2. to be loved.
Hermione concentrated on the sound of 'The Nutcracker' pas de deux playing on her father's gramophone. Music filled the room and snow was starting to fall outside, it was comfortable that day. She felt anxious at the thought of finally opening her Christmas present under the tree when the day cleared. The euphoric stomping noises on the floor took her concentration off, continuing to listen to music. Uncle Fleamont rubbed his forehead as he complained to James Potter for the third time that night; James was looking to the side with his arms crossed and not looking the least bit regretful, Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes. Her cousin was too stubborn and childish, he was fussy and ran around the house, she didn't like it when he tumbled on the shelves and nearly knocked over Hermione's father's precious ingredients, Heldor was too patient and seemed to enjoy James' nonsense.
She sat down on the sofa, giving up on paying attention to the music for a moment. Aunt Euphemia used her wand to bring food to the table, supper was almost set, and Hermione admitted that she was thrilled to see people other than her father using magic. The potioneer's daughter came down from the sofa carefully, her shoes stepping on the rug placed on the floor exclusively for that date, she approached the table, scratched her wrist; she was bothered by the dress with buttons up to the neck and the long frilly sleeves.
Aunt Euphemia believed it was adorable when Hermione wore it, the girl just thought it was silly.
Euphemia Potter wore a Slytherin green dress with silver embroidery from neck to bust, and as all witches her age, the sleeve was longer and tighter at the wrist than the rest of her arm; her dark eyes were like a hawk's, stiff and paying attention to Hermione's every misstep. The younger girl wished her aunt was so strict with James, nonetheless. within the spheres of wizarding society, the child's education was the father's responsibility, while the responsibility of the daughter's education belonged to the mother; Euphemia had no daughters; Hermione was where she dumped all the lessons in manners and everything else taught by Euphemia's own mother.
Hermione looked at her cousin quickly, it wasn't like she didn't like James; she liked him because he was a member of her family. For Hermione, it was tricky because she felt something in her chest when she looked at her cousin's innocent face, the glasses, and black hair, the way he was always asking Hermione about everything.
She didn't understand the sad and apprehensive feeling she felt looking at James; Hermione just didn't like feelings she couldn't understand. Information was important, her father had always told her how knowledge was what kept everyone out of trouble.
And she couldn't explain those feelings, so she was always hesitant around James.
She considered it lucky that no one had yet noticed, that her uncle and aunt visited with reasonable frequency, and Christmas Eve was a special date.
They would always come on December 24th. It was the Potter's way of supporting Heldor, Fleamont still missed his twin sister, Clio Potter-Granger owned a few portraits, and they always sat at the table to reminisce about their younger days.
"Hermione, don't fold the sleeves of your dress." Euphemia said to the little girl, Hermione looked up, frowning.
"It makes no difference, aunt. I'm not leaving the house, no one will see," she complained and pulled out her chair.
Fleamont laughed briefly, Euphemia glared at her husband.
Heldor returned to the living room holding a book, by the cover; Hermione could tell it was a photo album. She shrank, not really liking the idea of maybe seeing pictures of her mother that day, Hermione didn't know how to feel, she liked it a lot when they talked about Clio, however, seeing pictures where she moved and smiled when Hermione could never see her mother again, kiss her or hug her, it left her in a bad mood.
"Look what I found in the middle of my cluttered closet," Hermione's father grinned. "There are some pictures from our time at Hogwarts."
Euphemia raised her eyebrows and sat up, James ran to the table.
"Dad was captain of the Quidditch team!" James exclaimed excitedly, he turned to Hermione with a wide smile, and the little girl smiled back because she found his excitement amusing.
"Well, it's almost a Potter family tradition," Fleamont scratched the back of his neck with a small smile, the flushed cheeks behind his mustache making clear the man's shyness. "Your mother also appreciates it a lot , Hermione. She loved Quidditch as much as she loved Muggle theater and mythology."
Hermione looked in the opposite direction; she was glad to hear that, but she didn't share her mother's passion for Quidditch. Heldor sat beside his daughter, and kissed her head, his eyes holding a hidden fondness.
"'Mione doesn't like Quidditch as much as Clio, but she certainly loves Muggle theater and mythology."
