Chapter Text
New York — October, 1930
It was about one o’clock in the morning, mid October, and a heavy fog had settled over Madison and Park Avenue. No-Majs were few, nothing but distant silhouettes and hazy headlamps. The figure in black lingered on the curb, puffs of silver smoke swirling over his tongue.
He stowed his wand, eyes focused on a townhouse—a romanesque revival with a limestone facade—waiting for his invitation. They had agreed on half past twelve, and he was beginning to be impatient. This assignment felt like busy work. Something Tolliver no doubt hoped would keep him occupied and out of the Grindelwald case.
Finally the lamp above the front door sparked alight, and with a flick of his wrist the cigarette vanished. He cleared his throat, reaching down to take hold of the wicker basket at his feet and made for the entryway. When he mounted the final step, the door swung open.
Ms. Wilkinson was a stout, middle aged woman who dressed like a witch half her age. Her light hair was fashioned in perfect waves, and her lipstick an alarming red. She was certainly not what he had in mind for the chairwoman of a children’s foundation.
“Percival Graves, Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” He held up his MACUSA I.D. but her dark painted eyes stared past it, appraising him directly.
“Well you don’t look unstable.” She said with a tone of indifference while he slid his I.D. back into the inner pocket of his trench coat. She certainly wasn’t the first to make a remark like that since he’d been found, bewitched and naked in the European hinterland. “Are you going to stand out there all night?” She asked, holding the door open further. He sighed and stepped into the foyer.
Languid jazz played from somewhere upstairs, but Ms. Wilkinson sauntered past the stairwell and toward a pair of glass doors. She pulled them open, and instructed him to take a seat. The sitting room was plastered in teal and gold from the wallpaper to the baroque furnishings. There was no doubt in his mind that this house belonged to a wealthy spinster.
Graves set the basket down on the carpet, relieved that the infant inside was still sound asleep. He was less eager to leave the child here alone than he had been an hour ago. But Graves needed to play Tolliver’s game if he was going to prove to Picquery’s successor that he could still handle his old position. Busy work or not, he was going to finish the assignment.
“Now then Mr. Graves, tell me about this little cherub.” Wilkinson smiled, taking a seat on the chaise longue.
“The child was born September 19th at Bellevue Hospital. Her mother, a No-Maj, passed away recently after an extended stay. It seems she was English. However there are suspicions that the child's father is a wizard. A magical disturbance a couple weeks back in Midtown East was what caught our attention, and following the lead turned up the child instead of a suspect. ” Graves then retrieved a file from the basket, and handed it to Ms. Wilkinson for her to read.
“But your people don’t have any solid evidence of this being a violation of Rappaport's.”
“No Ma’am we don’t. But we are looking into it. Her mother was incredibly disoriented based on the hospital’s records, she couldn’t even provide her own name.” Graves gestured toward the file. “The child is now officially recorded as an unnamed stillbirth and memories have been appropriately modified. But as you’ll see there, the one coherent thought the woman could provide was a name for her daughter.” Wilkinson nodded to Graves and turned the page, examining the hospital’s old birth record.
“Hermione Jean Granger.”
***
Ilvermorny — November, 1933
“Excellent! I’ve been meaning to check my horoscopes.” Eulalie Hicks grinned as the latest copy of the New York Ghost landed on her desk. She set aside her stack of charms papers, and eyed the scowling wizard standing before her. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat with a band of beads that matched the sashes over his chest.
“At this rate we’ll have another war on our hands!”
“Really, Mr. Wolfe I haven’t known you to be so weak of nerve.”
“You haven’t read it then.” He sighed, and took a seat in the arm chair across from Eulalie. Shikobah Wolfe, the renowned wandmaker, was a long time member of the Order. He preferred to keep to the shadows, yet here he was, seeking her out between classes. She took hold of the newspaper, and skimmed past the Monthly Werewolf Watch and over the main article on the front page.
THE NEW YORK GHOST
ANTI-GRINDELWALD PROTESTS AMID NO-MAJ DISAPPEARANCES IN EUROPE
HARLEM Nov. 15 — The protest at MACUSA headquarters will be preceded by a demonstration this afternoon beginning at 2 o’clock, from 131 Street and Lenox Ave. The demonstration was called by the No-Maj Protection League in the wake of reporter Magnus Guthrie’s sentencing, reported from Berlin today. The execution of Magnus Guthrie is but one more in a series of executions and disappearances of No-Majs and No-Maj sympathizers throughout Europe.
The NMPL’s position is that our regulations in Wizarding America serve not only to ensure our own safety, but the safety of No-Majs alike. According to their spokesperson Florence Rhodes, the refusal to acknowledge this is effectively “the greatest threat to global peace we face”. For this reason they wish to emphasize all acts of protest are done in accordance with the law and appropriately charmed.
Meanwhile, Grindelwald continues to gain traction among the more staunch blood purists of Europe, despite his disgrace at the International Confederation of Wizards last year. Our European correspondents have revealed his focus now appears to be the No-Maj leader Adolf Hitler, who recently came to power.
