Before First-Year
A person changes every seven years, they say.
'Is that what inspired Billy Wilder to do The Seven Year Itch ?' Hermione asked her dad, closing the book on her lap. Hogwarts: A History shone in bright letters from the cover.
'There's no such thing as a "seven-year itch",' her Mum said and snorted while she skillfully manoeuvred the car along the A303. The blur of a passing sign announced that they'd just passed Andover. Only 15 more miles to Stonehenge.
'The so-called seven-year itch is a rubbish concept designed to provide people who've stopped caring about their partners with an easy excuse.'
Helen Granger smirked at her husband. 'Particularly middle-aged men in the fifties who've felt entitled to have any woman they wanted; especially impressionable, innocent, good-looking young secretaries. Nevermind the wife they had at home.'
'Good thing you're not my secretary then,' Richard Granger retorted cheekily, his eyes crinkling. 'Ouch!' he cried as his wife smacked his arm playfully.
'But isn't the seven-year itch based in science?' Hermione interjected from the back seat. 'I remember reading somewhere that, apparently, every seven years each cell in the human body has renewed. Wouldn't that mean that we're effectively different people every seven years?'
Her dad laughed. 'I'm afraid that's just an urban legend, darling. Not all cells have the same lifespan. In fact, scientists have found that brain cells, for example, can get as old as 15 years. Which means, your brain cells still have a couple more years before they die,' he said teasingly.
Hermione nodded. 'I see,' she said and frowned out of the window. The passing blur of green, yellow and bright blue anticipated a fabulous summer day. 'No seven-year itch, then.'
'I'm afraid not. It's all just fiction, after all,' her dad replied good-naturedly. 'However,' he said and turned around in his seat to look at his daughter, mirth twinkling in his hazel eyes, 'in seven years, you'll be a witch. A seven-year witch!' Richard Granger laughed his throaty laugh, slapping his thigh.
'I'm already a witch, Dad,' Hermione said exasperated, not quite able to keep a small smile from creeping onto her lips.
'Obviously.' Her father chuckled and turned back around, his gaze still fixed on his only daughter in the rear mirror. 'You've just vanished the joke.'
In most things, Hermione took after her mother. Her father liked to tease her about it, saying she was a miniature Helen, far too sensible and serious for her age. He conveniently ignored the fact that Hermione had inherited his wild hair and hazel eyes. If anything, Hermione chose not to behave like a fool, as if children couldn't be sensible. That didn't mean she didn't like it when he was being silly and childish. She did like that a lot. But Hermione definitely took after her mother in her fascination with history, which was why she loved historic sites of any kind. So when her Mum had suggested driving out to Wiltshire this July weekend, she'd been ecstatic.
Hermione had been to Stonehenge before; once when she'd been five or six, and then again with her school in third year. But since her eleventh birthday, when the Grangers had discovered that their gifted daughter was far more gifted than they could've ever imagined, revisiting the place had taken on a different appeal, tied as it was to so much pagan belief and British history at the same time. It was a farewell of sorts; to see a magical place of her past before Hermione would go on to discover the magical things of her future.
The three Grangers had arrived early, and Hermione had enjoyed her Mum explaining the history of the stones, and the various theories relating to their use and origin. They had marvelled at their grandness, and her dad had waxed poetically about the aesthetic appeal of the shades of grey against the bright blue sky, man-made objects standing the test of time. As usual, he'd then pulled out his camera to "capture the magic of the moment", while Hermione laughed at her mum who would not stop pulling faces, and, consequently, "ruined all the pictures".
But now that more and more people kept pouring onto the site, Hermione found it very hard to appreciate the magic of Stonehenge. For all her love of history, she did not care for brainless tourist masses pushing and shoving to take silly snapshots they would never bother looking at ever again. It was completely different from the photos her dad took. He always took great care selecting his motifs and setting up the composition, and often, he would choose a specific time of the day to go out just to capture the perfect light.
The small family made their way over to the many surrounding burial sites. It wasn't noon yet, but it was already getting considerately hot, and Hermione was glad when they finally approached the nearby groves and barrows.
