Empire
.:OOO:.
Author's Notes: To those that had read the previous version, the prologue and the first chapter may seem familiar but some details were changed and a scene (or two) was added into this. Just FYI.
Next chapter should be up by next weekend, if all goes as planned.
This chapter is unbeta-ed. I apologise for any grammatical errors, typos and spelling mistakes. I've been staring at this for days now and it's as good as it's going to get, unfortunately. *shrugs*
Anyway, I'm curious to know what you think! Enjoy the chapter!
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BOOK ONE
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Chapter One
Childbirth was not easy. Oberon Granger knew this. He was, after all, a smart man. And a dentist to boot. Childbirth was also painful. Extremely so. He also knew this. Sure as he knew that performing tooth extractions without the use of any anaesthetics was agonising. Yet, no matter how much he told himself it was just the way of things, he could not stop from pacing a hole through the hallway floor in front of the bedroom.
How could he when screams of unimaginable suffering rang across the quaint two-bedroom cottage? Knowing that it was his wife that was screaming bloody murder? Occasionally, he could even hear her scream for his bloody murder.
Another anguished cry ripped across the room and into the hall. Oberon ran a hand through his curly brown hair and down his face. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, halting his leaden steps. Oberon turned tired eyes towards the cause, only to look into the amused eyes of his brother.
"You look terrible, mate," Elliot said, laughter colouring his tone. "Why don't we go sit down and have a cuppa?"
Another horrible cry of pain ripped through the house once more.
The other man winced and added, "We'll even add a shot or two of whiskey in it, eh?"
Hours to an eternity later, the sound of a mewling baby reverberated along the walls. Oberon shot up from his seat and was up the stairs in record time.
The door to their bedroom opened and the midwife emerged, looking haggard but triumphant.
"Margaret, is everything—"
"It's a girl, Oberon."
Oberon's heart bursting inside him. He made a break for the door. A girl!
Inside, on the large bed in the middle of the room, his wife reclined against a mountain of soft pillows. She looked exhausted and far too pale. The most brilliant smile graced her beautiful face when she saw him coming. In her arms lay a small bundle wrapped in a thick pink blanket.
Oberon slowed to a halt and swallowed, his heart pounding.
"Look, Hermione," Elizabeth Granger whispered, her voice soft and gentle. She lifted the tiny thing she cradled in her arms, greedily sucking on her breast, "it's your papa."
Hermione.
"Hullo, Hermione," the new father murmured. He marvelled at the sight of the round pink face of his daughter, a small tuft of brown hair on top of her head. He ghosted a finger down her smooth, downy cheek, wondering and amazed. He shared a smile with his wife, exhausted as she was, and he found that he'd never experienced joy as pure as this.
.:OOO:.
Life at Dweller Haven was simple and uncomplicated. Safe. Every new day that the settlement remained hidden and free from the Empire's clutches was another day they could remain free men. It nestled at the corner of a vast valley in Cornwall and was home to a number of proud and resilient Freemen, who refused to bow to people who relied on wooden sticks to survive.
Since the rise of the Magical Empire in the late 1940's, people who had escaped the witches' and wizards' subjugation of non-magicals found solace and safety within settlements like Dweller Haven. As such, time and life passed blissfully for the Freemen of Dweller Haven.
The Grangers doted on their daughter. They had been struggling to conceive for almost a decade since their marriage, so when Hermione was born, they saw her for the gift she was. She was their ray of sunshine in a life where their kind were persecuted and enslaved for being born without magic, in constant fear of the day the Emperor would discover their refuge. She was their pride and joy and they would die for her. No one would ever take her away from them.
Until something did.
Until Magic did.
.:OOO:.
Hermione had just turned two when she performed her first accidental magic.
Already very bright for her age, little Hermione toddled about their cottage with the picture book her Uncle Elliot had given her about a girl as tiny as a thumb. It was her favourite bedtime story and her mother would read it to her every night. That night was no different. She carried the book to where her mother sat on her armchair by the fireplace and climbed into her lap, eager to begin.
Elizabeth Granger smiled and picked up her book.
Entranced by the story, the little girl gasped and cried at the appropriate places. When her mother began to read a particularly favoured part where Thumbelina flew away with the sallow, it happened: the illustration of Thumbelina and the swallow rose from the page. The paper figure of a little girl on the back of a paper bird waved at them as they glided across the room.
Hermione giggled at the sight, delighted by the amusing surprise.
Elizabeth, however, froze in horror. She gawked at the charming display of magic before her and paled.
