Season of the Goddess
.:OOO:.
Author's Notes: Hi, everyone! Welcome to the new re-written version of Season of the Goddess! When I posted this a year ago I just really wanted to write a Jamione and I ran with an idea I had, but after stewing on this for a while now, I've managed to flesh it out a bit more. And I like it better now.
To those that had read the previous version, the chapter may look familiar, but some details were changed. I also want to warn people that though this is a Jamione, this is primarily Hermione-centric. Romance is not the only focus of this story. It WILL be there, just not the focal point of it.
If my other story Empire is my baby, this story is my pet project. I really enjoy writing this and I hope you will, too!
So without further ado, I bid you enjoy!
.:OOO:.
Prologue
Hogwarts, 6 June 1995
"Today we acknowledge a really terrible loss. Cedric Diggory was as you all know, exceptionally hard-working, infinitely fair-minded and most importantly a fierce, fierce friend. Now I think therefore you have the right to know exactly how he died. You see, Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort. The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this, but not to do so I think would be an insult to his memory."*
Headmaster Dumbledore's speech echoed throughout the Great Hall with a solemnity that resonated with every soul present. The death of Cedric Diggory at the Triwizard Tournament was a tragedy that hung over Hogwarts like a dark, foreboding cloud. Sorrow clung onto every stone and battlement of the castle as fear and dread weaved through them like cold spectres.
Hermione, like all the others, felt the grief of losing a fellow student to death. It sat heavy on her shoulders. For all her brilliance, it was difficult for her to wrap her head around the idea that someone – someone like Cedric Diggory, so young, so vivacious, and so full of life– was dead, just like that. She had not known him, had not once spoken a word to him, but she felt staggering disbelief at the news of his passing. His murder.
Death was inevitable.
Coldness crept through her bones. The despondence she felt around the castle was depressing her further, suffocating her. She felt dazed and exhausted.
So very tired, a voice seemed to echo in her head through a haze of lethargy.
"Hermione?" a soft voice called out, permeating through the bone-deep exhaustion she felt.
Hermione turned her head to look at Lavender sitting at the Gryffindor table across from her, her vision starting to fade around the edges. "Hmm?"
"Are you all right?" The girl asked, concern writ across her own dejected features, her usually vibrant blond hair limp and lacklustre. "You look ill."
"I…" Hermione began, mustering all her strength to answer. She was just fatigued, she wanted to say. Just —
And then she fainted.
.xOoOx.
Hogwarts, 4 May 1998
It was over. Voldemort was dead. The war was won.
Hermione sat on a cool patch of grass by the Great Lake, letting the cool morning breeze waft through her face. She had risen with the sun and she basked in the stillness that surrounded her, hearing nothing but the sound of the water lapping against the shore and the wind rustling against the leaves. She had needed to get away from the castle, from the rubble, the grieving. They'd lost so many people, so many good friends and family – casualties to a war that had begun because of the senseless ambition of a power-hungry man.
Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin, Lavender… Her parents…
Hermione sucked in a sharp breath and shook her head at the stray thought.
No, her parents weren't dead. They were safe though they were far from her, living a life without her, with no memory of her. Soon, she would find them and she would restore their memories. If she could. Maybe.
Another gust of wind blew through the trees and ruffled her unbound hair.
In the silence of the morning, she heard it.
My little elain…
Hermione sat up straight at the sound, a whisper so soft, it could have just been a whistle of the wind. She looked around, scanning the lake's edge and the grounds surrounding her. There was no one else in sight; the castle just a hulking grey ruin behind her.
She shook her head again. Was she hearing things? She must be.
It's the stress, she thought.
She saw something flash from the corner of her eye, something white and brilliant, and she sprang to her feet, the reflexes she'd gained from the war surging into action. For a split second, she thought she saw someone wearing robes of white standing against the trunk of a fallen tree a few metres away. When she turned fully towards it, however, she saw nothing there.
Another gust of cool wind blew by, and if she'd listened hard enough, she would have heard the soft words they carried.