Just like before, her mum launched into a discourse (throughout the ages, the site had been used as a resting place for distinguished members of society, not only kings or noblemen apparently), while her dad unpacked his camera. Soon her parents were deep in discussion about social classes, the merits — and problems — of hierarchical systems.
Hermione smiled fondly. She listened for a bit, but knowing that these types of discussions could take a while, she saw a chance to explore the site on her own. Maybe she'd even find a quiet and shadowy place to read.
She had rounded a couple of grass-covered graves when she spotted, somewhat isolated, seven huge trees surrounding — and almost hiding — a very particular tumulus. Unlike all the other grave mounds it was covered by a sea of purple.
Hermione immediately went to investigate. As she crept closer, she realised that the trees were elm trees, extremely old elm trees, judging from the enormous span of their trunks which were probably ten times her size. The flowers, on the other hand, she didn't recognise. But she could see now that they were, in fact, several types in various shades of red and blue.
As she approached, she could see that the flowers grew in patterns around the grave mound. There were wild red roses, and purple violets, and another kind that was wholly unfamiliar to her; all weaving elegantly into the grassy green of the grave. In-between, Hermione spotted a path leading up. She followed the way spiralling around and around to the hilltop, the wild flowers on both sides all the while waving in the soft summer breeze.
When she reached the peak, Hermione was surprised by the view. She hadn't expected the grave mound to be quite so high that she would be able to overlook the seven elm trees. She could even see the other ancient graves which were a good bit away from this particular one. Squinting, she spotted her parents gesticulating by the grave mound where she had left them. Evidently, they were still absorbed by their debate about egalitarianism and hierarchical societies. Hermione chuckled softly. She turned and inspected her surroundings.
It was almost bizarre how extremely this grave mound differed from the others. How very plain they looked in comparison: green and almost flat, while this one covered by a blanket of blossoms formed a perfect hemisphere. Hermione did not stop to wonder how the roses and violets and other purple-blue flowers grew like this. It was evident, at least to her, that there was some kind of magic involved; the first clue being that aside from her there was absolutely no one here. And hadn't she just read about a type of magical repellent that kept Muggles from magical places like Hogwarts? Yes, this was a perfectly plausible explanation as to why this unusual tumulus was not a key attraction.
Hermione walked around the surprisingly ample hilltop, glancing down the colourful slopes. Just like the path she had followed up, there were seven other naturally formed aisles spiralling to the top, each framed by the three kinds of flowers. Hermione bent to pick a couple of each. Her mum would love them. And then she could also ask her about the type she still did not recognise.
The bouquet in hand, she turned and noticed something reflecting the bright midday sun. At the very centre was a white stone set into the ground. Hermione crouched down to inspect it.
It was a white marble plate marked with several angular incisions. Although she couldn't read any of it, she realised that this must have been some sort of gravestone. Hermione stretched out a finger and carefully traced the indents.
'I wonder what you say,' she murmured to herself.
'Here I lay, proud and bold Robert Malfoy, oath keeper and faithful servant of my liege, William the First. An equal to Ajax and Diomedes, I roam the Elysian Fields, and bequeath upon my blood a mere fraction of my blessed fortune.'
At the sound of the voice, Hermione spun around.
Just a moment ago she'd been alone, but now there was a pale boy dressed in almost completely black robes, his white-blond hair practically gleaming in the sunlight. His fine, somewhat pointy features were exaggerated by his overly straight posture, almost comical in its simpering grandness. He seemed to be about her age.
All this ostensible pride, Hermione noticed, was sharply contrasted by the way the boy held onto the broom he clutched tightly in his right hand.
Hermione stood up, unwilling to converse on unequal grounds.
'How would you know that,' she demanded, imitating the voice she'd seen her mum use whenever she spoke to Mr Whitaker, the nosy anaesthetist from St Bartholomew's. 'You can't actually read the runes, can you?' She put her hands on her hips, unwilling to be intimidated by his attitude.
The boy's gaze flickered to the stone, apparently considering whether or not he could get away with a blatant lie.
'No,' he finally admitted and pulled his mouth tight, pressing his lips together, 'but my father told me.'
