Season of the Goddess
.xOoOx.
Two
Mother of Magic
.xOoOx.
Hermione awoke to birdsong and a sweet lullaby, the rustle of leaves and the cool balm of the wind across her cheeks the accompanying orchestra. She stirred from where she lay, feeling the warmth of the sun caressing her face. Someone was stroking her hair, their gentle fingers dancing to the rhythm of the song. A familiar song, an old one. One that made her feel content, loved; one that was as old as time.
She knew this song, Hermione suddenly realised, though she knew not the words.
She smiled, the gentle strokes to her hair stirring up old memories of laughter, warmth and comfort. Home.
"Mum?" she called out, voice hoarse from sleep as her eyes fluttered open to see sunbeams streaming through a canopy of tall trees, bright golden rays casting a magical shimmer to the landscape. She could see her mother's silhouette above her from where her head lay on her lap, her mum's fine feminine features cast in shadow against the sun's brightness.
The sweet melody halted mid-song, as did the hand that had been carding gently through her tresses, lulling her into peace. And then her mother looked down at her and the smile that greeted her was one that only a mother could give, sunny, gentle and full of love.
"Hullo, Hermione," she greeted with a voice so ethereal and melodious, it seemed to come to life in the wind.
Only it wasn't her mother. It was someone else. Someone unfamiliar, and yet...
Still drowsy from her sleep, Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion as she sat up, eyes blinking up at the unknown woman in bewilderment and not a little wonder. She stared and awe overcame her the longer she did.
The woman was…
Magnificent.
Long dark brown hair the colour of the richest earth framed her perfectly oval face like a glossy waterfall of silk. Her skin was golden and ㄧ quite literally ㄧ glowing in the sun. High, regal cheekbones stood out prominently, so sharp, they could have cut diamonds, on a face so perfectly symmetrical, a master sculptor couldn't have done any better. Her nose was feminine and small and her lips were as red as freshly picked apples.
But her eyes…
Her eyes were the most arresting thing about her. They were almond-shaped, topped with thick eyelashes and they were molten ㄧ literally. They smouldered with so many colours, her pupils shifting from green to gold, blue to violet, a multitude of colours swirling in her irises as if all the colours in the spectrum were constantly vying for dominance.
She was beautiful, ethereal. Otherworldly.
And tall. So tall, in fact, that Hermione barely came up to her chin as they sat in front of each other in the grass.
All the young witch could do was gape. It only took one look at this woman for anyone to realise that she was not altogether human.
Who are you? Hermione wanted to ask. What are you?
"Dru-druantia?" was what she found herself asking instead, unable to tear gaze away from the woman, entranced.
Then a frown dipped her own lips immediately after. How did she know that? She was fairly certain she had never met or seen this woman before in her life, and she doubted she would ever forget, not a being like her. Stranger still, even as her mind whirled with confusion, her instincts told her she was safe. For some bizarre reason, she just knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was safe.
She was the safest she could be.
Odd.
"You seem confused, child," the woman answered with a comforting smile, an understanding wrinkle at the edges of her eyes. Kind eyes, Hermione decided. She had kind eyes, despite their molten peculiarity. "Are you all right?"
Hermione nodded cautiously, her brows still furrowed in consternation. "I'm just…confused."
"Confused?" Perfectly shaped eyebrows flying up in an almost indulgent way, the woman before her questioned gently. "About what?"
Blinking, Hermione looked up at her, unable to find any other words, nor could she find it in her to lie. "You."
"Me?"
If there had been a way to express great surprise with grace, Hermione reckoned the goddess – goddess, she frowned inwardly – was able to pull it off in the most enchanting ways. Then, comprehension seemed to shine a light within her strange, otherworldly yet fascinating eyes. A knowing smile crept up the corners of her lips as she took hold of one of Hermione's hands, which seemed smaller, she noticed, within the woman's grip than it should be…
Before Hermione could call attention to this observation, however, the lady spoke, a knowingness in her voice that was both comforting and confounding. "It seems that your memories have finally caught up."
"My...memories? Caught up?" Hermione tilted her head to the side questioningly, more confused now than ever. And the more confused she got, the more frustrated she became. "What—"
Hermione Granger was rarely confused.
Memories.