It's time…
As Hermione stood there, bewildered and alert, she couldn't understand the sudden tightness she felt in her chest. Nor the reason for the tears that rolled down her cheeks.
.xOoOx.
The British Ministry of Magic, June 1999
The dull buzz of the people bustling around the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures was a noise that Hermione hardly noticed anymore. The constant flurry of people and the rustling of flying paper memos were nothing but white noise to her as she proofread the documents that needed to be submitted to the Head of the Department, Gethsemane Prickle, with an ease that belied just how utterly bored she was. It was an extremely tedious job and it certainly wasn't very challenging, but it paid for her food and rent while she prepared for her NEWTS. Especially when she'd opted to skip her seventh year.
The door to the department burst open and a flurry of harried Ministry employees and people in a variety of coloured robes filed in, rushing to Prickle's office with an urgency that was usually only seen within the Auror Department.
Hermione glanced up from her work in befuddlement. Nothing significantly exciting ever happened within the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures. It was usually just a disgruntled centaur or other here and there on the rarest of days. The sudden burst of activity was nothing short of an anomaly.
A moment later, a parade of a surprising mix of magical creatures traipsed in, from centaurs to merrows, hags and, from the trail of mesmerised men that followed after a duo of extremely attractive women in shimmering gossamer robes, veelas.
Hermione's eyebrows rose at the sudden cacophony and she shared a puzzled glance with Luna, who sat at the desk beside her with a large pair of carrot-adorned glasses on the bridge of her nose.
"What in the world…" Hermione murmured, unable to take her eyes off of the unusual group that had scattered about their office. She could see that she wasn't the only one shell-shocked by the procession. Her co-workers' mouths hung agape while those who didn't work at the department peered in, equally dumbfounded. Never, in all the history of Wizarding Britain (that Hermione could remember reading about) had any of these magical creatures — willingly, at least — set foot in its hallowed halls. It was, to say the least, disconcerting.
"Perhaps they all have Wrackspurts in their ears. The warm summer weather does make them go a little mad," Luna's sing-song voice supplied. Her eyes were planted on the scene before them, though she seemed to be taking in the entire fiasco far more gracefully than the others.
Hermione cast her fellow intern a side-long glance but didn't say a word in opposition otherwise. She loved her friend, truly she did. She just needed to remind herself of why sometimes.
"'Fraid your imaginary creatures aren't the cause of this debacle, Lovegood," a soft masculine voice said, and Hermione glanced over her shoulder to see Matthew Palmer, one of the investigators of creature-related incidents, approach their tables with a slow caution she supposed he used while out on the field. His own curious gaze were fixed on the party of magical creatures crowding in front of the Head's office. "It's worse than that. Much worse."
Curious, as was her nature, Hermione couldn't help but ask, "What is it, then? Why do you suppose they're here?"
Palmer spared her a glance before placing the newspaper he'd been clutching flat on her desk, the headline blazing in big, bold letters. "This."
A Natural Disaster: Enchanted Forests Dying
.xOoOx.
Tutshill, June 1999
A white light shining behind her eyelids roused her from her slumber, bright and penetrating, chasing away the shadows of a dream she could now barely remember. Hermione moaned, her senses waking reluctantly as she shifted in bed. With effort, she opened her bleary eyes, squinting against the white brightness that filtered into her room. She peered around her, befuddled. What—?
Her room was dimly lit. The shadows hugged the walls and corners, the silver light emanating from her door chasing away the darkness it could reach. Through sleep-heavy eyes, Hermione turned to its source before promptly shooting out of bed.
What on earth!
There, floating by her doorway, was a single sphere of light, bobbing lazily on thin air, as if waiting for her.
Hermione's mind churned to life, sleep long forgotten.
A will-o'-the-wisp.
More confused now than ever, Hermione slid her legs to the floor. The hem of her nightgown slipped down to her thighs as she stood. She reached for her wand sitting on her nightstand and took an instinctive step forward. She paused when reason took over.
What on earth could a will-o'-the-wisp be doing here, in her flat? Will-o'-wisps were only usually found in marshes or bogs, not in small wizarding homes in the middle of Tutshill.
