Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the starry crown?
Good Lord show me the way
O sisters, let's go down
Let's go down, come on down
O sisters, let's go down
Down in the river to pray
As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the robe and crown?
Good Lord show me the way
O brothers, let's go down
Let's go down, come on down
Come on brothers, let's go down
Down in the river to pray
As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the starry crown?
Good Lord show me the way
O fathers, let's go down
Let's go down, come on down
O fathers, let's go down
Down in the river to pray
As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the robe and crown?
Good Lord show me the way
O mothers, let's go down
Come on down, don't you wanna go down?
Come on mothers, let's go down
Down in the river to pray
As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the starry crown?
Good Lord show me the way
O sinners, let's go down
Let's go down, come on down
O sinners, let's go down
Down in the river to pray
As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the robe and crown?
Good Lord show me the way

- Alison Krauss, 2000 (O Brother, Where Art Thou?)

Friday, July 13th, 1951 was a largely unremarkable day in Islington, London. Across the pond, there was a great flood in Kansas, but no one living at 12 Grimmauld Place in Islington seemed to pay it any mind. The sun rose like every other morning, the cars sped past the house, and dust still sat in every corner; an indication of the latest failures of the help. The wood counters in the kitchens still shone brightly, the ornate grandfather clock’s pendulum still swung. Outside, people left their houses to hop into their 1949 Chevrolet Fleetlines and race to work.

No one seemed to notice the 12th house on the block; a woman in mauve wellies and a burgundy raincoat walked her poodle by, noting the new addition onto the house at number 13 and the freshly painted garage at number 11.

A proper man in a clean, square suit kissed his wife goodbye across the street, patting his 12-year-old son on the back and turning the ignition key in his 1949 Ford Victoria. He glanced across the street at his neighbors' homes, deep in thought. I really must convince Margie to let me add on a nursery like number 13 did, but she still hasn’t let up about painting the garage. It’s so characteristic of Pinky to have gotten the job done before me, especially after choosing the same paint color. He inched out of the driveway before cruising away to continue his mundane, repetitious day.

Inside number 12, a piercing scream ricocheted through the halls. The walls themselves quaked in fear, dropping a cobweb onto the head of the attending healer, who was presently standing in the corner after having been repelled backwards by a wayward burst of energy. He considered the probability of a concussion after the force of the launch, but quickly shook the thought away to return to his purpose.

On the bed in the center of the room sat a woman who appeared to be between 25 and 30. The healer thought she must bathe in the blood of virgins; No one looks 26 at age 42. She had sleek, wavy black hair, a delicate jawline, and eyes like pits of crude oil. Her pale, smooth skin, shining lightly after the exertion required to evict from her uterus this.. child. Her eyes stared haughtily down at it, her delicate pointed nose wrinkling and carmine lips creeping into a disgusted sneer. She clenched her jaw, and the healer prepared to simultaneously run, crawl out of the window, and be slashed across the chest.

“Why, may I ask, has this… grotesque creature decided to grace us with its presence?” She faced the healer with a face of revulsion, holding the infant by the heel. Her position resembled that of Thetis and Achilles, but the healer was inclined not to speak that thought aloud. “I do believe they told me I would have a male. This monstrosity is decidedly not a male. Not only that, it is unmarked.”

This was a factual statement. The House of Black had been on a slow march to extinction, and the birth of a firstborn son would bring great hope to the family, alongside wealth. She and her husband had spoken to every healer west of Delhi, and all had assured her that her child would be, without a doubt, male. Not only was this child not male, she also lacked any form of physical indication as to her soulmate, and thus would be very difficult to marry to anyone of worth. She pressed her hand to her forehead, as even anticipating the endless calls she would have to make concerning arranging a marriage was beginning to flare her migraines. She and her husband had been trying for years for a son, and the child that finally appeared seemed practically mocking, and entirely unfair.

“It would appear to be a female, Madame Black. Have you selected a name for her? I must complete her certificate.” The healer stated this in the calmest voice possible; he had wished for an easy task today, but James had required a sick day, and thus he was required to substitute. The pen shook in his clammy hand, as he scribbled out the required information on the birth certificate.