Hitler has been a growing concern among the No-Maj community, evident in the response by various academics, such as No-Maj author Edward Dahlberg. He is lecturing on “Hitler’s Germany” at the Harlem Progressive Youth Club, 1538 Madison Avenue this Friday. Theories abound on what interest Hitler poses to Grindelwald, and what threat a potential alliance may cause to the International Statute of Secrecy.
Eulalie removed her reading glasses before pinching the bridge of her nose. She was proud to see a number of her former students involved in the demonstrations. Of course, the execution of an American wizard in Germany meant international tensions were at an all time high.
“While we move in secret, Grindelwald is instigating a war for all to see—and not just in our world.” Wolfe emphasized. Eulalie couldn’t disagree. The more her mind lingered on it, the more she felt she ought to attend that No-Maj lecture. Still, panic now wouldn’t change anything Grindelwald had already set into motion.
“Dumbledore is well aware. Besides, the No-Majs are just as reluctant for another…” Eulalie paused suddenly, a look of amusement overcoming her.
Orange light flicked over her face and Wolfe turned just in time to take in the spectacle. The silhouette of a man with his hands raised—grasping the long golden tail of a phoenix—appeared in a flash of flame and smoke.
“Apologies, I hope I wasn’t too late.” Albus Dumbledore said, standing atop a trunk in Eulalie’s office, brushing sparks from his pigmented tweed jacket. The phoenix flapped its wings and circled the room before resting on an empty owl perch.
“I fear I have far too many questions Mr. Dumbledore.” Eulalie smiled, a laugh escaping her.
“Thankfully, we have far too much to attend to Professor Hicks.” Dumbledore winked, and hopped down to take a seat on the trunk. “A pleasure to see you again Mr. Wolfe, I’ve enjoyed our correspondents.” He extended a hand and the wandmaker gladly took it.
“Are you here about Germany?” Wolfe asked, still stunned by the bearded wizard’s fiery entrance.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. It’s got to do with the illegal wand distribution I mentioned last time I owled you.” Dumbledore smiled, and reached into his pocket to pull out a small pouch. “Lemon drop, anyone?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Eulalie smirked, leaning over her desk to pluck the entire pouch from his grasp. “Now, what’s this about illegal wand distribution?”
“Right. The British Ministry has had to interrogate and obliviate various muggles found in possession of wands. They’ve been trying to keep it out of the Prophet, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult.” Dumbledore explained. “I had the opportunity to speak with Garrick Ollivander recently. He was called to examine the wands and he determined they were not of his make. In fact they weren’t European at all.”
“You’re saying they came from America.” Wolfe concluded and Dumbledore nodded, popping the single lemon drop he had, into his mouth.
“Which is why I must regrettably ask a favor of you. Next time the—” A deafening squawk intervened, drawing their attention. The phoenix that Dumbledore arrived with extended its wings, and flapped them violently before ascending from the perch. “What’s the matter, Fawkes?”
The phoenix circled the small office, ignoring Dumbledore’s questions, before swooping down to land on the arm of Wolfe’s chair. The creature tilted its head, watching the Choctaw wizard with glinting black eyes. Wolfe recovered from the shock, and lifted his hand to stroke beneath Fawkes’ beak. The phoenix let out a pleasant trill, before bending down to pluck one of its vibrant feathers. Fawkes placed the feather onto Wolfe’s lap, before flapping his wings and returning to the owl perch.
“Extraordinary…” Dumbledore mumbled, as Wolfe gently picked it up. “I do believe Fawkes wishes for you to craft a wand with this feather.”
“I’ve never worked with phoenix feathers before.” The wandmaker held it closer, examining the texture and shine.
“When I went to see Ollivander, Fawkes wished to share a feather with him as well…Just one feather.” Dumbledore said, the distant look in his eyes telling Eulalie he was far away in thought.
“How odd.” Eulalie mused.
“They are distantly related, the thunderbird and the phoenix. I’m certain I’ll be able to craft an impressive wand with this core.” Wolfe reassured, turning to Dumbledore.
“Do owl me when this wand chooses its witch or wizard.” Dumbledore smiled, his mind returning to the cramped office. “I’ll be very eager to follow their career in future.”
“The moment they’ve been sorted.” Eulalie promised.
***
Ilvermorny — September, 1942
The swarm of first years huddled along the walls, their eyes darting across the rounded hall, taking in the four enchanted carvings before them and the balcony of students high above. Hermione took a steadying breath, and wiped her clammy hands on her navy robes. Her head throbbed, the tight plaits in her hair pulling on her scalp. Mrs. MacDuff had insisted they made Hermione look like less of a stray dog. But all they did now was give her a nasty headache.
Hermione had been staying with the MacDuffs for four months now, and in all that time Hermione could only think of one thing: why ever it was that Mrs. MacDuff was so insistent upon each child’s appearance. After all, half the time her own stockings had runs in them. But clean and presentable little witches and wizards meant that the Wilkinson Foundation would continue to send the MacDuffs more children and more sacks of dragot. It was simply the only reasonable explanation.
