Part One: A Deep and Distant Sky
-
Studies
Letter from Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore to the International Confederation of Wizards, July 1974.
It is with a heavy heart that I submit my findings to my brother wizards of the International Confederation of Wizards.
After years of study, delving into the many texts and histories richly obtained and demonstrated by Hogwarts itself, I've come to a most grim conclusion. Magic, my brothers in magic, is dying. Not one to make such a grim pronouncement idly, I offer you these proofs, and deductions that you may either take at value, or test or it is my hope you chose not to, ignore.
More and more, our kind grows less and less than our ancestors. History is rich with vital and intensely magical people, from all corners, all walks of life. Yet, over the last two centuries, things have begun to look bleak. Perhaps, you will say, that is too short a span to see clearly. Or, perhaps that the recent wars were too telling, and my observations too narrow. That, sadly, is for you to decide. The fact remains, that each year less of our kind are born. Pure-blood families have begun to produce more non-magical children, and those of questionable talents so frequently that the situation has become alarming. With the permission of former Headmaster Black, I have perused the complete family tree of his family, with shocking results. Though the comparison to many documents, I can say that each generation after the Statute was put into effect, the number of non-magical, or weakly so, children born to that most Noble and Pure line has increased, by a factor of a third. Yes. Each third child, by my calculations, within ten generations of the Statue's enactment will be a Squib. I imagine that the trend of half-blood and muggle-born advents of talent will suffer similar decay.
Most alarming, is the effects on Hogwarts itself. As my time here as progressed, I've been privy to many secrets of the ancient castle's inner workings. This castle, as many of you may believe, is very much a living magical being. Such an innately magical place draws powerfully on the latent magic of the area. When that, such an unknown ideal in it's building, becomes weak, it then takes to pulling it's sustenance from released magic within it's walls. Our very students sustain it's many layered and powerful wards and abilities. As a third precaution, the castle will draw from the nearby Forbidden Forest, which also is a powerfully magical reserve.
To say that none other than myself would know so much of Hogwarts would be very truthful. As current Headmaster, I am the brain of the school, as it were. I can report with certainty, that the castle now draws nearly half it's magical power from the nearby forest. I see that simple fact, the origin of my worries, as reason enough to consider my warning.
To understand why this could occur, let me change my focus to magic, itself. We all know that blood carries the power, in families reaching back into time immemorial. Advents of magic occur in non-blooded families as well, and we have begun to feel that magic itself is responsible for this. The theory proposed by the researcher and activist Carlotta Pinkstone stated that the world needed magic, as much as magic needed the world. I would expand on this, and refer to that state, as the World Spell. We all understand that part of magic, the working of it, is intent, belief and focus. No matter one's personal power, if they lack any of those three elements, a spell cannot be cast. Let us then consider the ideal that magic itself is a spell, needing constant feeding, in belief, intent, and focus.
The World Spell, the layer and permeating force of magic of our world, being maintained by not only wizards and those things innately magical, but the belief of non-magical beings as well. Sustained by the old powerful places, steeped in magics and sustained by our own power. You begin to feel the pressing anxiety of my own fears, if you can make these small leaps of faith. Now, correlate my findings on the decline of magic, with the enactment of the Statute of Secrecy.
I do not believe it coincidence.
My theories themselves are not new, and to my shame, the one man possibly as capable as myself to study and relate to my ideals is now held, powerless at the peak of Nuremgard. In my haste to end Grindelwald's march of terror, I never asked myself why the benign, if ambitious man I had come to know so well in my youth had turned so savagely from the light. I begin to see now, that his ideals to topple the ICW, and begin the subjugation of muggle-kind were much deeper than any simple play for power.
Grindelwald knew, or at least suspected what I have proposed. The proof is in his ideals, and his methods. Why take such a risk, to expose our world? We are not blind to the advances of muggle technologies, yet he risked all for that. Why would he feel the need to master the Hallows, those mythic relics, to do such a thing? For that at least I have an answer, yet it frightens me to consider my once-close friend had indulged in such dark ideals.
I believe that Grindelwald had sought the Hallows to make himself proof against not only Death, but the Infernal. It is my sad belief he intended, if incapable of dominating the world of wizard and muggle alike, to tear open the fabric of this world and lay on it an indelible proof of magic. There would be no way to contain such a breach. We would be forced to ally with muggles and fight with magic beside them to stave off such a holocaust. I believe he was using the atrocities of his muggle thrall in the war to further that goal.
I hope that my words do no go unheeded, though the message dire, and the facts unpopular. I await the pleasure of the Inter...
-
Imaginary Friends
With a nearly effortless toss from the large man's ham-like hands, the bundle of rags and odd angles was tossed into the cupboard, landing with a thump and a muffled noise like someone kicking a bellows. Only after the door to the small closet rattled shut, pulling dust and awful clouds of dirt from the walls, did the bundle shift and shiver. Scuttling slowly with many a pained whimper to the wall, the ratty pile leaned on it weakly.
A single blade of light from Surrey's afternoon sun, so low in the sky that fall, managed to pierce the gloom and fog of neglect that settled about the bundle. Pulling down the hem of one of those rags, in truth just over-sized and worn hand-me-downs, a young boy, merely five years old perhaps, regarded the spear of light wearily. Dust gave his pitch hair a patina of bronze, while the errant shaft of sun picked out vivid green eyes of an almond shape, more prone to smiles than the current scowl the young boy wore. It was that very light that Harry Potter was thinking so sourly about. Sun meant work and being pulled out of his place, made to deal with and be hurt by those out there. He didn't hate the sun, though. Truthfully, he didn't hate the awful people out there either. Harry just understood that, for some reason, they hated him.
They didn't hate Dudley, though. He didn't like him much, but for all he was cruel and unkind, Harry didn't want to make another feel as awful as himself. Tomorrow was to be the older boy's fifth birthday. Harry knew that such days were worse than others, simply because he wasn't able to keep away from his aunt and uncle nearly as much, doing tasks and work. Dudley's birthdays meant that he was part of things, from day in, to day out. Knowing well that there would be guests did little to ease his worry. Often they were as bad. Or worse.
Aching all over, Harry sighed and resigned himself to a fitful rest.
The next morning came with the fanfare of feet stomping more stale dust into his closet, bellowing relatives and the grating yammering of tiny, ill-tempered dogs. Despair welled up in Harry's chest and he stood, waiting by the door. It would not do to be seen laying about when summoned. If he was, then there'd be another toss out of the closet, and often that only caused more problems.
Birthdays meant company, and company needed food. Normally, that wasn't a problem, but with all the chairs on the lawn, it was hard to see over the stove edge. He'd learned early on to wear mitts, regardless of how awkward it made him. Burns were his problem – he should expect no sympathy.
Noon came and went, and he'd managed with the company – many of Dudley's friends and his uncle's sister Marge and her dogs – to get somewhat to eat, hastily. It was more than usual, so he was happy. It made him feel slow and sluggish though, and that caused problems.
He'd had little chance to settle himself, so missed the pointed looks he was getting from his aunt when they were describing the game that apparently needed his help. Dudley seemed to think they had to have 'just one more' for musical statues. Uncle Vernon had the radio set up shortly, and the rules seemed simple. Dance or whatnot till the music ended, then stand still like what the judge, Marge in this case, called. If she called dog, you acted like a dog, she said. Harry didn't miss the pointed smirk aimed his way.
Things went badly from the start. The other children were rough and made it a point to swing their arms and feet out just to foul him, or slap at him. For some reason though he was slow and graceless they kept making him play, but then it was just him and Dudley.
