Chapter 1:

"Ninna Nanna, Ninna Oh…"

The moonlight softly illuminates the room.

"To whom shall I give this baby…"

He crooned soothingly to the babe, her soft hiccups faint.

"If I give her to the old hag, she'll keep it for a week…"

He traces her tiny heart-shaped face, and resisted the urge to pinch her cherubic cheeks.

"If I give her to the black ox, he'll keep it for a year…"

Two unconscious body was being levitated onto a master's bed by a masked wizard.

"If I give it to the white wolf, he'll keep it for a long time"

"Ninna Nanna, Ninna Oh…"

He hums, continuously to put her deep in slumber.

One wizard signals to the humming man, his hazel eyes perusing the circumstance.

The mansees another wizard fumbling over a muggle contraptionwhere he didn't even hesitate to hex the ratty looking man.

He looks out the window and sees one more of his men finishing up with his invented wards.

The coo in his arms grabbed his attention once more, and he hum soothing noises to the babe. No doubt will grow as demanding as him.

"Everything is in place my Lord." The wizard by the bed said.

"Hmm.."

The Lord in questions strode over a lilac painted room. He took another look at the child, still fully awake. Her hazel eyes gazing at his own.

"Tum somnum salus mea" The large man hissed so softly before placing the babe in her cot.

When dawn was breaking the men in the house left, in a flourish of dark smoke, leaving the babe and two new couple, as newly parents.

Getting drunk drowns it, she learned that after the twins spiked the fruit punch after the Gryffindor's win against the claw. But then tolerance build up, and it just gets louder, louder, and louder. At most, it's just a murmur, a shy whisper that brushes her thought.

'This book is better, child'

'Forgetting to brush your teeth?r'

'Your shoelace is untie'

'They're just kids'

'You should carry a jumper with you, it seems chilly today.'

Often times she wondered if it's just her consciousness. She was a bright child after all, and bright children have their peculiarities. But then her 8 year old neighbour Mathew, with his too big of a nose on his sneering face and that distinguishing gap between his front teeth – something very British she thinks - pushes her in the halls, rips her homework, taunts her, and pulls her hair. That is when the voice decided to be a noise, so loud and forceful, as if daring her to object, to fight back. So when the noise suddenly stopped, and the pain receded, she realize that blood was warm and boys could cry like girls do.

She is scared of that noise, and she blames the noise.

"BUT IT TOLD ME, HE WOULD STOP IF I HURT HIM!"

The raised voice shocked her mother that the coming slap was not too surprising. Her parents, they love her truly, but no parent wants to know their child is touched. Too gifted, intelligent beyond her peers, recluse to the point of anti-social and definitely, definitely touched. They have no idea by what, but being professionals and believer of science they can at least accept voices in her head was not normal, even for an all too bright child.

So they scheduled her appointments, with adults that talk to her slowly, deliberately, as if she's dense. They made her look in ink blots and draw with broken crayons that have seen better days.

" I know what I heard."

"I'd rather read."

"Now you're just having me on! That still looks like a mangled butterfly."

"No wait, it does look like a moth."

It was not the response they wanted. So they prescribed her funny looking pills. One in the morning, another before bedtime.

"It's just a supplement dear, it will help with clearing your thoughts."

Again, she was 7, not an idiot. But she still took them, even if it made her sleepy. It made her dazed like a daisy, detached from her world. Still, she refuses to lie, because no matter how many colourful pills the make her take, it's still there. The bothersome noise that it is.

'You should've said it looked like a dog.' Not even close, she thinks.

'Or an ugly pattern, like the swirls in her questionable choice of skirt'

'Ghastly, is that red velvet and PURPLE lace?'

At times when it is being snarky, she tried to cover her snickers with pinched lips and an annoyed sigh.

'I am not being humorous, just… stating facts' But she could hear the amusement in its voice, if you could call it that.

She figures that it is trying to lighten her mood, and she finds that she likes the underlying humour behind the teasing and snark.

But she likes it best when the voice is like a song, smooth like a bird's hymn or running water in the river bank.

It soothes her greatly. Especially here, crouched atop the stairs, where she hears a different noise. Like a lullaby soothing her very soul.

"Ninna Nanna, Ninna Oh…"

"Maybe we made a mistake?"

"HOW CAN YOU EVEN SAY THAT MICHAEL?" That was definitely a decibel higher than usual.

"Anna…" She never thought the whisper of a name can bring out so much despair and anguish.

"No, don't touch me Michael….."

"Ninna Nanna, Ninna Oh…"

Then suddenly she hears none of their arguments, and all it is now is a steady hum of a masculine voice. And it warms her heart. Not warm, like the fresh tears that drops to her clenched fist, nor the warmth from her stained pants when the neighbour kids thought it funny to lock her in the janitor's closet and she badly had to go, or… or like Mathew's blood. No it was like Nan's freshly baked brownies, that she stuff too hurriedly, never mind if they're still too warm and it burns her a little. Or the touch of sunlight that escapes the tree's canopy when her mum forces her to read outside. Or the warmth she gets from reading by the fire on her dad's vintage recliner.

No, she think she likes this warmth. And who knew a voice could bring about such warmth.

So she decided for once to listen to the voice. She's smart enough to know that not all lies can destroy, not all can be hurtful. Most times the truth is harsher. So she shows them that the pills are working, she makes them think it's just a childhood phase. She still reads, and prefers to be alone. But now she tries to enjoy playing with children, and ignore their mean ways. Dumb people act out when confused, and she agrees with the voice that most children are just that - dumb. But not her, oh no, not her. So the voice teaches her. Teaches her how to lie low, how to distort the truth, how to create mischief.

'It's called ingenuity'

Well he is a creative thinker. Yes, a he, because even a voice needs a gender label. She tries to reason with her inner voice, the one who speaks for her morals, not the male voice exuding pride at their "ingenuity".

In the end, she doesn't tell Mrs. Carmichael that the voice told her to make Eve loose all her pretty blond hair. She simply said, "But, I'm feet away from her. How could I have done that when all I'm doing is just read here?" How could she, indeed. The teacher was skeptic, so she sported a concerned frown for added effect, the glazed moisture in her eyes however was from controlling her mirth. But it did its due, and Eve was called a liar and she had everyone's sympathy. Well, the teacher's sympathy, the other kids are just straight up scared.

'Ingenious, didn't I say?'

She felt guilty in the end though, but the voice doesn't try to cheer her up or justify her actions. They both know she's stubborn like that. She is however mollified by the fact no one is disturbing her now. And the added peace while reading during recess is welcomed.

'How is it that I can hear you?' She tried asking him one day.

'You are a special one, child' Annoyed that he's being vague.

But despite being told so, she was still caught surprised.

"A witch?" Her mother said breathlessly.

"Yes Mrs. Granger, Hermione here is what we call a witch."

After having her father's coffee table made into a pig, a rooster and lastly a grey sheep, she thinks this one like farm animals too much.

"But how can it be? Neither Michael and I are…" She missed the pointed look her dad gave her mom, but the Professor didn't.

"It is quite rare, but muggles can have a witch. Or a wizard if it's a boy in their family."

Between her parents and the professor, all Hermione could think about was how her pointed hat is staying up too straight.

'Magic' If a voice could roll its eye, it did right then.

A special one indeed.