Hey all of you beautiful people. I am honestly astounded by the overwhelming love and support you all bless me with. I love reading all your comments, encouragements and guesses for this story. I can confirm that we are about to find out exactly who our girl Hermione truly is, including who her parents are and we get to see the first interaction between our Hermione and Nymphadora.
Now a few note's: I'd firstly like to address the concern about Hermione and Nymphadora being closely related. I'd like to ease that by simply saying they aren't. In this story Dora may be a Lestrange and Hermione's Grandmother was a Lestrange but they come from different branches of the family tree. (I am currently working on a family tree that will illustrate this better for you all.) But to get a shared genetic link between Hermione and Dora (In this fic) you would need to trace their family line right back to the fifteen hundreds. Dora stems from the English side of the Lestrange family tree and Hermione the French side. Hopefully that helps those of you worried about their genetic links.
Secondly, this story has ended up being far longer and far more realistic than I originally planned for it to be. That said, I am loving writing it and watching the characters and the plot develop at a slower pace than my usual. Which leads me on to my next piece I would like to share and I am gonna apologise profusely to those of you hoping for a faster burn between our girls. In my story Hermione is a year younger than her peers. So although they are turning 16 this school year, Hermione will be turning 15 and yes she is older than 15 because of her time turner usage in third year but I think it is really important that Hermione and Dora get the chance to build their relationship authentically. As such I don't see them getting together for another couple of years. Hermione for one is a traumatised teenage girl who has just discovered her real identity and is about to discover the deceit that has surrounded her for the entirety of her life. She needs the chance to heel and get to know herself again and she deserves the support of people who are simply there for her. As such Dora and Hermione's romantic relationship won't develop straight away. Their bond will be strictly platonic until Hermione is older. Also Dora is a very independent anti-commitment sort of girl and yes their bond will help overcome that but I'd be doing her a disservice if I were to have her abandon her care free attitude. She needs to have the freedom to explore and grow as a persona and see some more of the worlds realities. They both do really, so that when it comes time for the romance to develop they can be the partners each other needs. I hope that makes sense to you all and again I am really sorry if the slow burn disappoints any of you. What I can promise however is that Dora and Hermione will always be close in this and there will be LOTS of cute, fluffy, loving Nymphamione moments ahead.
Okay that's the house keeping out the way I'll leave you to this chapter. This was a really beautiful piece to write I won't lie. So please enjoy 10511 words of Nymphadora being a sassy lil bad ass and Hermione being well...not Hermione.
All my love ~ Nell xoxo
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~Thursday 7th September 1995~
~Nymphadora Lestrange's POV ~
~ Ministry of Magic, Auror Department~
Dora was bored. Beyond bored, if she was being perfectly honest. Yet here she was, stuck in this Merlin-awful briefing for the next hour, in a stuffy atrium while being forced to listen to their simpering, incompetent Minister of Magic prattle on about recent disturbances and the rise in Muggle disappearances across London. It was the same tired drivel he'd spouted at last week's briefing—empty words, hollow warnings, and meaningless urges to "uphold the law, remain vigilant."
As if he actually cared about any of it and they all knew it. The muggles meant less to him than the money that lined his pockets.
Cornelius Fudge wasn't about to lift a finger to help those Muggles or stop whichever wizards had started hunting them again. After all, he was just as arrogant and money-obsessed as the rest of the pure-blood elite he spent his days grovelling to.
The politics of it all made Dora want to bang her head against the desk, repeatedly. She had next to no patience for the pure-blood rhetoric her grandfather and father subscribed to. It was all utter drivel. Anyone with half a brain could see that the idea of Muggle-borns "stealing" magic was nothing more than fearmongering nonsense—misinformation spread by those desperate to cling to their own self-importance. Not that she'd ever say that to her father.
Rodolphus Lestrange wasn't the brightest of men, but he loved her. That much was undeniable. Still, Dora was fairly certain her father would have a heart attack if she were ever to tell him outright that everything, he'd been taught his whole life was complete rubbish. No, those kinds of conversations were best saved for when she was alone with Mother.
Mother—now she was a remarkably clever witch.
Andromeda Lestrange was formidable and had taught Dora how to navigate the world they lived in with the expert ease of the pure-blooded aristocratic cunning of a true Black heir: Teaching her how to keep her thoughts close, how to play the role of the perfect pure-blood heir when necessary, and how to be herself only in the presence of those she trusted. It was a delicate balance; one she'd mastered over time. It was an art form that had allowed her to get as far as she had within the ministry so quickly. She was the youngest Auror ever and even better she had been made head of her section within the first month.
She was after all the Lestrange Heir.
Still, sitting here, forced to endure Fudge's tedious grandstanding, she found herself longing for the moment she could escape this room and actually do something useful. Because unlike these fools, she had no intention of sitting idly by while people suffered.
Don't get her wrong—Dora knew she could be just as self-serving and arrogant as the aristocracy that she had grown up with. But in her heart, she also knew she would never be capable of the cruelty and wilful ignorance that her peers and their families had clung to. Muggle-borns weren't magic thieves. That much was obvious to anyone who actually thought about it. Yes, they had muddy blood—meaning they often brought Muggle views and prejudices into the wizarding world, never fully subscribing to tradition or Mother Magik as all respectable pure-bloods did. But was that truly their fault? If no one had given them the tools or the knowledge to learn, how could they be expected to embrace a culture they had never been a part of?
How could they learn to respect the magic that flowed around them, through them when all the information they needed to subscribe to tradition was locked away in pure-blood family libraries rather than accessible to the public?
Yet instead of addressing that reality, most chose hatred and bigotry. They weaponized fear, using it to fuel segregation and destruction. Spearheading false narratives about the dwindling fertility of the pure and how more squibs were born because muggle children stole their magic. It was unjust and absolutely ludicrous. And as the Lestrange heir—and, more importantly, as a person—it was her duty to do what she could to balance that injustice.
Of course, she doubted she could do so without at least tripping over herself a few thousand times. - A specialty of hers. No matter how much pure-blood training she had endured, Nymphadora Lestrange had always been spectacularly, hopelessly clumsy. It drove her poor mother batty and earned her a fond chuckle from her father—along with plenty of teasing from her fellow Aurors.
But that was just who she was. And if she was going to trip her way through life, she might as well make sure she landed on the right side of history.