“The father is, of course, Cygnus Black. Mother would be Druella Black, My name, my signature, dated, it’s all completed. The child’s name?”
Druella gave a humourless laugh, the sound cruel and grating to the healer.

“If we are stuck with it, its name will be Bellatrix,” the cold man at Druella’s side growled. He was of middling height, little taller than the healer himself, who measured 180 cm. His height was not imposing, and he seemed almost stout, however, his heavy brow, crooked nose, and twisted sneer gave him a menacing aura. His eyes, which were small and dark beneath his thick eyebrows, were trained on the infant. His low voice sent a shiver through the mind of the healer. This was the first time he had spoken up since the baby’s birth, and the healer spun to him. “Perfect, Bellatrix Black is just right.” The healer scrawled the name onto the line, snapping his fingers. The paper vanished, taking its rightful place in the Department of Records.

In all honesty, it was the perfect name for the child. She took after her mother in her coloring, with glossy jet hair, porcelain skin, a sharp, elegant nose, and bloodred lips. She was the very personification of sorrow and misery, as they would notice during the coming years. She was a force of nature, with manic spikes and depressive spirals that would have her locked in her rooms for weeks on end. She was precocious, another blow to her parents’ eternal wish for a brilliant, powerful male firstborn. It truly was a shame that society had noticed Druella’s pregnancy, or they could have terminated the pestilence before it arrived.

From the first week, she was nothing short of exceptional. She opened her eyes on her second day of existence, with her mother’s charcoal irises. She transfigured her bassinet into a horse a week later, and potted plants and books began appearing where once there had been paintings of relatives, end tables, and desk chairs.

Thus, Bellatrix came into the world. On that date, 13 July 1951, an orb began to swirl within the depths of the central government headquarters in London proper, not to be seen for several years. Unbeknownst to Druella, Cygnus, the healer, or Bella herself, it would continue spinning its thread of fate, a cautionary tale of the coming era. It began selecting, choosing, isolating its subjects and weaving them together.

Chapter Text

Saturday, January 3, 1953 was marginally more chaotic than that fateful day in 1951. 

Firstly, it was pouring rain. The drops pelted the windows and skylights like anvils, interspersed with cracks of lightning and elephantine thunder. All combined, it created a distinctly inhospitable morning for a child. 

In Number 12 Grimmauld Place, a child stood staring out of the third floor turret windows. The girl was silent, surrounded by the noise and bustle of the house behind her. Almost two years old, she was miles ahead of her peers; she had begun speaking full sentences by seven months old, walking by six months, and appearing to all the world as a child of six years, despite her true age. Her jaw was carved and sharp, her eyes sparkling tar, and her shoulder-length Black hair, untameable and fiery in its curly stubbornness, was marred by a singular white streak at her right temple. Within the recesses of the house, the shouts grew louder, and Bellatrix Druella Black spun to make her way to her library. 

She supposed she would be gaining a brother today; her parents had practically lectured the gods of this world about her femaleness. Bella truly did not care one way or another. If it was a girl, she would have a sister, but said sister would be very boring indeed if she could not match Bella, and their parents would likely take out their anger on Bella and the child for cursing them. If the child was male… Bella did not even truly want to think of it. She had been largely hidden away, so if they had a son, Druella and Cygnus would certainly try to pass him off as their firstborn, and Bella as some wayward cousin, or worse, a failed experiment on a house elf. 

Midway down the corridor, a wave of raw magic crashed through her, making her stumble into the wallpapered doorway. It coincided with a strange bolt of lightning that hit the main power center for Islington, knocking out the entire neighbourhood’s power. The thunder and the wave resonated very strangely, as if they were bouncing off the walls of her thoracic cavity, and whatever they were looking for, they latched onto it, for she felt something snap into place like a lost puzzle piece in a yet incomplete puzzle.

Down the hall, a screaming child with a head of chocolate curly hair was lifted towards the window for better light, as all of the lanterns had been extinguished. The healer gave a sigh, bracing himself for the wrath of Druella and Cygnus. “It is female, with no soul marking,” he muttered, “again.” He announced the arrival of the healthy baby girl, much to the chagrin of the parents. 

