Good Hunter, Let me free you from this dream.
Devote thy life to this vacuous cruel mercy.
The most commonly accepted description of Alchemy is it is a branch of magic and ancient science concerned with the study of the composition, structure and magical properties of the four basic elements, as well as the transmutation of substances; it was thus intimately connected with Potion-making, chemistry, and transformation magic. Alchemy also concerned philosophy; one interpretation of chemical literature, which was known to be dominated by mystical and metaphysical speculation, were that the study of Alchemy was symbolic of a spiritual journey, leading the alchemist from ignorance (base metal) to enlightenment (gold).
Alchemists enjoyed prestige and support through the centuries, though not for their pursuit of those goals, nor the mystic and philosophical speculation that dominates their literature. Rather it was for their mundane contributions to the chemical industries of the day the invention of gunpowder, ore testing and refining, metalworking, production of ink, dyes, paints, and cosmetics, leather tanning, ceramics and glass manufacture, preparation of extracts & liquors, and so on It seems that the preparation of aqua vitae, the "water of life", was a fairly popular "experiment" among Europeans. Potions, from antiquity until well into the Modern Age, a physics devoid of metaphysical insight would have been as unsatisfying as a metaphysics devoid of physical manifestation. For one thing, the lack of common words for chemical concepts and processes, as well as the need for secrecy, led alchemists to borrow the terms and symbols of biblical and pagan mythology, astrology, kabbalah and other mystic and esoteric fields; so that even the plainest chemical recipe ended up reading like an abstruse magic incantation. (Borage, L. 1946. Advanced Potion-Making)
"A boy needs his father." The dry look Hermione gave him made Hector cough into his fist, "At least, that's what nearly everyone in this society would say. Especially since it seems that you're the only one against it."
"But not every parent deserves a child," she countered.
"No," Hector agreed, "but from what you've told me, the father hasn't done anything to hurt the boy."
Well, technically, no. Riddle hasn't done anything that caused her son any harm. Even when he had held him at wandpoint. Not to mention the special connection between them would instantly tell her if her son was ever put in grave danger.
"Even though you paint your former beau as someone left to be desired, from what I understood, Alduin seems to be very interested in getting to know his father and the interest is mutual," the Alchemist added.
She shot him a glare, "He was never my beau."
He raised his hands up in a placating gesture, "Err… former lover then?"
That's even worse. Her disdain at the thought of her and Voldemort being placed at such an intimate relationship must have shown as the older Granger shook his head in defeat.
Even if she trusted Hector the most out of all her associates, and knew the man would keep her secrets with or without a contract, she just can't find in her to confess that she's originally from a time over thirty years in the future and that she was living her second life. She can't fault him for assuming she had a romantic past with Riddle that fell out of favor that resulted in her son's conception. She knew that eventually, all veils of her omission of the truth would eventually come crashing down. If the need arises, she'll have no choice but to confess, but before that could happen, she'll try her best to keep those secrets for now. The reason for her request for consultation was to get an outsider's perspective after all. She knew that her past experiences against Voldemort's evil even before the war had made her views biased.
She knew this, and she also knew that this wasn't about her. It's about her son and the next best course of action she should take.
"Alduin's father," she started, almost as if reminding herself, "is not an ordinary man."
In fact, her best advice would be to avoid him at all costs.
"So you've alluded, but then you have this… fierce resolve to give your son everything he wants as if your very life depended on it. It's a miracle he hasn't become like one of those spoiled pureblood brats in the old families."
That's because her life is depended on it. The cosmic audience is always watching, and she must uphold her part of the deal.
"I understand he's your only son and family left, and as his mother- which you have been doing a magnificent job by the way- you only wanted to provide your child with everything, but…"
Hermione can't help but smile at his words. She knew Hector only meant well. Maybe because she and her son are the only people he's been mostly in contact with for the last decade, or perhaps it was their shared last name that formed a pseudo-familial bond between them; even if he won't say it out loud, he cared, and she'll never resent anyone who truly does.
She shook her head, "I understand what you're trying to say, Hector, but trust me, it isn't about that."
Silence passed between them with Hermione lost in her thoughts about her situation and its inevitability and Hector just silently staring at her across the table of his tea room.
The dilemma was this: Alduin craves Riddle's ring. If it was just a whim, she could've denied him and her son would obey. That would've been the end of it. But no. She could not deny him this time. No matter how interested Alduin was in his father as a person, they would still need to get close to him to get his ring. Even if she herself had gotten powerful from her experiences, the battle between her and Riddle proved that they were at least in equal footing. Not to mention the Voldemort of this time is more cunning and manipulative than the reckless madman in her previous life.
For no matter how smart and observant her son is, Alduin is still a child, and children are impressionable. Especially since they've fully captured his attention. She has no doubt Riddle has something planned up his sleeve.
"You really are a riddle, Hermione." Hector confessed. "That's without saying our unusual meeting, of course. It's not every day you meet someone offering a full sponsorship out of nowhere after all."
As Hector let out a hearty laugh as he recalled the night the witch before him practically broke into his former hideout and threw bags of gold and precious stones at his feet to do research in her behalf, he failed to see the shocked, almost horrified expression on her face as she broke from her musings.
"What did you just say?"
Seeing her conflicted expression this time, the man looked at her quizzically and answered, "Err… our unusual meeting? Can you blame me for thinking as such? You asked for me to research about the World Serpent- Jörmungandr; Miðgarðsormr! Something that is even considered a myth in the wizarding world."
To be more precise, Hermione asked him to research about the World Serpent's alchemical equivalent- the Ouroboros. By definition, it is simply the representation of the unity of all things- material and magical. It is a basic philosophical lesson for any aspiring alchemists that says nothing truly disappears, but only change in form. It is the reason why the 3 goals of Alchemy are deemed possible despite its excruciating difficulty. Changing any metal into pure gold, creating a panacea, and the universal solvent, all boils down to the transmutation of one state to another.
