September 1990
Hermione Granger had always worn her exceptionally bright mind like a badge of honour. She didn't care for her classmates' mean comments or the exasperated sighs of many grown-ups around her. Teachers showered her with extra marks, and her mother had told her she'd attend an "excellent university" in the future. Oxford maybe or even Cambridge. Indeed, the curly-haired girl was unapologetically proud of her mind.
On this brilliantly sunny morning, Hermione celebrated her eleventh birthday. Her parents had surprised her with a trip to the planetarium, fulfilling a long-held wish of hers. Afterwards, they had driven into bustling London, where they went on a shopping spree for new books and a leather backpack. Hermione deemed it the prettiest bag in the world, with a sparkling star on the back that echoed the magic of her day at the planetarium.
Now she sat in her tidy bedroom, engrossed in a world woven from the pages of one of her new books. Sunlight filtered through her lace curtains, casting warm, dancing patterns on the wooden floor.
Her fingers eagerly turned another page when the soft voice of her mother floated up the staircase.
"Hermione, love," she called from downstairs. "Could you please come down for a moment?"
With a sigh, she marked her place with a slip of paper, reluctantly rising from her bed. Descending the creaking stairs, she wondered what her mother needed.
"What is it, Mum?" Hermione asked as she entered the living room. Her parents wore troubled expressions as they focused on something atop the coffee table.
"Take a seat, dear. Your father and I need to talk to you," her mother began, and Hermione settled into a cosy chair, her curiosity piqued. Her mother extended a rather fancy envelope sealed with crimson wax.
"This letter is addressed to you. No matter its contents, remember that we're here to support you, sweetheart," her father chimed in, his grave tone causing Hermione to scrunch her freckled nose.
Her mother nodded for her to open the mysterious letter, and Hermione carefully broke the seal, her curiosity brimming.
"We received a similar letter yesterday. This is a very serious matter, my love."
Tension hung heavy in the air as Hermione gingerly extracted the letter from its ornate envelope. "Dear Miss Black," she began to read aloud, "we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Her eyes darted over the unfamiliar name on the parchment, her brows furrowed. "Who's this Miss Black they're talking about?" she asked, her face etched with confusion.
Her parents exchanged a grave glance, their clasped hands trembling ever so slightly. Her mother took a deep breath, her voice laced with unease. "You are, love."
It was as though the ground had been ripped out from under her, and Hermione found herself gasping. Though she was a bright child, nothing could have prepared her for this. "I'm… adopted?" she muttered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"We had meant to tell you when you were a bit older, but with that letter..." her father began, but Hermione interrupted him, her voice cracking, "So, you're not my real parents?"
"No, but you will always be our daughter, dear," her mother reassured her, leaning forward to envelop Hermione in a tight embrace.
Hermione's arms moved automatically, but her heart was in turmoil. She struggled to maintain a strained smile. "I know, Mum. I love you both." She murmured.
Hermione Granger was nothing if not determined. She thought to herself that if she just studied hard enough and learned all there was to know about Hogwarts, her parents would surely continue to love her even if she wasn't their real daughter…
Across London, the raging fury of one Madame Black echoed through the grand townhouse, her once meticulously arranged updo now marred by strands of grey hair threatening to escape. Her spindly fingers trembled as they traced over the new name beneath the charred spot where her eldest son's face had once been.
"Kreacher! Summon my father-in-law immediately!" she hissed at the cowering elf trailing behind her, who bowed deeply before vanishing with the snap of his bony fingers.
Anger overwhelmed every other coherent thought in Walburga Black's mind, and the name of her supposed granddaughter seared itself into her consciousness. "How dare that muggle-loving traitor," she began, her breath hitching as her eyes shifted to the portrait of her youngest son. "Why couldn't she have been yours? How is this worthless boy still bringing shame to our noble house after so many years?"
Lost in her seething thoughts, she nearly missed the expectant cough from the elderly wizard leaning on his intricately carved staff at the entrance of the room.
"What did your elf summon me for, Walburga? I don't have all day." His pale eyes wandered over the dishevelled woman, a rare sight for a lady of her standing.
"Arcturus! Come and see for yourself what that useless son of mine has done now." Her perfectly manicured fingers pointed at the spot below Sirius Black's name, where a new face had appeared. It piqued the older Black's interest, and he stepped forward.
"How come she's just appeared now?" He scowled at the newest addition to their family tree.
"That's your first question?" Mrs Black asked incredulously, but Arcturus Black tutted at her, not appreciating her tone when addressing the head of the family.
Her father-in-law didn't look his age. Despite being well into his seventies, his hair was still dark and neatly pulled back with a velvet bow. His face bore only the faintest marks of time, except for deep creases around his eyes and mouth.
In the shadowy confines of the Black family's ancestry room, where memories of old glory mingled with the decay of their prestigious bloodline, Arcturus gazed into the distance, his eyes shrouded in contemplation. "Many records were lost during the final months of the war," he mused, his voice heavy.