Potioneer's daughter looked up, her brown eyes shining, a smile playing on her lips as she heard her father compare her to her mother.
"It's really cool that Uncle Fleamont was a Quidditch captain," Hermione said to James and the boy nodded fervently.
"I'm going to be captain too! And I'm going to Gryffindor!" He said to Hermione, Euphemia shook her head.
"If you go to any house, you will be loved anyway, and if you don't become captain of the Quidditch team, nothing will change. We're not pushing it," Euphemia said affectionately, and Fleamont nodded.
"You can always go to Slytherin, like Aunt Euphemia," Hermione pronounced, still smiling as she held out her plate to her aunt, Euphemia smiled and winked at her slyly.
"Not! I want to go to Gryffindor, like Dad," James shook his head quickly and straightened his glasses, giving his mother a hesitant look because Euphemia had crossed her arms over her chest, looking disapproving. "What? I'm nothing like you at all, Mother."
Euphemia looked incredulous, James shrugged, and Heldor chuckled.
"Slytherin still has a bad reputation, old Salazar should have known better," Fleamont looked up at Heldor. "With all due respect, Granger."
"At least Slytherin makes good potioneers," Heldor drummed his fingers on the hardcover of the album and Euphemia waved her wand so that the food floated onto Hermione's father's plate. "You are lucky, however, despite the rivalry of the houses, you were able to be classmates at Hogwarts. As Clio studied at Beauxbatons, I seriously don't know if we would get along at school or not."
"Clio was selected for Bellefeuille, she used to say it's the equivalent of Gryffindor," Fleamont smiled at Hermione. "The Potters have a pattern."
"Yes! That's why I'm going to Gryffindor!" James exclaimed again, as he stuck his fork into the ham on his plate and then chewed while smiling with his mouth closed.
Hermione watched the interaction with wide eyes, she read books about Beauxbatons because her mother had gone to that school, Heldor had an old photo of Clio wearing the blue uniform there. It was emotional for Hermione to see her own mother wearing her favorite color, Clio's fair hair tied back in a ribbon bow just like Hermione's.
"Where do you want to be selected, Hermione?" James asked with his mouth full; Hermione stared at her cousin, obviously taken aback by the question.
Everyone at the table stopped, she shrugged, noticing the tension between the adults, something James didn't seem to notice. James didn't know about her illness yet, Hermione liked that because he didn't act any differently around her, but in a situation like this, it was difficult to handle.
"Hermione has a sea of possibilities, James. Don't bother her," Euphemia said, she stared at her plate as she spoke.
"Dad, weren't you going to show me the photos from the Hogwarts era?" Hermione changed the subject and smiled widely, trying to get the curiosity about her out of her cousin's mind. James was innocent enough to just go with the flow, he craned his neck towards the album in his uncle's hands without coming back to the subject again.
Heldor opened the album with a wistful smile, the first photo showing four people; a boy not looking very happy, a girl with dark hair in a Dutch braid; another girl with her hands on her hips, and a boy looking shy with his hands in his pockets. In the photo, they looked at each other, they looked uncomfortable, but the shy boy sometimes stared at the dark-haired girl over his glasses.
"Oh, dear Salazar, this is Walburga Black," Euphemia commented playfully and pointed to the girl with her hands on her hips who was tapping her foot repeatedly, the younger ones at the table leaning over to see the picture better. "She wasn't happy about our get-together with Gryffindors."
"Look at Heldor's face, poor unhappy boy," Fleamont chuckled and Hermione's father snorted.
"It's hard to see a Slytherin smile in a photograph," Heldor jokes; Euphemia rolled her eyes.
"We don't need to be smiling all the time, one of the houses needed a little sense."
"That's why there is Gryffindor." Fleamont said, and laughed as he earned his wife a light slap in the arm.
"Who is this boy, Uncle Heldor?" James pointed to the second photo; they were all in what appeared to be a field holding Broomsticks, a very handsome young man with apparently fair hair pulled back, leaning his arm on Hermione's father's shoulder and raising an eyebrow when Heldor took his arm from over it.
"Abraxas Malfoy, I haven't seen him in a long time," Heldor replied, he smiled softly at the photograph. "He was captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team in our year."