Hermione Granger, however, adamantly believed there was something more to it than meets the eye, and in the last ten years he's done research for her, he eventually believed her.
"No, I meant before that," she supplied.
"You are a riddle," Hector, though he looked confused at first, schooled his features into something more serious as he regarded the witch before him. He may have his eccentricities, but Hector Dagworth-Granger was no Master Potioneer for nothing. His keen observance had helped him greatly in that regard.
It took them five years to realize that Hermione Granger hasn't aged a single day since they first met ten years ago.
"Apart from the fact we've yet to understand what's really going on with your body," he alluded her mysterious background she's yet to share with him.
Hermione's throat bobbed in trepidation before she answered, "Alduin's father… his name is Riddle. Tom Riddle."
Instantly connecting the dots and the reason for the witch's strange expression, Hector burst out a laugh that had him clutching his stomach and throwing his head back.
"I guess that settles it! Should I start calling you Mrs. Riddle from now on?"
Really, this woman who didn't even flinch at the sight of a debauched chimera, recoils in fear at the thought of marriage.
"Hector!" she exclaimed; face flushed. Her mind reeled at the innuendo of that alone. Even she was amazed at the level of restraint she had when Serafina first associated her in that way. Just how did the Potion Master even know where her mind has taken her so easily? Really, after Luna, she should've learned by now not to take lightly eccentric Ravenclaws.
As the older Granger's bellows subsided into giggles, his eyes widened and pounded his fist on an open palm. His expression was suddenly alit with recognition as if a lightbulb had flashed above his head.
"Ah hold on a minute now," he looked up in thought as he caressed his small beard, "Tom Riddle… Tom Riddle… now I believe that's a name I recognize."
"You do?"
"Oh yes! I remember now. If this is the same man we are talking about, I received a letter from him regarding my findings about Amortentia. He had very insightful questions about its creation, effects, and how to counter them. I should know because he's one of the rare few I bothered replying to, but that was around… sixteen or seventeen years ago."
Oh, that's definitely him.
"You don't think…" he glanced at her warily.
Hermione's response was quicker than she would've liked for Riddle's defense, "It's him, Hector, but trust me, he wouldn't."
It's more likely that Riddle sought information about Amortentia, not for the sake of using it, but in order to avoid it and possibly learn its effects as a child born from fake love. Tom Riddle abhorred at the thought of becoming anything like his parents. He despised his mother for her mortal weakness, and disgusted at his father for being a muggle.
"If you're sure," Hector relaxed a bit on his seat. "So, what is your plan? The father and son want to know one another, but you have reservations because of your past with this Tom Riddle. If you ask me, I say nip it at the bud. You've been doing marvelously in taking care of your son on your own. You never needed him then; you don't need him now. He doesn't seem much of a threat to you and really, your only concern is the two of them getting close. I say so because I have no reference to speak about a boy's development with their father. Especially someone who grew up so far without one."
She shook her head, "No, Hector. It is important that Alduin gets what he wants."
Whether it be her or Alduin, they must get his ring as soon as possible. Too bad she can't just rush at him and steal it through brute force. Riddle, in this time, is in his prime, and there's also the fact she can't engage with him in a confrontation. She won't risk upsetting Alduin like that. Either way, by force or by subtlety, they need to get closer to Riddle.
So she supposed, in the grand scheme of things and knowing the danger present, the real question is not what she should do, but to ask if she has the will to do it.
"You know, there is a saying," Hector gestured to himself first then towards her, "Keep your friends close, but…"
He drawled, and Hermione finished after wetting her lips, "Keep your enemies closer."
"Right!" Hector cried with a loud clap, "Now that we've got that out of the way, since you're already here, would you like to see what I've gathered so far? Although you'll have to excuse my report about the liquid gold process. I've still yet to revise it."
Grateful for the small break to her troubled thoughts, Hermione happily agreed and let the older Granger present his findings. It felt like she drank liquid luck when she saw Hector on the night her son came to this world. As capable as she was to do these herself, her son was her priority and she didn't have the luxury of time to do both. Fortunately, Hector was very agreeable after they've ironed out their contract. In exchange of doing research for her about Alchemy- with the focus on the Ouroboros and keeping her secrets to himself, she would help him disappear and provide him with funds and all the materials needed.
Of all the parchment and journals Hector gave her, Hermione first opened a leatherbound journal that had monthly entries for the last ten years. Each dated entry was a sketch of a woman's naked back, but what was noticeable of them were the thick lines drawn there. These lines started out small and few, just below the shoulder blades. As Hermione flipped through the pages (the drawings were followed by writings of questions, answers, and theories) the lines grew thicker and plentiful, until she stopped at the last entry and saw the lines nearly mirroring each other on each side. Like the roots of a tree or a branch with many, disjointed fingers, it covered the entirety of the woman's back from the base of her neck to her tailbone.
Hermione wished she could see it. Black the lines may be because of the charcoal used to sketch it; people could initially mistake the lines as some sort of tattoo.
But no.
She had to use a charmed mirror to see them for herself. One at the back and one in front of her. For her to see the black lines to actually be tendrils of opalescent hues. Light blues, pinks, purples, greens, yellows, and more; colors that were moving within their confines across her back.
Lines her body seemingly possessed the moment she came back in the waking world of March 8, 1953.
The same day her son was born.
.
The Den was dark by the time she returned home. It wasn't that late, but she was definitely late for their usual dinner time. She had a lot to think about that didn't require half of her attention focused on her son. Her visit with Hector allowed that much needed peace and distraction with their talk about his findings.
On a surface level, Alchemy may seem to be a very lucrative career due to its dabbling with metals, especially gold, however, many failed to comprehend its involvement with philosophy, as well as concepts and methods unseen that produced varying results that no definite procedure could ever be written on a book. Because of this, many turned to other professions as no one, not even a Ministry, would guarantee funding to an aspiring alchemist even if it is a highly respected profession. Hence many failed and only a handful of wizards and witches could really call themselves True Alchemists.