"H-hello?" she said for a lack of better words to say. How did one interact with sentient, mischievous little clumps of condensed magic?
Behind her, she heard Crookshanks stir from the foot of her bed. He leapt down after her and stalked towards the floating ball of light, head tilted to the side in curiosity.
The tiny wisp made a small circle in the air. Hermione didn't know how, but somehow, she knew that it wanted her to follow it.
Should she?
She hesitated. Logically, she knew that will-o'-the-wisps were generally harmless sprites. Generally. They were mischievous pranksters that liked to pray on human curiosity, leading unwitting travellers into marshes for no other reason than amusement, but…
Hermione bit her lip, peering at the phosphoric flame a moment longer, cautious but so infinitely curious.
The glowing orb seemed to have grown impatient and finally made the decision for her. It blew out of existence and reappeared a few metres away – into her living room.
Hermione huffed and tightened her grip on her wand. There was nothing for it, then — she had to know what was going on. Bracing herself, her war-honed instincts surging to the fore, she inched after the glowing ball of vapour, her bare feet padding silently against the carpet. Crookshanks' ears twitched once before he, too, followed close behind.
The moment she got within a few metres of it, the blasted thing blew out again and reappeared in a puff of bluish-silver smoke by her kitchen entryway. It bobbed beckoningly, small sparks emanating at its flame's tip as if encouraging her to move along.
And she did, her movements slow, her senses wary. She reached her kitchen, and, as she expected, the orb disappeared again, only to reappear metres away, by the backdoor that led to the garden. It circled around the doorknob, making its wishes known.
Hermione moved to acquiescence, a curse and a Patronus already at the tip of her tongue should anything go awry. She reached for the doorknob and the will-o'-the-wisp disappeared again just before she swung the backdoor open, only to reveal more phosphoric silver lights, floating one after the other in a trail that led her out into the small garden.
With furrowed brows, Hermione stepped out into the balmy summer air. She stepped into the stone path, the surface cool and biting into her bare feet. She followed the trail of silver wisps. They disappeared the moment she was within reach only to reappear down the line.
Behind her, Crookshanks meowed – a call, a warning – but Hermione couldn't hear him. She was too focused on following her glowing guides. She was so mesmerised that she failed to notice how her surroundings had suddenly changed, how the cool stone path had given way to soft, dewy grass, how the rose bushes and vines had morphed into large tree trunks, gnarled, leafless, and dark.
Finally, Hermione reached the end of her path. There, the last wisp bobbed serenely in front of an enormous tree; possibly the largest she'd ever seen. She stepped closer, looking up at the impressive structure with undisguised awe.
It was, to put simply, majestic. With its pearl-white trunk and its long, thick boughs reaching high towards the inky, star-speckled night sky, it almost seemed like it could touch the moon itself. It stood there, proud and immovable, glowing silver in the moonlight.
It's a snag, Hermione thought absently, eyes transfixed.
The tree was dead, leafless and unbearing. For some reason, this realisation made her feel overwhelming sorrow, her chest tight and heavy. Why was that?It was just a tree!
A tree…
Hang on! There were no trees in her garden.
Whipping around, Hermione realised with a start that she was no longer in her back garden. All around her were trees – dead trees, imposing, rotting, and scorched black. She sucked in a breath, trying to calm the panic that rose within her. She was a witch, after all. It didn't matter where she was; she could Apparate whenever she wanted.
Except — it did matter.
Where was she?
Something curled up around her legs, soft and ticklish. She recoiled with a gasp, instinctively jumping away. When she looked down, she found herself gaping at a familiar squashed face. A welcome squashed face, in fact.
"Crooks?" Hermione bent down and scooped her familiar up to peer into his grumpy face, surprised and grateful to find herself with company. "You followed me."
The part-Kneazle only rumbled a deep sound in response.
Relieved, Hermione pulled Crookshanks to her chest, eyes roving the woodland they had suddenly found themselves in. All she could see were tall, immovable trees whichever way she looked. She was clearly in a forest – a peculiar forest with leafless trees in the middle of summer with dark scorch marks burnt along their impressive trunks.