"Oberon!" the Mrs Granger all but shrieked, her terror mounting.
"Lizzie?" her husband called out in concern. The sound of running footsteps echoed around the house. A few short seconds later, a perturbed Oberon raced into the living room. His anxious gaze landed on his wife and his daughter seated together at their usual spot by the fireplace. Hermione was giggling, eyes wide and enraptured. It was the sight of his wife that made dread creep into the pit of his stomach.
Elizabeth turned to him, pale-faced and terrified. A shaking hand rose to point at something hovering by the ceiling.
The sight of the flying paper figures made his blood run cold in his veins.
No.
No!
.:OOO:.
The Freelands functioned as a society that lived in the shadows of the Empire. Settlements like Dweller Haven dotted across the Empire, sheltered by protections that kept them safe from the Empire's gaze. There were a handful of them in Britain alone. Out in the open, non-magical people were hunted, persecuted, and enslaved without question. But there were magical people, too, who opposed the Empire's rule. These witches and wizards also lived in similarly concealed settlements.
Living and hiding, not only from a common foe but from each other, was a necessity that the first Freemen had deemed the wisest thing to do. The smaller the number, the easier it was for them to avoid the Empire's clutches.
Over half a century had passed since the rise of the Empire, and the Freemen had survived its rule for just as long. But there was a price to pay for their survival.
Magic moved in ways not even witches and wizards could predict. Every so often, a magical child would be born from non-magical parents – muggleborns. Conversely, a child without magic from magical families would be born. In order for their full segregation to be successful, an exchange of children had to occur. Children with magical abilities would be sent to the closest magical settlement as soon as they manifested the first signs of magic, while children without magical abilities from magical settlements would likewise be sent to non-magical settlements as soon as it became evident that they had no magic by the age of seven.
Separate, that was the Freemen credo. Separate but free.
.:OOO:.
"You can't let them take her away, Oberon, you can't! I won't let you! Not my baby!" Elizabeth cried — no, begged, her distress evident in the way her long dark curls hung limp down her shoulders. Her eyes remained red-rimmed and swollen from the tears that had not stopped falling ever since her daughter performed accidental magic. Hermione had been taken to her bedroom where she had promptly fallen asleep. The excitement of the day and, perhaps, the manifestation of her magic for the first time, had taken a toll on her young body.
Oberon was just as heartbroken as his wife. He gathered her in his arms, to support her, to keep himself from falling apart. They had to give her up. They had to give their baby girl up, his pride and joy.
"Please, don't make me give her up," Elizabeth whispered through her tears, clutching him tightly.
Unable to say anything else, he whispered comforting words to her, wishing he believed them.
.:OOO:.
Though she had never performed accidental magic again after that fateful night, Hermione first became cognisant of the fact that she could make Special Things happen when she was only three years old.
One gloomy winter day in January, with the rain falling in thick sheets across the valley, Hermione stared out of her bedroom window, watching the ceaseless fall of the rain. She and her mummy would have normally been at the park by now. But the rain was 'having cats and dogs', so Hermione's mummy had told her they'd go after the rain stopped. Hermione had been sitting by the window for a long time now and she hadn't seen any cats or dogs.
Hermione pouted, bored. She wished her mummy would hurry up with the ironing so they could play together. She wanted to jump on the puddles and make mud pies! If her daddy were there, he would have taken her outside but she knew daddy wouldn't be home until way after Mr Sun had gone.
Hermione drummed her fingers on the sill as she thought, in the same way she'd seen her daddy do when he was thinking. She tracked a raindrop as it streaked down the glass. A restlessness that often struck young children with nothing to do came over her, and the unexpended energy inside her morphed into toddler's mischief.
She bet mummy would be hungry after working so hard…Hermione sat up, perking up when an inspired idea bloomed inside her head. 'I know!' She should make mummy some food! Mummy always gave her biscuits or treats after she worked extra hard on her drawings! Now it was her turn to give some to Mummy!
Warming up to her plan, Hermione ran down the stairs to the living room and skidded to a halt in front of the kitchen counter. She lifted her gaze up, up, up, until it sat on the cupboards where she knew the 'ingerdents' were being kept. She'd helped her mummy make pancakes once before, so she knew she could do them by herself now.
Without an ounce of hesitation, Hermione grabbed a kitchen chair from the dining table and dragged it over to the counter. She clambered on top of it, placed her knees onto the cool surface of the counter, and pulled the cupboard doors open with a mighty heave.
She peered into its depths and frowned. Even with her kneeling on the countertop, the top of her head only came up to the first shelf. The bag of flour and sugar were at the very top shelf. She reached up as far as she could for them.