Fortunately for Hector, he didn't need to worry about funding. Although he can make off with the wealth he had as the sole heir to his family's riches (on his mother's side), and the royalty of his published works and patented potions, Alchemy required special attention and materials. Especially since his focus of study was about the World Serpent, which would not promise him any riches at all besides the knowledge he could gain.
"Have you heard about the Throat of the World, Hermione?"
The teacup she was holding rattled against its saucer. If the elder Granger noticed, he made no comment about it.
"I have," she admitted, and as if her body had a will of its own, her eyes focused on the ouroboros tapestry hanging on the wall, "It was said to be the highest point a witch or wizard can climb. Legends said it held the very secrets of magic. Many thought it was somewhere in Mt. Everest, but those searches unfortunately yielded no results."
"Yes. To be more specific, it was said that whoever reached the Throat of the World would be able to learn the language of magic itself."
Her brows furrowed as she turned her gaze back at him, "Where did you find that?"
Hector slid an open book across the table. On one side is a full-page picture of a wizard with receding hairline dressed in deep green robes and a locket resting on his chest. Hermione instantly recognized him as Salazar Slytherin.
"This isn't Hogwarts: A History," she commented.
"No. It's not a bestseller compared to that one, but it is still about Hogwarts and this book briefly mentioned about other magical schools. I was reminded of your boy when you sent me a letter that you're coming earlier than your usual visits. He should be at an age where he's getting ready to attend school, yes? I thought of letting him borrow this for a while. But as I was skimming through the pages, this one caught my attention."
On the page next to Slytherin's unmoving picture was a full text, in which Hector pointed at a few lines of verses written in a much more elegant script centered in the whole page. It read:
To the children blessed by the stars,
Steadfast thy desire in hand.
To hesitate would be blasphemy.
Sing the language of power within Delft Harrow Tooth.
"Now I first thought it was nothing more than a message for the future students of Hogwarts, but I couldn't help but notice the last verse, especially the last three words."
"Delft is a tin-glazed earthenware, typically a decoration. Harrow most probably means to cause distress to, and Tooth could be taken for granted," she looked up at him, "It's a metaphor for a snake's beautiful yet deadly fangs."
"Yes, and at a glance, it may also refer to a typical Slytherin's cunningness. However, I've always believed to look underneath the underneath and what I found was this-"
Hector placed a sheet of parchment where a jumbled mess of letters and words were written. Some were crossed out, scratched, underlined, encircled, but ultimately, her eyes fell onto four words that made her chocolate brown eyes widen in shock.
Delft Harrow Tooth
Delf rw ooth
Del rw o
Throat of the World
"Now you'll have to forgive me for being presumptuous, but I can't help but notice… one of the founding fathers of Hogwarts, whom heavily associates himself with snakes, and possessed the only bloodline in the entire history of the world that can precognitively speak in a language no other being can learn, would subtly put a mythical location in a message meant for future students. And if you must know, Hermione, Salazar Slytherin isn't someone known to believe in minstrel's fancies. Might I also point out that your son, Alduin, is a parseltongue, and you- yourself- have an obsession with the ouroboros imagery. Which is often depicted as a dragon or snake biting its own tail. Now is that a coincidence?" he paused, "Hermione… do you think the Throat of the World truly exists?"
Hermione cursed Slytherins and their penchant for anagrams.
She paused when she entered the sitting room where she followed the glow of the fire that snuck all the way to the foyer. Her heart melted at the sight of her son sleeping peacefully in his pajamas in front of the hearth with his lips slightly parted. Sometime earlier, he had built himself a pillow fort using whatever pillow he could grab and laid it around the floor as a makeshift mattress. He even had a blanket as a tarp overhead; supported by the chairs and furniture he could pull together.
Hermione knelt beside him and softly caressed his hair, careful not to wake him. She giggled softly at how his black curls looped around her fingers. Once Alduin's head hits a pillow, his hair would always and easily muss up to resemble her more chaotic curls. She thought it was adorable especially in the morning when he would greet her in his half-asleep state. She wished a silent magical camera would be invented to capture quiet moments like this without the threat of interrupting it. It's almost a sin to disturb his sleep.
Oh well, in the memory palace it goes.
Hermione stopped her caresses for a moment to direct at the empty mug of hot cocoa and plate of biscuits. As the dishes floated away to be washed in the kitchen sink, she also picked up a book that was left open beside him; fallen from his hands when he succumbed to slumber.
Her lips pressed tightly as she read the title: The Book of The Greater and Lesser Houses. As it says in the title, it's a book featuring every known wizarding family in Europe. This was the latest edition, and it also had an overview of the life and differences between pureblood, half-bloods, and muggleborns. Especially the pureblood society.
She looked worriedly over her son, and was once more reminded of her dilemma. Could she risk his safety over this? Is there really no other way? If only she could do this on her own, just like with her hunts; but no, Alduin is involved, and his attention is caught.
Her eyes trailed above the fireplace where a decorative plate rested proudly at the center with the painting of Midgardsormr (because of course there must be).
I need to work for my prize.
"Oh Al…" she sighed, and as if broken from a spell, her son woke up with a flutter of his lashes.
"Mother…" he yawned, blinking a few times before jutting his lower lip at her in a pout, "You're late."
She smiled apologetically at him, "I'm sorry, Al."
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, everything's fine. Just lost track of time, I suppose. Hector had some very interesting findings, but more importantly- aren't you hungry? I've brought souvlaki."
Her hand was already fishing out the box from her bag when her son perked up and nodded enthusiastically. They settled themselves in front of the fire, with Alduin cross-legged at the edge of his pillow mattress.