"He was arrogant. Nothing has changed, I see him in the ministry sometimes, he seems pompous as usual."
Fleamont looked disgusted, and Heldor looked at Hermione.
"Malfoy was in love with Euphemia," He said in an amused tone, Hermione glared at her aunt and laughed.
"Oh, that's nonsense," Euphemia complained, shaking her head.
"You look a lot nicer than him to me, Uncle Fleamont," Hermione praised and her uncle smiled.
"Thank you, Hermione. That's why you're my favorite niece."
Heldor flipped the page, the others took the opportunity to continue their lunch, Hermione noticed how nostalgic her father looked, giving a few slight smiles a few times. Hermione finished eating and moved her chair closer to her father; she bent over and saw a photograph that caught her eye.
There were only boys, they were dressed in typical Hogwarts uniform, but there were no sleeves rolled up to the elbow or wrinkled suits. They were in something like a row on a staircase, Hermione noticed the frizzy-haired young man between them - it was her father, he looked a lot more serious than in the other photographs, there wasn't even a hint of a smile on his face.
Abraxas Malfoy was also among them, his pale hair loose and falling over his shoulders. They were so still it looked like a Muggle picture, they just blinked or some of the boys shifted their weight to the other leg.
On the top step was the only boy whose mouth curled into a smile. Even with the black and white photograph, Hermione could see that his eyes were very clear, his hair dark and the smile sweet and polished on his lips, his hair was so neatly combed and not a strand out of place, his clothes so impeccable. as for everything else, except for the brooch pinned to the side of his suit. Hermione stared at the wizard in the photo, he stared back at her like the way he did everyone else who looked at the photograph, his smile was almost fatherly but it didn't match his eyes.
"And who is this boy, Dad?" Hermione asked, she frowned and pointed at the stunning boy in the photograph.
"Oh. This is Tom, Tom Riddle," Heldor said, and looked at Hermione with his usual carefree, gentle eyes. "He was Slytherin Head Boy in my year."
"Do you have a photograph of Tom Riddle?" Euphemia asked as she waved her wand to pick up the dishes from the table, she stopped what she was doing and bent over to see the photo in the album in front of Heldor. "Look, he hasn't changed at all. How can he not have aged at all?"
"He may have aged now, the last time we saw him was at Clio and Heldor's wedding," Fleamont commented. "But he certainly looked exactly the same."
"Tom is a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin, Hermione."
She nodded to her father, interested by the information, she had never met anyone close to Hogwarts founders before.
"He was kind to someone from Slytherin," Fleamont said, seeming to be reaching for something in his own mind. "No one had any complaints about him, not even in Gryffindor."
"Abraxas hated him in the first year, but he started hanging out with him out of nowhere," Heldor scratched his chin.
"Probably because he found out he was Salazar Slytherin's heir, you know, the Malfoy family are like leeches."
Hermione assessed Euphemia's statement with curiosity, the wizarding families didn't seem to get along very well with each other.
"Did he come to your wedding with Mommy, Dad?" Hermione asked, shivering as James pushed back his chair and made the table shake.
"Yeah, he surprised us quite a bit, actually. You know that blue ribbon bow you like so much? It was a wedding gift from Tom," Heldor touched the place where Hermione's bow held half of her hair, leaving the loose rest.
Fleamont raised an eyebrow.
"Really? How did he know Clio's favorite color? He didn't even know her before the wedding."
"Well, Clio was already suspicious that she might be pregnant when we got married, Tom said it was for our daughter."
Euphemia snorted, looking like she didn't believe it.
"He guessed it then?"
"He was excellen at Divination when we were at school," Heldor seemed to snicker at the sight of Euphemia's expression. "Clio liked him and the present, it wasn't exactly surprising because hardly anyone doesn't like Tom Riddle."
"He looks like a politician and knows a lot of people, maybe he should try a career at the Ministry."
Euphemia patted her husband's shoulder twice.
"Tom Riddle never seemed like the kind of man who just wanted a good career, he always seemed too greedy," Euphemia narrowed her eyes, Heldor raised his eyebrows at her. "I have nothing against the man, he just looks… I don't know, too perfect."