No luck. It was too high.
Trying again, she reached up higher, rising to stand on her tiptoes. She braced herself against the lower shelf in a bid to reach higher. She strained and wobbled with effort.
A startled gasp erupted from behind her. "Oh, goodness! Hermione!"
Hermione reared back in surprise as though she'd been burnt, her heart leaping sharply in her chest. Her feet slipped, losing her balance. Her arms flailed in the air, unable to find purchase on the smooth surface. Fear washed over her as she toppled backwards.
It all happened so quickly, Hermione hadn't even had the time to scream.
'Help!'
Several loud consecutive crashes bounced off the kitchen walls a second later, the chair and a few other utensils falling to the floor with discordant clatters.
Hermione was old enough to know pain and when to expect it. She screwed her eyes shut waiting for her own body to crash to the floor…
Only, it didn't. She didn't crash and there was no pain. She didn't feel anything at all.
When Hermione opened her eyes, she found herself floating high above the floor. Her eyes widened in wonder and amazement, the pounding fear she'd felt dissipating as quickly as it had come. She glanced around her, marvelling at the feeling of weightlessness.
She was flying!
She was floating higher than even the counter! And the bag of flour, a cooking pot, and a wooden spoon were floating along with her! She giggled, absolutely tickled.
Hermione turned to her mummy standing by the door and looking up at her. She grinned and giggled again.
"Mummy! Look!" she squealed in delight, wriggling her arms and legs in the air, instinctively wafting herself over to her mother like a drifting feather. "I can fly!"
"O-oh, my darling," Elizabeth said with a barely restrained sob. "Please get down from there." She reached up to her daughter and quite literally pulled her down from the air.
Hermione tilted her head to the side, noting the wetness around her mother's eyes. "Mummy crying?"
"Oh, I'm just being silly!" Her mummy shook her head, wisps of her long dark hair ticking Hermione's cheek. She gathered her daughter close in her arms and held on tight, "I was just scared you'd fly far away."
.:OOO:.
By the time Hermione was four, she knew the one basic, Most Important Rule: never tell anyone about her Special Secret.
"Or they'll take you away from us," her daddy had once said, his voice so sad, all Hermione could do was hold on to him, "and we'll never be able to see you again."
Her Special Secret was that she could make Special Things happen. They always happen by themselves and she never knew when they would occur. Much to her parents' relief, however, they happened rarely and only when Hermione was at home or out of sight. Of course, it helped that she was a studious child, whose nose was so often found stuffed in a book that she barely interacted with the other children unless she deemed it necessary to do so. It was obvious from an early age that she was a precocious little girl, more advanced academically than the rest of her peers. So, despite her socialisation skills falling behind, her preference to keep to herself had kept her safe from discovery.
Though Hermione remained obedient to her parents' warnings, it wasn't until she was nearly six years old that she discovered the truth of her father's words. Four-year-old Timmie by the mill was found to be able to make Special Things happen around him, too. He'd apparently transformed their cows into singing toads.
The village had been abuzz with chatter. Apprehensive whispers floated around the town and by summer, Timmie was being escorted by his parents, the village governor, and a couple of the menout of the settlement. Timmie's exile from Dweller Haven had been the talk of the town for days, if not weeks. They hadn't had a magical child born in the settlement in nearly a decade.
"Did you see them take Timmie away yesterday?" Hermione heard her cousin seven-year-old Alfie ask one of his friends at the playground one day. She had been wondering the exact same thing, but she said nothing.
"I did!" exclaimed one of the kids. "I heard they were taking him away because he did something very bad."
Dorothy, the baker's daughter, gasped. "Did they…" she dropped her voice to a loud whisper, "punish him?"
Hermione lost track of the book she was reading and looked up to eavesdrop on the other children standing nearby. An exasperated sigh interrupted the murmurs and her older cousin Charlotte looked over at them with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She jumped from the swing she'd been sitting on. The eight-year-old surveyed the rest of the kids with an air of superiority.
"You babies don't know anything!" she said snootily. "They gave Timmie to the Clobs, you dumdums."
"Clobs?" Hermione couldn't help but pipe in, her book The Jungle Book now forgotten. She stood from where she sat under a tree and approached the other kids with a curious tilt of her bushy mane. "What are 'Clobs'?" The word tasted foreign on her tongue.
All the other kids turned to Charlotte, also curious.
The older girl stood tall and told them, "They're people from Beyond the Dell. They're very dangerous people. And they hurt and eat children!"