They ate their dinner mostly in companionable silence, Alduin interrupting between bites of his skewered grilled meat to ask how her associates were doing. He knew some of them, of course. Most of the time, her associates were people whom they met along the way during their travels. As far as he knew, her associates either worked for her or owed her favors. Thus, the extension of courtesy towards her and her son. Although he doesn't know the specificities of those favors, Hermione believed he didn't need to know that. At least, not until the time comes. The only people whom her son didn't know of, were the people she deemed to shady or dangerous for her to even imply his existence. Such as her dealings with the underground.
"And how was your day, Al? Did you have a nice nap?" she asked, already full from their meat-heavy meal and just watched her son devour the rest one after the other it almost looked like he didn't need to chew. No, he wasn't a sloppy eater either unlike a familiar Weasley from her past. Her son's appetite juxtaposed a level of finesse one would expect from years of practicing table etiquette. Because of this, almost no one could even be bothered by his rate of eating.
"Mmhmm," he nodded before his eyes looked a bit downcast, "I had that dream again."
Hermione paused mid-chew. She swallowed before asking gently, "Has anything changed? In your dream?"
Alduin shook his head, "It's still the same dream, mother. I was still underwater, in the dark. There's still only one source of light shining above me, and I was still just staring at it. Bubbles come out of my mouth whenever I breathe, but I wasn't drowning. It still… felt nice, just floating under the water without needing to surface."
It was the first dream her son ever had, and every now and again, the same thing he would dream of. According to dream interpretations, being underwater meant the person was overwhelmed with something. Whether emotions, thoughts, uncertainties, and responsibilities; always negative. But that couldn't be possible for her spirited son. Not to mention it was a recurring dream he had to this day. Because she had made it clear about her abhorrence with the subject of Divinations and its branches, he did not press for her to interpret it.
But of course, Hermione knew better. She also knew that no book nor divine practice could ever interpret her son's recurring dream.
For it was not a dream in the first place.
"I also went out a bit today," Alduin continued.
"Oh? Did you visit Mr. Ollivanders?" she replied, glad for the change of topic.
"No, mother. I… went to see the circus…"
Silence passed over them with Hermione's lips just pressed together in a thin line. She watched as her son's eating slowed, and awkwardly chewed on his food. He shouldn't be ashamed. He hadn't done anything wrong. She may be overprotective of him at times but she's no helicopter parent.
Still… the implications of his actions are striking.
"That old hag's words bothered you so much?" she said questioningly, but the way she phrased it was a statement.
Alduin gave her a single nod, "She called me a… a 'thing', mother, and she sounded so sure that I wasn't human."
Her brows furrowed deeply, "Al-"
"But it's alright, mother. It doesn't matter anymore. The old woman- Madame Trelawney was her name- Miss Donna from the band said she passed away in her sleep. I should've listened to you. I'm sorry."
'That blind old hag's name was Trelawney?' she groaned behind her hand on her face. If she didn't believe in fate, she might actually think it was making fun of her.
"Mr. Riddle was also there," Alduin continued, placing down the last empty stick on the box, "he also wanted to confront the Madam about what she shouted at me."
At this, she deliberately rolled her eyes. She said sarcastically, "Of course he was. That man is like a mushroom for springing out of nowhere all the time."
Her son laughed at that. It brought a smile to her face for a second before she was reminded that her last prey was a Seer, and if Riddle had gone to the circus with Alduin, he would've known about it. She mentally cursed. She could only wish this Riddle wasn't as hung up on Divinations as he was in her previous life, or else what sort of ideas he would come up with if he associated it with her son?
"He uhmm… he gave me a letter," Alduin continued, but before she could prompt him for more, he was already lying down with his arm outstretched under one of the pillows. When he pulled back up, he handed her a white envelope embossed with peacocks and a broken green wax seal with a large letter M. "It's from Lucius."
With narrowed eyes, Hermione took out the letter from inside and read each word carefully. She made sure to read the entire letter twice before finally speaking.
"He's inviting you to his home."
Alduin nodded. She lowered the letter to her lap and met her son's large dark eyes, glowing with a red-orange hue from the fire.
"And?" she urged.
"I'd like to go, mother. Please?"
She stared at her son for a long moment. A thousand thoughts raced her mind before funneling into one conclusion.
Hermione sighed in defeat and stood from her position, "Alright, Al, but first we're going to have to write a letter."
She wondered if it's time they finally bought an owl.
"Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!" the shrieks made Hermione wince more than the slap she received to her wrists. She forced herself not to glare at the old woman in front of her.
Plump face sagging with age, a hooked nose, and gray hair pinned behind a dark veil; the older witch may be smaller than her in height but her small sharp eyes were harsh as she stared down at the brunette with scrutiny.
"Stupid girl! You chose the wrong pattern!"
Hermione cursed mentally instead. Here she was trying to survive with a bounty still on her head no thanks to a certain madman and she's studying embroidery. EMBROIDERY OF ALL THINGS!
If only she had been more careful then she wouldn't have been in this situation.
She had been on the move, as usual, and her travels this time had brought her somewhere in the countryside of Germany. Winter had come especially harsh this year and she found herself stuck in a small muggle village. But knowing nothing of German, the villagers could only direct her to a lonely mansion a few ways past a forest trail where the only person they knew who can speak English resided.
Hermione felt like the helpless beggar in the story of the Beauty and the Beast as she braved through the biting winter wind. The mansion itself was small, a stark contrast to the grandness of Malfoy manor, but its impeccable architecture set it apart from the rest of the houses in the village. To her surprise, instead of a maid or butler greeting her on the front door, a small old woman with a seemingly permanent scowl stared at her through the crack.
Still, Hermione asked for help. Since she doesn't have any more money to spare, she figured her skills would be enough as compensation in return for food and lodging. At least until the winter dies down. If she was a muggle, then she could do housekeeping.
"I'll let you in," the woman said without a hint of accent, "If you surrender your wand. I know you're a witch, girl."