Her mind raced, jogging to her most recent recollection, flashing before her eyes in quick succession. She had been sleeping, and then...the will-o'-the-wisps, a forest, a dead, white tree, Crookshanks. And then, darkness.
Dread crept into her bones like icy fingers. Her muscles coiled tight, ready to jump up and retreat away from the mysterious woman, eyes wide in alarm. Her fingers curled around the thick grass under her hands, blindly searching for her wand though she felt confident enough in her abilities to throw up a wandless Protego in case the woman decided to attack her.
No, she didn't know what was going on, but something was definitely wrong.
"Calm yourself, Eilonwy*." Before Hermione could move a muscle, the woman reached out and ran a hand down the back of her head in a comforting caress, like a mother would do with a scared child. The woman — Druantia her brain supplied as she looked up speechless — gave her a gentle, reassuring smile. "I'm not going to hurt you."
And Hermione believed her. She didn't know why but she did. Implicitly. Druantia wouldn't hurt her. She was…
She was Mother, her inner voice supplied once more.
"I don't understand," Hermione began in a small voice, suddenly awash with thoughts and feelings she would have only ever associated with one person: her own mother, Helen Granger. "I know you, but I...I don't think I've ever met you before."
The strange being pulled away and bestowed her with another benevolent smile, but this time it was with a sparkle in her molten gaze.
"In this case, my Little Elain*," she answered as she ran a hand through Hermione's curls, a feeling of calm washing over the girl. "It is both."
.xOoOx.
The Mother
A passage from the records of Arthwys the Chronicler,
From Archives of the Coeden Wybodaeth*, Elaindale
For as long as the world has lived, so has she, the Mother, the Nurturer, the Goddess. She who gave birth to all life, she who is of the earth, she who is of magick itself. She who is the reason magick thrives, and therefore why all life exists.
She is called by many names across the world, across time, but always, she is known as the Earth Mother. To the druids, she is Druantia*.
It is Druantia who presides over the balance of the universe and its cycles, ensures the natural passage from life to death and rebirth comes to pass, for there can be no light without darkness, no creation without destruction and no life without death.
When the time comes for Druantia to return to the earth, as with all natural things and she, the most natural being of all to exist, it is, therefore, our sacred duty as the Druids of Elaindale to safeguard the rebirth of her new form, now and forevermore, for so long as the earth and magick remains.
.xOoOx.
Elaindale, June 1964
Hermione examined her youthful face in the crystalline blue water of the river in front of her with a critical eye, taking in the roundness to her cheeks, the small frame of her shoulder. Her limbs were thin, almost twig-like in its fragility, and her ankles were no different. Her hair was long, the longest she'd ever worn it, unbound brown curls falling almost to her square childish hips, a wild living thing that she doubted even three bottles of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment could tame. A pity, really, since she'd just gotten her hair to calm down, too. Her eyes were a big, bright brown, an awareness in them that she had to admit was out of place above the rose of her cheeks.
She decided then that it was a disconcerting experience, to look at herself and feel like a total stranger to her own appearance, to look at herself and realise with sudden clarity that she had to relive her childhood once again — quite literally.
Hermione had seen pictures of herself as a young child, but to confirm that though she did indeed look exactly as she did when she was four, albeit with hair a little longer and a tad wilder, a possibility that was a tad worrying, it was an entirely different experience to see your four-year-old self in the mirror through the eyes of a nineteen-year-old.
Hermione turned away abruptly from her reflection, disturbed. She had already finished throwing a huge benny over her new (though not quite) appearance, and the goddess had graciously given her a few moments to come to grips with being not-quite-five again. As well she should, considering she had been the one to do this to her!
Druantia. Mother.
Her early memories of this life told her she was Mother, and after what the goddess had told her of who she actually was and how she came to be here, so far back into the past, she supposed she was. All living things were her children, after all. Druantia was Magic, or at least the personification of it.
But…
But she was just a bit different, wasn't she?
Hermione climbed back up to the bank, making her way to a lazing willow tree, its leaves languishing in the wind. It seemed to titter at her approach, it's boughs seeming to creak ever so slightly.
