Tennis du Lac, Lac Kir, Dijon
The insistent sound of smacked rubber in the court was a constant reminder to the father-daughter duo that Cynthia Granger was a force to be reckoned with.
While William watched with wide eyes as his wife thrashed the living daylight out of the ball launcher, Hermione wryly remembered the series of events that led to her mother's show of frustration.
First and foremost on the list, was the fact that she missed out on many of her lessons – not to mention suffering from the utterly deplorable class that was being 'taught' by a fraud –, and spent most of her term recovering in the hospital wing.
She felt as if she hasn't learnt a thing this year – except perhaps to always triple check her potion ingredients before she consumes any finished product, Hermione thought in self-reproach.
Okay, that's an exaggeration.
But she just felt so irritated.
So…helpless.
It's like being left behind all over again.
Before Harry. Before Ron. Before Mrs. Lebedeva…
She was irritated, most of all, at herself. She should have reported about the suspicious happenings around school to an immediate authority, namely, the Head of Gryffindor House; the one person she has direct access to she feels she can count on; she could trust. As a younger student, she should have reported to the prefects or, even the Head Boy or Girl. But with what happened with Professor Quirrel, she's become wary of whom she should approach, especially while she's improving her better judgement.
On the other hand, despite the rather…furry…consequence of her first trip in the hospital wing, she couldn't help but feel proud that she successfully brewed a complex potion on her own, including the time it took to monitor it. From what the boys told her, it ran out exactly in one hour – just as she calculated, given her current magical ability – , almost forgetting about it if not for their feet shrinking rapidly in their borrowed shoes.
She felt a light bubble of confidence, making her eyes bright. She thinks maybe, just maybe, she can succeed the trials Slytherin's exacting Head might dish out in the future, whether he does it out of spite or genuine need to teach them, as any good teacher would. His personality may rub a lot of people the wrong way, but she can recognize a brilliant Potions Master when she's one – she couldn't forget his riddle for the sixth obstacle last year. It was remarkably artful in its logic. And as an educator, he may be unfairly biased against her, or at least as Harry's friend – she's observant enough to see as much – but the scratched Outstanding…barely or Exceed Expectations…surprisingly on her papers still encouraged her, even with veiled snide notes at the bottom that ran along the lines of 'must be less smug about herself' and 'keep her nose out of the books every now and again'. A rather tame way of saying she should stop being a know-it-all bookworm, as he's so fond of saying out loud to the entire class.
She would have taken offense if not for the knowledge that she has other sources to learn from now on, Hermione grinned. And one of them said that she shouldn't be ashamed of what she loves to do, and reading is definitely a favorite hobby.
A hobby that helps her saves lives – or at least her best friends'. If that meant she's labelled as a bookworm, so be it. She's proud to be one.
Watching now as her dad approach her mother gingerly, with forearms raised like he's expecting a strike from a coiled snake, reminded her that she has yet to figure out how to find and buy Boomslang skin they 'acquired' from Professor Snape's personal stores. She felt guilty for stealing from a teacher, even if it's this particular one.
Nonetheless, she had to do what was necessary to lessen the chances of any more harm that could come to people like her – even when it was at her expense.
If that wasn't troubling enough, the bit about how to get it back in the cabinet is a tricky one. She might need some 'expert' help to achieve this but she doubts the twins would be up for it, thinking it might be something too nice for someone they utterly dislike.
She'd have to tack the thought for later.
During the lonely hours spent in her hospital cot – after finishing any work assignments and essays the boys could manage to bring to her – she had written to her parents, missing their company terribly. She yearned for their familiar comfort, especially the kind of hug that they're giving each other now as her mother finally lost steam.
That was their first Christmas season apart. At first, her parents were reluctant to give their consent for her to stay behind. Her mother emphatically stressed, in writing, a foreboding feeling she had after her conversation with Mr. Weasley. She insisted this may not be a good time to remain at school. Her dad even tried to sweeten the deal by making her favorite meals for the entire duration of her winter break.
But knowing what's at stake, Hermione stood her ground and asserted the need to stay. She made a two-page spread about spending more time with the boys, Harry especially, as so many unfortunate things have been happening to him for the past months – the unpleasant sensation of growing the bones out of an entire arm still makes her shudder to this day.