She should've turned and ran at that moment. But the winter storm had started to pick up, and the sliver of warmth she could feel from the crack of the old woman's door only reminded how cold, homeless, hungry, and alone she was.
During their Horcrux hunting, she had experienced what it felt like to go on rations, but it wasn't until she was truly on her own did she understood what true hunger felt like.
Maybe it was because of that desperation that pushed her sense of logic and reason out of the way. A passing thought even came to her that she can hold her own against this frail-looking woman, even without a wand.
Oh, how naïve she was.
As it was, Madam Rosemary von Reicher, as she would later learn, was no ordinary witch.
She was powerful. More powerful than Bellatrix and, dare-she-say-it, Professor McGonagall.
And worse- she knew who she was.
Needless to say, with the winter storm blocking every road, her weakened state due to hunger, paranoia, and fatigue, wandless, depression from her losses, and the threat of exposure by the old witch, Hermione had no choice but to comply to her demands.
Which was to serve as her handmaiden.
Even though Mrs. Reicher owned a house-elf, she had Hermione do menial chores such as scrubbing the floors and dusting the furniture. She didn't mind it as much really. She grew up doing chores around the house with her parents, and she had fond memories of helping her mother tend to her rose bushes in the front yard.
If only Mrs. Reicher wasn't so strict.
She felt like Rapunzel stuck inside her tower because of a conniving witch, and like Cinderella who was reduced to become a maid because of her wicked stepmother; but unlike Cinderella, Hermione was not abused nor mistreated. She may have received slaps in the wrist and harshly scolded for not meeting the old witch's standards, but apart from that, she was treated well with warm food, soft bed, and clothes. Mrs. Reicher also treated her house-elf, Fren, properly, much to her relief. And unlike Rapunzel, she would only have to wait until the storm settled down to leave.
"Until you can retrieve your wand from my hand yourself, you are forbidden to break from your servitude!"
Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Winter had turned to Spring, and Hermione was still stuck in that house.
Getting her wand back proved to be harder than she thought. Despite her age, Mrs. Reicher's wit and instincts were still sharp. Hermione hated the sound of her cackles after every failed attempt, and each loss only gave the old bat more incentives to make her do ridiculous things such as arranging flowers (she'll never admit how impressed she was of her greenhouse), cooking food using only the finest ingredients and how to serve them properly, sorting her perfume and cosmetics and how to apply them, picking out her clothes for each day, and many more.
It was utterly, utterly-
"RIDICULOUS!" Hermione snapped, throwing the sewing needle and woven fabric on the rug at their feet. Mrs. Reicher, however, remained nonplussed as she continued her own sewing, "What's the point of all of this?!"
"You ought to lower you voice, girl-"
"No! I've been here for two months and while the entire world is collapsing because of a psychopathic dark lord, I'm sitting here doing all these menial tasks for you! Just what exactly do you want from me?!"
How could she? How could she have all of this when everyone she knew and loved were either dead or missing? How dare she start to feel this sense of normalcy? All these stupid tasks that forced her to rise out of bed every morning, when all she wanted was to curl up in her sleep and wish that she would never wake up; she deserved none of these things.
Mrs. Reicher's wrinkled fist pounded on the table beside her as her aged blue eyes stared squarely back at her infuriated umber.
"You're a witch, aren't you?!" her harsh yet firm words made Hermione rear back from her depressive thoughts, "Muggleborn or not, you're supposed to be the brightest witch of your age, aren't you?! Look at you! And they say you're a Gryffindor… HA! You're more like a frightened kitten who forgot that she has fangs and claws! You're a disgrace to every respectable witch in the world! Show some dignity and that lion's heart, you ignorant, pitiful brat!"
Things changed between her and Mrs. Reicher from then on. Eventually, Hermione came to appreciate all the little things she had to do. It was a learning experience, and like a true Gryffindor, her pride was a hard pill to swallow, but she appreciated the routine that developed between them.
Six months later, Mrs. Reicher finally allowed her in the library, which was bigger than she expected, that actually made her cry.
She still hadn't stopped getting her wand back, of course, but those attempts were done more out of challenge than the desire to leave. And because she had no wand, she practiced her wandless magic. Sometimes under the woman's guidance, and she was good at it too, because the madam was once the Dark Arts professor for Durmstrang.
"Clean up this mess, girl, then draw up my bath," Mrs. Reicher ordered as she dabbed her lips with her napkin after dinner.
Instead of piling up the plates herself, Hermione waved her hand over the plates and cutlery and they all marched in a single file towards the kitchen sink. She grinned broadly at the older witch.
Mrs. Reicher huffed and snorted as she stood to leave. She muttered under her breath, "Show off."
Although Fren was more open with his praises and cheer at her level of magical achievement, the ghost of a smile she saw on the old woman's face made Hermione happier than she ever felt in a long while.
A year later, Hermione learned how to differentiate types of fabric and threads, know what was real from fake jewelry, read the current trends, and memorized what was in season. These may seem inconsequential, maybe a waste of time to Hermione's younger self (not that she's being neglectful because she was still devouring everything she could from the library and practicing advanced magic), but young Hermione Granger had never missed doing something with another human being unlike her present self did.
She would also only appreciate the knowledge she had acquired later once she truly began traveling the world on her own.
Hermione also learned that Mrs. Reicher was a witch who fought against Gellert Grindelwald's rise to power. That she, her husband, and other families stood in opposition from letting him take over all of Germany.
Mrs. Reicher was yet another example that chipped Hermione's negative impression on purebloods.
Another year later, Mrs. Reicher taught her family's techniques on how to properly sew runes into fabric and invoke their magic.
A year after that, Hermione was taught the customs of wizarding pureblood society. She learned how to speak and understand metaphors and double talk, as well as the subtle languages between ladies.
She also learned that Mrs. Reicher lost all of her children while they were young. Her youngest son died from a birth defect of having a hole in his heart, her eldest son had been a casualty in the fight against Grindelwald, and her only daughter died of an accident. Hermione learned that Mr. Reicher died only fifteen years ago from old age.