"…mandatory blood testing will be carried out this morning…" Dora startled slightly as Auror Banks subtly elbowed her in the ribs, snapping her back to attention just as the minister switched topics. The mention of blood tests had caught her full focus in an instant. Issues regarding blood always proved to offer varying degrees of contention. Straightening, she fixed her gaze on the minister as he continued speaking, though she gave Sarah a quick, appreciative nod in thanks. Sarah Banks was as ordinary as they came, a bit stern looking, pretty if you were into that sort of vibe—a solid duellist, from a middle-class magical family in America, with a strong sense of justice. It was what had drawn Dora to her back in training despite her stern expression and painfully tight low bun, and the older witch had quickly become her best friend. It also helped that Sarah shared Dora's ridiculous sense of humour. She found endless amusement in Dora's Metamorphmagus abilities—especially when Dora used them, as she often did, to disguise herself as other Aurors just to mess with the department heads. It never failed to amuse them when some of the more arrogant members of the auror teams were reprimanded because Dora had stolen their identity and let off a prank in the minister's office.
They had graduated the Auror Academy together in the summer, and to their delight, Sarah had been assigned to Dora's team immediately. It made for plenty of laughter between them—particularly when dealing with the snobbish, pointy-nosed pure-blood blokes who still truly believed they could back them into betrothals. As was customary in pure-blood society. Luckily, Nymphadora's mother had seen that nonsense coming from a mile away. Andromeda had made Rodolphus swear an Unbreakable Vow when Dora was barely more than an infant—he would never even attempt to arrange a marriage for her. She was to be free to choose her own path, including who she married—if she ever married at all. And with slimy gits like Artimus 'Arti' Carrow and Charles 'Charlie' Weasley lurking about, Dora had never been more grateful for her mother's foresight. The thought of being within five feet of the pure-blood blokes she had grown up with was revolting.
The minister's voice droned on, but this time, it actually held substance. "It has come to the Ministry's attention that we are failing many of the students at Hogwarts. There has been an abhorrent decline in young heirs claiming their titles since the last war, and we have not done enough to rectify this. As such, starting today—and repeating every seven years—there will be a mandatory school-wide inheritance test administered to all students." That got people's attention. Dora could feel the shift in the room. Over half of the Auror force that had been politely ignoring Fudge before was now fully engaged once more.
"There is a disproportionate number of families with no identified heir," the minister continued factually, though there was a noticeable strain in his voice, "and it is our hope that this measure will allow us to correct that oversight, ensuring that those legacies are upheld as they should have been all along." Dora bit back a smirk, running a hand through today's choice of hairstyle—short pink spikes. It was quite obvious Fudge wasn't doing this of his own accord. Someone had found reason and ground to force his hand. The only question was who?
They'd all find out soon enough. Whether or not the papers choose to cover the story, information like this never stayed hushed up for long. It always found its way into the wider wizarding population. Dirty, ruinous secrets whispered in dark corners, passed between persons with ease. Gossip had always spread like Fiendfyre in wizarding society. At least it promised some entertainment.
The minister didn't linger after his announcement, quickly dismissing the meeting before making himself scarce. As soon as he was gone, Dora yawned quietly and stretched, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders. "Merlin, I hope we actually get out of this merlin awful office today," she muttered to Sarah. "There's only so much drunk elderly wizards and stray familiars I can take before I start looking for something a little more… stimulating." She finished. She waggled her eyebrows in exaggerated suggestiveness, and Sarah snorted. They both knew the 'stimulation' she was after had far more to do with a prank worthy of the Marauders than anything remotely scandalous.
"By the sounds of it we will. They'll need reinforcements at Hogwarts. I can imagine there's going to be outrage regarding this latest stunt. Why do you think they're testing the students?" Sarah responded and Dora could see the sheer curiosity in her friends' eyes, a giddy sort of excitement at the prospect of some gossip or action creeping on to her stern features.
"By the sounds of it, we will," Sarah said, glancing around the room. "They'll need reinforcements at Hogwarts. I can already imagine the outrage over this latest stunt." She leaned in slightly, voice tinged with curiosity. "Why do you think they're testing the students?" Dora caught the spark of excitement in her friend's eyes—giddy anticipation for either good gossip or a proper mess to clean up. It tugged a grin onto her own face.
Oh, this was going to be fun. Nymphadora thought to herself.
"Lestrange!" The booming voice of their mentor, Alastor Moody, echoed across the atrium, cutting off any further conversation between Dora and Sarah before Dora had a chance to verbally respond to her friend.
"Boss?" Dora responded instinctively, jogging over with an exaggerated bow—only to stumble slightly as she straightened up. Moody's lips twitched in what might have been fond amusement, though he'd never admit it, before the look passed just as quickly as it had appeared. If he wasn't so far up Dumbledore's arse, her mother had once said, he would have been a fantastic wizard and ally. As it was, he was a damn good boss, but Dora wasn't blind to the resentment he held toward her and the Lestrange name. Likely just another bias passed down from Albus. That man had always butted heads with the pure-blood families who still rightly held to tradition.
"Stop acting the fool, Lestrange. You are not your father," Moody sneered in response. Dora barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. Moody's particular hatred for Rodolphus Lestrange was no secret to anyone. Rumour had it he still resented her father for marrying Andromeda Black all those years ago—a highly desirable match in their youth. Even now, her father still boasted often about winning her mother's hand. And though Dora had no doubt Rodolphus loved Andromeda, she also knew her mother had only ever married him out of duty, not love. Though she did believe her mother secretly was fond of her father, even if she would never return his love.
"Take your team on up to the castle," Moody ordered, his voice clipped and no-nonsense. "There's a swarm of angry parents causing a stir outside the grounds. Your lot is to head inside and man the Great Hall and surrounding corridors. Make sure the blood tests go off without incident and no one who shouldn't be there gets in. I've already sent Carrow and Smithy's team to secure the gates." Dora nodded, noting the sharp edge in his tone. Moody was in one of his legendary bad moods—the kind that could last for days. Best to just do as he asked and stay out of his way.
Without further discussion, Dora pivoted sharply, calling her team to attention as she went. Luckily, they were all still mulling around in the atrium—saved her the hassle of tracking them down before their departure. She manned a team of six, including herself, with Sarah as the only other woman.
"Weasley, Banks—straight to the Great Hall when we get there," she ordered firmly, already forming a mental plan as they strode quickly toward the apparition point. "Cormac, Sinclair—you two will secure the corridors around the Hall. Dunlop, you're with me. Let's make sure dear old Albus has a handle on his students." Murmurs of agreement rippled up through the group, making her smile widely. Dora knew the weight her last name carried, had often as a child used that name but this was different, here she had earned her team's trust and respect through sheer skill, not bloodline. She might be goofy, clumsy, and prone to mischief, but no one could ever say she wasn't a damn good Auror. Her mother's rigorous tutelage, combined with raw talent, had made her formidable—and she had never lost a fight.