Druella and Cygnus immediately began speaking, Cygnus blaming Druella and Bellatrix for bringing him another female child, let alone another unmarked, and Druella ranting about how difficult it already was with one daughter, and how it would be so much easier if they could only produce an heir-worthy, useful son. As they stared one another down, locked into a battle of wills, they came to a decision. Turning to the healer, Druella proposed, “How can we ensure the sex of our next child to be male?” At her sharp look, the healer flinched and took a small step backward, holding his hands up in surrender. “There is a potion, Madame Black, however, it must be taken exactly one year to the day before the child is to be born. It is a lengthy brewing process, but I can have it for you in mid-October, if that suits you.”

Druella’s suspicious glare turned contemplative, after all, she had only just given birth, and it may be simpler to wait another year. “Deliver it in mid-October of next year,” she demanded. “She is to be named Andromeda Seraphina Black.”

Across the room, the screaming Andromeda had quieted and paused her squirming. Her serenity revealed cocoa-colored curls almost as wild as Bella’s, almond eyes, and quiet intelligence. Bella had stepped into the room silently, for fear of her parents’ wrath, and was approaching it with wide eyes. “Andy,” she whispered, “that is absolutely perfect. I anticipate great conversation, one can only hope you have more common sense and intelligence than Druella or Cygnus…” She trailed off sadly. Leaning over to give Andy a peck on the forehead, Bella felt the puzzle coming together. She took a step back, and retreated silently from the room, tuning out the incessant bickering of the healer and her parents. 

By the dawn of October 1954, Andromeda was almost two years old, and Bella was three. They got along swimmingly, neither behaving or appearing like a child of their age, but with glamour and elegance other children aspired for. Andy had grown like Bella, appearing about 6 years of age, speaking eloquently and fluidly with a talent for waltzing and a knack for journaling and sketching. Bella now appeared about eight years of age, and had only grown in her peculiar brand of oddity. Her sharp, angular features, burning Black eyes, and carmine lips had only made her more terrifying; a rumour among local schoolchildren was that she was a vampiress who drank the blood of the children in the nursery during nap time. Bella was an avid reader by, consuming all she had access to, while Andy was, by far, more of an experiential learner. Her first bouts of accidental magic resulted in a house elf with fire spouting from his ears, and a wardrobe that emitted melodies composed by herself. 

All in all, they had little to feel joy about, aside from one another. Every time Cygnus tracked one of his precious books to Bella’s bedside table, or Druella caught wind of a piano scale, or they risked leaving the house, they faced their parents’ wrath. Neither one could be perfect, evidently, as they were consistently told by Druella. They were nothing, merely pawns to be married off or sold to build inter-House ties, or worse, intra-house ties. They were, for all intents and purposes, worthless, expensive, and useless to Druella. Cygnus, of course, took it into his own hands once Druella was finished. After one such incident in December 1954 of Bella and Andy climbing out a window and down a trellis, only to be caught by the wards at the edge of the property, Bella experienced her first Cruciatus. She knew it was only a matter of time, but was maintaining her childish belief that either her father would not genuinely cast it on her, or that it would be manageable.

Not one of those assumptions was correct, and that was the only thought on Bella’s mind as she lay on the floor, sweaty, bleeding, and utterly detached from her reality. As she watched her body from some external location, she felt the pain as an echo, merely a scratch and not the stab that she knew it was. Her father chuckled lowly, sending shivers up her spine and bringing her back to the present. She could feel it now, like millions of daggers piercing every portion of her body with unerring precision to find the sharpest, most unharmed nerve endings so as to exploit them, turning her inside out and eviscerating her abdomen. As Cygnus’s curse finally let up, Bella lay on the floor choking on her own emesis, blood, and tears. This will never happen to my sister. She made a vow to herself, then and there, that one day she would get her revenge, and it would be the sweetest thing she’d tasted.

Chapter Text

Bellatrix

Saturday, 15 October, 1955 at 12 Grimmauld Place was another one of these hectic days. The streets outside were icy and bitterly cold, and the wind bit at the noses of those who dared venture outside and rattled loose windowframes. The temperature, a balmy -11 degrees, gave the entire house a chilly feeling, more so than usual. No one was out walking, certainly, but Bella and Andy woke up with a sludgy, foreboding feeling on their tongues and the headache of a lifetime, already prepared for the worst.