It was then she understood why the old woman only wore black clothes and a black veil over her head, why her more colorful dresses were tucked away at the back of her closet, why there were certain rooms locked and forbidden to be opened, and why there wasn't a single picture of her family.
Stuck in that silent mansion with only a house-elf for company, grieving yet with no will to leave behind those she lost, and forced to live out the rest of her life until death came to her naturally, Hermione understood that feeling very much.
For a while, it made her afraid for her own future. Would she end up just like Mrs. Reicher? Would she find herself a remote home and spend the rest of her days as a hermit with a house-elf to assist her? Would she grow embittered about life and all its blessings and tragedies? Would she let herself be tormented everyday with the loss of her loved ones until death comes for her? Could she live that life?
Three and a half years later, Hermione would be introduced to Mrs. Reicher's remaining contacts as her ward. She would learn to write letters and conduct business in her stead, as the old witch preferred to sew and embroider. She also learned how to manage properties, allocate funds, and everything there is to know how to manage the household.
Such was Hermione's life for the last eleven years.
"Look at me. I used to command other witches and wizards like a general with a woman's body. Now… I'm so old and weak, and I'm far too much of a coward to tell others about it," a wry smile curled at Mrs. Reicher's face as she stared up at her bedroom ceiling.
Hermione could only sit in silence as she listened to her words. Her fists shaking on her lap and the hard clench of her teeth being the only thing that kept the tears at bay.
An effort that was failing for every second that passed.
She had anticipated this. She had noticed the signs. It was obvious with the way the older witch could barely walk on her own, how she was losing her appetite, and how she couldn't hold onto a needle for more than ten minutes anymore.
She saw it whenever they had their nightly teas, and how Mrs. Reicher would just stare up at the moon and stars with longing in her eyes.
"You know you could leave anytime you wanted, right? But you didn't. Why?"
The brunette swallowed before nodding her head. The answer was simpler than she wanted it to be.
"Because I didn't want to," she choked at the end. The whole reason she was here was because her wand was held captive. The moment she could easily perform most wandless spells, she knew she could successfully get her wand back if she attempted it. That was six years ago.
But still, she didn't.
Because that would mean she had to leave.
She made many excuses; she wasn't done studying everything in the Reicher library, she wasn't confident she could have her wand back, she wanted to wait for a correspondent's letter, there's still so much left to do.
However, she knew, deep in her heart, that the real reason was because she was afraid.
Hermione Jean Granger was afraid.
She was afraid of being alone again.
"Foolish girl," Mrs. Reicher said, her usual bite nonexistent. "It's in the box atop the mantelpiece in the library."
At this, the brunette smiled fondly, "I know."
The old witch huffed before a moment of silence passed over them.
"What are you just sitting there for? It's a cloudless sky tonight. Open the curtains, girl. I want to see the stars."
"Yes, Madam," Hermione acquiesced, a small smile still on her lips. Despite the older witch's snooty, and harsh demeanor, she has a soft side to her only a handful of people knew and that Hermione was happy to be at the receiving end of. She cared. Just in her own, subtle way. From the birthday gifts, the lessons, the veiled compliments and praises, and life advices she shared.
Although the both of them knew, that in a way, they were just using each other as a stand-in. For Mrs. Reicher, Hermione was the daughter she could've had, had she survived, and for Hermione, Mrs. Reicher could've been her own parents, if she had the chance to take care of them into their old age.
"Beautiful," Mrs. Reicher breathed out. Indeed, the sky was dyed a deep dark blue and the crescent moon was high and shining a bright silver above them. The stars shine ever plentiful in the countryside. "What do you think happens when we die?"
Hermione felt herself go rigid as another wave of tears threatened to spill from her eyelids, "I don't know, madam, but I do know that the people we left behind… will miss us dearly."
"That's true," Mrs. Reicher hummed, her tired eyes still fixed on the window from where she lied down on her bed, "My husband believed in rebirth though. He believed that when a body dies, the soul would go to sleep, and after time has passed, it would wake up again in a new body where you could experience a new life. Or would we experience the same life we had before?"
"Like reincarnation?"
"Perhaps… maybe you would be reborn in the same body you once had, maybe one or two things about you would be different, or maybe you would be reborn completely different. Such is the teaching of the ouroboros… that we are all connected by a force greater than any mind can comprehend."
"Ouroboros? Like in Alchemy?" Hermione queried. Mr. Reicher came from a family who practiced Alchemy.
"I wonder…" Mrs. Reicher continued, "If our feelings would be strong enough to reunite us with whom we love in that new life… my husband, he believed in that too."
Hermione said nothing as the old witch turned her head to her bedside table. She followed her silent command and opened the drawer there. Inside was a framed picture of a young couple. The woman in the photo was beautiful in her yellow sundress and long dark brown hair. She was laughing and smiling in the arms of a handsome man with blonde hair and a small moustache above his lip.
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat with great difficulty.
"Ahh I remember that dress…" Mrs. Reicher said, breathing a bit shallower now, "It was a very nice dress…"
"Yes… it is. I saw it at the back of your closet, Madam. Why don't you wear that for tomorrow? I-I could adjust it to your measurement just like you taught me. It would be perfect for you to wear in the greenhouse. The flowers… the-the flowers are blooming beautifully this year. I-I could make your f-favorite tea and F-Fren could bake your fa… favorite tarts. I'm sure… I'm sure he would be happy to."
She didn't realize she was kneeling at that point. Beside Mrs. Reicher's bed, with the old picture of the witch clutched to her chest. The witch whom she grew to see as her own family, who helped her move out of her depression, and helped her grow her magic.
Hermione's heart stilled when Mrs. Reicher's usually stern face broke into a smile. A genuine, beautiful smile like the one in the picture. The one she was only able to see a few times in the last eleven years. Her hand came up to let her thumb caress her cheek.