He didn't understand why everyone was suddenly angry, and then Marge was using that cane she kept on his legs. Not sure what he'd done, Harry ran to the far side of the yard, throwing himself into the hedge to escape. Panting and hurting, he leaned back against the fence and ran hands along his bruised shins and tried to stay quiet and still and just disappear. He wanted someone to help him. Wanted someone to make the hurting stop, and stop the hurtful things they kept saying. He wanted so much to just become invisible or disappear it made his little chest ache. Of course he didn't. Closing his eyes as hard as he could, Harry stopped breathing till his ears rang and sang with the need to gulp air but he was still here.
Something did happen that day though. As Harry huddled, all hitching breaths and leaking eyes. A gentle hand stole a tear away and he jerked back, out of reflex, eyes flying open in fear.
No one was there. Blinking and sniffling, he peered through bleary eyes and dimestore glasses but still, no one was there.
Harry was a small boy, for all his work, and he grew in small ways. Hands often used became deft and quick, and though he was never allowed to run and romp freely, he'd become quick of hand and foot. Agile, would be a word he'd learn much later. Small but curious things kept on changing as time went on for Harry as well. Another year, later on and on another holiday Marge's dogs had gotten mad when Harry stepped on it's tail, and sent it chasing him through the yard. Not knowing what else to do, he'd run for a tree and hoped to climb it, but knew frankly the trunk to be too slick, and the lowest limbs far too high to reach.
Yet he did. For a moment it felt like many tiny hands pulled at him, carrying his jump so much higher. Rather than bang heavily into the limb, or be left scrabbling and trying to get furtive hand holds, Harry landed rather well on it and held on tight. Not questioning why his family stopped their jeering so suddenly, not asking why he didn't just fall short, Harry sat and waited for deep night to fall and the horrible little dog to go away before coming down.
No longer would the stove burners lick at him angrily if his hand strayed too close. In fact he often smiled faintly, watching them dance and play. It seemed such a merry little ring they made, and sometimes it almost seemed like they whispered to him. Small voices, brief and playful, that he could almost hear. Harry stopped wearing the mitts, and would sometimes steal little touches to the merry flames, feeling no burn, but only pleasant warmth. Some time that year, the light bulb in his closet began working again, despite being blow out so long ago. He'd not question it, a private treasure, or tell his family. He also didn't wonder at how it seemed to be more flickering and gentle than the harsh, yellow stab of light he'd remembered. Harry was just glad that when he needed light, it was there.
Summers were the best, when he was gardening. Often he'd just burrow his fingers into the earth like roots of his favorite tree and just go calm. The cool earth, lightly moist but rich and full of quiet potential filled his mind with peace. He'd only linger a moment so, else he be thought dozing and earn some punishment, but it was a joy. Tending to those growing things, even if the taskmaster was cruel, filled him with gentle happiness. He no more faulted the plants their place than the bees that flitted between them having stings. Tend them he did, happily.
The infrequent showers and baths he'd be allowed were the most curious. He'd never had water coil about him so, as it sloughed off the grime and soil from him before. Still, it seemed intent to carry those stains off him so Harry simply shrugged, and let the fall of water cascade over him. The constant swirl and coil of it falling to his skin scouring him as the rivulets writhed along more slowly than he remembered, on the way to the drain. After he was clean, he became quick to turn the water off, though. Lingering made the water tickle him, and the noise of his laughter seemed to infuriate Vernon to no end.
Some things changed, but others certainly did not. Harry's smiles didn't bring happiness to his family, and so he hid them. Learned to listen and sneak and watch, so as to not rouse his watcher's ire. He didn't like being hurt. Didn't like being told he was less than nothing. He wasn't Dudley, which seemed to be what his aunt and uncle liked, but then he didn't like Dudley anyway. He was large, mean-spirited and hurtful to everyone around him pointlessly. Harry did like the small friends he imagined.
Harry had become somewhat desperately lonely. He wanted the kind words that his family showered on Dudley, but... at the same time didn't. He didn't want those words. They felt oily. He wanted people who wanted him. Someone who was like him, with words just for him.
It was shortly after primary school had begun at Beaufort that he found them, or perhaps they found him. They were like him. Small, sometimes shy, easily scared away by the thundering noise or steps of his uncle or cousin. Unlike the rat-faced boy that Dudley kept with him, or the others that followed them around, his friends were only his. Sometimes they only showed themselves at night, or while he was gardening. He began understanding the whispers in the stove burners, and his flickering bulb. Still, Harry knew his friends weren't real, in the sense Piers and Dudley's little gang were. They couldn't defend him from the troubles he had, couldn't do much at all really, but they were there. Kind faces half seen in small tumbles of wind in leaves and flowers, a reassuring squeeze of his hand as he dug in the soil of the garden. Half whispered lullabies in his tiny closet for his ears alone, like the little sun above him. The only hugs he'd ever gotten, even if they were weak, from the pooled or running waters in the shower. They were warm though. It was all that mattered.
Harry survived. In his own way, he had friends, and warmth and caring. As he grew, those friends became more difficult for him to understand. Oh, he could easily make out the meaningless words of his night light, or the playful gurgling of the shower. What he found difficult, is that he'd understood as a very small boy, that everyone seemed to have imaginary friends. Often they'd be shy about them, or unwilling to admit it, but it was there. He could see it in their eyes when he spoke of his own, in guilty little confessions. In growing, though, his friends stayed with him, while it seemed other children lost or abandoned theirs. It made him feel childish. Yet, there was fear as well.
Desperately Harry wanted to fit in with them. Yet, all the harsh and unkind words his family had spoken of him frightened the other children so. Harry was resigned shortly after school began to it being little better than a daily exercise in dealing with Dudley and his ilk. This became more evident in time, as more often than not the children there took to teasing and being quite mean to him, as children often did. Though Harry could have appealed to his teachers to help, or even do something for his horrible place, he couldn't bring himself to do so. So long had he been only horrible little Harry, that he didn't trust an adult to be anything but like his aunt or uncle.
And as such, years rolled on. Six of them, in fact, beyond that day when Harry made his new friends. Little changed, other than him and the growing cousin that shared a home with him. Until one strange and interesting day, nearly a month after his cousin's birthday...
-
The Apple
The book was heavy, but that was part of it's appeal. It could handle the world, with it's hard cover and warm weight. Unlike her. Clutching it tightly to her chest, the young girl did little to acknowledge or notice the world around her, focusing rather hard on the task of getting from the library to her first class without-
Falling hard she cried out in surprise as the book's harsh angles and mass compounded the impact. Groaning and rubbing at bruised wrists, Hermione Granger looked up at the girl with her foot slowly drawing back to lean on by the many lockers in the hall. "Well well, looks like they've not set the traps this week," the girl said, her otherwise pretty features twisted up in a rather nasty smirk.
"Caught another mouse," one of her toadies replied in almost scripted fashion.
Fighting back all the emotions rushing at her – fear, sadness, anxiety – Hermione simply tried to stand, but the other tag-along to her often antagonist bumped into her savagely, in passing. "Oops, didn't see you there, mouse. Perhaps you shouldn't crawl around on the floor." Wearing an ugly grin, this girl didn't even cross the border of pretty, so obviously had to make do with 'pretty cruel', which sadly the ringleader didn't mind so much.
As long as it was aimed at Hermione.
Victoria Williams was the most popular and well-liked girl in the the school. That didn't, by necessity, make her the nicest or kindest. In fact, it seemed that popularity spoiled her like so much rotten fruit, and the rot was apparent in how the young girl treated anyone she saw as a threat. Currently, that privilege was pinned to young Hermione Granger, thanks to the prodigy's grasp of material, knowledge and sharp mind. Like most schools, St. James had programs to bring out the best and brightest of it's students, and competition for those honors was fierce. That competition had Hermione and Victoria coming to odds far too often for the bushy haired, somewhat socially inept Granger girl's taste.