"Meet ya there, then." She quipped, flashing a grin before stepping past the apparition ward and vanishing with a crack.
Looked like she was getting that action after all.
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~Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry~
~Same day~
~Nymphadora's POV~
When Sarah had predicted that the public would be absolutely outraged over the Minister's latest stunt, she hadn't been wrong. Morgana be their witness—what a crowd it was. The swarm of furious parents and guardians outside the school gates was impressive, but what truly surprised Dora was who had turned up to object.
She had fully expected her pretentious Uncle Lucius and his merry band of Death Eaters to be out in force, demanding the Ministry rue the day they dared insult the House of Malfoy by extracting blood from his heir. She had anticipated as much. But instead of a gathering of cold, composed aristocrats, she was met with a cacophony of noise, threadbare robes, and—was that Molly Weasley and Augusta Longbottom?
Dora let out a brash snort, the kind she only ever dared indulge in when her parents weren't around to bear witness. Should've figured, she thought dryly as she surveyed the furious crowd swarming the gates of the castle.
Of course, Uncle Lucius might not like the Ministry testing his precious little heir, but he would accept it—after all, it would only confirm to the world Draco's absolute superiority over his peers. Molly Weasley, however? That woman would be outraged at the very idea of anyone ever daring to scrutinize her precious brood. Ever the loyal Dumbledore devotee that she was, always ready to shout louder than anyone else. Augusta Longbottom was just as bad. Dora had long wondered why people like them clung so desperately to Albus, hanging off his every deceitful word. Now, however, it was evident to her—his followers were just as bigoted and hateful as he was.
"How dare you do such a thing to those poor children!" Augusta could be heard bellowing, her voice trembling with righteous fury.
But it was perhaps Molly Weasley's screeching that truly stole the show. "I FORBID it, Albus! Do you hear me? FORBID IT!"
The woman was nearly as red as her wild unbrushed hair, and the high - pitched fury that escaped her was painful to Dora's ears, sending them ringing uncomfortably. Embarrassing, really—though she suspected a Weasley couldn't even feel such a thing and by the way the woman was conducting herself she doubted they did.
Her mother, though the most tolerant of the Weasley family out of all of the pure-blooded elite, had made it absolutely clear to Dora that the Weasley Clan were not the desirable sort of company to keep. And not because they were "pro-Muggle-born," if that was even a thing—anyone with even half a brain could see that Albus and his so-called Muggle-loving posse had never actually done anything to help Muggle-borns directly. Not a thing to target the inequalities and injustices that surrounded them. Every action they had taken had been just as self-serving as those on the so-called "dark" side of the last war. No, the Weasleys' offense wasn't their perverse stance on Muggle-borns—it was their utter disregard for the traditions that had kept magic thriving for millennia.
Each wizarding family had their own customs and way of doing things, but at their core, they all honoured the same principles. Mother Magik was their patron. She had gifted them their magic, blessed families with their family magik and enriched their lives in ways beyond comprehension to those outside the know. As a show of gratitude, on the winter solstice of a young witch or wizard's magical maturity, their family gathered to celebrate, taking part in a ritual that strengthened their magic. For Dora, the Blacks, the Malfoys, and the Lestrange's had all gathered for her, to honour her and Lady Magik—an experience she would never forget. Feeling her family's magik combine in such a way had been blissful, a beautiful reminder of how fortunate she was to possess the gift of magic. It was a simple ritual, a simple tradition, but it was one of great importance, steeped in rich history—and the Weasleys, like so many of Albus's followers, had forsaken it. An offence that could not be forgiven. And the evidence of their slight was clear.
Nymphadora could swear Molly Weasley's children got more and more empty headed with each one that she produced.
Shaking off her analysis of the Weasleys, Dora refocused, spotting Albus Dumbledore hovering near the entrance of the school gates, as if he were contemplating whether to allow the mob—spearheaded by the Weasley matriarch—inside the school.
She knew fellow auror Charles Dunlop had reached the same conclusion by the way he quickened his pace beside her.
"I cannot stop you from entering the grounds to see your children, Molly," Albus Dumbledore's voice finally came into focus as they approached, barely carrying over the continuous angry murmurs around him. "I can assure you, however, that they have come to no harm."
"No harm, Albus? No harm? You are allowing the Ministry to forefront an anti-Muggle-born regime within the school! Testing the children? What is the Minister hoping for? This could be completely disastrous!" Augusta Longbottom declared.
"Exactly! Our children already know their inheritance - whether or not they are heirs to prominent houses! The twins are set to inherit the Prewett fortune on their eighteenth birthday, and Bill is the Weasley heir," Molly snapped, her tone sharp and indignant as she glared at the headmaster.
"Calm yourself, Molly. It is not my doing. I have no authority over the Ministry's actions." Dumbledore's voice was maddeningly calm, as if completely unbothered by the uproar. "I assure you, I fought this, but alas, Cornelius was clear. I cannot interfere." And yet, even as he spoke, he shifted ever so slightly—his body no longer blocking the gates, leaving just enough of an opening for a particularly determined parent to slip through.
Dora growled under her breath, bolting forward.
"Oh, no, you don't," she hissed, stepping directly into Molly Weasley's path just as the older woman made to brush past Dumbledore. Using her own body to block the red-haired woman's path. That sneaky old coot, she thought wryly. Clever too. He couldn't interfere, but if he just accidentally let a few parents storm the gates, gaining access to the school, they could interfere in his stead? Not on her watch.
Her order's had been clear – the inheritance tests would proceed without any interference. Especially not interference in the form of a Weasley.
"Lestrange!" Molly gasped indignantly, brushing invisible pieces of lint from her hideous floral-patterned blue dress. "Let me pass! I will not tolerate this tomfoolery a moment longer!"
It really was ironic that one of this woman's precious brood was currently inside the castle helping the ministry carry out the testing.
"Unfortunately, Mrs. Weasley, what you will and will not tolerate is completely irrelevant to me." Dora's voice was crisp, professional. Feeling quite proud that she hadn't pointed out to her that two of her sons now worked for the ministry, one of which was inside the castle, helping to ensure the testing went smoothly. "The Minister has issued clear instructions—it would be illegal for you to impede the inheritance tests in any way. Certainly, you'd rather not find out your precious children's results from one of Azkaban's finest cells? I heard my dear aunt just lost her neighbour." She said instead.
Molly spluttered, her rage momentarily stifled, and Dora smirked.
"Inside, Albus," she commanded, redirecting her attention to the poised looking Headmaster. "Your presence is only inciting this silly little protest further." For a fleeting moment, she saw a flicker of fury in Dumbledore's expression at being instructed by her, but he bit his tongue. Wise choice. He allowed Dora to guide him back through the gates, away from Molly and Augusta.