Today was the day their parents’ efforts to produce a male heir would succeed, with numerous ends in sight for the two of them, none of them certain or appealing. They had awoken quite early, hearing the clanging of cast iron from the kitchens below. In the years following Andromeda’s birth, the two became deeply and irrevocably attached to one another, to the point of oddity. It was almost as though they could sense one another’s emotions and thoughts, though they both assumed that to be a result of their genetic predilection of innate Legilimency. 

They shared a brief mental hug for support before peeling themselves out of their respective beds, and dressing for the day. Already they showed style and flair; Bella was fond of monochromatic dark fabrics, lace, and dresses, and Andy preferred vivid dark colors in velvet and corduroy. Their parents provided decadent food, luxurious clothing, and extensive and rigorous education (to an appropriate level for a proper young pureblooded woman, of course), but little else. Not once did they remember their mother brushing and taming their curly hair or singing them to sleep with a lullaby, nor their father ever playing a game of chess with them, or suggesting a book. They were well used to being treated like rubbish, but they had one another, and that was imperative.

A full three years of age, Andy commanded rooms with a quiet, imperious presence, and Bella’s four years of life made her a terrifyingly brilliant, meticulously dangerous child with bloodthirsty tendencies. Their revolving door of tutors would inevitably quit the position after discovering a gutted rat placed neatly in a jewelry box, or a well-preserved diaphonised fish spine encased in a delicate crystal vial in their jumper pockets.

They peeked out from their rooms, listening carefully for the telltale signs of a new sibling on the way, but were met with almost complete silence. As they crept down the corridor, they heard muttered expletives, odd bubbling noises, and strange rustling noises. Bella peered around the corner, and stealthily took in the room. “Andy….” Bella’s pale face went whiter, eyes saucer-width in their sockets. Andy poked her head through the doorjamb’s crack beneath Bella’s, and had a similar reaction. 

The room was in shambles, overrun with healers working quintuple over what seemed to be Druella’s body, Cygnus with his back to the sight and head in his hands, muttering silently in shock. There was blood on every surface of the room; there were sharp splatters and sprays on walls and lighting and veritable puddles on the floor. A shout sprang out as one healer found a spell that seemed to be working, and they all began chanting the same incantation as Cygnus paced.

Bella and Andy stood frozen, incapacitated seeing their perfect, untouchable father showing signs of something so repulsively human as anxiety. Even worse was the sight of their poised and pretentious mother, pale and blue, dwarfed by the frenetic healers, flat on the table and covered in her own blood.

In one fell swoop, the healers ceased their obsessive chanting and fussing, stepping back. In the arms of the lead healer lay a miniscule, unmarked infant with smooth platinum blonde hair and a sloped nose, perfectly proportionate, and entirely female. Bellatrix and Andromeda made eye contact with her, and one more puzzle piece snapped into place, a feeling of rightness between the three sisters that should have been sons.

Cygnus rose from his chair and stepped over to Druella’s bedside, kneeling by her side and holding her hand. “She will survive,” said the healer. “During the last contraction, your wife’s womb began bleeding massively. We must first drain the fluid from the child’s lungs before attending to her injuries, so we have stemmed her bleeding, and placed her in a state of rest. She will wake within the next 10 minutes in a relaxed state. Do you have a name for your daughter?” Cygnus gave him a furious glare, and summoned Kreacher. The elf appeared with a crack, and he spun and shoved the healer over to the crib of the blonde baby. The healer, under his instruction, completed the certificate of birth with the requisite names: Father, Cygnus Orion Black III, Mother, Druella Black (née Rosier). Child’s name: Narcissa Lucretia Black (unmarked). 

The daughter undoubtedly should have been a son. Madame Black had taken every potion, spell, and charm possible to ensure that, and by all accounts, it should have been foolproof. Shaking his head in dismay, he turned to the silent, pale infant. Later, he swore he felt a tendril of thought prodding at his mind as he made contact with her cobalt eyes. How strange, he thought, all of the Black children have opened their eyes within the hour of their birth. Only one cried, the middle. Most of the children I’ve delivered take several days to truly open them, let alone to see, and they cry ceaselessly for weeks at first. 