Glaring through watery eyes, Hermione stood stiffly and clutched her book again. "Victoria," she greeted, though her tone was icy. She may not like the other girl, but her mother had taught her at least some modicum of manners. If only to show she was the better, she'd use them.
Huffing a snide laugh, the other girl dismissed the bookworm's presence with a roll of her eyes, not even acknowledging it was her fault they'd ended up conversant to be begin with. As the socialite in training and her troupe moved off, she waved once and smirked nastily. "See you around, mouse. Oh, may want to watch where you leave your cheese... pity to fall on it, hm?"
It was only then that Hermione noticed the rather rank smell about her. Looking at her jumper and uniform, then the floor, she bit back a sob. There, crushed from her fall and spilling curdled foulness all over her clothes, was what had to be a long-expired milk carton. Embarrassed, angry and utterly at a loss for anything else to do, Hermione scuttled down the hall and into the nearest loo.
Shuffling and sniffling, she pulled one of the stall doors closed and sat heavily on one of the porcelain appliances. She knew her hair wasn't sleek and pretty, or even cute in ringlets. It was wild, bushy, and unlikely to sit in any bind or clip long, something her mother thought wonderful... but that Hermione didn't. Her face wasn't the pale and perfect porcelain that it seemed girls always pined for, rather a more healthy tone, with a light dusting of freckles. She was plain, simple Hermione Jean. True, such things shouldn't matter – school was for learning. What point looking like a princess when it did nothing for your grades?
Closing her eyes, Hermione let her forehead fall against the door, earning a muffled thump and the grain roughing at her skin. Again, she cursed the early-coming adult teeth she had, making her smile seem to match her dubious nickname. Mouse. Pulling a strand of errant hair, curled and waved wildly even in her hand, she heaved a sigh. Yes, perhaps it fit. Meek, plain, inquisitive. She would make a good mouse. Looking to the large book in her lap, she spared herself a sardonic smile. Redwall, the title read. Such irony.
Again the smell of spoiled milk pulled her wandering mind back to the now. Wincing, she looked at her soiled clothes and tried not to let her aggravation overwhelm her, push her to angry tears. Her last class was a study hall, which she could miss without problems. Though it was her fifth year at St. James primary, she insisted often on staying late to attend the supplement periods, often getting out of school when her parents would be leaving their dental practice.
Today, she'd go home early, and maybe spend some time reading in the Oaklands Park at St. Mary's Rd, near her parent's workplace. It was only a few moments walk away, and as long as she cleaned up at home first, it would likely be a much better end to her day than simply going home to sulk.
Settled on a course, Hermione left the stall and went about cleaning the bulk of the mess from her uniform. In truth it wasn't so bad, but still it would be impossible to sit through more classes or really be out in public with it on. Damp towels and a bit of time returned her to a mostly presentable state, and checking herself in the mirror, she left the school at a brisk walk.
The park was one of her many refuges. Few people came by, so more often than not she could sit or swing alone, without worry of Victorias and other unpleasantness. The benches about were also empty, which let her have a choice of reading spots, but more often than not she ended up with her back against a tree.
Despite being an academic at such an early age, Hermione didn't limit her apatites for reading to simply school texts. Her mind was too quick, her grasp of ideas too sure for them to occupy her fully. Most often the school library was her second home, since it offered her a nearly limitless supply of knowledge, information and occupation in it's shelves. Books, fiction or non, were her refuge from the slow world, the cruel faces, and sometimes her own self doubt.
Her parents didn't understand her intense need for books, something she herself felt a guilty pleasure. True, they weren't slouches about their own reading, as both were very bright, if not so fanatical about it. For Hermione though, the solid weight of books not only ensured many hours of reading, but also a rather useful barrier to the world outside of those words. Though she had no illusions on fantasy versus reality, she'd never truly shed the feeling of security that having a book between her and everything else offered. There was also the reassuring weight of facts. Oh, fiction was a wonderful fancy, but knowing, sure and clear, was a true joy. Facts gave her safety. Fiction gave her... Shaking off the odd musing, Hermione picked up her recent borrow from the library and set out.
With reading in hand and a new clean pullover and slacks, Hermione stretched out by her favorite tree to indulge in a few hours of fiction till her parents were off work. Though she'd often done just this on many days, today felt different. Writing the odd notion off as residual stress from her confrontation with Victoria, she huddled around her book and dived into the story.
It was dark out, when she started back awake. Blinking blearily at the stars slowly wheeling above her, Hermione felt a moment's panic when she realized it was much later than when her parents had gotten off work. It was then she noted that the stars she saw, wheeling and shining without glimmer or flicker above, weren't the ones she knew. Nor, was there the familiar darkness of her tree behind her. Looking about frantically, she realized that nothing looked right. There were no harsh street lamps, no cars, nor houses with gently glowing windows. Only the soft grass beneath her, the stars above and the sound of something rustling nearby.
Blind panic gave way to focused fear as the ten year old girl scooted back and away from that sound. Looking to find the source, she came to an abrupt halt, at what, or rather who, was standing suddenly beside her.
The young woman had her arms crossed, in a pose of mild impatience. Robes fell down in an obscuring cascade, keeping the details of the figures form hidden, but there were obvious hints that the person was obviously female. Over the robes, a self assured cast was set on the woman's face, though it wasn't smug or cruel, while curved lips that framed a pretty smile. Crowning her head was a mass of untamed locks, twisting about themselves idly and without direction, though a single braid kept the mass from the figure's fine-boned and open face.
Blinking in confusion, Hermione stared at what could be her older sister, or a younger version of her mother. With a startling jolt, she had to admit it could even be a future reflection of herself.
"Hello," the echo greeted merrily, folding legs beneath herself to sit before the startled child.
Hermione's mouth worked silently for a moment, before she swallowed nervously, looking around again. As far as he eyes could see, there was nothing. No houses, no trees, nothing for the figure to have hid behind, or come from. The entire situation stank of dream, and pinching herself roughly, she groaned. "Hi," the child greeted finally, resigned to playing out this scenario.
The doppelgänger looked serenely at Hermione, then leaned back to spread it's arms and fingers into the lush grass. "Oh this is lovely... mm. Forgive me, I'm sure you're curious about all this."
"That is a bit of an understatement, yes."
Grinning, Hermione-the-image levered herself up on her elbows and heaved a sigh. "Well... oh I'm so new at this," giggling in a way that made the child before her blink in confusion, the older-appearing image seemed to regain her composure, taking a few steady breaths and smiling all the while regardless. "You fancy yourself a student? Think you're terribly bright and intelligent?"
Hermione-the-child's brow drew together in a frown. "I beg your-"
"No, don't misunderstand. I wasn't questioning you, merely asking a question."
Huffing a bit in exasperation, Hermione-the-child nodded.
Hermione-the-image grinned. "You have a hunger to know, to understand. It's a very old vice, the desire for knowledge." The child snorted, disdain for the idea that a desire to learn could be a vice plain on her face. "Regardless, there are things that you will never know."
Hermione was taken aback by the seeming light and final way the illusion before her had said such a thing. "I... excuse me?"
"Oh I'm not saying you're incapable. Simply unable."