A collective gasp of surprise and horror erupted from the group. Everyone in the village knew that they were never, ever to step foot outside of Dweller Haven's territory. Children were especially forbidden from straying far from the village. Bad things happened Beyond the Dell. Bad things with bad people.
"Why did they give Timmie to the...the Clobs?" Alfie wanted to know, voice laced with fear.
"Was it because he was bad?" six-year-old Jim asked in a frightened whisper, likely promising himself he'd never steal a biscuit from the container ever again.
"No, it's because he has magic." Charlotte shrugged, now bored with explaining things to stupid babies. "And that's why he couldn't stay with normal people like us."
And with that, the older girl sauntered off, leaving a bunch of nervous children, and a frozen, fear-stricken Hermione behind.
.:OOO:.
Magic.
Hermione had magic. Her daddy was right. If anyone ever found out she could make Special Thingshappen, they were going to take her away and give her to the Clobs, too.
Hermione ran all the way home that day, so frightened at the thought of being given to strangers who could hurt her, or—or eat her, just because she could make things happen without even meaning to. She burst into tears the moment she reached the safety of her home. Her outburst caused the ceiling lights to blow and she cried harder, screaming for her mother, her fear mounting.
Elizabeth came running through the hall, panicked. When she saw her distraught daughter, she fell to her knees and gathered the crying child into her embrace. "Hermione!" She ran her hands up and down her daughter's arms to see if she'd been hurt anywhere. She eyed the broken glass littered on the floor a few feet from them with concern. "What happened?"
"Don't...don't let them!" Hermione wailed through her tears. She shook her head against her mother's chest, wild hair flying.
Elizabeth's brows furrowed in confusion. "Hermione, darling, what—"
"Don't...don't let the Clobs take me, mummy!"
"Oh, honey," her mum whispered, her voice soft and comforting. "I won't let them take you. Never."
Hermione sniffled, tears still streaming down her face. Her chest still felt hot and tight. She hiccupped through her stuffy nose. "But I can make Special Things happen like Timmie. I have magic." Hermione added the last word in a whisper, as if speaking it out loud would unleash the very magic she had.
"I know, honey, I know." Elizabeth bit her lip. She wiped away the tears from Hermione's cheeks and pushed the unruly mass of hair back. "And this is why no one can ever know. You must learn to control it. You must. We'll find a way."
They would. Somehow.
.:OOO:.
Unfortunately, learning about magic proved to be more challenging than both Granger parents originally anticipated. They had no idea where to even begin. Books with any mention of magic were in (very) limited supply, with their only plausible resource being the usual fairy tales. Nor could they outright ask for books written by actual clobs, either. That would not only raise suspicion, but the act itself would be nigh impossible. The villagers took every precaution they could to ensure that nothing magical ever entered Dweller Haven. Anything or anyone in suspicion of magic would be immediately detained, destroyed, or disposed of.
It wasn't long after that Elizabeth and Oberon decided to change tracks. It was clear they had no idea where to start learning about magic, let alone hope to understand it. So, instead, after a particularly strong outburst from Hermione when she came home upset from school one day ("David Quimby pulled at my hair and called me a seaweed head!"), resulting in the curtains bursting into flames, Oberon suggested they try meditation. Hermione's magic often manifested when she was particularly emotional. Teaching her to regulate and cope with them might prove to be a better solution than trying to wrangle with the unknown.
And, surprisingly enough, it did work...for a while.
Hermione was a keen learner. She regularly performed her mindfulness and breathing exercises. Meditating helped her regulate not only the volatile emotions common in young children her age, but it also quieted down the noise and chaos of her overactive mind.
Elizabeth, for her part, was relieved to have found a solution to control magic without actually needing to learn magic. But she couldn't shake away a part of her that was incessantly worried – for her daughter, about the magic she possessed. She knew Hermione would have an easier time of it if she were really taught by people who actually knew what they were doing. But Elizabeth also knew she would be damned if she had to give her daughter up to the very people who had driven her own into hiding without a fight, even if it were to the so-called 'good wizards' who strongly opposed the Empire's rule. They were still clobs, and as far as Elizabeth was concerned, they were all the same.
But no matter how much one may try to conceal the truth, blood will out. Or rather, magicwill.
Try as the Grangers may deny it, their daughter was a witch. And what was a witch if not magic itself?
Hermione would not be able to deny the power she felt pulsing quietly within herself no more than the sun could deny itself from shining each day. It was simply who she was.
And so, Magic waited, patiently, to be acknowledged.
.:OOO:.