"I haven't talked to him in a long time, so I don't know what he must be like now. But according to Mr. Avery, my last client, Tom seems to have achieved quite a bit of fame among the pureblood families," Heldor finally said. "It doesn't really matter, I'm glad he's doing well in life."
"Anyway, do we have dessert or not?" James exclaimed, looking upset.
"Dad made blueberry pie from the blueberries from our garden," Hermione told the boy; James scrunched up his sullen face.
"Do you have blueberries in the garden?" The little boy asked, impressed.
Hermione lifted her chin, proudly.
"Of course we do. Our garden has a lot of fruit and Dad cast a spell to hex any kind of pest."
"This is so cool!"
She chuckled and nodded in agreement, the infantile pride totally gone.
"I can show you tomorrow!"
"I want to see!"
Heldor exchanged a look with Fleamont, Euphemia removed the cooling spell from the pie above the sink.
"They get distracted too quickly," Heldor commented, watching the two children rush to sit on the living room rug.
"It's good that they take advantage of this phase, the problems grow with us."
Heldor took one last look at the photograph along with his former classmates.
"Indeed."
Hermione dreamt of her mother on the morning of December 25th, it was a strange occurrence because Hermione had never dreamt of her mother before.
She had only seen the beauty of brown eyes and fair hair in photographs, in this dream, her mother was not very like what her father described. Hermione was running through a wheat field, she felt the wheat brush her palms, there was a woman in a wedding dress in the middle of the field, she was holding a red ribbon bow in her gloved hand, and there was a veil over her face .
The young woman stared at Hermione, her eyes were brown like hers, but they were fierce and stormy, her expression filled with curiosity, fire and mystery.
"Mommy?" She called, not believing her eyes.
"Where did you hide her, Hermione?" The woman whispered.
Hermione's eyes widened, her mouth falling open as well.
"Who? Who did I hide?"
The mother just smiled.
On the morning of December 25th, Hermione dreamt of her mother for the first time, she also woke up feeling like she was drowning.
The shortness of breath took her heavily in her sleep, her face was red, and she put her hands to her abdomen, which was also sore and strangely swollen, rolled over in bed, and tried to breathe once more. She tried to ask for help, she tried to call for her father, the room started to spin and her sick heart also accelerated, feeling the consequences of the illness that it caused, her chest started to hurt and she was afraid of what would happen when that pain intense stopped, the unlit stars on its ceiling was the only setting in what appeared to be the beginning of her death.
The flowers on the string attached to her headboard were still vivid as she began to feel the life slipping out of her body, Hermione reached for the door and her easily broken body, that body that should have been heavier and able, began to fail to obey her as it always did. Her chest still ached when her father walked through the door, the breakfast tray looked elaborate and fell at the man's feet.
He took his wand out of his pocket and pointed it quickly.
" plíg dýteri!"
It was as if she was still dreaming, hallucinating in a murky scenario existing only in her mind, she had never heard her father perform that spell before, it didn't matter, it was really good. She felt her body soften and her chest stop hurting, she felt totally painless, like she was floating.
"Heldor! What happened?! Heldor!" Aunt Euphemia's voice was a distant echo.
Hermione passed through the arched doorway, she saw as she looked up because her father was carrying her in his arms.
"The spell will only last another three minutes, I have to take her to St. Mungo's."
"She's too sick to Apparate! Wait, Hel—"
Hermione didn't hear the rest, everything became a blur.
Heldor Granger was wearing his nightclothes; people were walking through inside St. Mungo's hospital, and they seemed quite frightened by his situation. The man couldn't have cared less, the disheveled curly hair and crooked glasses seemed like minor problems compared to the fact that his only child had had a heart attack on Christmas morning.
He felt incompetent, in the waiting room, there wasn't much he could do.
No one could make her have a normal life, it was a fact he'd known since Hermione's birth. The main cause of her heart problems came from the core of her magic, something that was inherent in the existence of a wizard, there was never any wizard who was not a miscarriage - because her magic core was already born dead - who had been able to turn off the being. of the magical person. It was the equivalent of taking out the lung and putting nothing in the place of the organ, a wizard with no magic core was destined to find rest in the arms of death.
Heldor rubbed his hands together, took his wand out of his pocket, and cast a warming spell, he had forgotten, and his fingertips were starting to turn purple.