All the while this conversation had been going on, maddening as it was, there was one thing about the impostor Hermione found more disturbing than any other. The carefree and happy smile, the ease of pose and... yes she could easily admit the girl was pretty. Hermione hated her own vanity, saw it as a fault as much as she valued her studies, more so after coming to St. James primary and meeting Victoria. In her, she found all the things she herself hoped for, but was lacking. She wanted to be popular, or at least respected. Hermione knew her talents made the adults she was taught by regard her highly, and she needed that regard. It helped her to understand her place. She wanted equals, needed peers that could stand up beside her, rather than follow behind. Victoria had surpassed her though, and she hated that fact. With a mind as sharp as Hermione's, she was easily her equal in all things academic, yet beyond that single facet, she was also charming, had a pretty face and sense of the social that Hermione lacked. Those things, so trivial in Hermione's mind, stung the girl when it became woefully apparent that they too mattered. "Simply unable," she repeated, seeing Victoria suddenly where her image had been. Shaking her head the illusion faded... in so much as the doppelgänger of Hermione remained.
Nodding, Hermione-the-image closed her eyes for a moment. "Would you like to be able?"
Raising a brow, the child regarded the illusion with open suspicion. "I would like to know what I'm supposedly incapable of. Then perhaps I'll ascribe to some notion, though I'm sure it's in error, that I'd be unable as you say."
Tilting her head in acquiescence, Hermione-the-image seemed to agree. "Very well then, that is a valid argument. No way to know till you know, really.
"What you are incapable of, Hermione, is magic."
It took her a moment, but the laughter finally did bubble up and out of the child. "Magic? That's all you have? Of course I'm incapable of magic! It doesn't exist!"
The doppelgänger let the child's mirth wind down, but kept a steady gaze locked onto her mirror's brown eyes. In time, the penetrating stare, more so because of the eeriness of the fact they were the same, if older, eyes stilled Hermione laughter. "If it is a lie, why do you indulge in fictions, when your time could be spent studying academia?"
This caused the young girl to pause. "I... well. It's natural. People read fictions because they're enjoyable. Besides," feeling her rebuttal more solidly for logic, Hermione pressed on, "fiction is an exercise for the mind. Just because it's not real, doesn't mean there's nothing to learn."
"Parables, morals and metaphor, then?"
"Exactly."
"Rubbish," the image dismissed, waving as if warding off a gnat. "You read them to escape. A safe haven for the wonder and hope inside you, that the world beyond tries to bury in expectations and cold facts."
Eyes narrow and chest feeling suddenly tight, Hermione glared at the fake before her. "What do you know? I like school, and learning-"
"Did I call those things into question? No, I'm saying that this escape you so carefully skirt the truth of, exists."
Mouth still working after the interruption, Hermione calmed herself with a few steady breaths. "So. You're saying I'm simply missing this magic you speak of? I just don't see it."
"You cannot see it, because you don't have it," the echo corrected, looking not in the least apologetic for the impact such a simple yet brutal statement had on the young girl. "But I can give it to you."
Hermione's mouth went very dry at that simple statement. What if? Perhaps the image spoke the truth. Perhaps there was something more she didn't see, didn't admit to seeing, or knowing. Could magic be real? A part of her wanted to scream at the idiocy of this argument while another wanted to desperately cling to the thread of possibility laid out before her. Though... if the image did speak the truth, then there was a certain set of rules that always seemed to apply to such 'gifts'. "Things like this... are never free," she hazarded, watching the woman laying in the grass closely.
With a brilliant smile, the doppelgänger reminded Hermione that she was at once a very pretty possibility. "Do you know what else fictions give us? Hope. A chance to see a world that can be perfect, or a world that is imperfect but has a chance to be so much more. More than anything, and beyond any theme inside them, fictions are that to their reader.
"So let me ask, Hermione. What is it you hope for?"
It was a shattering question. Hope? Hermione, ever since she was young, had little use for hope. She had purpose. Hermione's world didn't have room for hope, because it only offered the possibility of disappointment. Yet, why did she indulge and cling to her stories so? Why did she pepper her fervor for academia with whimsy? Lost in doubt and confusion, she sat by her doppelgänger and stared at the grass between them. Unable to contain herself, she lifted dark eyes up to the echo before her, "It's real?"
Nodding somberly, Hermione-the-image reached up to tuck a wild lock back behind her child-self's ear. "Very much so."
"But... things like this are never free. What's the cost?"
A slight smile crossed the doppelgänger's lips. "You are you. The cost for me to give you that gift is simply to be yourself. In time that will become more clear, but anything else would... complicate the situation."
Swallowing hard but not correcting her image's assumptive tone, Hermione looked back up, hopefully, "Are you me? A future me?"
Laughing prettily, Hermione-the-image shook her head slightly, "I am an afterimage of desire and hope. I am all those things that you need to understand what I'm offering. There is no book or knowledge you can find or understand to grant you this, that I could use. There was no threat or unkindness that wouldn't also undo who you were, and make this pointless.
"To tempt you, I had to show you... yourself."
Biting her lip, the child swallowed. Suddenly things began to feel very familiar. "Are you...?"
"Hardly. But you're on the right track," scooting forward, the doppelgänger draped an arm across Hermione's shoulders, settling close. "Magic is a powerful thing. Like all powerful things, it's nature is easy to abuse. Magic is not itself good or evil, and neither are those that use it. It is up to the wizard or witch themselves to make that choice."
Relieved that some of the more gruesome and malevolent images and scenarios in her mind weren't what the echo was proposing, Hermione was regardless wary. "So, what assurance do I have that I'll still be me, and that... well I won't become evil or have damned myself?"
"For this decision, there is no consequence. What the future holds for you, is up to you. If you take that path, it will be your own decision," her own voice said, as the child's eyes clouded with ideals and images of possible futures. Futures with magic. Futures where she did magic. "What would ease your mind, Hermione? Is there some assurance I can give you?"
Blinking back into the now, the young girl tried to remember all the stories she'd read about such deals and consequences. Always there was some mistake or misstep in these things, that ended badly for the one making the deal. Yet, now that the idea of having magic had taken root in her mind, there was nothing more important to her. "Free will would make any guarantees you could make me about the future of my soul... well pointless."
"I'm glad you understand that."
Grinning suddenly, Hermione settled against her doppelgänger, "But, you can make a guarantee about your own.
"I'll agree to become a witch, and in return I want to know your aims and goals, and all the things that could affect me, so I can be sure you work no harm against me."
Turning slightly, Hermione-the-image slipped her arms around her younger counterpart, in much the same way one would a younger sister. The child leaned back, assured she'd figured out a way to make sure her life was her own, and out of danger from any willful harm. "So, you'd like to be party to all my thoughts and motivations, in a way so you could... keep an eye on me?"
Nodding to the small addition, Hermione let herself snuggle back against the form behind her. For all the knowledge that the figure could literally be anything, there was a sense of respect there. Who or whatever this was that took her form, it needed her. So, thinking that such a thing made her important enough not to harm, Hermione had no problem letting the simple creature comforts of a warm hug come between the two. As the doppelgänger's arms wrapped around her, she was amused to see an apple in her older twin's hand. Tapping it with a fingertip, she grinned, "I'd say it's cliché, but fitting."
"Symbolism means a lot in the world you're entering Hermione," the voice behind and to her left said quietly. Raising the apple, the hand once relieved dropped to slip back around her. "Taking the fruit of knowledge, you accept the consequences of becoming a magical person. A witch. The world, your Eden, will not take you back as you will become. There will always be a veil between you and them, as sense of difference," pausing, the voice changed ever so slightly. It remained feminine, but started sounding... less familiar. It took on it's own voice, which to Hermione's relief, had no hints of a hiss or other diabolic nature. "Your family, as other families of children like you, will know. But they cannot follow you wholly into this world. As per our agreement, I will let you be privy to my aims, my knowledge and goals, as long as you shall live. Do you accept this, Hermione Jean Granger?"
"I accept."
Hermione got the impression of a smile behind her ear. "Have an apple, then."