Walburga leaned against an ornate bookshelf, her lips poised in thought. "The Ministry just recently registered every child heading for Hogwarts this year," she remarked, her words dripping with a calculating tone. "What of her mother?"
A gnarled, withered branch extended to the right of Sirius Black's name, signifying the lack of a proper union of the pair. Walburga's lip curled in disdain. "Marlene McKinnon. a name unfamiliar, and thus, surely unworthy," she declared.
"I recall reading about the McKinnons in the Daily Prophet," Arcturus muttered, his keen eyes fixated on the insignificant name now eternalised on their ancient family tree. A flicker of intrigue danced in his gaze as if he were solving a puzzle, one that held the key to their family's future.
The other witch crossed her arms, her crimson-painted lips drawn into a razor-thin line. "One can only hope she isn't a true mudblood," she sneered, her words slicing through the air like a blade. "We must verify her lineage. I refuse to allow the taint of her impurity to further besmirch the honour of our house."
Mr Black let out a low hum of agreement, distancing himself from the ancestral tapestry and striding towards the hearth on the far side of the room. "The McKinnons may not have been part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but in these trying times, we may have no choice but to accept what fate offers," he confessed, his voice tinged with reluctant acceptance.
Walburga, her anger simmering just beneath the surface, followed in his wake. "Accept a half-blood into our family?" Her voice was a mixture of disbelief and outrage, her amber eyes aflame with defiance.
Turning to face her, Mr Black met her gaze with unflinching resolve. "We stand at a precipice, Walburga. Our options are dwindling. We must do what is necessary to preserve the legacy of the House of Black. We can shape her into an asset, regardless of her blood."
The room crackled with tension as she seethed. "To what depths must we sink to protect our noble house?"
"Time will tell," he replied, his voice cryptic. Without further ado, Mr Black tossed a pinch of floo powder into the fireplace. "Ministry of Magic," he declared before vanishing into the emerald flames.
Eagerly, Mrs Black followed him, ready to unleash the full force of the noble and ancient House of Black upon any who dared to steal away one of their own, mudblood or not…
A few days later, the atmosphere in the Granger household had significantly mellowed. Hermione sat in her bedroom, meticulously jotting down a list of topics she needed to research before embarking on her magical education in a few months.
She refused to be caught unprepared. What if her future classmates were already well-versed in spells and incantations? Would they all be as studious as her? Surely there must be students with magical families, parents or grandparents who were witches and wizards. Hermione scowled at the seeming injustice of it.
Her concentrated scribbling was abruptly disrupted by an indignant scream. "You cannot simply take her from us!" Her mother's voice echoed through the house.
Hermione heard a mocking laugh in response. "You dare to defy me, Muggle?"
Before she could react, her door flew open and an older man dressed in some sort of billowing robes gripped her arm painfully, heedless of her terrified yelp. "No! Let go of me! Mum, Dad!?" Her trembling voice reverberated through the house. Clad in one of her old pyjamas, Hermione struggled desperately to free herself from the man's iron grip.
Helplessly, she watched as an older woman pointed a slender wand at her parents, rendering them immobile. Her father's mouth hung open as if he were trying to call out to his sobbing daughter. "Cease your resistance, girl. Everything will be explained. Walburga, come!" The intimidating man grumbled, his grip on her wrist tightening as he sensed her attempts to escape.
"The nerve of that man. Wretched, filthy Muggles!" The woman in dark robes screeched, her wand still ominously aglow in the shadows.
Hermione strained to see what the woman was doing to her parents, but her captor abruptly yanked her closer to him.
Before she could protest, the world around her blurred, and Hermione felt her insides churn uncomfortably. She tightly shut her eyes, hoping to alleviate the nausea. When she dared to open them again, she found herself standing in a dimly lit corridor, her hands clutching the velvet robes of the older man who had taken her. Hastily distancing herself from her captor, she nearly stumbled over her own feet as he unexpectedly released her.
"Where am I?" she stammered, an icy fear settling into her weary bones.
"Home," the man said calmly. "Kreacher! Tea for the three of us."
Hermione's breath hitched. What on earth was happening?
"My granddaughter, living among those wretched Muggles, fate can be a cruel mistress," the mysterious woman suddenly spoke from behind her.
As Hermione slowly pivoted to face her, her heart leapt within her chest. When her eyes locked onto those familiar amber orbs, a gasp involuntarily escaped her lips and she knew, that her life as she knew it was no more…
I found this half-finished story in one of my old folders, and I'll be updating it whenever I can. Don't forget to check out my other story, "The place we call home."
This story is going to start off quite dark and gloomy. Walburga wasn't exactly known for her loving nature with her own kids, so I doubt she'll do a complete 180 with Hermione. The only surviving Blacks from previous generations are Walburga and Arcturus.
To respond to a reader's comment: Characters from the original books like Sirius and Andromeda are still alive and kicking, of course! xoxo