According to Druantia, though she was a child born from Helen and Oberon Granger, every bit their flesh and blood, Hermione had always, always been born for magic, not just from magic, as was the case with many witches and wizards. She had been conceived, and as preposterous as it sounded, to ascend in the most archaic cycle of the earth and of magic. She was, the Mother Goddess had pronounced with implacable conviction, the next Druantia, and when she would finally meet her dawn, Hermione would rise in the rebirth of magic, for even magic had a cycle, and not even actual goddesses were truly immortal.
It had admittedly been a lot to take in.
It had just been over a week since her arrival, not only to Elaindale, the hidden paradise of the druids and the Mother Goddess's seat of power but to 1964 as well, thirty-five years into the past. Though, "arrival" might not be the best word to use, because technically, she had been living in Elaindale since the day she was born – or, well, reborn – from the light of the will-o'-the-wisps in 1959. It was her memories from the future that had just "arrived". Or rather, her consciousness, only now surfacing at an age when children's brains were big enough to retain their long-term memories.
At four and a half years old, it seemed that her brain was just the right size to be able to accommodate all of her previous memories and consciousness. It explained why she knew things and people she hadn't previously known or met before — yet another disconcerting thing about all this.
Hermione sighed and laid on the grass beneath the shade of the willow, unconcerned that the white cotton frock embroidered with Celtic horse knots she wore would get stained. She stared at the canopy of leaves above her, tendrils long and graceful, the other trees surrounding her as enormous and as high as skyscrapers, making her feel smaller than she already was.
As Drunatia had told it, the future that Hermione would have known was no more. The world had or would have collapsed in on itself just before the end of the year 1999, when all living things perished, because Druantia had, in every sense of the word, died, bringing the earth's magic with her, without Hermione ascend on its rebirth.
It began in Elaindale and then in every enchanted forest, every trunk, branch and stalk infected, dying off when the magic flowing within them became too corrupted with evil to bear, scorching the plants dark and lifeless from the inside out — Enchanted Forests. Natural Disaster.
The sea, lakes, gulfs and streams would have soon followed, poison flowing in the water like a malicious current, driving many of its magical inhabitants out of their habitats. Without their natural ecosystem to turn to, magical creatures and even mundane animals would be rendered helpless to the corrupted flow of magic. Soon after, magicalfolk across the world would fall victim to an incurable disease that no Master Healer could identify, much less create a cure for.
By the turn of the 21st century, Muggles would drop in huge numbers, dying from disease and plague, natural disasters would savage cities: wildfires, devastating earthquakes, superstorms and tsunamis until finally, all that would be left of the earth was a giant, scorched black relic, lifeless.
There would be no magic left in the world after Druantia's death. When magic died, so did the earth, and so did everyone in it.
As a last resort, Druantia had used up the last vestiges of her powers before her demise to reach into herself, to a time when the earth was just a little bit younger, reaching into the magic that was ever ageless, so ever-present that it knew no time, to try and circumvent a future that only had death and no rebirth in its wake, an earth that had no cycle, only destruction. Not just for herself, but for the entire world.
"Eirianwen*?"
Hermione started out of her thoughts, blinking out of her reverie only to stare up into the wide violet eyes, curiosity shining through them innocently.
Lucine, Hermione's brain informed. Friend. Best friend.
"Uh, hullo," she finally said in Old Welsh*, a language she could now, apparently, speak and understand effortlessly. She sat up and gave the other girl a small smile. Lucine looked no older than she did with pin-straight blonde hair hanging down her back like a golden waterfall. "How are you, Lucine?"
The girl tilted her head in response, a question still shining in her eyes. "Are you okay, Eirianwen?"
Hermione started to nod before she gave pause at her question. Was she? The child inside her knew she was. She wasn't feeling hungry and physically, she was well taken care of. Everyone in the village was nice to her, and tonight, Nona her nursemaid — her nursemaid! — would have a nice dinner prepared for her. Things were rather simple at four, weren't they?
"I'm okay," she finally said. "Just thinking."
"Thinking?" The girl echoed in the way that children often did when they weren't clear on what you meant.
"Er, yeah. Thinking," she confirmed with a shrug.
"Abou what?" Lucine took a seat beside her, huge amethyst eyes fixed on the other child with a gaze so guileless yet somehow piercing.
"Just...stuff," was her lame answer.