Bringing the symbolic fruit to her lips, Hermione had a moment's hesitation. Again, images of those deals gone wrong flooded her mind. Didn't she take steps to ensure this one wouldn't though? How could knowing all her doppelgänger's motivations lead her astray? She'd know how and what and when anything could come back to foul up her own life. It was fairly simple, really. Magic would be so amazing to have... she did have to admit the draw of that, an entire other world of knowledge she'd not even known before. Her parents would be confused, but in the image's words she found an answer to that question as well. Other children, also from normal families seemed to be magical sometimes as well. Deciding since she was already devoted to the idea of magic, she drew on the other memories of those stories she'd read. Academia was not a place one often found courage, but Hermione, feeling herself the hero of this moment, decided it was time to act the part.
The apple was rather delicious.
Finished, with the fruit and relieved to find no rot or worm, Hermione blinked, realizing the comfortable warmth and pressure about her waist was simply her own arm. Glancing behind her curiously, the child searched the darkened, empty horizon for the future mirror of her recent company.
"Oh, I'm here," the voice, now fully the somewhat musical lilt of the tempter's last words, sounded within her curious thoughts. It weaved and slipped between them, less intrusive and more an echo of surety and expectation.
Swallowing, still tasting the sweet tang of the apple on her tongue, Hermione let a seed of panic swell inside her. Again, the voice sighed against her thoughts, "Relax. You're no more mad than you were coming into this."
"And that's to reassure me?"
"You made me promise. To know everything. Well, there is no book for me, no written or spoken record of what or who I am, or my goals. To know me as you'd like, I must remain. This was your idea, after all."
"Oh..." and with that Hermione knew no more... until the next morning.
Waking with a start and a hand to her rapidly beating heart, Hermione looked about herself frantically, and saw only her familiar bedroom. Neutral colors and bookcases, small comfortable chairs, her few but dear toys and the light of a bright September Tuesday seeping in behind her room's curtains greeted her rapidly searching eyes.
With a profound sense of relief, she started her day as any other, feeling such a flight of whimsy in her dreaming could only have been the result of the books she was spending so much time on. Surprisingly, the young girl had forgotten it was nearly her birthday, and though her parents had not, there was a surprise that day that they had not planned. It took the form of a small, unobtrusive letter, sealed in wax, and a rather stern woman who was seated with her parents having morning tea.
"Good morning, Hermione," her mother greeted, rising to meet her daughter in the doorway with a hug. Though her family could not be said to be cold to one another, this was unusual. Often breakfasts were simple matters, and never did they have company other so early. Never did her mother fret with her hair and pajamas so in the morning, as if trying to distract herself from something either.
It was then that she noted the tension in both her parents, and the way the woman at the table was watching her, much as a cat would a mouse. "Good morning, Miss Granger," the woman greeted, her voice betraying a slight Scottish brogue. Hermione managed a nod in response, before the woman continued her introduction, "My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I've come this morning to speak to you and your parents about a place called Hogwarts."
-
Return to Sender
Harry stared again at the letter in his hand, having sat with it after handing the other parcels to his uncle. "Hum. Marge is ill, something foul she ate," the man said, and Harry could only imagine – perhaps hope – that it was one of her terrible little dogs that settled badly with the woman. He'd wandered too long in that musing, and was wondering at the old saying, "You are what you eat", remembering Marge's remarkable resemblance and temperament to those same yammering mutts when Dudley noticed what was in his hand.
"Oi! Dad, Harry has one of your letters!"
Snapping his head up, Harry moved to tuck the small, thick-papered yellow envelope away but Vernon was remarkably fast for his size. Not caring so much that he squashed Harry's hands while pulling the letter away, his uncle eyed the address suspiciously, beady little eyes squinting over his preposterously thick mustache.
Almost as quickly as he began reading, the man slapped the letter down under a hand, startling not only Harry but everyone at the table. "You!" Pointing with his unoccupied hand at Harry, the corpulent man then gestured up the stairs, beyond the den, "Go! Upstairs! Now!"
Brow furrowing, Harry looked to the man's hand, pinning his letter below it. "I would like my letter back," he said in tone as polite as he could make it, but with his uncle's behavior, that seemed irrelevant.
Nor did the man seem to hear it, in such a state that he had changed colors from his usual pudgy ruddiness, to pale, and now back to a rather unhealthy looking purple. Puffing and looking about himself as if taking stock of invisible boxes, Vernon finally came back to the now and growled, still seeing Harry there. "Go on!"
"Fine," Harry replied, standing and stomping from the room in irritation. A letter! To him! What right did they have... frustrated Harry just sat on the stairs, knowing well there was nowhere to go upstairs for him. It was a display of how irritated his uncle had gotten, that he overlooked such a thing.
Shortly he could hear the sound of this aunt and uncle talking loudly to one another, but thanks to Dudley closing the doors to the dining room, wasn't able to make out much more than his occasional name and very loud mentions of "Them", whoever they were. His irritation had grown to such a point that he decided leaving the house was preferable to staying within, and made his way out the kitchen door.
Clean air, bright sun and cool grass beneath his feet settled the nerves that had become frayed and frazzled easily enough. He'd love to walk up to the park, but not yet. Today he'd suffice with sitting in the lower limbs of his favorite tree and waiting out the rest of the day, unless his aunt or uncle called him in. He calmed when the small gusts of wind kept pushing his hair into more of a mess than it was, letting him know that his friends at least understood his mood. Harry considered working in the garden to still his mind, but waved it off. There wasn't enough rain recently to keep the soil moist.
This was the pattern over the next two days, as yet again another letter, three in fact, arrived for Harry. Oddly, the arrival of the first also brought another change – he'd been relocated to the spare bedroom. He wondered about the small bulb that the whispering flame that often visited him, and after flicking on and off the bulb in the spare bedroom, found it boring. Once dark had fallen, Harry crept down to his cupboard, and closing the door gently behind him, settled to listen and hum with the flickering light that immediately sprang up to meet him. Despite the spare bedroom being much, much larger than his cupboard and had a trove of old toys and books that Dudley had cast off or ignored, he'd still much rather know what it was that was in those letter.
They were, after all, his.
It was morning of the third day when something peculiar happened. Though Harry was quite used to his odd friends coming and going at strange intervals, none had ever woken him up. That changed, as while Harry was sleeping, a drift of air circled over his head pushing at the random and messy tufts. Shortly the locks managed to get in his ear quite firmly, and with a start Harry woke slapping at and scrubbing his abused ear. "Whaddya... uh," shaking the dream out of his mind, Harry squinted at the window and blinked awake.
Scampering rather quickly down the stairs, pulling on clothes and shoes as quietly and quickly as he could, Harry darted out the door and sat on the lowest branch of the tree outside his house. The sun wasn't even up yet, but thanks to Harry's rather ongoing irritation at all the letters sent to him (to him! Not his uncle!), being taken before he could so much as open them, he'd been going to sleep early. It was rather easy, truly – all one had to do was argue over who the letters were for, and an early bedtime and no dinner made sure of an equally early morning. Today though he had his friends to thank for nudging him out of bed before the sun.
Maybe today he could catch the mailman before Vernon did.
Dozing in the gentle light, Harry was so surprised by the flutter of wings nearby that he nearly fell off the limb under him. Looking to the noise he was rather surprised to see a gray owl on the branch nearest him, staring at him with something akin to impatience. In it's beak was another of the letters to Harry. With careful, slow motions, Harry reached out and took the letter, watching as the owl winged off shortly after.
It was then that the front door banged open, and out stomped a rather frantic looking Vernon Dursley. Going stone still, Harry watched with wide eyes as his uncle looked left and right, then scanned the sky for something. Realizing what, Harry paled, and clutched his letter all the closer. Still unopened, it rested against his chest with a comfortable weight, as his uncle turned to go back inside, spinning suspiciously to look out at the lawn once more before slamming the door behind him.