He cast aside the thought, retrieved his wand, and began clearing the baby’s lungs. His trainees, after cleaning the floors, sheets, tools, and walls with several Scourgify spells and filling out the remaining paperwork, followed him to the table. Leaning down to his least favorite, a young man around 27 years of age with a perpetual sneer and ostentatious air about him, he whispered the order to the trainee, knowing he did not desire to risk one of the more talented or pleasant of his mentees with the infamous wrath of Cygnus Orion Black III.

The young man, a Crabbe relation(?) stepped over to the bedside, and loudly informed Cygnus and the stirring Druella of the situation. 

“My sincerest condolences for this awful news I must deliver,” he began, Cygnus immediately narrowing his eyes and Druella’s glazed look sharpening, “however, the birth of Narcissa and the subsequent injuries have left Madame Black with a concerning amount of scar tissue. I regret to inform you that Madame Black will be permanently incapable of bearing any more heirs.” As he finished the sentence, Cygnus drew himself up to his full height, glaring down his nose at the young man.

His jaw clenched, a vein pulsed in his forehead, nostrils flaring like a horse in heat. That was the sole warning the healer trainee had, sitting serenely and appearing neutrally regretful, as Cygnus’s concealed wand sent a silent ray of green light into the Crabbe’s torso at point-blank range. The trainee stiffened, bearing a look of shock and surprise as he fell backwards off the bedside, landing in a shapeless heap on the flooring. 

Bella and Andy, having seen this whole scene, took one silent, trepidation-filled glance at one another, and ran. They were truly, irrevocably, utterly doomed. They had a sister, a beautiful blonde child, but that was just the problem. They were three undeniably female children, Druella was barren, and Cygnus (and soon Druella as well) was murderous. “Kreacher,” Bella whispered, and a wrinkled house-elf popped up next to the firstborn of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. “Yes, Mistress Bellatrix?” 

Bella stared at him as though seeing straight through him, with a blank and empty look that made him nervous for her next order. One never knew, with these Blacks. “Please retrieve us enough food that we may keep for several days, I suspect neither of us would survive bearing our parents’ attention for several days at least.” She dismissed him with a nod. Kreacher hurried off, already mumbling through a list of what to bring them. Bella spun to Andy, who throughout the interaction had crept up to her side and enveloped her into a desperate grasp. They held one another and sat in silent, fearful wait, knowing in their souls it would inevitably be time to face Druella and Cygnus.

5 days later: 20 October 1955

Some time later, Bella and Andy rose together, cleaned with a quick brush and floss and changed into freshly tailored and newly washed robes. They stood for a moment in one final embrace, unsure of their future or their present. Parting reluctantly, they made their way down the stairs to the formal dining room, as directed by Kreacher. It was breakfast time.

Bella entered the kitchen first, subtly shielding Andy from any potential wayward hexes. Walking across the Brazilian rosewood flooring, they approached their seats at the table, retrieving their plates and small servings of hash and fried egg. Coal and cocoa eyes trained on the floor, they sat. For a time, they ate silently. Almost fooled into believing their absence would go unnoticed, they calmed some, sneaking glances at Druella spooning an orange paste into the mouth of their sister, Narcissa.

An ideal specimen of female childhood, the infant showed the same smooth blonde hair and chilly blue eyes, albeit with more intelligence than a 5-day-old baby should have. She shared Druella’s perfect bone structure and delicate nose and chin. I suppose without a son, they must have one perfect daughter, Bella exhaled with a venomous look pointed at the child. 

After twenty minutes of this, Cygnus spoke. “How kind of the two of you to conveniently disappear after your sister’s birth. Your mother very nearly died on the operating table, and her daughters did not deign to be at her bedside. For this, I believe you should select their consequences, Druella.” His cold, detached voice belied his rage, one could almost believe he was discussing a stock trade or a new property holding.