"Auror Lestrange," Augusta snapped, her voice desperate now, "you and the Minister have no right preventing Molly from reaching her children. No right at all!" For a moment, Dora felt a flicker of sympathy creep into her heart for this woman. Augusta Longbottom had lost her husband, her sister, her daughter, and her son-in-law in the war. She had been left to raise the Longbottom heir alone while visiting her daughter and son-in-law in St. Mungo's Janus Thickey Ward for the incurably spell-damaged and dealing with the Longbottom estate while her grandson was too young to do so. From what Dora had heard, the boy wasn't all that impressive.
"Just because you pure-blood bigots don't know what it is to care for your children," Augusta sneered, "doesn't mean the rest of us don't and this won't stand." And there went the sympathy Nymphadora had felt for her. Twenty years ago, it would have been social suicide to go toe to toe with this woman, but now the woman held no power, and she really shouldn't concern herself with the woman's slights. But Nymphadora was nothing if she wasn't fiercely protective over her family.
Dora's voice dropped into something soft and dangerous. "I advise you to quieten, Ms. Longbottom. I'm certain my mother would be thrilled to hear your thoughts on her parenting style." She smirked, raising her chin in victory as Augusta flinched. Shrinking back beside Molly as Dora continued to voice her displeasure. "Now, think yourself lucky I'm an Auror here on official business and that I am not my mother or father. We Lestrange's don't take kindly to slander. It would be a pity for you to learn that the hard way."
Augusta paled. Her haggard features somehow looking worse. Dora turned away with a victorious smirk. Augusta Longbottom was nothing more than a miserable old witch that was long past her prime. Flicking her wand wordlessly.
The gates slamming shut and locking tight behind her.
It had been a slow day so far—after the initial excitement, that is. The gaggle of furious witches outside the gates had dispersed within the first hour of the Aurors arriving. Albus had sulked his way into the Headmaster's office and locked himself in, and all the first, second, and third-years had been tested without so much as a whimper. Thrilling stuff. Riveting really.
Dora was now counting down each agonisingly slow minute until her lunch break, hoping it would break up the monotony. She had always lived for the chaos of being an Auror—the adrenaline, the action, the high-stakes work enthralled her. The dull moments? Not so much. Even teasing Auror Dunlop about his love-struck mooning over his fiancée Kath had lost its charm, and that was saying something. The poor bloke was hopeless, practically swooning every time he so much as mentioned her name. Dora had never been one for that kind of all-consuming selfless devotion. Though she supposed someone would have to actually take her fancy for longer than a minute for that to happen, and Morgana knew it hadn't happened in all twenty years of her young life.
Not that she hadn't tested the waters. Wizards, she had ruled out rather quickly—too much chest hair, too little self-awareness, and their egos were as delicate as spun glass, especially the 'men' she had grown up with. The moment one of them so much as puffed out his chest at her, she was already halfway to the door, exaggeratedly dry heaving as she fled. Witches, though. Dora appreciated a pretty witch, and there had been a few who had graced her bed over the years. There was something about the feminine curves of a woman that Dora had always found excruciatingly beautiful and their minds even more so. She did love an intelligent witch, someone that challenged her in all the best ways. But despite the exploration none had ever held her attention for longer than what her mother liked to call a "passing fancy."
Still, she supposed there was always hope. Maybe one day, someone would surprise her. Preferably after lunch.
She shook her head, horrified at the direction her thoughts had taken. Sentimentality? Whimsy? Bleh. That wasn't her. Dora had never wanted to be tied down in such a way. She was happy with her life—she had money, looks, a loving family, and the skill set to do what she loved: helping others. Marriage and children? Not really for her. Especially not now.
Even worse, that type of romantic nonsense sounded like something her mother would and had said before. "Oh Nymphadora dear, do try to hold on to this one wont you. You never know, she might be the one." YUCK!
Nope, Dora much preferred being unapologetically her.
And unapologetically her was bored.. and hungry.
"Right then, Dunlop, you stand guard, yeah? I'm gonna nip to the kitchen and see about feeding the crew," she ordered, already turning on her heel headed to the kitchen before he could answer. She had no desire to listen to his love sick rambling any longer. Maybe after lunch, she'd swap him out for Auror Sinclair. Hell, even Auror Weasley would be a better shout at this point than Charles Dunlop. Don't get her wrong—Charlie Weasley was gross, but at least he was a competent Auror who respected her authority. It had only taken knocking him flat on his arse a few times for him to get the message. And honestly, she was sure poor Sarah could use a break from his drivel by now too.
It didn't take very long for her to reach the kitchens. The moment she stepped inside, she was greeted warmly by Tully, the head chef, just as she always had been. The Hogwarts kitchens had been Dora's sanctuary as a student—a place free from the suffocating expectations of pure-blood society and all its ridiculous politics. Down here, she wasn't Nymphadora Lestrange, pure-blood heir and member of high society. She was just Misses Dora, as Tully had affectionately dubbed her. There was no one to impress, no façade to maintain. Just good food and good company.
She'd needed that escape back then. Not that she felt the same pressure anymore. Her mother had come to accept her little quirks, and her father—well, he'd always been one to indulge her. Somewhere along the way, Dora had found her footing outside Hogwarts and realized she had absolutely no interest in meeting anyone's expectations of her. Ironically, that had earned her more respect than anything else.
"What's can Tully be doing for her misses Dora?" The little elf asked, her smile as wide and as warm as Dora had remembered it to be.
She had never understood how anyone could treat these adorable creatures the way her uncles' parents had treated their house-elf when they had him. The very thought of just how messed up Dobby had been when he was bound to Dora's family just a couple of years previously haunted her even now. Her mother had needed to treat the poor elf with countless healing, nourishing and strengthening potions before sending him to see a mind healer when he had first arrived, such was the devastation he had endured. Uncle Lucius had vehemently denied ever treating the elf poorly—insisting that Dobby's condition was entirely the fault of his father's cruelty when he had Dobby as an elf. And honestly? Dora had a sneaking suspicion that her uncle was telling the truth for once in his life. Her memories of Abraxas Malfoy weren't pleasant ones. Though he was always polite to her and her mother, the man had spoken down to everyone, especially his own family. He had treated them with a level of contempt that made her shudder even now thinking about it. She couldn't imagine what a man like that—who barely spared an ounce of kindness or love for his own flesh and blood—had done to a defenceless little creature like Dobby.
"Of course misses Dora, Tully wills get that sorted quick quick. Tully will get her friends to deliver it misses Dora." And the eagerness in her voice made the pink haired witch coo fondly. Tully had always been so very warm.