Finally turning back to the letter, he pored over it briefly, having never gotten one before. Clearly on the on the back with no stamp or other postage, was a very curious address,
Mr. H. Potter
The tree out in the lawn
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
Aside from the curious address, which made him a bit nervous, the envelope was a thick, yellowish paper, and the ink a vivid and almost metallic green. Glancing back at the home on Privet, Harry figured he'd no better chance to look over his mail, and broke the seal.
The letter frankly made him wonder at the sender and their sanity. Tilting it this way an that, the young boy shook his head and looked about himself in open confusion. Confusion and no small amount of excitement. A school of magic? Puzzling over some of the rather odd wording, Harry fixed on a particular point and frowned. "Owl?" Was that some odd word for post? Flipping the letter, the list which made his eyes widen, and the envelope itself over and over in his hand. No return addresses. So this person, Headmaster Albus or Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, expected and answer... and it had something to do with an owl. It made sense, he supposed if the very method it arrived was such. Still... how was he to answer?
Speaking of answers, he could use a few more. Having been to markets before, Harry was fairly certain he'd never seen robes, cauldrons and wands beside the canned meat and porridge.
A breeze in his ear roused him from wandering thoughts, and the young man looked up to see another owl, this one simply sitting and staring at him. Being broad daylight, or rather somewhat normal width morning, that seemed nearly as odd as having one deliver him mail in the first place. Well, in for a penny... "Hello?"
With only a little surprise left in him, Harry was less startled than mildly amused when the owl simply spread it's wings and glided down to settle before him, blinking... owlishly at the child.
"Right... owl. So I should reply," the young boy surmised, but quickly realized he had nothing to reply with. Lacking pen or paper, he had no way to scratch out a reply or any of the questions he had. He'd also not likely be able to sneak back inside to find anything appropriate to make a reply out of. Blushing faintly and feeling remarkably silly, Harry cleared his throat and regarded the owl seriously, "I have no way to reply. Can you help?"
The post owl swiveled it's head and seemed to regard the young boy like he'd lost what little mind he had. A brief and rather sudden ruffling of feathers set the animal to looking more like a feathered balloon, but shortly it hobbled up close the the child and took very deliberate hold of his sleeve.
Pulling sharply twice, the owl looked pointedly down the lane, then looked back to Harry.
Not a stupid child, Harry nodded and fell out of the tree, ready to follow the owl as it winged off. Shortly, after stumbling somewhat clumsily over crack in the sidewalk and small clumps of grass growing between them, Harry came to a house he knew well enough. "Ms. Figg?" Wondering at the bird's sense in coming to a house as close to infested with cats as one can be, Harry shrugged and summoned the courage to ring the bell. Figuring the batty old woman would probably no more question his need for pen and paper than the usual odd impromptu request to sit for him from his aunt, he waited as one or two of the woman's tabbies stared at him.
"Oh, allo 'Arry," the woman greeted after peering through her door chain a moment, scowling about. Shortly he was bustled inside and made to sit, as the odd older woman sat a small plate of dry biscuits and some tea before him without question or comment. Trying to settle himself in a place not as infested with doilies or cats, Harry resigned himself to the couch. Shortly, the woman came back into the room, eying him curiously. "So, what brings you by so early?"
Choking down a bit of the over-dry biscuit, Harry figured the simple answer to be best. "I wondered if I could bother you for a pen and paper, Ms. Figg."
"Pen? Paper? You come out at this hour that?" Wincing, Harry was reminded again why he didn't particularly care for the old woman. Though she seemed nice enough, there was an odd anger in her. Something about him personally seemed to irritate the woman, much like his aunt and uncle. On the rare occasion that Ms. Figg watched not only himself but Dudley, he could usually bank on any conflict the two coming into being held against him.
He didn't really understand, but he didn't have to, to accept it. Such just seemed the way of things. "Right. I just... didn't think my aunt or uncle would let me answer this letter."
"What are you on about," the woman asked sharply, a wholly different look about her suddenly. Still stern and somewhat irritated, Harry noted a keen light of interest in her eyes. "What kind of post would you be getting that your family would be so cross with?"
"I..." not willing to actually show her the letter, Harry tried desperately to think of a way to keep this simple. He needed that letter. He also needed to reply, so he had to tell the woman something to make the situation work in his favor. "I got a letter from a school. I need to pen a reply myself, and I don't want to bother the Dursleys with looking ungrateful for attending Beaufort." A half truth would have to do.
Eyes narrowing, the woman looked him up and down slowly. "School, eh? Dursleys, hrm?" Clicking her tongue slightly, Figg took to a desk and pulled an odd, feathered quill and a piece of thick parchment to her, putting these in turn before Harry. "Ten years, then. My," staring at Harry as he looked at the familiar paper, much like his own letter, the woman's gaze went icy. "Well? What are you on about? Write your letter!"
"Oh! Thank you," Harry muttered, pulling himself back with a start from his wondering. Running a finger along the parchment, he had to admit, it was an odd coincidence. What use would Ms. Figg have with such paper lying about? Dismissing his thoughts before they could get him scolded again, he took up the odd pen, rather quill, and bit his lip.
Sighing, he figured that the woman standing over him would certainly not let him be, just because he had some notion of wanting privacy. A simple request should work best,
Dear sir or ma'am,
I received your letter, but don't understand your meaning. If it was meant truthfully, then perhaps it would be best to meet. I cannot receive letters regularly.
I have a lot of questions, and hope to hear from you soon.
Harry
More nervous at Ms. Figg's reaction than any odd reception to his terse reply, Harry quickly thanked the woman and ran from the house, not seeing her calculating stare afterward.
Not sure how to proceed now that he had his letter, Harry went back to the Dursley's lawn and to his tree. His reasoning was clear, at least on this – it would be stranger by far to be seen talking to and trying to get an owl to carry a letter on the curb, than hidden in a tree. The Dursleys were one thing, to a fault, and with no options, and it was normal. For this reason, Harry hid within the comforting branches and leaves, riddling with the owl how to settle the reply he had.
How does one address a letter to someone they don't know the address of? Beyond that, how to do so via owl? With no better options, the boy grumbled and looked at the small note he held. "Don't suppose you know where this is supposed to go, do you?" It was with no small sense of shock that Harry witnessed the owl half close it's eyes as if in irritation and nod it's head twice. "Really?" Another nod.
Remembering how his letter had come in an envelope, Harry folded the reply and slid it inside the one he'd received. "Alright then, take this back to who sent it," he asked the owl, who promptly grasped the letter in it's beak, and seemed more than happy to leave Harry's side.
His errand done and feeling very satisfied with the morning, Harry tucked the odd list and the letter into his pockets and lounged against the branches, not caring that his family would be cross with him being missing this morning. Dreams of magic and people like him, people with strange friends that lived in the things around him colored his thoughts, bringing a rare smile to Harry's face.
-
Inconvenient Introductions
The next morning, some time after he was typically awakened by his aunt or uncle yelling at him to get breakfast started, Harry was startled awake by a sound he was unfamiliar with.
His aunt screaming in terror.
Harry scrambled out of bed, trying not to stumble on his own baggy pajamas and in a few moments was down the stairs, blinking in confusion. There, sitting at the dining room table was a rather severe looking woman with her hair up in a bun, a slight scowl on her features holding a rather odd stick about a foot long. Though she didn't seem terribly happy, Harry could find nothing that would cause his aunt, who was sitting in her normal place, to have screamed so. Looking from one side of the table, where the woman sat, to the other, Harry had to admit that it didn't look like his family was happy to see her.