'Oh. That's a shame.' Hermione sighed, torn between relief and disappointment; relief, that the boy didn't know more than she did, and disappointment, that now she still wouldn't know what exactly the inscription said.
'I am Hermione Granger, by the way,' and she confidently stuck out her hand, just like her parents would do at the Christmas hospital functions they had started to take her to. 'Hermione Jean Granger,' she amended.
The boy watched her intently through shrewd grey eyes. Some would say they were cold or dull, but Hermione instantly thought of the warmth and familiarity of pebbles; pebbles lying smoothly in her tiny hand; pebbles she would let skip with her dad.
Pebbles were plain stones, just grey and unremarkable – until submerged into water. Then they would come alive. They'd show an entire range of colours, specks of green, blue, brown, sometimes even yellow. This natural transformation had always fascinated Hermione, and she felt instantly taken by the eyes of that boy. She wondered if his eyes, too, would be able to transform from colourless to colourful.
'Draco Lucius Malfoy ,' he drawled. 'Pleasure.' His warm hand met hers, and it was quite the contrast to his arrogant tone.
Hermione's eyes widened in understanding. 'Oh!' she exclaimed excitedly. 'Of course! You're a descendant of Robert! How fascinating! You have to tell me all about it.'
The apprehension Hermione felt because of Draco's arrogance dwindled in face of her curiosity. This boy was a source of knowledge, and she would happily ignore his priggish attitude for an insight into magical history. Besides, it seemed apparent to her that his attitude was mainly for show, and she, Hermione Jean Granger, wouldn't be her mother's daughter if she fell for that sort of nonsense.
She sat back down and crossed her legs, and the boy, after a moment's hesitation, joined her.
She fired away questions about his ancestor and his role in the Conquest, and Draco told her that Robert was one of two sons of his earliest ancestor who was one of the Companions of William the Conqueror when he had invaded the island. Robert had given his life in the Battle of Hastings to save his lord, so he was honoured with this extravagant grave, while his family was rewarded with a piece of land nearby.
She asked about the different flowers, and he explained that they were spelled with an ever-blooming charm so the grave could be a spectre of the Elysian Fields while Robert had been granted a place amongst the heroes on the Isles of the Blessed.
'So, the flowers won't wilt even if I pick them?' she asked, eyes wide.
'They are all under a stasis charm so they will keep their form for as long as you like,' he said. His grey-blue eyes considered her thoughtfully.
Hermione beamed at him. 'Excellent,' she smiled. 'My Mum will love them. It's her birthday soon! Speaking of which,' Hermione scrambled to stand, and Draco followed suit. She looked over the trees to the other tumuli and realised that her parents were no longer standing together. Instead, she saw them agitatedly walking around the plain grave mounds.
'Oh dear, I think I need to go! But it was really fascinating talking to you, Draco. I'll see you at Hogwarts, I hope!' She smiled broadly at him and then turned around, down the hills to her parents, before Draco could get out a single word in response.
Draco was so caught up in Hermione's wide, curious eyes and the swirl of wild brown hair rushing down the hill, that it took him several moments to process what had just happened.
He climbed onto his broom and, pulling over his Invisibility Cloak, pushed off, flying the short distance back to Malfoy Manor. The warm summer breeze whipped through his hair, and he felt light and happy. He wanted to tell his mother about his new friend as soon as she got back from Diagon Alley.
Draco landed atop his favourite place in the gardens, the Temple of Prometheus. It was a handsome white round temple that had been built a few hundred years ago by one of his ancestors. From here, you had a perfect view over the groves, the labyrinth and the lake. It was also a great place to read since usually nobody bothered to walk so far into the gardens.
Draco sat down onto the base that elevated the building, and thought about the girl. Only now did he start wondering why by Merlin's beard he had never heard of her family before. He knew all of the important pure-blood families — by name, at least — and there wasn't a Granger among them… maybe she was one of the Dagworth-Grangers?
It took Draco longer than he would have liked to admit that there was only one explanation why he didn't know her; why her parents hadn't found her on the tumulus. The realisation hit him like a bludger to the head, and it was accompanied by the hot rush of shame.