"Of course, Misses Dora! Tully will get that sorted quick-quick!" the elf chirped, practically vibrating with excitement. "Tully will get her friends to deliver it, Misses Dora." Dora cooed fondly, ruffling the elf's head. So warm. She hadn't realised just how much she had missed this little elf. It was impossible not to adore her.
Thank you Tully." "Dora knew she couldn't stay in the kitchen, not while she was on duty with a team to lead. So with that thought in mind she turned, sending a patronus to Auror Weasley informing him he was to switch with Dunlop.
As Dora made her way back up toward the Great Hall, a strange sound stopped her in her tracks. It was soft at first—a faint sniffling noise that sent an unfamiliar ache through her chest. Crying? She paused, standing still in the empty corridor, listening. The halls stretched on before her, empty and unchanged as she searched them. Looking for the source of the noise. Yet despite the empty corridor the sound persisted. It grew louder as she neared the Astronomy Tower.
If asked later why she had gone searching instead of continuing on towards the Great Hall, Dora would insist it was her duty as an Auror to investigate anything unusual – constant vigilance and all that right? But the truth was, she didn't know why she had followed the sound. Just that she needed too. Some instinct, buried deep, had propelled her forward without conscious thought.
Her long legs carrying her up the Astronomy Tower steps two at a time, curiosity quickening her pace. A nervous sort of excitement hummed beneath her skin, urging her onward.
As the metamorph reached the top of the grand staircase, she came to an abrupt halt, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. The sight before her sent a sharp pang through her chest, her bright bubble-gum pink hair fading to a muted brown without conscious thought. In all her twenty years, Nymphadora had never seen anything more heartbreaking.
A small-looking girl—fourth year, if Dora had to guess—sat curled against the cold stone wall at the edge of the Astronomy Tower. Her wild brown curls, so much like Dora's own mother's on an especially untameable day, framed a tear-streaked face. She clutched a crumpled piece of parchment in trembling hands, shoulders hunched as she tried, and failed, to muffle her sobs. The force of her crying shook her thin frame, each ragged breath betraying just how hard she was trying to hold herself together. Dora's heart clenched. She might be an Auror, trained to face danger head-on, but this—this kind of pain—felt far more delicate, far more important than any mission she had ever encountered.
Dora crept forward, casting a silent barrier spell between the girl and the open edge of the Astronomy Tower that she balanced on. Her heart whispered that this girl had to be kept safe above all else, and Dora would comply. She had never questioned Lady Magic and whatever fate she had at play, and she never would.
Clearing her throat softly, she barely had time to be grateful for the barrier spell before the girl startled. She jolted backward, wobbling precariously in a way that sent Dora's heart lurching into her throat—even knowing the spell was there. A frightened cry tore from the girl's lips, and Dora acted on instinct.
"It's alright, little witch. You're alright," she murmured, aiming a soothing smile at the girl, slipping close enough to gently lay a hand on the girl's bare arm. A sharp jolt rushed up Dora's fingers upon contact with the girl's skin, searing through her arm like static laced with something deeper, something ancient. The auror barely managed not to flinch in response. The girl however tensed, beginning to pull away, but Dora tightened her grip—not harsh in any way, but firm enough to let the girl know that she was to stay still. Some instinct told her that despite the girl's urge to flee, she needed to stay close. Close to Dora where she was safe and protected from whatever had her crying like that.
"Hush," Dora soothed gently, voice warm and steady. "I'm Dora, one of the Aurors sent to help out today. I won't hurt you I promise." Large, pain-filled brown eyes met hers, and Dora felt something inside her crack wide open. Pain and confusion swirled in that gaze, raw and unguarded. It took everything in her not to pull the girl into her arms right then and there.
"What's your name, love?" Dora whispered, her voice soft as she gently guided the girl away from the ledge, settling her onto the floor inside the tower.
The girl hesitated, her breath hitching. "I don't know anymore," she finally murmured, her voice cracking as if the words themselves fractured something deep inside her. Those same pain-filled eyes met Dora's, searching—desperate, as if she thought Dora might somehow hold the answer. "It used to be Hermione." The words came quietly, cryptically, but there was no deception in her voice, no attempt to be difficult. Just raw, aching uncertainty.
"Now… I don't know." Her voice broke on the last word, dissolving into a gasping sob that shook her violently.
And that was it. Dora caved.
Without hesitation, she pulled the girl into her arms, holding her tightly, protectively. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to soothe, to shield, to keep this fragile, hurting witch safe from whatever storm had driven her here. The girl clung to her, small hands gripping fistfuls of Dora's Auror robes, her tear-streaked face burying into Dora's shoulder as if she could disappear into the warmth and safety of her embrace. Her cries were muffled now, swallowed by the thick folds of fabric and all Dora could think to do was sit there, holding the girl as tightly as she appeared to need held, rocking gently from side to side.
Softly, instinctively, she began to hum. Some old lullaby her mother used to sing when she was small. A quiet, soothing sound meant to ground, to comfort, to remind. She shushed the girl gently, running a hand over trembling shoulders in slow, steady strokes. With her free hand, Dora sent her Patronus off once more. Her heart was here—rooted in this moment, in this girl. The certainty of it settled into her bones. She couldn't leave, even if she wanted to. Sarah would cover for her, just for now. And later—later, she would speak with her mother. Try to find the answers.
But now however, none of that mattered. Right now, she would sit here, unhurried. She would hold this little witch for as long as she needed, however long it took. Leaning back against the cold stone of the tower, Dora tightened her grip, settling in. Content to watch over the girl in her arms though completely unaware, in that moment, that the girl in her arms was unravelling. That somewhere, deep inside, Hermione's entire sense of self was falling apart.
~~~~~~~~~~~
~Hermione's POV~
~Astronomy Tower~
~Thursday 7th September 1995~
Hermione didn't understand why it was always her who got the worst lot in life. It seemed no matter how hard she worked, how much she excelled, how desperately she tried to blend in, the universe found new ways to remind her that she was different—unwanted, abandoned, other. Yesterday had been a whirlwind of confusion and exhaustion, her magic slipping from her grasp like sand through her fingers, wild and unsteady. The inexplicable pull between herself and the Delacour sisters had left her more conflicted than she had ever been. There was something there, something that made her magic hum, that made the ache in her chest sharper, yet she had no words to explain it.
But today was supposed to be different. Today, she had planned to collect herself, to analyse the situation logically, to uncover what had happened and why. Yet, of course, fate had never been kind to her. How was she supposed to 'pull herself together' when the very foundation of her existence was crumbling beneath her?