Although they became sympathetic, the older Grangers remained unmoved, stubbornly reasoning with her still. She had no choice but to allow some half-truths in her letters: about some blood discrimination happening at school – which is true. She's been called different names before but the new one took the muddy cake –, and her need to address it by helping with a cause – which is, to find and stop the Heir of Slytherin.
She became more passionate as she wrote on, thinking of more horrible things that could happen to the other students if this went any further without an intervention.
After the tenth owl exchange, eventually they gave in, citing that while they still worry over her safety, they support and encourage the compassion she's growing for other people, aside from her friends. This made her pause for an undeterminable amount of time that night; eyes unseeing the parchment on her lap, never really thinking that's another definition she could describe the righteous outrage in her veins against an injustice.
Her hand had unconsciously gone to her wrist, rubbing thoughtfully.
A week before the twenty fifth of December, healing balms and restorative draughts arrived at Hermione's dorm window by means of a cuddly gray cloud of feathers, who cooed and waddled at her adorably. Pasha, the brave Diamond Dove that stared Mr. Lebedev down with no fear.
She deduced her parents must've contacted Mrs. Lebedeva somehow – most likely through phone call. Her father was giddy when their new cellular phone arrived over the summer – and relayed some of the things she hinted at and probably what they're worried over.
She should have known it's enough warning for what was to come.
Her mother has never been wrong.
When she sent her letter to their household stating her feline condition, she knew her parents would be incredibly but understandably upset and would try to find a way to the school grounds. She added a post script saying one of Mrs. Lebedeva's tasty curatives helped the healing process very pleasantly. And according to the resident matron – who was impressed with the lovely smelling bottles after she tested them –, Hermione will see an improvement in just a few short weeks, instead of the months she expected.
With their worry abated by the fact that she can be cured, her dad was comfortable enough to spend those weeks teasing her about catnip and sending cat treats while her mother cooed at some cute image, envisioning her mane of hair as fluffy fur, maybe looking like a Persian Longhair's.
Hermione was affectionately exasperated with their antics. But she'd rather have this than the tense correspondence she had with them that forced her to tell them why she brewed such a complicated potion in the first place.
According to dad, her mother didn't take the news about a deadly monster specifically targeting muggle-borns well. He said he had to physically restrain her from trying to schedule a flight to the Highlands – since plane flights to Scotland are just about an hour and a half away – , and ask the Lebedevs for help to get into the school the rest of the way. She would have asked Mr. Weasley instead but considering his recent altercation with someone called a 'mal-foil' about the Muggle Protection Act – which they like him even more for – , her mother thought she wouldn't want to add to his plate right now.
Hermione can definitely see where she gets her temper from, as well as her reasonable logic.
Her dad went on to say that when messages from the Eurasian couple arrived through their doves – considering what's happening in school is a sensitive case, Mr. Lebedev claimed he didn't want to risk using devices – , they advised the Grangers to wait for more information instead of doing anything rash. Though they still believed that there is still something lacking in Hogwarts' educational system, surely its current Headmaster would not let these disturbances go on for long. And there is the option of sending the students home while the grounds were investigated.
Hermione had doubted the theory, explaining Headmaster Dumbledore seems to be trying to keep things quiet, probably having the staff do the investigation on their own before involving anyone else.
From what she gathered from Fred and George about the Ministry of Magic, it isn't quite…okay – which about sums up a similar description about the muggle Parliament.
They actually ranted to her when they visited for a few days, just as Hermione started to shed all her fur. She ate the sweet treats they brought as congratulations for masterminding a good prank in the dungeons. They said they sometimes wondered, despite all the years their dad served in the Ministry, he hasn't gotten the recognition he deserves.
The 'stuck-up' purebloods who occupied key roles in it has influenced against any efforts that would treat muggle-borns, muggles and even squibs as more than second class citizens. Any 'blood traitor' that visibly supports these efforts is discriminated against instantly yet subtly, to which an example of this is the low pay and their father's super tiny office space.