"Good morning, Mr. Potter," the woman greeted, nodding very slightly to him, to which he replied with a little nod of his own. It took him a moment, but with a blink he realized she had a rather strong Scottish accent, and wasn't so much holding the stick as holding it aimed at Vernon. "I've come in regard to your letter, and after speaking with your... minders, I see it's not a moment too soon. Possibly quite a bit late, actually."
Letter. A little flare of excitement lit in his chest, as he realized she must be from the school, and was likely named on the letter. Thinking hard a moment, his memory provided... "Um. Headmistress?"
"Professor, actually. My duty as deputy to the Headmaster is largely unnecessary," the woman corrected, and as Harry listened, he became aware of the fact his family seemed to be gasping for air. On closer inspection, it seemed they weren't so much gasping, as screaming, very, very quietly. "Oh, I see they've started up again. Do forgive me, they didn't seem terribly favorable of the idea of you going to school."
Nodding, Harry stood off to the side, feeling decidedly awkward. Though he was very interested in the school, there was only so much time he could spend there. At some point, he had to come home... and then, where would this woman be? Harry had no illusions on the Dursleys and their view of what magic would be. Strange. Freakish. Exactly the kinds of things they'd meant to stamp out of him, and with some small amount of surprise, Harry had to admit that it was a relief they hadn't.
Brow furrowing, he realized what that thought meant. "They... knew? Wait," hand going up to a suddenly spinning head, Harry sat down hard and stared, unseeing at his relatives. Shortly, the Professor joined him, laying a hand on his shoulder as he woodenly watched them. It took nearly a handful of minutes, for his mind to allow the question to be asked, "They knew, didn't they? All this time."
Lips thinning to an angry line, the Professor looked back at the suddenly uneasy looking family and nodded. "They were left with a letter, orders really if my understanding is correct, to properly inform you of your heritage. I must apologize, as being one of those that was involved in your placement here, I was... complacent in an explanation. I do not intend to let that state remain, however."
Shaking his head, Harry simply looked at his hands. "I'm not sure... I mean that's nice to say, but they're my family. I don't have anywhere else to go. I don't even have money to get the things your letter listed."
It was at this point in the distraction from the Dursleys that McGonagall's focus was down at such a level that the silencing charm on Vernon slipped. "You bloody will not be going to that school! I will not be paying for-"
A wave of the stick, and the man went on for a few moments, before realizing he'd gone silent again. Purpling, a vein looking quite disturbed in his forehead, Vernon looked to be trying to stand but to Harry's further confusion, something was holding his uncle to the chair. "My apologies, Mr. Potter. I do not think I can stand to discuss this with them. Worst sort of muggles, as I said once before."
"Muggle?" The word felt odd, Harry decided. They way she'd used it reminded him of how the Dursleys talked about freakishness. It made Harry wonder what kinds of ideas magical people had of normal ones.
Nodding, the stern looking woman's face softened somewhat, as she helped a remarkably light Harry Potter to his feet. It was then she noted the rather sharp bones and features, and the thin, long-fingered hands. What she'd initially taken as simply fine features and delicate hands, resolved itself instead to young boy who seemed on the verge of ill health. Her explanation on muggles versus wizarding folk forgotten, the woman turned a sharp look at the family, then back to young Harry. Concern overriding her duties for the school as a maternal drive ignited, Minerva McGonagall steered Harry from the dining room to the hallway, after resecuring his family with another round of silencing and sticking charms.
The conversation, though somewhat terse and reluctant on Harry's part, did not put the woman in a easier state of mind. Storming back into the dining room, she faintly quivered, unable to find a point to focus on. Her eyes flashed between Petunia and Vernon as equally as they stared at nothing, while her hand gripped the wand in a white-knuckled grasp. "Unbelievable. You... were trusted with this. One task. See to his health, and happiness. A boy, a child, and..." gesturing with no small amount of anger, the Dursleys snapped free of the chairs that were glued to their backsides, and floated into the sitting room. There, the Professor did something and the three looked rather uncomfortable, faces frozen in odd expressions, but who's eyes moved easily enough.
"Mark my words, you horrible, wretched excuses for muggles, there will be a reckoning," without any other explanation or excuse, the woman took Harry's hand and with a rather brutal sound like a gunshot, was missing along with their youngest charge.
It only took a moment for them to realize the woman hadn't undone the magic she cast, causing them to be paralyzed but awake on the chairs, apparently watching TV if the neighbors had the urge to look in on them.
Spells and magic are odd things, particularly in a world growing starved by their lack, and the absence of belief. Though the wards, unknown to Harry, were bleeding magic in low levels all over the Dursley home, nothing more had happened since Harry himself had been dropped off.
Which was why, as small things like Harry's imaginary friends went, they could do so little. Like moths and a flame, the forces that worked to give them life as they had, also allowed them to feed on spells, and the residue they left. McGonagall's demonstrations and punishments on the Dursleys were a feast to the small spirits and elementals, and though invisible to the muggles in the house, they frolicked and fed.
The result of this, was that the spells locking the Dursleys in place fell much faster than McGonagall had meant for them to, which was little matter. It was simply something done in the heat of the moment, after all. On the other hand, the unseen things had taken on more magic in one day than they'd been able to in years of time.
And they too, felt it time for a reckoning...
-
Possession of Knowledge
"For us, it began as war of course."
"But... why? What does war accomplish to people like you've described?" Hermione interjected, earning the sense of a snort from the... voice.
With a sense that the source of that voice had settled back to wait, Hermione sighed and went still. "Sorry. I know we're working on communicating, but you have to admit for me that just begs questioning."
"No more so than real magic did, less than a week ago, hm?" When the presence followed her comment with a melodic laugh, the newly christened witch winced and again felt the gears, huge ungainly things on which the world spun, clicking under her, changing everything that she saw and understood subtly.
Having spent a large portion of the day on which Professor McGonagall visited her acclimatizing to the idea of a magical world that neither her or her family had ever seen or imagined, it had taken another for the young witch to begin the process of dealing with how such a thing came to pass.
And so, feeling her moment to have arrived on the third day, the presence now bonded to Hermione spoke up once more, having stayed silent for the time it took for the young woman's mind to settle. Too much at once could after all, break anyone.
Tonight was... communication practice. After all, it wouldn't do to have her bonded simply refer to her as 'you'. "It's still... hard to come to terms with there being another intelligence inside my own mind."
"To be technical, I'm not truly inside your mind, so much as anchored to you, and using that to ease speaking with you and fulfilling our bond," the ethereal presence replied, giving Hermione the impression of one instructing another. "And from here out, please call me Petite."
Brow rising, Hermione stared up at her ceiling, finding the empty, canvas-like field it presented the easiest thing to simply unfocus on. "Petite? As in small?"
"It is a... fond memory."
Mulling this over a moment, Hermione realized the answer "Petite" had given only raised more questions. "Memory? So I'm not the first person you've made a deal with?"
A delicate snort was her answer. "Yes, and no I cannot tell you details, and will not speak of those who have come before you."
"Why? It would give me a good reference on how to better deal with this, whatever this is," Hermione replied in a lowering voice, not bothering to hide her tone. Hermione was in truth very torn on this, and it wasn't something "Petite" was blind to. After all, how many people made deals with... things, and came out of it in a positive light? "I guess... well go on. With what you were saying about war."
Petite gave the impression of a nod, "It's not that we enjoy bloodshed. Well not as a rule. To think of my world as a shadow cast from the sun on yours is not a very bad analogy. We're just afterimages. So all the things you're used to thinking of as human nature are simply magnified." Her bonded paused a moment to let that soak in, before continuing. "Now, as to what I am. First, you've got some preconceptions to break down."
Hermione winced, but nodded. "I can't assume what I've been taught in regard to... er. Demons. To be all that accurate I suppose. I mean, magic," shrugging as if that were point enough, the wild-haired girl went silent.
