The historical sense involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence.

- T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets


Hermione decided, as she sat through her morning lessons the following Monday, to do as little magic in public as possible. She would have to practice in secret: whether from subduing her wand or some creepy extra magic, it was a little temperamental. Relearning to control her magic before she accidentally blew something up like an incompetent first year was crucial.

She ran to the Owlery at break: she'd written a letter to Mr. Ollivander, asking him about her wand and if there was anything she needed to know that he hadn't told Dumbledore in his previous letter.

Pevensie hooted softly at her, his comforting weight on her arm reminding her to reply to Cerdic's last letter.

"Bring the reply to my room, not breakfast alright darling? Fly safely," she told the owl and he blinked his big eyes at her before launching into flight. Usually owl post ought to be sent at night – too many owls flying around in daylight was hardly subtle – but she was impatient.

Hermione checked her watch and hissed in frustration. She was going to be late to Arithmancy. She arrived, slightly flustered, but glad no one had spotted her taking shortcuts through the secret passageways and sat down next to Marcus, who'd saved her a seat.

"Thanks," she whispered, wishing she could trust herself enough to cast a cooling charm.

"That's quite all right. Are you, er, you look a bit flushed?" he replied, grinning. "Not like you to be late."

"Oh hush," she muttered, rooting through her bag to find her Arithmancy homework.

"Accio Arithmancy homework," she hissed into her satchel. Nothing came out, but she knew she'd put it there before breakfast. Perhaps it had fallen out or –

But no, it wasn't the first thing she'd misplaced over the past few days. Little things, now she thought about it. They'd all turned up and she'd thought she'd just been distracted but she definitely remembered putting the roll of parchment in. And her bag was spelled so things wouldn't fall out.

"I'm sorry Professor, I think I must have left it in the Tower," she said, cheeks burning as the dark haired teacher came round the classroom.

"You're such a good student, Hermione. I'm sure it's just a mistake. Get it to me by tomorrow morning," Professor Wolfe said, her cool blue eyes smiling.

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione murmured. It was so embarrassing. She'd never handed in an assignment late in her entire schooling career. She was sure she could feel Tom Riddle's eyes on her, judging her, thinking she was an idiot.

Not that he'd spoken to her for weeks.

Which was a good thing, she reminded herself. An ideal scenario.

Is everything alright? Marcus wrote on the charmed parchment they used to communicate in lessons. You don't seem yourself.

She wondered what 'herself' seemed like to him. She wasn't ever herself here. Was she?

Yes it's just – I know I put it in my bag before breakfast. I think someone's taking my things. Is that mad?

A little bit, darling. It'll turn up.

Hermione frowned. She needed to put some more spells on her bag – whoever had taken it must have got it at breakfast or in morning lessons. But she'd also something that might identify the thief… She'd go to the Library at lunch, she decided, and concentrated on the lesson.

"Today we'll be covering the first strand of meromorphic warding," the Professor said, a chalk flying up to write on the blackboard behind her. "I hope you have all done the assigned reading."

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There was a ghost on her sofa.

Ghosts never, ever entered the students' rooms at Hogwarts so the sight on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday pulled Hermione up short in surprise.

The silvery outline of a woman, the same colour as the memory she'd pulled from her mind stood gazing out of the window into the darkness of the late November evening.

"Hello Hermione Dearborn," the woman whispered.

Her inflection was strange, as though she were unfamiliar with speaking. She was the soft grey colour of rainclouds in spring.

"Good evening," Hermione said politely, confused. In her eight years at Hogwarts she'd largely been ignored by the ghosts. With a few exceptions, like Harry Potter, they had little interest in the living. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so." The woman turned and glided towards the sofa, sitting for all the world as though they were to take tea together. "You are the reason I am here, after all."

Hermione put her satchel on her desk (and sure enough there was her damned homework – was she going mad?) and pulled out its chair.

"I don't understand," she said at last.