With all that in mind, Hermione relayed her assumption that perhaps, when things get out of hand, like spilling sand from the crevices of a tight fist, the Ministry will ultimately step in but the school will continue to operate, as an assurance to the parents that everything is under control. Where the Headmaster will be during this time, she is uncertain.
A chill went through her as she signed that last letter.
Hermione never dreaded being right before, but also never really comfortable with the notion that she might possibly inherent her mother's…whatever it is. But that exact feeling as well as the image of the owl carrying her message was the last thought that ran through her mind before she went under the pulling reflected gaze of the massive predator in the halls.
All was dark for a long time.
Blissfully, no torment came up from the shadowy corners of her mind, letting her just rest in the quiet
When next she woke on a hazy summer morning, groggily turning her head to the sound of Professor Snape's billowing robes as he walked away from her, she noticed him turning abruptly to splash something at Sir Nicholas' transparent form. Her own Head of House glided over with the quiet click of her heeled feet and patiently helped her settle better in an inclined position, amongst additional transfigured pillows.
With her limbs still feeling like gelatin, her hands wrapped gingerly around a warm cup of chocolate. She stayed silent as Professor McGonagall coolly informed about her parents' visit a few nights. Hermione just nodded, resigned, coming to the conclusion that her mother may have suspected something went wrong when her letters suddenly stopped coming.
Surprisingly, Professor McGonagall relayed they had sent her a formal letter requesting for a visit and a talk, instead of the loud protest Hermione was expecting. The professor elaborated that since they were muggles, she arranged for their arrival via the express, giving them permits to arrive at Hogsmeade Station. She received them herself and guided them to Hermione, before continuing to her office for a rather calm and serious conversation.
The older witch moved on to succinctly brief Hermione on the events that happened while she was petrified, and her parents' request to notify them once her condition has been remedied, to which she has dutifully done so two days ago.
"And another thing, Miss Granger."
"Yes, Professor?"
"This arrived for you. Quite unusual. It's the same one that delivered the formal letter to my rooms." She gestured towards a large dozing dove perched on the cot's head frame, head buried in its feathers, with some papers peeking out of the little leather holster on its back."When you're feeling up to it, freshen up in your dorm. The farewell feast will be in a few hours. I suspect you'll be needing the time to pack up and – "
" – the feast? Already?! Err…But-but what about the exams? Professor, I never got to study for them at all." Hermione fretted, with eyes conveying an immediate apology at her initial loud tone.
"Quite right. Well," Professor McGonagall sniffed, with a wry raised brow, "The Headmaster had decreed a few nights ago that exams for first years up to fourth are cancelled in light of the successful retrieval of Miss Weasley, the vanquishing of the King of Serpents, and as well as to celebrate surviving the harrowing events of the past year."
When Hermione remained thoughtful and quiet despite the good news, her stern Head softened her piercing stare. "You don't have to worry about missed marks. You've already proven yourself quite well already, Miss Granger. I dare say you have promise, more than any student I've seen in a long time, especially in my own House. This has been apparent when we saw your note of how the beast has been travelling the school without our notice."
She pulled out a familiar scrap of paper from her robes and flapped it once. She seemed to contemplate the younger witch for a few more moments before adding in a softer tone, "If you and your family permit and desire it, I shall make a special request that would enable you to catch up on your studies, as I can infer you do not wish to just waive them off like your classmates have done, considering Dumbledore's announcement."
Hermione nodded eagerly, a smile finally spreading across her face.
The strict professor looked on with a pleased look. "I'll send you an owl if I get an update. I'll let you know then. Good day, Miss Granger, and enjoy your summer."
Falling back down on the downy pillows, Hermione gently woke Yuuya up. He cooed softly in return, his brown neck feathers puffing up more, and pecked at one envelope she took from his back that looked like standard muggle mail, postal stamps and all.
Plane tickets greeted her widening eyes.
Jardin botanique de l'Arquebuse, Albert-Premier, Dijon
-.-.
Run. I must run.
Footsteps. Heavy boots. Stomping.
The threatening sound of sliced leaves and grass.
A dim glow.
-.-.
Hide. I must hide.
Male voices, taunting, deep, threatening.