She felt faint. Hermione had spent all morning cross legged on the floor as Mrs. MacDuff ran coarse bristles through her curls, while the other children finished off all that was left of breakfast. By the time Hermione was out of the attic that morning, there wasn’t any time left to pick through the scraps. She could only hope that by the time summer break came around, she would be placed with another family.
The wooden Wampus suddenly let out a resounding roar, claiming the lanky boy that stood before it. Cheers rang out from the balcony as the boy followed a professor out of the hall into an adjoining chamber. The floor was free again, and the entrance hall fell silent. Then Hermione heard her name called, and it was finally her turn to be sorted.
She broke away from the comfort of the crowd, and took her position in the center of the hall, standing over the Gordian Knot. Hermione turned to look upon the statues, colors and shadows cascading over them from the glass cupola above. For a few seconds there was nothing, until the mortifying sound of her stomach grumbled through the silence.
Muffled laughter echoed around her, and Hermione tried to ignore the way their eyes judged her. Could they see the way her front teeth protruded or just the frizzy pieces of hair that escaped her braids? Hermione steadied her breathing, and pulled her shoulders back.
Let them laugh, she told herself. Hermione had been waiting all her life for the chance to walk these halls. To prove she had a place in the world. To show them what she was capable of.
As Hermione’s mind filled with conviction, the crystal set into the Horned Serpent’s forehead lit up. The Wampus elicited another roar that echoed around the chamber, and the Thunderbird beat its wings while the Pukwudgie raised its arrow toward the ceiling.
Gasps rippled through the following silence, and Hermione stood in shock for a moment. She’d read about Ilvermorny’s history extensively. It was incredibly rare for a student to be offered a place in all four houses. Now she was faced with that very decision.
She’d thought of following in former President Picquery footsteps, and aligning herself with Horned Serpent; perhaps she had it in herself to run for president one day. She couldn’t really see herself joining the ranks of star Quidditch players hailing from Wampus. But even as every path of her future rolled out before her, in Hermione’s heart she knew where she really longed to be.
“I choose Thunderbird!” Hermione announced, and cheers descended from the balcony again. Cheers for her. She let out a trembling sigh, reaching to tug at the end of one of her braids.
“It’s my pleasure to welcome you to Thunderbird Miss Granger. You may call me Professor Hicks.” An enthusiastic voice greated, causing Hermione to spin on her heels. A tall smartly dressed witch extended her hand, and Hermione eagerly shook it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Professor Hicks.” Hermione greeted with the politeness she’d rehearsed so regularly. Though this was far less nerve inducing compared to the organized greetings with prospective foster parents.
Hicks smiled with amusement.
“You’d better follow me, your wand is waiting for you.” She whispered with a wink.
Professor Hicks led Hermione to the adjoining hall just like the last boy had been by his head of house, and the doors opened to shadows and towering shelves. Three figures waited behind a long desk just as packed with cases, and Hermione recognized the woman among them in an instant. These were wand makers.
“Welcome, chérie.” Madame Beauvais greeted, presenting an opened box to her. Hermione reached eagerly for the wand, which had been meticulously crafted from mayhaw. But with a guided swish, the wand jumped from her hands and sent sparks flying toward the floor. Madame Beauvais looked disappointed, and reached for her assorted stack.
However the man to her left interceded and handed Hermione a different wand, one a few inches longer. She looked up in astonishment, the iridescence of mother-of-pearl was unmistakable. While doing newspaper cuttings for Mr. MacDuff, Hermione must have read through hundreds of his articles and advertisements. Old and new.
Now the Johannes Jonker was offering her a wand.
She gave it a confident wave and the boxes from the highest shelves came shooting out. Professor Hicks swiftly immobilized them, but Johannes was already yanking the wand from Hermione’s grasp. It felt almost as embarrassing as the whole hall laughing at her.
“It seems Wampus hair doesn’t suit you.” The second man commented. He wore a black brimmed hat, and Hermione could only assume this was Shikobah Wolfe.
“Clearly not!” Johannes exhaled, his expression vexed.
“Perhaps a Thunderbird is in need of a proper core.” Shikobah suggested, ignoring his colleague, and pushing a box across the desk toward her. Hermione eyed the white-thorn wood skeptically, before taking it in hand and guiding it through the air.
A window into the courtyard shattered, and Hermione carefully placed the wand back onto the desk. Her hands empty again, Madame Beauvais was urging her to try yet another. The dance continued with another wand from each of them, with none taking a liking to her.
When a knock came at the door behind them, Hermione was becoming reluctant to try again.
“I hadn’t intended to present this wand. Perhaps I was wrong…” Shikobah mumbled, before looking past Hermione toward Professor Hicks. Something knowing passed between them, before he turned toward the shelf behind him. He pulled a sleek emerald box from the stacks, turning hastily toward Hermione, and lifting the lid. The wand was perfectly straight, with artistically carved lines that suggested the shape of leaves and blossoms. “Desert willow, ten and three-quarter inches, Phoenix feather.”
Hermione pulled it from the box, and as it settled in her hand, the air around her began to shimmer and glow. Warmth ebbed through her, and Hermione knew this felt right.
It felt like magic.