In all honesty, Hermione had no idea how to interact with children her own age without acting like she was so much older than they were. Especially because she technically was. How could she explain to a four-year-old (and for some reason the child inside her knew this as an important fact) that she had been contemplating about how the world she'd come from had been so corrupted by dark magic that the Mother Goddess had to literally turn back time and whisked her away to be reborn so they could restore the world back to its natural order, all because of a madman's hubris to try and claim what not even a veritable deity possessed and thereby corrupting the balance of nature.
"Good stuff?" the girl asked, wide-eyed with excitement as she pushed herself up on her knees. "Like unicorns and pixies and leprechauns?"
Hermione shook her head, feeling fine strands of wild curls fly about her head. "Not exactly, no."
If it was possible, Lucine's eyes grew impossibly wider, glittering in wonderment. She gasped and dropped her voice to a low yet audible whisper. "Bad stuff?"
"You could say that, yes." Hermione dropped her gaze to her small hands, even now feeling like a stranger to her childish body. "Bad stuff. Like…" — like the end of the world — "Like Voldemort."
Lucine wrinkled her nose at the word, her little elfin features crumpling almost comically, having no idea what exactly what a Voldemort was. "You're right. That does sound bad."
.xOoOx.
Hogwarts, September 1975
Having to go through Hogwarts twice now, excluding, of course, her Seventh Year, and going through the motions of a normal Hogwarts student, just focusing on school and basically just having an almost ordinary life, was something that Hermione had grown to appreciate. Well, as normal as it was for her as the sapling of the Earth Mother, but the relative non-life threatening experiences she had so far had at Hogwarts was a welcome change that she never got to enjoy as the friend of the infamous Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and later, the Man-Who-Conquered, in her previous life.
She missed her friends terribly, of course, and not a day went by that she didn't wish she could give her boys a bone-crushing hug, but she knew very well that she wouldn't see them for at least a few more years. Unlike the previous timeline, however, they would never go to school with a bushy-haired girl named Hermione Granger, would never go to school with someone of that name, in fact, for she was here now, going to school with the infamous Marauders instead.
A melancholy sigh escaped her lips at the thought, her heart aching whenever she thought of the people she would never meet again. The years since had dulled the ache somewhat, but while life as Hermione Granger of the 1990's hadn't been perfect, it had been a life she had come to realise she treasured deeply.
It had taken Hermione a week to come to terms with her new reality since her consciousness had merged with her younger body all those years ago. It had taken her nearly a month to grieve for the life she had lost and was forced to leave behind. To grieve for the friends she would never know again. She had shut herself in her dwelling for weeks when she had realised that there was no way for her to return, that she hadn't been given a choice.
But there hadn't been a choice at all, had there? Returning to the past was the only way to ensure that humanity and magic had a fighting chance to change what awaited them in 24 years. Ultimately, she understood why Druantia had done it, and she had told her Mother Goddess so after the self-imposed isolation that had caused the entire druid enclave to worry after her in the process.
Just then, a loud commotion erupted from the Gryffindor table, followed by shrieks and gasps of surprise and incredulity. Hermione looked up from the Earl Grey tea she had been sipping and allowed the corners of her lips to quirk up in an odd mix of longing and fondness.
Ah, chaos.
Hermione never noticed it before, as someone who had sat quite proudly at the Gryffindor table herself, but having to sit at the Ravenclaws' table, she now had quite a prime view of what mischief the infamous troublemakers of the decade was up to, and it happened nearly daily.
Like clockwork.
Hermione watched with an amused expression on her face as James Potter and Sirius Black charmed the plates and utensils within their vicinity to serenade a furious Lily Evans sitting at the other end of the table. She watched, allowing a knowing smirk to grace her lips as James declared his undying love for Lily over the girl's own displeased yelling for them to cease and desist, watched as Remus Lupin silently shook his head at his friends' antics, while Sirius laughed uproariously at the flurry they caused with Peter Pettigrew.
Hermione grimaced, the sight of Pettigrew melting the warmth she felt towards the other members of the illustrious band, giving way to a feeling of distaste. She set her tea down, losing her taste for it. She couldn't help it. Even after all these years, four years of being a classmate, sharing some of the same classes and seeing him every day in a classroom or around the castle, and she still felt her skin crawl whenever she saw the traitorous rat. One would think she would be desensitised to his slimy presence by now.