"That sounds lovely… can you tell Fren to make a few more for himself?"
Hermione's hand cupped hers, her voice cracked with her concealed sobs, "O-Of course I will."
Mrs. Reicher's smile widened.
"Thank you, Hermione."
She knew exactly what that thank you meant.
The next morning, Hermione reunited with her wand and told Fren he didn't need to make breakfast or any meals for the Madam anymore. She let the house-elf cry on her chest, and she let him cry some more when she forced herself to write letters.
It would be a small funeral, as only a few families remained close to the lonely Mrs. Reicher. The solicitor would come to read the Madam's will after. Meanwhile, Hermione made all of the necessary preparations. She also requested the mortician to dress the late Madam in her yellow sundress, and to surround her with cosmos- her favorite flowers.
The Reicher family also had a tradition of covering the dead with a blanket to be burned along with them. Hermione thought the best would be the tapestry embroidery Mrs. Reicher had been working on for the last few years.
She didn't cry when the following morning came and saw the unbreathing body of the Madam, and she didn't cry along with the guests who mourned (she just felt numb), but when the tapestry was laid over Mrs. Reicher's body, Hermione broke down.
Displayed on the woven thread was the expertly embroidered image of an alpine mountain with every flower the Madam grew on the edges of the canvas. However, it was the animals that overwhelmed her the most.
For the Reicher family, their chosen animal symbol was the Ibex. Standing atop were a couple representing the late Mrs. and Mr. Reicher, while below their hooves were three kids to represent their children. And lastly, there, just beside and slightly below the mother Ibex, was a lioness lying proudly beside them.
The stars made up the sky above the mountain.
It was a statement, that Hermione Jean Granger was an honorary member of the Reicher family. It was a bold move, especially to a muggleborn. But the Reicher family was too highly respected to be denied, so the guests said nothing, and let the brown-haired girl wail her heart-wrenching cries as she clutched onto the tapestry over the late Madam's body in dear life.
After Mrs. Reicher's ashes finally joined with her husband and children's in their family mausoleum, Hermione said goodbye to Fren as he was taken in by another family- a friend of the Madam's. The solicitor had also proclaimed her as the sole heiress to the Reicher family fortune and per her will, the old mansion hidden in the woods was burned to the ground.
"Frau Hermione, know that our doors will always be open for you." Hermione bowed graciously at the families whom she had befriended over the years.
She left that village, not with a broken heart, but a mended one with newfound resolve and an entire arsenal of power and knowledge to survive.
This cycle of anger, pain, loss, depression, and solitude… she will not be part of this cycle.
"Nobby Leach! Nobby mudblood Leach! Just where did he even get the gall?!" Philip Rosier cried, throwing his hands up in outrage while the rest followed suit.
Before them was the latest newspaper headline of stating that Nobby Leach was vying for office as new Minister for Magic.
The first major move Tom and his Death Eaters made in the Ministry was the manipulation of candidates and votes in the succession of then-Minister Leonard Spencer-Moon. It was a major project Tom devised that would ensure their place as high-ranking people in the wizarding community once they graduate, not only in association of their family name, but as themselves. It would also be their graduation gift for themselves should it come to fruition.
Tom had promised them power, and what benevolent lord would he be if he did not deliver on his subordinates?
And it did. They succeeded.
Tom taught them how to whisper better to commandeer their pawns (including their own parents) into their desired actions. No one would suspect a bunch of seventh year boys, who should've been busy with their N.E.W.T.s to be the ones pulling the strings on the political battlefield.
No one. Except for those directly involved, and their parents who only realized it later when Spencer-Moon retired three years earlier than planned and the new Minister for Magic, Geoffrey Hawkswallow, had taken his oath.
If their positions as heirs to their family name were ever in doubt, this groundbreaking victory completely abolished that.
This victory had also guaranteed them the attention and reverence of other houses. It was only a matter of time before Tom could gather them into his fold, and with their puppet sitting prettily atop the Ministry, it had allowed Tom the freedom to pursue his true goal- his quest for immortality.
It was only convenient that he was able to recruit more magic folk and creatures along the way.
Speaking of creatures, the werewolves seem to be more troublesome in reasoning with than Tom initially thought.
But he'll have to dwell on that later.
"Jericho," Tom called, instantly cutting their noise into silence, "You know what to do."
Avery nodded determinedly, understanding his unspoken instructions, "With posthaste, my lord."
Tom turned to Nott, "Theoden?"
"I will not let a single stone unturned, my lord," Theoden said with the same level of zeal as his fellow Knight.
"Good." The raven-haired straightened in his seat. His fingers laced together and one leg crossed over the other like a king addressing his royal court. Calm and collected he may seem on the outside, part of him was livid at this article almost to a personal degree.
After all, how dare some no-named mudblood question their authority?
Tom relayed, "While this was certainly a surprising turn of events, rest assured that we will not let this slight go unrewarded. Though your outrage is understood, remember that we are above such petty provocations. We, after all, are men who win our battles before they are fought."
Like the loyal Knights they were, they eagerly lapped up his promises and words of wisdom. If Tom had taught them how to be incredible chess players in their metaphorical gameboard of life, then Tom would be the Grandmaster of them all.
"In the meantime, we will put this matter on the side until we've obtained the sources we need. Now, is there something else on the agenda?"
They talked more about their findings, mostly politics-related and even a bit about the market. Their meeting was just wrapping up when Abraxas raised his hand, to which Tom allowed him to speak.
"If I may just remind you, my lord, and everyone else here," he said with one hand holding his pocket watch, "it's almost time."
Silence passed over them like a tense cord. Eyes subtly shifted toward the man still sitting regally at the head of the table. Though to the trained eye, his shoulders were more squared and his eyes had a glint in them no one can explain.
