It was the last quiet hour of the afternoon when the wards chimed.
Anne stood at the sink with her sleeves rolled up and a teacup in one hand. The charm announcing visitors never rang with urgency, but this chime was—curious. Like someone knocking on the wrong door and waiting anyway.
Hermione looked up from her armchair, where Principia Alchemica lay open against her knees. The book's spine had softened from weeks of reading, and its corners had been turned down with the careful arrogance of someone convinced she'd be returning to that page shortly.
"Are you expecting anyone?" she asked, not looking away from the potion ratios.
Anne didn't answer right away. She dried her hands on a tea towel with slow deliberation, then moved to the window. A furrow settled between her brows.
"I think he's older than me. Hopefully less dangerous than me," she said quietly, her voice drawn taut.
Hermione snapped her book shut. "Should I—?"
"No," Anne said sharply, then softened it with a nod. "Stay put. I'll handle him."
But Hermione had already moved toward the fireplace, pulling over a wooden stool to reach the floo powder. "If you scream," she said, perfectly calm, "I'll floo to the Ministry and get Arnie."
Anne gave a single, proud smirk. "Good witch."
She stepped out through the back door, wand in hand. The stranger was seated on the garden bench, as though he had been expected. His hat—an old thing pinned with a green feather—sat too comfortably on his head for a man trespassing. He didn't stand when Anne opened the door, merely tipped the brim in her direction.
"I didn't realize I was hosting callers today," she said.
"You aren't," he said easily. "I'm Hector Dagworth-Granger. I've come regarding a letter."
He held out a folded parchment. Hermione's handwriting was unmistakable, down to the way she over-looped her capital Gs.
Anne didn't move to take it or shakes his hand, only introducing herself shortly and starring him down expectantly. "Anne Peasegood".
"The letter's author corrected several deliberate errors in my first monograph." he continued cowed by her scrutiny but his gaze wandered past Anne, toward the house. "I left them there as a test. No one has noticed in fifty years. Until now."
Still, Anne didn't open the door fully.
"I'd like to meet them. Congratulate them. Reward them."
Anne's eyes narrowed, but her mouth twitched in faint amusement. She tipped her head toward the sitting room and called without turning, "Hermione, it's all right, love."
Hector did a double take, almost a laugh.
"Your daughter?" he asked.
"No," Anne said, without missing a beat. "My student."
She stepped aside just enough to let him in.
Hermione stood near the hearth, Principia Alchemica clutched to her chest like a shield. She was too proud to look nervous. That didn't stop her thumb from tapping the book's cover in tight, deliberate rhythm.
The old wizard blinked at her. Not out of surprise, exactly. More like re-calibration. Like she was a potion brewed to the wrong temperature that he was now, reluctantly, impressed by.
"Miss…?"
"Granger," Hermione said, lifting her chin a fraction. "Hermione Granger."
Hector gave a short laugh, caught somewhere between delight and disbelief.
"And you wrote to Hector Dagworth-Granger, about the monograph errors?"
"Yes, sir. The errors in heat transference ratios—they are elegant, but mathematically impossible unless you calculate in Kelvin instead of Celestia. I was attempting to replicate the sequence in miniature distillations and noticed a 33% deviation in the base rate in Celestia, but Kelvin —"
"Stop," he said, holding up one hand, though not unkindly. "How old are you?"
"Nine."
He muttered something in German—possibly a prayer, probably a curse—and moved into the room like it belonged to him. He picked up one of Hermione's annotated texts from the table, flipped to a page, and scanned it with a practiced eye.
Then he sat.
"Miss Granger," he said slowly, not looking up. "Would you like to be my heir?"
Hermione froze.
Anne did not.
"Excuse me?" Anne stepped forward again, wand still visible in her hand. "You'll have to elaborate."
"I am without an heir," Hector said, entirely unbothered. "And my Society of Potioneers—well, they're good men and women, but they will waste what I will give them. She might put it to good use, actually furthering the study.."
Anne's mouth flattened. "She's a child."
"And she already had an spectacular mind."
"That mind is trusted to my care."
"I mean her no harm." He turned to Hermione now, eyes softened but bright with calculation. "But with a simple blood ritual, the inheritance rite can be sealed. Name, lineage, magical will—it's legal and binding, and with the serendipity of our shared surnames–,"
Anne's hand tightened around her wand. "Blood magic is heavily restricted by the Ministry."
"It is our first and most innate magic," Hector said, voice rising in quiet passion. "Before Latin , before oak wands and Ministries and Statues, we wrote in blood and runes. It is no dark art, Miss Peasegood. It is older than every bureaucracy which condemns it."
" Mrs . Peasegood," she corrected crisply. "And it's not my permission you'll need, she has parents. My husband, as well, works at the ministry and I'm sure with disagree."
He inclined his head slightly. "This rite will only change her inheritance, not her family. Let me speak with your husband."
Anne hesitated. Then she turned and called down the hall to her husband's office, "Arnie? You're going to want to hear this."
Ten minutes later, Arnie Peasegood sat beside his wife in a silence that hummed with decision. Hermione stood between them, Principia still clutched like scripture. Hector stood perfectly still, except for the small motion of his cane shifting with his weight.
"Well?" Anne asked.
Arnie looked at her, then at Hermione. "He's telling the truth, that specific ritual is not illegal. "
"It had even been used in my family before, for my grandfather." Hector interjected.
"Then the protection it offers her… It might be worth the risk," Arnie sighed.
Anne sighed.
"Fine," she said. "But Hermione—This is your choice. And if you choose this, it stays a secret. No one. Not even your friends at Hogwarts. Not even Ginny and Luna. We can pretend he is your grandfather, and hopefully no one goes digging in the German ministry birth records."
Hermione nodded in understanding, but her eyes kept sliding back to Hector's.
"I accept."