This morning, she had been certain of a few things;
She was Hermione Granger.
She was a Muggle-born orphan.
She was the smartest witch of her age.
She was Cho Chang's best friend.
Now, she wasn't sure if any of it had ever been true.
It had begun, as it often did, at breakfast. The Great Hall, usually filled with mindless chatter and the clinking of cutlery, had fallen into a hushed silence as Albus Dumbledore stood before them. His usual twinkling gaze was hardened, his jovial tone replaced with barely concealed irritation. With an air of forced authority, he announced that every student would undergo a mandatory Hogwarts-wide inheritance test—an unprecedented event, a decree from the Ministry. The minister himself had decreed it with no exceptions.
Hermione had never been one to involve herself in Ministry affairs. It was easier, safer, to focus on her studies, to drown herself in knowledge and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. But this… this was different.
Her blood had run cold at the announcement.
Did she truly want to know the names of the people who had discarded her like she was nothing? Who had left her to rot in that orphanage, at the mercy of cruel caretakers and merciless peers? The answer was no. She did not want to know. It was one thing to live with the knowledge that she had been unwanted—it was another to have proof. Names. A legacy she had never been deemed worthy of. A past she had never been meant to reclaim.
And if that wasn't bad enough, Dumbledore had summoned her to his office just after her second class of the day.
She had known, even before stepping through the door, that something was wrong. The way he looked at her—calculating, almost disappointed and cold—set her nerves alight. Then he began to speak, spinning a tale of shame and rejection, of an affair child born to a proud pure-blooded family who had seen her as nothing more than a stain on their lineage. Something to be hidden and hushed away in the dark of night. He told her they had discarded her, ashamed when she failed to display the same defining traits as her sisters. That they had then fled to France to be as far away from her as possible. The family preferring to put an ocean between them. Their discarded child becoming nothing more than a mistake they had sought to erase from their impeccable family line.
Each word he spoke sliced through her like a dagger, cutting into wounds that had never truly healed. Her fingers trembled against the arms of the chair, her breath shallow, her vision blurring with tears she despised herself for shedding, especially in front of this man.
But beneath the pain, beneath the crushing weight of rejection, something sharp and insistent stirred within her.
A voice, quiet but resolute, whispering in the corners of her mind.
Dumbledore was lying.
She didn't know how she knew, but she did. It was in his tone, in the way his eyes never quite met hers. The way his words were too perfect, too cruelly precise, feeding into every insecurity she had ever harboured.
He wanted her to believe this. He wanted her to accept this as truth.
But Hermione Granger was not so easily led, never one to simply except the words of authority as gospel without doing her own research. Painful or not she would do her own search in to the story he was currently feeding her.
So she let the tears fall, let him believe his words had shattered her. But even as she sat there, heart splintering in her chest, his words hitting the mark, her mind was already working, already unravelling and picking at the deceit she could feel him trying to weave around her.
She didn't know who she was.
But she was going to find out.
She had left Dumbledore's office resolute. Determined to do what she did best—seek the truth in ink and parchment, in the quiet corners of the library where facts could not lie to her the way people always did. She would uncover the reality for herself. But that resolution had been before.
Before she came face to face with the undeniable truth of her heritage.
Her year had been called during their fourth class of the day, the announcement sending a ripple of nervous energy through the students. As they filed toward the Great Hall, the atmosphere crackled with tension—palpable, electric. The pure-bloods walked tall, their chins lifted with carefully cultivated confidence, as if daring the world to challenge the legitimacy of their lineage. The Muggle-borns, by contrast, shrank into themselves, subdued and uneasy. It wasn't just the test that unsettled them—it was the implications. As if official confirmation of their parentage somehow made them less. Whispers slithered through the corridors, filled with taunts and venom. The so-called "light" families decried the Ministry's decree, indignant at what they saw as a threat to those of less than pure blood. The darker families, always quick to retaliate, fanned the flames with sneers and pointed jeers.
It was all so trivial. So adolescent.
For a fleeting moment, Hermione almost forgot her own anxiety. But then it came again—that insistent, gnawing pull in her gut, something ancient and restless awakening inside her. She faltered mid-step, and Dumbledore's words echoed in her mind, his cool, clipped tone weaving through her thoughts like a curse.
Your parents saw you as nothing more than a stain on their impeccable lineage.
A lie. It had to be.
Didn't it?
Twenty minutes passed as they all stood waiting, the tension mounting. And then the Slytherins arrived.
Hermione had expected them to be smug, brimming with cruel delight at the discomfort of others. It was, after all, an opportunity to reaffirm their superiority, to watch the cracks form in the identities of those they had always considered beneath them. But there were no careless jibes. No smirks or lazy taunts. Instead, they were quiet. Serious. Their postures were rigid, their eyes sharp with something Hermione couldn't quite decipher—anticipation, perhaps. Dread. She had never seen them like this – so uncharacteristically silent.
Before she could analyse it further, her name was called, the voice of whomever was set to carry out her test gruff and unbothered. A stark contrast to the way she felt the minute she heard her name. Her stomach lurched, but her feet carried her forward. Each step felt heavier than the last, dread curling around her ribs like a vice. The doors to the Great Hall loomed before her, vast and unyielding. Beyond them lay the inheritance test. Beyond them lay the truth. And no matter how desperately she wanted to turn away, she knew there was no escaping it now. She would come face to face with the names of those that had abandoned her at the orphanage all those years ago.
The doors to the Great Hall felt heavier than they had that morning at breakfast. Hermione's hands trembled, slick with sweat as she followed the goblin who had called upon her to the front of the hall. The vast room, usually alive with chatter and the clatter of cutlery, was eerily transformed. The long house tables were gone, replaced by rows of infirmary curtains—pale, sterile barriers that created makeshift booths. The set up created the illusion of privacy, but Hermione knew better. There was no real privacy in this. How could there be when someone other than the individual being tested was performing the test.
She was led to the farthest booth, where the Slytherin table should have been. A cruel irony, she thought distantly. The cream-colored curtains whispered shut around her, and for the first time in her life, the walls of this room felt like a noose tightening around her neck. Ragnok, the goblin who had summoned her, turned and bowed—a mark of respect Hermione automatically mirrored, despite the storm raging inside her. It was instinct, the product of a sharp mind that never ceased functioning, no matter how unbearable the moment. She had always treated goblins with courtesy. A rare thing among witches and wizards. A rarity that she refused to forgo even in her most agonising moments.
"Miss Granger, take a seat please," Ragnok murmured, his voice much quieter now. Not gentle, not truly, but softer than before. A courtesy, perhaps. A sympathy. He gestured to a simple chair before the desk, taking his own seat behind it. Hermione sat, her eyes traveling to the top of the desk where a single parchment, a small knife, and a self-inking quill awaited.
