comfortable, and the floor had worn wood paneling; the walls were painted a shade of orange beige, and there were many mahogany shelves with various jars containing potion ingredients made by her father. On top of the antique table, there was a vase of flowers plucked from their own garden; and there was also open incense being supported on a stone filled with small holes. The cabin had lots of smells and lots of things, too, but it wasn't hot or stuffy because her dad always made sure to put on a pretty effective cooling spell.
She went into the kitchen and climbed onto a stool in front of the sink to close the window; the wind made the curtains dance furiously and the water from outside splashed on her face.
She frowned and bent down to roll down the window.
"Your tights are filthy," Heldor noted as she climbed off the stool. "Go get ready, I'll heat the water for your bath, your clothes are wet, we can't risk you catching a cold."
Hermione pursed her lips, she obeyed anyway, getting a cold was one of the worst experiences she's ever had, her heart beat so fast it hurt and her father made her swallow a viscous purple liquid. He told her later that there was a dragon heartstring inside it; Hermione could never have guessed that a dragon heartstring could taste so disgusting.
She went to her bedroom, the sound of her little feet hitting the wooden floor, and she opened the door effortlessly; that gap in the cabin was big, even though it didn't look like it from the outside. Her father kept a preservation spell on the string of flowers lined up above her headboard. The flowers looked alive and happy even though they were no longer tied to the stem; the plant that created it had shades of blue, lilac and pastel pink. In addition to a few delicate white roses infiltrating among the other species, they left the room with the scent of the garden. There was another bookcase like Heldor's in her room, it had several books; muggles and wizards, transfiguration, arithmancy, many books on potions and astronomy, there were also many muggle books of science, she had some interest in botany because she was living in a place surrounded by flowers and also liked math and physics.
She was not a child who could go out and play with other children around, it was not common practice in that village to let girls play among themselves, Hermione saw some girls going to church together, the path was beyond the valley and they inevitably passed by the dirt path in front of the cabin, Hermione watched them through the cabin's glass window with interested eyes, they seemed to bounce around and wore laces in their hair similar to her own. Hermione wondered what her life would be like if she too could jump like that or walk long distances like those girls did.
She reached under her skirt and pulled off her dirty tights, placing them in the laundry basket beside the bed; as it grew dark, a fluorescent light began to light up the room. She stared at the ceiling to see the stars of her father's incantation.
"It's like Hogwarts: A History!" She made a high-pitched cry of excitement the first time she saw it.
"Well, I'm not that talented, but it looks pretty good. The one at Hogwarts is even more beautiful."
Hermione waited for him to tell her how she would see the enchanted ceiling of Hogwarts one day; he didn't, of course. He couldn't make empty promises, even though he always promised her that one day she would be all right.
Maybe she didn't want to go to Hogwarts, either.
As with her hair, she didn't feel it was right and she couldn't even list the reasons.
"Hermione!" Her father called her, and she ripped the ribbon out of her hair.
"I am going!" She snapped and reached for the towel before leaving the room and closing the door.
Hermione hated porridge and it was the only food her father could cook decently. The texture was like those of the healing potions he had made for her. Hermione could feel she had bitten off a bit of something and couldn't help herself as the urge to regurgitate became more evident, her mouth filling with saliva and the sides of her cheeks twitching. .
"I can't do it anymore." She put her hand over her mouth, cupped her nose between her fingers, so she couldn't smell it. "It's too much."
"You need to eat, Hermione."
"I ate that apple this afternoon!" She looked at the ceiling trying not to make the food come back, her head was starting to ache. "Please, dad."
Her eyes filled with tears; she hated it. She felt her father didn't deserve it; he struggled to prepare that porridge, and when she lowered her face, the afflicted expression on his face made it all worse. She didn't want to make him suffer, her body just didn't obey her as it should, she could hide some things, others would be too hard to handle alone. Hermione hated sharing her symptoms more than she hated porridge, more than she hated being stuck at home, more than not being able to go on a playdate with other girls.
Unfortunately, she would always have to look her father in the eye and tell him bad news about herself.
"It's alright, honey." He took a deep breath and stood up, his plate was untouched in front of him, his eyes were tired. He bent down beside Hermione and ran his hand down the little girl's back, moving in a circular motion to try to make her feel better. "It's not your fault, right?"
Hermione lifted her wet eyelashes at him; it was as if her father could read minds.
"M'sorry, dad."
Heldor knelt and hugged her. Hermione wrapped her thin arms around his neck, and the man lifted her from the chair, running a hand through her short brown hair.
"It's okay, everything will be fine." He comforted her.
Hermione tightened her grip on her father's shirt, her sick heart sinking with sadness at the knowledge that there would be no one to comfort him. His comfort became comfortable, he took her to the bedroom and put her to bed, it was comfortable under the sheets, her eyes stung, the cold didn't improve under the blankets though. A noise broke the sky outside; Hermione turned in bed to face the storm outside the cabin.
Her father's hand was a warm feeling on her skin.
"I'll see if I still have any ginger, you have a fever." He took his wand out of his back pocket, cast a diagnostic spell on it; Hermione blinked slowly, seeing the symbols glowing above her body. "You'll be fine, I promise."
She blinked a few times, within her inertia; she imagined the image of messy black hair and round glasses. She smiled weakly, and placed her hand on the cheek of the person in front of her. She fell asleep, but not before feeling a soft kiss on her palm.
That night, Hermione dreamt of the silhouette of three children walking towards an unknown place.
author's note:
In first place, I just can say thank you for you had to decide to open this story. It's totally based on isekai manhwas and some cottagecore and dark academy. Hermione is kind of a naive sick pureblood in this fic, but I just will make my best to not be so distant from her cannon personality. Her appearance was very much based on that of Emma's character as Meg March in "Little Women", only some things about her appearance has changed, she's still our Emma. And Tom, well, he's totally Matthew Bell on my mind, but you can imagine him as you wish.English isn't my first language, so maybe I can make some grammar mistakes, please tell me if you find some of these, this author will be grateful forever.I hope you can comment and maybe still follow this story, I have some good plans for it. This story is also posted on Ao3, my user is pinkblinder there too.This is it! Thank you for reading this 3