The high walls of St. Mungo's seemed desperate to try to suffocate him, reminding him of his incompetence and reminding him of how he was failing in every way. His eight-year-old daughter was dying and Heldor could only soothe and watch; It was the first time he wished he had been born a muggle, if he was born a muggle, if Hermione was a muggle, that disease wouldn't be a problem for her.
The woman wearing the white apron under the typical green dress for female healers appeared from the room, the cathedral corridor seemed to get longer as she approached, she stared at Heldor calmly and seriously, a look he had seen many times, especially seen in the face of healers since the birth of his daughter.
Heldor shivered.
"Mr. Granger?" The red-haired woman glared at him as she approached, she was the only one who didn't seem to mind his appearance.
Heldor wiped his hands on his pants, anxiety starting to make his hands sweat.
"Y-Yes?"
"She's sleeping, we managed to run some spells to keep her stable, she's fine." The healer stared at him with green eyes still looking serious. "Did you already know about her having Noori's Syndrome?"
Noori's Syndrome.
A disease discovered by Navi Noori in early 1893, common only in wizards and witches, in which an individual's unstable magical core causes the magic itself to start attacking the wizard or witch internally, there is no proven cause for what causes the anomaly, it is only known that any kind of magic can cause the symptoms to worsen, the heart is the most harmed organ because of its proximity to the magic nucleus in question. There has never been a survivor of Noori Syndrome; the beating potion, which has dragon heart string as its main ingredient, is the only palliative for the disease.
Hermione was always sick because she was at the stage of practicing accidental magic, any feeling of happiness, fear, sadness or anger would make her magical core awaken.
Heldor remembered seeing the books on the shelf in her room on the floor when he entered, she had probably performed accidental magic in her sleep.
"Yes, I know." He muttered, his voice broken and shaky.
"I'm sorry, sir." The healer said, her gaze softening. "You can come in to see her when she wakes up, I'll let you know as soon as she opens her eyes."
The wizard clenched his jaw and nodded.
He rubbed his face with his hands, there were no more tears to shed that day, he would give her Homer's Odyssey as a Christmas present, Hermione liked muggle things, just like her mother.
Heldor was failing, he was running out of time. His potions weren't powerful enough, his spells — even those created like plígdýteri —were not good enough, he needed help, he needed someone better than him.
The thought haunted him, itching like a sore, as he paced the corridors of St. Mungo's.
He had already been to many places, he had already consulted with wizards from all over the world; no one knew about Noori Syndrome, Heldor had already consulted even Albus Dumbledore.
He still remembered the words of the old professor.
I don't have the answers you're looking for, Mr. Granger. But I advise you to let fate take its course.
I don't have the answers you're looking for, Mr. Granger. But I advise you to let fate take its course.
Heldor knew, when he looked his former teacher in the eye, that he was warning him about using the dark arts.
All he could think about was how he thought of the man, how Dumbledore, a leader respected by many, could put his concerns and that fragile morality above the health of the former student's daughter.
Hermione spent a great deal of time in the company of Fleamont and Euphemia when she was a baby. Heldor walked places he never thought possible he would, he visited witches on the African, Asian, Central and South American continents in the hope that someone might know a cure. Some of his former acquaintances helped him at that time with authorized portkeys, with access to other ministries, he even used his grandfather's name to make the trip possible.
And when it was over, he still felt like he hadn't done enough.
He needed help because Hermione's time was running out and there was no more time to go looking.
Heldor needed an exceptional mind.
He needed a genius like Albus Dumbledore.
A genius .
A genius, the most brilliant he could ever know.
The brightest student of his age.
Heldor rushed out of the hospital, descending the stairs and nearly falling as he did so. Outside St. Mungo's, he Disapparated.
Fleamont was with his arms crossed and biting his thumbnail among the various flowers, fruits and plants covered with snow in front of his brother-in-law's house, Euphemia was explaining the situation to James inside the cabin, distracting him with Christmas presents.
Fear crept up the man's spine as he remembered his niece's frail body in Heldor's arms.
Suddenly, Heldor appeared in front of him, crumpled and messy and looking livid.
"Potter, I think… I need to send a letter to Tom Riddle."