"Come out now, little one. We just need some of your hair. That's all. It's such a pretty color."
"We just want a strand or two! And then you'll be safe with us. Promise."
"…besides, you're too adorable to waste…," whispered the first voice darkly.
-.-.
My heartbeat was so rapid, like the beat of a golden Snidget's wings.
They lie. They always lie.
Males are troublesome, and vile creatures.
Except father and grandfather.
They protected us. They love us.
Sincerely.
These ones are greed, personified.
Grandmother said to be wary. They take and they take, until there is nothing left.
-.-.
I close my eyes tight, and curled more into a ball, among the tall hedges. The trickle and burble of the water nearby hid my movements, hid my shaking.
Breathe. Keep calm.
Don't use your wand.
They'll find you. They'll track you.
Like an animal.
That's what they are to these…people.
But they're the ones who are inhumane.
-.-.
But I have to be strong.
If they find me…then they'll find sister. They'll find mother. They'll find grandmother.
Her beautiful family.
-.-.
They won't resist. They can't resist.
We are alluring; our advantage…our curse.
-.-.
She may be too young to know, should be too young to know, but her Grandmother thinks otherwise.
Knowledge is power, just as their bodies can be used for power, she said.
They have the power to put men on their knees…
…but there are always exceptions.
Like these ones, wearing enchanted metallic goggles as protection.
Special hunters. Traders.
Predators that exchange magical hides for trinkets. For infamy, or wealth.
Or all of the above.
-.-.
A long beat of silence and faint sounds of crackling air from afar.
She can no longer feel their presence, hopefully apparating somewhere else.
What if that's a trap? What if they're still here?
Heart beat accelerating, her right fist felt the groves of her wand painfully.
She can't risk it. She can't risk being seen just yet.
Keep still. Don't use your wand. Breathe.
-{-}-
The slow passage of time felt like days before she heard voices again; the dreary dawn turned into a cheery mid-afternoon. The colors of the flowers in the area are more vibrant with the light.
The young girl tentatively, and tiredly raised her head, her eyes narrowed towards where she could hear the sound of laughter.
Three brunettes were sat on an enormous blanket, one male and two females, all looking similar to each other, babbling in a language she's vaguely familiar with.
When the man raised a sandwich to take a bite and hummed in delight, her stomach picked a good time to rumble in embarrassing hunger.
What she assumes as a small family turned quiet, looking about in alarm.
The smallest one turned her head around until they caught each other's gaze.
One was wary but curious. The other, mortified but frightened.
As she looked on, the curly haired girl raised a hand slowly and waved towards her direction. The other two spun their heads, leaning over the girl's shoulders and also found her hiding place.
There was more silence as she stared back at them all.
The man eyed his sandwich before looking back at her, making a connection. He smiled softly and raised it enough to show it to her and gestured with his other arm to come towards them, to join them.
The older female smiled brightly and nodded, patting on the space beside the girl, to emphasize the welcome.
The girl then spoke disjointedly, "Join us. Eat? Food is more? Plenty? Food, plenty."
"There is plenty of food," she absently corrected, voice slightly hoarse but still sweet to the ears. She widened her eyes and blushed to the tips of her ears for being rude.
But the girl just smiled wide, slowly mimicking how she spoke, and repeated it back.
With the adults nodding along in agreement, relaxing back to their previous positions and pulling out more snacks and drinks from a basket, she finally crawled out of her bush while surveying the peaceful surroundings.
She can't feel any dark auras anymore, less so from the family of three.
She took a deep breath, stretched out her arms and other limbs, before plopping blearily on the blanket.
When she looked up, she noticed they all stared at her right hand that's still holding her wand.
She tilted her head, puzzled, before realizing this was a non-magical garden.
"La sorcière! I am too," exclaimed the older girl with a beam. "Hello. But you look…not full? Should eat. Please." She pushed some of the food nearer.
She loosened her tense shoulders and tentatively returned a small smile, hurriedly placing her wand back into her dress pocket before receiving a piece of croissant and juice with quiet gratitude. She didn't think her hunger and thirst was so bad until the offered fruits and cheese on her lap disappeared within a few minutes.