"These results will remain private," he said evenly. "No one beyond that curtain will hear or see what transpires here, not from me. A privacy ward ensures that." He paused, studying her. "Do you have any questions before we begin, young Miss?" He added, as if sensing her fear and attempting to soothe it somewhat. Hermione locked eyes with him, her breath shallow, her mind working frantically through the probabilities, the implications.
"Do I have to do this?" she whispered. The plea was uncharacteristic—Hermione Granger did not plead. But this was different. This was everything and Hermione, perhaps futilely hoped he would simply allow her to leave. The moment stretched. Ragnok did not immediately answer, and she knew then, before he even spoken that she would not receive the answer she was looking for.
"We have orders." His voice was matter-of-fact, but something unreadable flickered across his face. Sympathy? Empathy even? Then, as if sensing how close she was to breaking, he added, "For what it is worth, young Miss, we goblins have suspected your lineage for some time. If it is confirmed, know that your family has never once stopped looking for you nor given up on trying to find answers to your disappearance."
The words, meant to reassure her, should have been a comfort. They should have been a revelation. But to Hermione, they were a contradiction. A blade slipping between her ribs, twisting, tearing at wounds that already bled. Because the words made no sense. They opposed everything she had been told. Everything Dumbledore had said. Contradicted everything in that wretched letter that had shaped her childhood. He had said that her family had never stopped looking for her? The breath she hadn't realized she was holding stilled in her chest. She felt lightheaded, her mind fracturing between logic and the unbearable weight of hope and betrayal. Her hand moved of its own accord, palm up, offered in silent surrender.
She barely registered Ragnok picking up the blade, barely felt the prick of the knife or the blood that dripped from her finger on to the parchment.
Then—
Her magic lurched violently. The blood in her veins turned to ice, her heart hammering against her ribs. The parchment glowed. The world tilted.
She didn't remember standing. Didn't remember moving. Only that suddenly she was running, the crumpled parchment gripped in her damp fingers, her breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.
The Astronomy Tower. She didn't think—she just went.
She barely made it up the staircase before the sobs overtook her, strangling her, clawing their way free from her chest in a way they hadn't in years. Her small frame curled in on itself as she collapsed onto the ledge, her entire body wracked with the force of her emotion.
Her whole life, she had been Hermione Granger. The orphan girl. The Mud-blood who had forced her way into a world that was never meant to be hers. Completely unaware of her true origin. But it had all been a lie. She had always belonged. Had always meant to be surrounded by Magic. She was not an outsider. Not a mistake. And yet, she had been discarded. Thrown away like nothing. Abandoned and discarded by the world that at fourteen she was only now discovering had always been hers.
Instead it had been ripped from her cruelly before she was even old enough to remember.
But by who? Her biological parents? Dumbledore had said so. The letter had said so.
But her sisters—Merlin, her sisters—had acted strangely when they were around her. And the goblins—who had no reason to lie—had said she had disappeared. That her family had never stopped looking for her and for answers. So who had abandoned her?
And why?
What had she done to deserve this? To deserve any of it? What act had she committed so terrible to have been denied the life with parents and sisters that had never been hers. Instead, she had only ever known the bite of a belt, the gnawing ache of an empty stomach, the cold, cutting words of a matron who had openly admitted to despising children. That had been her reality. That had been her life.
Until today.
She didn't know how long she had been curled up on the cold stone floor, shivering in the cold September air, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The parchment lay crushed in her trembling fingers, a damning confirmation of a truth she didn't know how to reconcile.
A throat cleared behind her.
The sudden sound sent a bolt of panic through her, her already hammering heart lurching into a frantic, painful rhythm. She whirled, breath ragged, wild brown eyes locking onto the green-gold gaze of an older witch dressed in deep red Ministry robes.
An Auror. Her mind supplied the information before instinct could take over, before she could reach for her wand. Still, her muscles coiled, her body ready to flee, her magic crackling just beneath her skin. Then—a hand. Warm. Gentle. Resting on her arm.
Hermione flinched. Electricity shot up her spine, not from pain but something else, something that made her breath stutter and her stomach twist in ways she couldn't name. She's too close. Too much. Too real. She scrambled to her feet, but the witch's grip tightened—not harshly, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep her still. Enough to ground her. Enough to say: Stay. I've got you.
"Hush," the Auror murmured, her voice soft, warm, wrapping around Hermione's frayed nerves like silk. "My name's Dora. I'm one of the Aurors sent to help today. I won't hurt you, I promise." And Hermione—brilliant, rational, sceptical Hermione—believed her. She didn't know why. She only knew that she allowed the Auror to guide her away from the edge of the tower, her body moving without thought, her mind still spinning, still drowning.
"What's your name, love?" The Auror - Dora - asked, her voice impossibly gentle. And Hermione tried. She tried so hard to answer. But the question pulled the ground out from beneath her feet. Her name.
Her name.
She had always been Hermione Granger. Hadn't she? But it wasn't was it?
"I don't know anymore," she whispered, voice barely more than a breath. She turned pleading eyes to the older witch, desperation bleeding into every inch of her expression. Fix it. Make it make sense. Somewhere deep inside her, a voice—the same voice that had always guided her, always kept her safe—whispered that this witch could help. That she would help.
"It used to be Hermione." The admission shattered something inside her, the last threads of her identity unravelling like dropped yarn, and the sobs she had fought so hard to contain broke free once more. Great, heaving cries that shook her frame, that made the world spin faster and faster until she couldn't tell which way was up.
Perhaps it didn't matter anymore.
"Now… I don't know," she choked out again, the words torn from her like something vital, something that had kept her tethered. And then—arms. Strong. Steady. Wrapping around her and pulling her in, holding her so tightly she almost believed she could never be hurt again, that nothing painful could touch her so long as she stayed where she was, wrapped in the scent of cinnamon and honey. Without thought, without hesitation, Hermione sank into the embrace, her body folding into the warmth of the Auror's hold, tucking herself into the safe space against Dora's neck.
She didn't think. She didn't fight. She simply let go. Crying out for the girl she thought she was. For the girl she could have been and for the family she could have had, should have had —
And had been denied.
~~~~~~~~~~~
~Andromeda's POV~
~Hogwarts infirmary~
~Late evening, September 7th 1995~
Andromeda Lestrange was, unfortunately, beginning to notice a disconcerting pattern when it came to the young witch she had long since considered a part of her family. A pseudo-daughter of sorts.
Every time they crossed paths, Hermione appeared to be in some sort of distress.