"Three weeks ago I was brought out of hiding. I had faded into the castle. It took me years to conceal myself. Hundreds of years. Do you know what it's like to be trapped forever in the same place as your murderer? But you – I've been watching. Listening. You wrought some ancient Samhain magic and here I am."

Hermione's brain went into overdrive. There was something about the woman that caught at a memory – her medieval gown, her waist length hair, murderer – of course.

"Miss – er - Lady Ravenclaw?"

"Of course," the woman said irritably. "This was my room, you know," she added, gesturing with a glimmering, insubstantial arm. "Her – my –on – ee. Helen's daughter."

Hermione frowned. It was Shakespeare, really, but… she didn't want to be rude. And, she was learning, if people thought they had a special connection with you they were – well - more forthcoming. Helpful.

And she didn't want the Grey Lady to decide she'd like to hang out in her old bedroom all the time, which she might if Hermione accidentally inspired a fit of pique. Harry had said she was difficult.

If she'd brought this woman here… then she was the reason Tom Riddle had been able to find the diadem – the diadem that had killed so many people.

Was this why she was here? Her heart sank.

"Yes, that's right."

"What do you know of ghosts Hermione?"

"How do you mean, Lady?"

"My perfidy to my line, the betrayal of my own blood… my anger – I could not move on. I have been watching you Her – my – on – ee, and I believe you are here for me. You will help me leave this earthly realm at long last. Instead of fading perhaps I can be finally free."

That was… not at all what she'd been expecting.

And she wouldn't help her move on. She already knew that. Harry would speak to her in May 1998 so she definitely didn't help this poor, lonely, trapped woman. Hermione couldn't imagine how awful it would be to spend a thousand years trapped in the same building as your murderer. Unless helping Harry was part of this? It was so confusing.

"We are connected. I see it. You have my room, you are Helen's daughter… you are loved by a Slytherin as I was, as my mother was. You brought me out of hiding. You will help me."

"I am not loved by a Slytherin, Lady," she snapped.

The wistful face smiled the saddest smile Hermione had ever seen, pearly tears glimmering in her eyes.

"The men of that line love differently, it is true. You will see, Hermione, Helen's daughter. And you will help me."

She was quite repetitive, not to mention stubborn and probably completely insane. Connected indeed. What utter rubbish. Hermione changed the topic.

"What do you mean "faded"?"

"I do not know how to explain it to an earthly creature. I became… aware but formless. Trapped within the walls of the castle. I wished not to be seen for so long I was not. My blood built these walls, there is magic here that still responds to me."

She was too tired to deal with this, on top of everything else, but the woman was so achingly sad…

"Tell me your story, Lady, and I will do what I can," Hermione said, remembering both her manners and that she wasn't supposed to know Helena Ravenclaw's story.

"Not tonight. You are weary. I will leave you now and we will speak again, soon. Good night, fauntelet," she whispered and rose, brushing Hermione's hair with her intangible hands, leaving only the sense of a soft coolness on her forehead.

It had been the very strangest of all of Hermione's conversations in her eight years at Hogwarts, and tired as she was, she lay awake for a long time, turning over the Grey Lady's words and all their implications in her mind.

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There was little time to dwell on the bizarre conversation in the days to follow, however, and indeed Hermione had woken the morning after half-convinced it had been one of her weirder dreams.

The teachers, as was their wont, were piling on the work before the Christmas break and as always Hermione had to spend extra hours cross checking to make sure she hadn't added in any undiscovered knowledge to her essays.

So she buried herself in that and went to her classes and to the Library and spelled her bag to burn anyone who tried to steal her things and Tom Riddle avoided her and she warded her door and it was enough to distract her.

Then, one night, when she was working on a Charms essay, tucked away in a nook in the Library, she overheard an uncomfortable conversation.

Hermione wouldn't have heard it at all had she not needed to find a book (Aigisthus Kline's Charme Work Light and Darke) from the History section, but hearing her own name whispered caught her attention.