When they all ate their fill with contented sighs, the mother spoke slowly, but clearly. "Are you feeling better now, little one? Can you find your way back to your parents? Do you live nearby?"
She gulped and looked around miserably, shaking her head. "I am not sure where they are. I am not sure where I am. I just ran from bad men."
The females gasp while the father's face turned serious. He also spoke slowly, in a broken speech, but gently, to comfort her. "What time, running? Are they still looking, the men? Is memory okay with what they look like?"
It took her a minute before she eventually understood what he meant. It took her another minute or two to assess that this man is good.
"Black robes, scary aura. Very evil. Metallic goggles over their eyes. There were two. I hid since dawn."
"Poor thing. Cynthia, let's regroup at the hotel."
The unfamiliar words went over her head, but she understood he was now talking to his wife.
"Agree. Little one, are you comfortable enough to stay with us while we try to look for your family? We have friends that might know how to contact them."
She went quiet again, assessing, thinking, before she nodded in agreement. But before any of the brunettes stood to clean up, she quickly picked herself up and curtseyed as elegantly as possible, despite the leaves stuck in her silvery-blonde hair and the dirt and dried sweat still smeared on her face and neck. She took a breath, bowed her head, before reciting in a formal tone, "I am gratified by your willingness to shelter and protect me. When I am returned to my family, I will owe you a life debt. I willingly give you a life debt. Speak now to bind what is and what will come. The circle will be complete."
An awkward stillness was her answer.
She opened one eye and peeked at the still seated family, faces showing great astonishment.
"Ben…euh…was I not clear? Do you need me to repeat it?"
"Oh! Well…honey, that sounds…that sounds very serious. But really, you owe us nothing, nothing as precious as your life. Don't worry about it, dear," said the woman, with frantic hands as if waving her spoken vow away.
"We want help you. That all. Need not for…this," added the older girl, gesturing vaguely towards her still curtseyed stance.
She straightened herself with scrunched brows, playing with her hands nervously. "But, you're offering me protection. That is saving my life. What else can I offer as much as that?"
"…Ah-mi? Friends? Can be friends? Friends, good. That all."
She blinked slowly, absorbing the simple request.
She blinked twice more before smiling more widely, seeing the male in the group at the corner of her eye blinking his own after he shook his head in bewilderment – definitely a good man. He can fight the temptation.
"Friendship? That is all? That's all you want?" she clarified again, making sure.
"Why not? Friends are nice. Friends, good."
A sudden warm pang spread out of her chest. She blinked away the tears that are threatening to spill.
"Well! Now that's settled. What's say we run back to our room and help her freshen up? I'll fix everything here. Buttercup, you go on ahead with your mum and miss…wait, did we introduce ourselves yet?"
"Oh my! Where are our manners. Little one, we're terribly sorry. We forgot to tell you our names. My name is Cynthia Granger. You can call me Auntie Dia if you want. That there is my husband, William Granger. I'm sure he won't mind you calling him Uncle Will – "
" – and, my name is Hermione Granger. It is very nice to meet you." The basic phrase flowed well this time. She was pleasantly surprised though to be curtseyed back by the older girl, having not thought to be given equal respect due to her age, as was tradition in pureblood society.
So touched was she that she hugged Hermione Granger tight, letting a small tear fall at last.
When she thought the older girl might be offended of her show of affection, she felt arms warmly hugging her back, even giving her a firm squeeze which made her giggle like tinkling bells. She then felt a large hand on her head, smoothing her locks free of debris while another more feminine one squeezed one of her shoulders.
"How about you, dear? What's your name? It will greatly help us find your family."
She cleared her throat, slackening herself from the warm circle but reluctant to be released from them completely.
"Delacour. Gabrielle Delacour."
Author's Note: "The Brightest Witch of Her Age" is a common compliment to Hermione. She absorbs information like a sponge. How does she process it all? I see her as someone who has a mind full of various threads of thought, that only start to make sense when sewn together to complete a tapestry of events. (updated the structure a bit)
To the new subscribers or those that bookmarked this story, welcome!
EDIT: 10/25/2020
La sorcière - 'witch' in French
Onwards!
Reine