It baffled Andromeda how the girl still stood—how she had not yet fractured under the sheer weight of all she had endured. And yet, she was growing accustomed to finding Hermione in a hospital bed, bruised, exhausted, or in need of some form of medical intervention.
Today, it seemed, was no different.
She had been in the drawing room at Lestrange Manor, sipping tea with Rodolphus, discussing the upcoming Triwizard Tournament and the distasteful rumours swirling around those foolish enough to follow the imposturous Dark Lord of his hopeful return and their plans for the Potter boy, when their conversation had been interrupted by a silvery, ethereal wolf bounding into the room—a Patronus.
Her daughter's Patronus.
Nymphadora's voice had been urgent, her usual careless ease stripped away and replaced with something unfamiliar—something that sent a thread of unease through Andromeda before the message had even fully formed. Concern. Confusion. And, beneath it all, something deeply protective. There had been no hesitation.
Andromeda had abandoned her tea, left Rodolphus to his musings, and taken the Floo directly to Hogwarts.
The moment she stepped into the infirmary, her sharp eyes landed on her daughter. Nymphadora was seated at a bedside, her usual vibrant hair dulled to a lifeless brown, her expression far more sombre than Andromeda had ever seen it. A warning bell rang softly in the back of her mind.
Without a word, she crossed the infirmary in swift, measured strides, each step designed to eliminate the distance between her and her child as quickly as possible. It was only when she reached Dora's side that she took in the full scene before her.
Nymphadora was holding Hermione's hand.
Andromeda's gaze flicked to the unconscious girl, then back to her daughter. Even in sleep, Hermione's fingers curled instinctively around Dora's. And the way her usually unshakable daughter sat there, watching over the girl with a quiet intensity—protectiveness—sent a flicker of understanding through Andromeda's chest.
There was a connection between them. Something unspoken. Something deeply rooted. "What happened, darling?" she asked, voice hushed as she came to stand beside her daughter's chair, careful not to disturb the sleeping witch between them.
Dora's grip on Hermione's hand tightened. "I found her in the Astronomy Tower," she admitted, a note of raw emotion threading through her words. "She was a mess, Mum. I've never seen anyone cry like that before. I couldn't just leave her." Andromeda didn't miss the way Dora's voice dipped slightly, how her hold on the girl beside her was firm yet impossibly gentle. Protectiveness leaking out in to her tone subconsciously. A tone Andromeda chose to ignore for the moment. Simply gesturing for her daughter to continue.
"Right, anyway," her daughter continued, shaking her head briefly as if realising she had given only half an explanation to her mother. "She was distraught. I didn't know what else to do mum, so I brought her here. Madame Pomfrey gave her a Dreamless Sleep and a Calming Draught—I was scared she was going to hurt herself with the way she was sobbing." Her daughter's gaze drifted back to Hermione, and Andromeda caught the subtle shift in her expression—an unguarded softness, a quiet reverence that the older witch was unaccustomed to seeing on her daughters face.
Interesting.
"When she finally gave in to the potions I found this and I remembered you telling me about meeting a Hermione Granger that you felt connected too. I didn't think it wise that I call anyone else just yet." Her daughter finished and Andromeda couldn't quite understand Dora's words until she picked up the parchment Nymphadora had gestured too.
"When she finally gave in to the potions, I found this." Dora gestured toward a parchment resting on the bedside table. "And I remembered you mentioning a Hermione Granger—one you felt… connected to. I didn't think it wise to call anyone else just yet." Andromeda arched a delicate brow at that, a frown forming as she reached for the parchment. The moment her eyes scanned the words, she felt her breath still, her grip tightening just slightly.
Her heart leaping in to her throat as she read the parchment silently.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The following results were obtained by blood test on this day, Thursday, 7th September 1995.
Carried out by Head Goblin of Gringotts Bank – Ragnok.
Name: Hermione Jean Granger
Also known as: Adharia Appoline Delacour
Date of Birth: 19th November 1981
Blood Status: Pure-blooded
Creature Inheritance: Veela
Parents: Appoline Delacour Narcissa Malfoy–Delacour
Siblings: Fleur Narcissa Delacour Gabrielle Amélie Delacour
Grandparents:
— Amélie Delacour Adharia Delacour (née Lestrange)
— Abraxas Malfoy (Deceased) Belvina Malfoy (née Nott, Deceased)
Aunts: Camille Delacour (By Blood) Bellatrix Black Malfoy (By Marriage)
Uncle: Lucius Malfoy (By Blood)
Cousins: Lyra Bellatrix Malfoy (Deceased) Draco Lucius Malfoy
Godparents: Bellatrix Black Marlene McKinnon (Missing)
Heiress/Ladyship: Ravenclaw House, Heir of Le Fay
Secondary Heir of: Delacour, Malfoy Black
Member of the following family lines: Delacour, Le Fay, Malfoy, Lestrange, Nott, Prewett, Black Ravenclaw
To view and claim inheritance from the above houses, an appointment must be made at Gringotts Bank at your earliest convenience.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Andromeda inhaled sharply, though outwardly, not a single muscle in her body tensed, not a single trace of her inner turmoil showed on her aristocratically composed features. Years of maintaining the perfect façade of Lady Lestrange ensured that even now, when the very foundation of her world threatened to shift, she remained as poised and unreadable as ever.
Slowly, deliberately, she conjured a chair beside her daughter and sank into it with an effortless grace that had been drilled into her since childhood. She did not immediately react—did not allow herself the luxury of outward shock. Instead, she turned her gaze to the sleeping girl, watching her with an unreadable expression.
Hermione Granger. No—Adharia Apolline Delacour.
A girl she had spent the past three years watching over, protecting, caring for—despite Hermione's often dismissive demeanour, despite her insistence on carrying the weight of the world alone. And now, this.
Lady Magic worked in strange ways.
Andromeda had always felt an inexplicable pull toward the girl from the moment they had met—a connection she had never been able to name but had always been curious about. Unable to resist it's pull whenever the youngster had need of her. Now, she knew why.
Her hands, steady still even in the wake of her emotion, clenched briefly before she forced them to relax. She could not afford to let herself feel too much. Not yet. But deep in her heart, beneath the carefully cultivated mask of aristocratic detachment, something settled.
With this new confirmation of her Daughter' bond with the girl and the girl's concealed identity, Andromeda vowed to do whatever she could to ensure that nothing ever harmed the girl again. She would protect this girl, help her grow and heal and most importantly she would make sure any that had harmed her, paid with their lives.
Because whether she was Hermione Granger or Adharia Delacour, the girl was her family and Andromeda Black-Lestrange would die before she let a slight against her kin stand.