"Hermione isn't like that." It was Anya's voice, she realised and froze.

"I think she might be – especially after Halloween. She's only not with Tom because he's a half-blood, surely you can see that?"

Claire, she thought, feeling sick to her core.

"That might be true, but I don't think she actually had anything to do with that mad girl's death. She was too shocked."

"We don't really know her, though, do we? I mean, she's so aloof. Even with Marcus – "

"Claire… Marcus loves Hermione," the other girl said softly.

There was a long pause before Ancha added, "I'm sorry. You need to let go."

"I don't think she does," the girl whispered, her voice shaking. "I think she wants to be with Tom Riddle but she won't because of his blood. Because she's a supremacist. She's never really liked me. She only likes you and Sophia. And the way she and Riddle look at each other when they think no one is watching – I've seen it Ancha. It's like she hates him and wants him and hates herself for wanting him. He's such a pleasant boy, what other possible reason could she have for hating him?"

Hermione crept away, shaking.

Like she hates him and wants him and hates herself for wanting him.

She left her books on the desk and hurried to the nearest lavatory before emptying her stomach, the words ringing round and round in her head.

Blood supremacist.

Blood supremacist

blood supremacistbloodsupremacistbloosupremacistbloodbloodblood

It was so monstrously unfair, so fantastically ironic, she thought as she gripped the porcelain, dizzy and retching with sobs.

The worst of it all was that she was so alone. Who could she turn to here? There was no one - no one - who could begin to understand.

hates herself for wanting him

Was it true? She asked herself. His dark eyes gleamed in her mind and –

No. Of course she didn't want him. She didn't hate him for ignoring her, for avoiding her. She didn't burn to feel his eyes on hers again.

You are loved by a Slytherin as I was.

"Help," she whispered to no one. "Help me."

But there was no one there.

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198 Diagon Alley

London

Friday November 17th 1944

Dear Miss Dearborn,

I was delighted to receive your letter. So few of our kind take a proper interest in their closest companion, and it was a joy to find you have done so.

Each and every wand I forge is special, of course, but as I told you on the day it chose you, yours is a particularly interesting one. Much is made of a special wand core, and indeed there are those I have made that are special because of the creatures that gifted the cores. An unusually intelligent and loyal Phoenix, with whom I believe you are acquainted, chose to bestow his feathers to create two wands I believe to be some of the finest I have ever made. And several years ago I was fortunate enough to be allowed to take three tail hairs from the Queen of the Unicorns. I have only found the tree for one of these so far and it is unclaimed but I am delighted with it nonetheless.

It is less usual for the wood to impart something special. When I am creating a wand not just any wood can be used for a core: it often takes several tries to find a fitting match. But for the most part it is chosen to set off the magical core.

The wood from your wand has been in my family for centuries. No Ollivander ever found a strand to fit it, and so it remained in our collection of such things for many years, passed down from generation to generation. Therefore, I believe there is some truth to an old family story about the tree from which it came.

It is said, and this is conjecture, for that wood is more than a thousand years old, but it is said the wood from your wand was part of a gift made to Rowena Ravenclaw from the High Priestess from the eternal realm of Avalon.

That island is now lost to us and the veil between closed forever. But some believe the Four Founders once visited Avalon to learn from the lady Nimue. In return for the knowledge she shared, Nimue asked them to close the entrance from our realm, which was found on Helga Hufflepuff's lands. She feared the turning tide of those we now called Muggles against those with magic.

Rowena Ravenclaw devised a way, alongside Helga and Godric Gryffindor and in payment the lady Nimue gave them seven relics from the Isles: Ravenclaw's diadem, now lost, a sword for Godric Gryffindor, a cupful of water from the lake, which could heal any wound, three golden apples, and a branch of wood from the tree that grew over Merlin's grave.