"More or less," sighing, Petite gave off a faint presence of irritation. "Ok. This headspeak works for some but I'm a... I use my hands a lot. So. Sit back, I'm coming over." Only slightly noting the change in the demon's tone, Hermione rightly – to her mind – latches on to the pertinent part of Petite's statement and goes wide-eyed. The argument or denial or prohibition that was on her lips died as in a tiny whorl of space, a girl her age was suddenly sitting on the bed beside her. "Oh much better."
Hermione boggled. Not so much that there was a demon sitting on her bed, but that she looked... well, normal. Mostly. Petite as it turned out, looked no older than her, with strait auburn hair just below her shoulders, and expressive almond-shaped eyes. Where Hermione's were a hazel-flecked brown, her companion's were a uniform carmine that seemed to lack pupils. Uniform, in that there was no striation of iris, giving the effect of deep glass.
Adding, or perhaps compounding by contrast the at once normal and unreal person beside her, Petite had arrived in her school's uniform jumper and skirt, although the latter was a bit too high on the knee to pass inspection. The real difference lay in the wings. Batlike and a deep maroon, the pair sprouted small and unassuming from Petite's back, just where her shoulders would be. Another pair, maybe the size of Hermione's hand, twitched and folded just over her ears.
"You have wings on your head!" Hermione blurted, still boggling at the figure stretching and bouncing slightly on her bed.
Reaching up with a smirk, the demon poked, then smoothed down the tiny appendages. "So I do..."
Blinking as her mind tried to take in Petite, Hermione's breathing became erratic as the proof of everything sat preening and playing with her clothes, on Hermione's bed. The deal, the gravity of having sealed some kind of binding contract with a demon, who's now bound to her until... until... "Oh god."
Petite looked over and blinked as Hermione fell over in a faint. Brow creasing in a frown, she gestured to keep the brilliant young woman from striking her head on the nightstand, a small wave of power supporting the brunette until Petite moved her over the bed. Sighing, the juvenile looking demon shivered as her appearance became 'more' normal. Wings gone, pupils present and a less unnatural color to the eye, she stood and darted down the stairs.
Mrs. Granger, having not heard or seen Hermione's friend – or for that matter knowing she had any close enough to visit – started badly when a girl suddenly appeared out of the hallway to her daughter's room. That moment of adrenaline escalated when Petite, waving off any introductions, informed Hermione's mother that her daughter had fainted.
Hermione awoke to the scene that would, for all future recollections, cause her to snort and laugh till her sides ached. Her mother's worried face, the small vial of smelling salts in her hand, and the smirking form of Petite making her best impression of her own miniature bat wings behind her mother's head.
"Are you alright honey? Your friend came to get me, saying you'd fainted..." looking back over her shoulder, the woman smiled slightly, relaxing now that she'd seen for herself that Hermione was fine. "Angelique was it?"
Affecting a very trace French accent, the 'girl' bobbed a tiny bow, more an over accentuated nod really, and smiled. "Oui. Though my family just calls me by Angie. Most of my friends prefer my surname, like Hermione. Petit," smiling brightly, the auburn haired girl's nervous introduction seemed normal enough. Hermione still found it amusing, and chuckled.
Amanda Granger looked back to her daughter and breathed a relieved sigh. "So, care to tell your poor mother why you fainted, Hermione?"
Paling a bit, the young girl fidgeted with her bedsheets, an action that wasn't missed by her mother. Amanda knew one of the few skills Hermione lacked was subterfuge – the girl was absolutely pants at lying. Still, her hesitation brought up all the old worries that parents go gray early about; boys, drugs, boys, bullies, boys, sex, boys... and now Amanda was finding herself fidgeting the hem of her blouse as well.
Petite rolled her eyes and flopped down beside her bonded. "We were discussing magic, Hogwarts, and it's history," at the mention of the magical school and her daughter's newfound talents, Mrs. Granger paled slightly and affected a sickly grin. "It seems she is still adjusting to the idea of the whole thing." Nodding in frank understanding, Amanda seemed to be rather similar in disposition to the reaction her daughter had. Apparently she had taken to the news in true British fashion: denial at all costs, until faced with it in force. Seeing and correctly guessing her mother's reaction, Hermione just nodded, and scooted closer to her (and away from Petite).
Laying her hand on her mother's own now clammy fingers, Hermione offered a weak smile, "It's ok, I'm getting better at dealing with it. How about you?" Waving at their 'guest, Hermione continued, "Petite is from a... magical family, or sorts, so um. She was telling me about her family and history." She felt ill at the idea and saw it silly to lie to her mother, even at this, and so went with a truth or sorts. They were after all, speaking about the demon's past.
Taking a breath, Amanda shook her head slowly. "It's hard. I've been used to the idea of you being brilliant, and the one hope I had was that you'd find a field that took advantage of that to your benefit," smiling somewhat sadly, the woman looked between the two girls, and the lines eased around her eyes. "Though there was one thing being as smart as you are won't help with, but maybe this magic thing is good for something after all." Blinking in confusion, Hermione tried to decipher her mother's words, but came up blank, shaking her head, she said as much. With a more genuine smile, her mother stood and patted Hermione gently on the head. "Friends, Hermione. When you two get hungry, come down. I'll make some snacks."
Paling slightly, Hermione stayed stock still as Petite scooted over to wave at her departing mother, earning the demon a wave in reply. When the door shut, those mischievous carmine eyes turned back to her, and the demon grinned, "Well, she seems nice."
"What are you doing?" Hissing her words, Hermione stood angrily and put some distance between them, as Petite shook slightly and took on her previous appearance. Her head tilted, as Hermione stomped about her room, incensed. "You spoke to my mother! What were you thinking?"
"That maybe she'd like to help? You fainted. I kept you from bashing your head bloody on the nightstand," pointing at the sharp-cornered table, Petite's face had gone stony, expressionless.
Still, Hermione's anxiety wouldn't let her wind down, "But she's got no part of this! It's you, and me. I made the deal, just leave her out of it. There's no need for you to be around her – in fact there's no call for you to be out at all!"
Nodding tersely, the demon girl simply ceased to be. Blinking, Hermione looked about her room, wondering if she'd simply imagined the whole thing, before her eyes settled on the vial of smelling salts her mother had left on the nightstand. The idea of magic was still taking tenuous root in her head, and the reality of a demon being bonded to her – one that could simply show up and be a solid, tangible... person... also struck her as simply too much. Lost in thought, Hermione started badly when a book appeared with a small crack over her bed, falling with some force onto the coverlet.
Peering at it curiously, she winced as Petite's voice, feeling glacially cold, blew through her mind, "Hogwarts: a History. You don't like lying to your mother, and I need a way to speak civilly with you. I tried my way, and that seemed unacceptable," Hermione worried again at the iciness Petite's earlier playful tones had become. Nervousness crept along her spine now at snapping at not only the reason she had magic, but at what was apparently a capable demon with unknown abilities... Sighing, she picked up the tome and cracked it open. As she scanned the index, words in bloody scarlet faded in between the lines of normal black text. It looked like ink seeping up through tissue, as she watched.
Flowing, ornate script met her chagrined glance, "When I need to speak with you, I'll do it here. You won't have to fear dealing with my voice or appearance again, unless it's an emergency: which I doubt even a plain girl like you could merit the need for an inconvenience like me, to assist with. I suggest you start reading, in the meanwhile." Hermione's eyes scanned further, seeing the index sprawl out, page numbers passing the thousand mark.
With a sigh and no small sense of irritation at her own feelings of guilt, Hermione set to her task, reading a book on any other day that would fascinate her. Today, it simply felt like a chore.