Tom was not oblivious to the silent queries of his followers about Alduin and his mother. Apart from Abraxas, he hasn't told them anything concrete about what he was planning to do with them. Although even the Malfoy head knew just as little despite being the first to be involved with his supposed 'family'. He made his orders explicit when he said he wanted the Malfoys to meet them first. Of course, none of them questioned it and knew that he had a reason why. So, like the obedient dogs they were, they postponed their respective families' trip to the circus on another date.
Which was why it brought the others much excited wariness when Tom suggested to set a playdate for their boys. The keyword being 'their', as it would appear that their lord had finally decided to stake his claim on his bastard son.
The full logic behind that decision however, has yet to be disclosed, as there was still the matter of his reputation being soiled.
What the Knights of Walpurgis do know, however, was that this playdate between their children has a hidden purpose. One that belied more than just introducing Tom's son to the rest of his peers after the success with Lucius. It would also be a lie to say the Knights were not looking forward to this.
Just what kind of boy would Alduin, their Lord- Tom Riddle's son, be like?
Will he be as politely cold and calculating as his father?
Does he have his magical potential?
Will he be able to meet the silent expectations set upon him the moment he steps foot into Malfoy manor?
Just how much did their wives exaggerate their tales about the boy?
"Well gents," Tom announced after a loud clap that caught their attentions, "If you'll excuse me, I will join you all in the parlor room later. I have to greet my son first."
Without much pretense, the meeting was dismissed and Tom was already striding out the door before everyone else exited. The only one who followed after him was Abraxas. As head of the house, it was his duty to receive his guest.
Although internally, Abraxas had been praying to magic itself that no such incident would repeat in his house like last time.
But he didn't need to worry because the boy's mother- Granger- wasn't coming, right?
Tom and Abraxas stood outside the main doors of the Malfoy manor while a house-elf was already ordered to fetch Lucius. As his personal guest, it was only common courtesy to greet him himself.
As for Tom, of course, what father wouldn't want to see his son?
His very, very mysterious and powerful son, whom he greatly expected to not disappoint him this day.
He was confident Alduin would be able to convince his mother as he said he would. Based from their previous conversations, Granger couldn't say no to the boy. Not to mention whatever occupation the witch had took precedence, and Alduin's response letter only confirmed it.
From their distance, they saw the wrought-iron gates open on their own. Two figures walked forward just in time for Lucius to join them. The Malfoy heir adjusted his hair and waistcoat before standing stiffly next to his father, trying to mimic his imperious façade.
Tom's eyes narrowed at Alduin's mother walking gracefully with her chin held up in confidence.
Already, he could sense something was wrong.
"Good morning, gentlemen," the brunette witch greeted when they finally came up the steps.
Tom's iron-clad control prevented him from showing his surprise when she bowed a bit in curtsy. His mind instantly became suspicious especially as he took in her form.
Usually, the witch was dressed with a long, hooded cloak that covered her whole body as if she was hiding behind it. The only exception had been when they attended the circus. Granger's attire however, was a deep green dress covering from a modest dip of her collarbones to below her knees. The dress itself was simple, with no embroidered figures nor jewelry, yet artfully designed with folds. On her left wrist was a bracelet of a golden serpent biting its own tail with a crown of stars similar to Alduin's ring.
Tom had half a mind to change to gold into silver.
While he may not be one for fashion, Tom knew as much that this kind of attire was not something to be worn without purpose.
"Thank you for accepting my invitation, Alduin."
"I am delighted to be here, Lucius."
At least, as the two boys exchanged greetings, Tom was satisfied with his clothes. Smartly dressed and obviously tailored to fit just for him; something dark churned at the pit of his stomach at the sight but he quickly snuffed it out before his mind could stray to unnecessarily dwell on it any further.
"Thank you for bringing Alduin all the way here," Tom finally spoke. A polite smile graced his lips, "I hope it was not much trouble."
"No trouble at all," Granger replied, her smile, though polite, was not as saccharinely sweet, "I would remiss if my son did not arrive safely, after all."
"Indeed. Now, I'm sure the boys would like to be on their way. Please, let me escort you to the gate," Tom gestured and took a step towards her.
Granger didn't budge.
"Oh? While I appreciate the gesture, I'm afraid I was expecting to be escorted in and not out of the manor."
Abraxas looked at her strangely, "I apologize, Mi- Madam, but my son only invited Alduin today. Didn't you, Lucius?"
The Malfoy heir nodded up at him.
There's a rule closely observed in the pureblood society that only those invited were allowed into someone's home. To barge in uninvited would be considered extremely rude and the owner and invitee had the right to have the person removed from the property by force, if necessary, or arrested.
Surely, the witch wouldn't try to be difficult, especially in front of children, would she?
"Oh, I am aware. How fortunate it is then, that I am not your son's guest, Lord Malfoy."
Granger's smile stretched satisfyingly like a cat that caught the canary as her eyes focused behind them. The men followed her gaze, and much to their (especially Abraxas') shock, Serafina Malfoy came walking towards them with a smile already painting her face.
"Oh Hermione! I apologize if I was late in greeting you."
What?
"Not at all, Serafina. Alduin and I just arrived. Thank you for inviting me."
What the hell is this?
Tom's eyes further narrowed as the two witches exchanged greetings. Even pressing their cheek with the other's as if they were old friends. Even more telling was that they were in a first-name basis.
Since when in any timeframe did those two witches were able to grow close?
His sharp look shot at Abraxas, but that proved to be pointless as he wore an even more bewildered expression.
For a brief second, Granger met Tom's eyes and the corner of her lips twitched up in a small smirk.
No. He didn't plan the witch being here at all.
O Hunter, squandered maiden's blood newborn.
Here lies the divine blood of the void child torn.
Did I mention this is a BAMF Hermione fic?
TOMIONE ACTION IN THE NEXT CHAPTER!
Thank you so much for the continued support! You can buy me a coffee ( /jmcastle) if you like!
Take care everybody! And STAY AWESOME!
Ciao~!