And then, then, one day, on a visit to the paltry library at the edge of town with her mummy, she came across an unassuming little children's bookin a dusty corner. A book entitled Matilda. The book itself looked much like every other children's book, with its illustrated and coloured cover and cartoonish depictions. But what piqued Hermione's interest was by what it depicted: a little girl reading and sitting beside piles and piles of books.
A girl like her.
"Ah, an excellent choice, Hermione," Mrs Figg, the kind, elderly lady who took care of the books, hummed with approval as she handed it back to the little girl.
And it was.
Matilda was a revelation. An inspiration.
Matilda could do Special Things like she could. Matilda had abilities not unlike the magic that Hermione herself had (sometimes, anyway) and she could control them! Best of all, Matilda wasn't afraid of her power; she welcomed it. She made it work for her, not against her. If Matilda could do it at five years old, surely she could, too, at six!
The idea had merit, even though what Matilda had wasn't technically called magic but was actually, according to her daddy, telekinesis. And she doubted her magic would disappear like Matilda's did but it was the things that she could do that mattered. Useful things, wonderful, magical, fantastical things!
And so, Hermione set about learning to do just that. She started by doing something similar. Where Matilda had used her father's cigars to learn to use her powers, Hermione used her crayons, mostly because her daddy never allowed her anywhere near his cigars, but they would do.
Every day, after coming home from school, Hermione would run up to her bedroom, sit on her bed and try to will one of her crayons to float.
Her parents had been puzzled, shrugging between themselves. They watched their daughter stare intently at a crayon in front of her, a small hand hovering just above it with bewilderment. They had tried to give other suggestions but Hermione was undeterred. She wanted her crayon to float, and she would make it so. She would!
'Come on, come on, float!'
'Floatfloatfloatfloat—'
'Please float!'
'FLOAT!'
Then one day, it did!
A burst of warmth exploded from her chest, right at the centre of her very being. It was painless but emanating from deep within.
The chunky orange crayon rose gently in the air, as if cradled by a non-existent wind.
Hermione gaped, surprised by her own success. Her surprise morphed into wonder.
'I did it!'
The flush of satisfaction that coursed through her was nothing short of euphoric. It had taken Hermione longer than she thought it would and it had left her exhausted every time. But by the end of the next week, she was able to make a crayon glide about her bedroom with the simple swish of her finger.
As the days, weeks, months flew by, Hermione's control over her magic grew with ease. The more she became familiar with the feel of the magic rushing through her, the more adept she became at manipulating it. She could make anything do just about anything by the time she was eight years old, from producing little fireballs that didn't burn her fingers (her mummy had made her promise not do that one anymore because she could burn the house down – even though Hermione had been very careful) at will to making the kitchen utensils dance a jig for some family entertainment at dinner. Her imagination was the limit!
It hadn't taken Hermione long to learn that magic moved with intention. The more firm and clear she was of her objective, the more successful the outcome was.
Magic, she realised, was the most wonderful thing in the world!
Unfortunately, her parents didn't see it that way. Logically, Hermione was aware that her accomplishments made her parents happy, but she could also sense in the uncanny way that children could, that her abilities caused her parents no small amount of apprehension.
She noticed it whenever she showed them what she could do with her magic, saw it in the slight shift of their bodies, in their strained smiles. They would always praise her, tell her that they were proud of her, were supportive of her and her apparent capabilities, but they would always remind her of the Golden Rule: never let anyone know.
Hermione, older now, knew exactly why, of course. It wasn't just because she would be sent away. Being at the top of her class, she had skipped two grades after the age of seven. It was in school that she learned about their history and their tragic truth. She learned about the foundation of the settlements and the Freelands, about the Freemen, the clobs and the Empire from which every Freeman, magical or otherwise, was hiding from. She knew why everyone hated the clobs, even when there were clobs that called themselves Freemen. They were still clobs and therefore, could not be trusted.
But—
But, surely, they couldn't be all bad… She was, after all, a clob, too. A muggleborn, as the books called them.
Nevertheless, Hermione, in time, learned to keep her gifts to herself. She explored her abilities within the privacy of her bedroom and the rickety building at the edge of the settlement provided her with an abundant source of information and inspiration. She was never without books to read, though any of the books she took home were never about magic – not that there were a lot of them there to begin with. Her mother had been explicit about that. She was never to borrow any books that had any mention of magic in them whatsoever. Any special interest in the topic could be a cause for suspicion.
So life went on peacefully in Dweller Haven, its inhabitants unaware that a brilliant young witch lived among them.
Until that one fateful day.
.:OOO:.