Apparently not. His sin was far too great. Far too unforgivable.
Rising from her spot at the long table, Hermione glanced down at the blonde girl sitting beside her, unruffled by the commotion at the table next to them, and quirked a questioning brow at her friend. "I'm off to the library for a bit before heading down to Potions. Coming?"
The brown-haired witch didn't miss the way Lucine dragged her startling violet gaze to pierce through the hysterical figure of a certain sycophantic member of the Marauders, before glancing back at her, the gem colour of her eyes glinting in a way that told Hermione she understood what was left unsaid. "Of course. There's an astronomy and a husbandry book that I've been meaning to borrow."
"Husbandry?"
Lucine's smile was serene and indulgent. "Why, yes. I want to cultivate some Wrackspurts, you see…"
.xOoOx.
Hogwarts, September 1975
James Potter was brimming with excitement.
Coming back to Hogwarts had always excited him. Sure, he loved being at home with his mum and his dad, but there was just not enough mischief to be had at Potter Manor. Playing pranks on the house-elves could only provide him with short-lived entertainment, after all, and being an only child, while it did have its perks, could be pretty lonely during the holidays, especially on the days when Sirius would be at his own house.
But at Hogwarts...At Hogwarts, he just felt alive, indestructible.
There was just something about the halls of the magical castle that set his blood rushing, knowing that mischief could be had at every corner, something about the spacious grounds that urged him to constantly be on the lookout for adventure. The thrill of Quidditch set his spirits high, the success of a prank an addiction. Hell, even the fierce rivalry with the Slytherins and Snivellus set his adrenaline rushing. And of course, the lovely vision of one Miss Lily Evans, the love of his life, his maiden fair, could set his heart racing like no other.
It helped that his mates were always there with him, through it all. Marauders, through thick or thin.
Hogwarts was their domain.
And this year, James thought as he paused in front of one of the windows located just outside of the Gryffindor dormitories, looking out into the Forbidden Forest with building anticipation. This year was going to be different — better.
Because this year, come the first full moon of the school year, the Forbidden Forest wouldn't be so forbidden anymore. Not to him or Padfoot or Wormtail, anyway.
He had very nearly completed his transformation; he, Sirius and Peter had all been practising non-stop at the gardens behind Potter Manor. And while they had only managed partial transforms in the early days of summer vacation, by the time 1st September rolled in, James was able to do complete transformation!
...for all of three minutes, but still!
With a little bit more practice, he's sure his mind would get used to the mental strain of staying in-animagus for longer periods of time. Just a bit more and Prongs would be free to explore the secrets of the Forbidden Forest, free to help a friend in need, free to run wild with Moony under the full moon's glow.
"Oi, Prongs! You coming or what?" Sirius hollered from down the hall as he bound towards the staircase, uncaring that his voice echoed around them like an explosion.
"If we don't hurry, the Slytherins will make it to the Quidditch pitch before we can surprise them!" Peter cried, fidgeting on his feet.
Remus merely shrugged, already knowing he was outnumbered anyway.
James shot his friends a ready smirk as he sauntered after them.
The possibilities for mischief, adventure and mystery at Hogwarts were endless. He couldn't wait!
.xOoOx.
*Eilonwy - a name based on the Welsh word eilon, which means "stag" or "deer". Not only does this name hint at her future connection with James *wink*, but in Celtic traditions, a stag symbolises the sacred and the forests.
The names Eilonwy and Taran are also names I took from Llyod Alexander's Chronicles of the Prydain as well as Disney's The Black Cauldron because both works, especially the former, draw upon Welsh Mythology.
*Elain - means fawn in Welsh.
*Drunatia - the names means "Queen of the Oak" or "Queen of the Druids". She is not a real deity that was worshipped by Celts, but rather, is a hypothetical Celtic tree goddess proposed by Robert Graves and falls into the Mother Goddess archetype.
*Coeden Wybodaeth - According to Google, this is the Welsh translation of knowledge tree.
*Eirianwen - a Welsh name from the words eirian (shining or bright) and gwen (holy, white, pure). Its significance will be explained in the next chapter.