But Salazar Slytherin refused. He believed the immortal realm should not be closed off because of Muggle fear. And so, the founders argued, and he chose to stay on the Isle. The tale goes that Rowena Ravenclaw loved him, and it broke her heart to seal him away forever and that is why Nimue gifted her the golden apples, so that she might live in eternal youth and open up the island again when it was safe, and be reunited with her love. Some believe she did not love him and that the apples were simply to ensure she would live to open the Isle again.

But she did not eat one. As you perhaps know, she took a lover and had a daughter, and died many years later - taking the secrets of Avalon with her.

As far as I am aware this version of the tale is known only to my family, and so I cannot verify it. Perhaps it is just a myth. But if it is true, then the wood from your wand is that wood. Certainly it has resisted any wear of time.

I should add, I believe the sword of Gryffindor could only have been forged by those same smiths that made Excalibur, if it is not the self-same sword, for it shares many of the same properties. But that sword's hilt was jewelled with diamonds, not rubies so I suspect they are not the same. All the relics are thought to be lost now, all but the wood of your wand.

If I may add it seems singularly fitting that you should have won your wand's allegiance with the creation of eternal flame. Indeed, I can only believe your relationship with time will be quite unique.

If you should ever wish to learn more about wandlore, I would be honoured to teach you. However, I would ask you keep my family's tale to yourself.

Your servant,

Garrick Ollivander

Hermione closed the letter, and laid her head on the desk in her room in despair. He'd replied more quickly than she'd expected and it had just added to the swamp of confusion dragging her down.

These were Harry's sort of problems, not hers. She wasn't the one who had special wands and weird spiritual connections to the Founders, and the double whammy in one week was simply too much.

She certainly hadn't expected such a ridiculous tale when she'd written to ask a little more about her wand, hoping the extra power she'd been feeling had been caused by it and not because of poor Mabel Jefferies as Dumbledore believed. From what Mr Ollivander had said that was possible.

Surely it was just too coincidental for words that this letter should arrive four days after Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter had reappeared in Hogwarts?

Surely surely surely.

But - clearly not.

This was her life now, manic pixie adoptive fathers, obsessive Dark Lords, special wands and all. And while she'd always been sympathetic to Harry, she hadn't quite appreciated how simply terrifying it was to be the person it all happened to. What a burden being special was.

Rising from her desk, she called out softly, "Helena?"

She thought she'd felt the Lady's presence drifting in and out during the four days since she'd met her, but if she was watching she didn't show herself.

Hermione picked up her wand instead, and stared at the delicately marbled wood, the warm colour. She felt the weight of it in her hand.

A wand that made her more powerful, and –

Apples, she thought. Apples. Avalon's apples.

Tom Riddle must never, never, never know of those.

Never. The diadem was bad enough, horcruxes were bad enough. But fabled apples of eternal youth seemed like something aspiring Dark Lords who were obsessed with immortality would be all too interested in.

And – a cup that could heal any wound? How had he twisted such a thing into a Horcrux? And how had he been stupid enough not to use it for its original purpose?

Although… the cup had been empty. Perhaps someone had undone its magic long before he ruined it.

She'd held that cup, that sword, seen that diadem.

And having done so, even her cynical mind could believe they were gifts from a mythological enchantress, because it made sense, really. It explained why Slytherin's locket had had no special power: it had just been a locket. It explained how something as extraordinarily powerful as the diadem could exist, when no Wizard today could create such a thing (for many had tried). Why Gryffindor's sword could only be pulled from the Sorting Hat by the right person.

It just… fit.

And Tom Riddle could never know.

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It's been a while since I read my Morte d'Arthur and my Geoffrey of Monmouth etc. (okay I never read that, just pretended to for Undergrad essays) but the Arthurian myths are part of a wonderful tradition of everyone being able to steal bits and adapt them for their own tales so any differences in how you know them chalk up to that and go a read some of the French romances, they're great.

Thank you for your lovely reviews.