"Where are we?"
Unbidden, she remembered the headlines she had read in the Daily Prophet. Enchanted Forests Dying. A Natural Disaster.
The news broke out about a week ago and the Department for the Regulation for Magical Creatures had been in a flurry of activity. Magical creatures' habitats were being affected by their dying ecosystems and no one had any answers. No one could explain what was happening, not even the Unspeakables. At least, not officially. Hermione had a feeling there was more they were not telling the general wizarding populace. As an intern, she wasn't privy to them.
Crookshanks, of course, had no answer, either.
Suddenly the will-o'-the-wisp in front of her — she'd honestly forgotten it was still there! — began to glow brightly in the moonlight, pulsating a luminescent sheen of pearly-silver. Hermione gasped, shielding her eyes against the brightness. A moment later, she found herself surrounded by more phosphoric little flames, spinning around her in an enchanting, dizzying dance. In a strange mix of awe and fear, Hermione could only marvel at the sight.
The wind started to blow one huge gust after another, a howling, unrelenting melody that accompanied the light show she found herself in the middle of. Crookshanks squirmed in her arms but otherwise didn't try to pull away. Hermione could only pull him closer.
It was a wondrous thing to behold. The lights emanating from the wisps were warm, almost comforting as they spun around her, faster and faster; their lights blended into each other. The wind had picked up violently around her, whipping her dishevelled hair into her face and her nightgown around her legs.
Hermione didn't know what compelled her to do it. Before she could catch herself, she was already stepping forward, hand outstretched, reaching for the warm lights that spun and danced and weaved around her. Crooks purred in her arms. Bolstered by her familiar's calm demeanour despite her pounding heart, she reached a wondering hand to the dancing flames. The moment her fingertips met its warmth, the brightness intensified, and in an explosion of light and flame, a searing heat enveloped her very being, sinking right into her bones.
Surprisingly, Hermione felt no pain. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to keep them open any longer, and before she knew it, all she saw was black.
.xOoOx.
Hermione awoke to birdsong and a sweet lullaby. The rustle of leaves and the cool balm of the wind across her cheeks accompanied the lilting croon. 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, tenderness, and comfort.
Home.
"Mum?" she called out, voice hoarse from sleep. Her eyes fluttered open to see sunbeams streaming through a lush canopy of trees, bright golden rays casting a magical shimmer to the landscape. She could see her mother's silhouette above her. Her head lay on her lap, her mum's feminine features cast in shadow against the sun's brightness.
The singing halted mid-song, as did the hand that had been carding gently through her tresses and lulling her into peace. 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. She sat up, eyes blinking up at the unknown woman in bewilderment and with no small amount of 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 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 large, 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 that Hermione barely came up to her chin as they sat in front of each other in the grass. All she 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 her 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 troubled, child," the woman answered with a comforting smile, an comely 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 asked, "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 gracefully, Hermione reckoned the goddess — goddess, she frowned to herself — was able to pull it off in the most enchanting way. Then, comprehension shined a light through her strange, fascinating eyes. A knowing smile crept up the corners of her lips. 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. "It seems that your memories have finally caught up."
"My...memories? Caught up?" Hermione tilted her head to the side, 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. She had been sleeping, and then...the will-o'-the-wisps, a forest, a dead tree, Crookshanks. And then, darkness.
Dread crept into her bones like icy fingers. Her eyes widened in alarm. Her muscles coiled tight, ready to jump up and retreat away from the mysterious woman. Her fingers curled around the thick grass under her other hand, groping for her wand. 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, as a mother would do to a scared child. The woman — Druantia, her brain supplied — 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 provided 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, Elizabeth Granger. "I know you, but I...I don't think I've ever met you before."
The woman pulled away and bestowed her with another benevolent smile, an odd sparkle in her molten gaze.
"In this case, my little elain*," she answered as she ran a hand through Hermione's curls. "It is both."
.xOoOx.
*Elain - means fawn in Welsh.
Author's Notes: Next chapter should be up next weekend, if the week goes well for me. Until next chapter! Let me know what you think!