The smart and bossy girl whose company he had just enjoyed, whom he'd been eager to tell his parents about, whom he'd even looked forward to meeting again on the Hogwarts Express; the girl in her Muggle clothing with her Muggle parents; that Hermione Jean Granger was a Mudblood .
The mood Hermione was presently experiencing couldn't have been any more different. Bursting with excitement about her very first encounter with a future classmate, she was dying to tell her parents all about Draco. After getting over the initial shock of potentially having lost their only child, her parents — her mother especially — joined in on Hermione's enthusiasm. Even though all of the Grangers were firm believers in rationality and, consequently, found the concept of omens silly, this still seemed like the best possible way to start Hermione's new life — with a bridge between Muggle and magical history. It was a shame therefore that when Hermione led her parents back to the Malfoy grave, her parents were neither able to see the grave nor Draco; both had disappeared.
Hermione closed yet another door and followed the plump, round-faced boy into the next carriage. They still hadn't found his toad, Trevor, but to be perfectly honest, Hermione was not too sad about that. The boy, Neville Longbottom, let his shoulders hang.
'Gran is going to kill me if I lose Trevor,' he sighed heavily. His lower lip quivered.
'Don't worry. We're going to find him,' Hermine said firmly and patted his arm.
It wasn't just her helpful nature that had compelled Hermione to help Neville; not just the fact that she felt sorry for the timid boy with the kind eyes. Another reason why Hermione gladly accompanied Neville was that she was hoping to find Draco.
It was one of the reasons she had been excited for the train ride to Hogwarts. Hermione was giddy to talk to Draco again.
They opened the door to the next compartment. It was occupied by three boys: two bulky, hefty-looking boys next to a pale, blond one.
'Hello, Draco!' Hermione exclaimed excitedly. With a smile, she entered the compartment, and without hesitation, she sat down next to him. Neville hovered nervously in the door.
She stretched out her right hand to introduce herself to the two other boys, the way her parents expected her to do. Baffled, they didn't immediately react; instead, they looked to Draco as if for approval.
'I don't know what you are doing here. You were not invited,' Draco sneered coldly. Immediately, the two hefty boys sported matching expressions of disapproval.
Hermione jumped up to face Draco. 'Excuse me?' she demanded, putting her hands on her hip.
'Are you deaf?' Draco sneered through clenched teeth, 'I said, you were not invited,' and he turned to look out of the window, wand twirling in his right hand.
For a second Hermione stared at the back of his head, and the colourless eyes reflected in the glass.
'Alright then,' Hermione snapped and whirled around to join Neville at the door. She gave the three boys a severe look; the two boys seemed profoundly confused, their mouths hanging somewhat slack as if they had trouble keeping up, whereas one other was pointedly ignoring what was going on.
Hermione huffed. 'I do hope you all realise that this,' and she fixed her angry stare on the stubborn, unlooking Draco, 'is no way to behave. Let's go, Neville.' Without sparing the trio another look, she marched the shy boy out of the compartment.
The door shut loudly and the two boys considered each other with mirroring expressions of confusion.
'Who the bloody fuck was that?' Gregory Goyle, the boy with the buzzcut, mumbled.
Draco was still staring out of the window, bright late summer colours flashing before his unseeing eyes.
'A Mudblood.'
Author's Note: Welcome (back), everyone! This story was first conceived in 2018 with help from LightofEvolution and InDreams for the Strictly Dramione Summer Loving Fest. Since then, it has been slightly reworked and finished for the 2020 Hermione's Haven Big Bang. I owe many thanks to a group of lovely people: Sarena has been a faithful alpha-reader, cheerleader and great friend throughout; ribbonsofsunshine and Astoria-J13 have helped with beta-reading and britpicking respectively; and the lovely manips that come with this story are courtesy of QuinTalon - be sure to drop by my Tumblr or Insta to check them out!
Updates will be weekly on Wednesdays. However, the story is almost completed over on AO3, where you also have the photographs that go with each chapter of this story... wherever you follow along - thanks so much, and let me know what you think! Cheers, Lynx