“Although I would love to Imperius them to torture one another, I believe it would be simplest and most enjoyable to watch them do so willingly,” intoned Druella. She tilted her head innocently at them. “I believe a trip to the ritual chambers is in order.” They rose, and as the house-elves scrambled to clean their places, Bellatrix and Andromeda stood and stepped into pace behind their parents, knowing the only way forward was through the punishment. 

Descending to the ritual chambers, Cygnus cast the first Cruciatus. As Andromeda writhed on the floor, Bellatrix stared on in horror, knowing she was not permitted to move or act. He held it for several moments, before releasing it. “This will continue until Bellatrix assists me,” he said, handing Bellatrix a flaming candle. Her trembling fingers held onto it like a tether, his eyes boring into her as he cast the spell again. Bellatrix stood frozen, thoughts racing millions of kilometers a minute through her head. Andy let out a high, painful scream, as though ripped from her throat by claws and teeth, drawing blood and leaving scratches.

Cygnus commanded Bellatrix softly, angrily, “Burn her, anywhere. You may not stop until the skin is blistering. Defiance will result in more pain for her, and later, you as well.” She made terrified eye contact with Andromeda, whose face was tear-soaked and contorted, eyes pleading for mercy. The Cruciatus never dulled in pain, as long as one had a soul, it would latch on to the weaknesses, the aches, anything it could exploit and hurt. Bellatrix took a step forward, and reached for Andromeda’s hand with watery, apologetic eyes. She held the flame to Andromeda’s inner right forearm, a spot with fewer nerve endings than the hand, that would heal quickly. She watched from outside of her own body as Andromeda’s skin bubbled, Andromeda herself wailing and thrashing, exhausted from the Cruciatus but unable to ignore the angry flame’s burn. “Stop,” Cygnus whispered. Bellatrix stopped, and stepped back numbly. “Switch.”

Andromeda

Andromeda had felt acute pain before. She had experience under her father’s Cruciatus, that was not what she feared most. Bellatrix stepped over to her with the worst look on her face that Andromeda had ever seen, carrying a malevolent blue and red flame. She looked empty, as though she could neither see nor do anything other than what Cygnus said she could. Andromeda made eye contact with her, sobbing knowing what Bellatrix would need to do. She attempted to convey acceptance through her glance, but her torture-scrambled brain was fuzzy and unclear. Bellatrix lightly held her hand and raised her arm to the flame. It was nothing compared to the Cruciatus, but it still made her scream the same. Her skin bubbled and liquefied under it, and she collapsed when Cygnus finally stopped it.

Andromeda came to a minute later on the ground, feeling like she had been squeezed out of a toothpaste tube. She saw a black blur on the edge of her vision - Bella! She sat up, noting for the first time her surroundings, Cygnus standing behind Bellatrix imperiously, Druella laughing cruelly, Narcissa gaping with wide, horror-filled eyes. Andromeda tried to reassure the small, fearful presence of Narcissa that she felt in her mind, communicating care to their tiny baby sister. Cygnus took hold of her right arm, and Andromeda yelped as a shock burned through her newly melted limb. He dragged her into a standing position and placed the flame into her hands, casting another Cruciatus, but on Bellatrix. It seemed to be the second or third for her, and he held it for a full minute before turning to Andromeda and gesturing for her to step forward. Her lip quivered as she took a shaky step forward, wishing for all the world that Bella would forgive her for this as she would Bella.

She carefully, gently took hold of Bellatrix’s hand, sending faint pulses of magic through her fingertips to alert her sibling of what she had to do, and give her strength. She raised the flame to the same spot on Bella: right forearm, between three and four inches from the elbow. Inhaling sharply, she lowered it. Bellatrix let out a guttural, wrenching yell, softer and lower than a scream but no less painful or sharp. 

Andromeda held it there, waiting for the same signal from Cygnus. It came, but not before the skin charred and Bellatrix went hoarse, trembling on the ground weakly. Too exhausted to move or continue, Cygnus and Druella left them there. Narcissa held eye contact with Bella, conveying her guilt and helplessness and sending it through the link to Andy as well. She broke it only when Cygnus and Druella carried her out of sight. Andy collapsed onto the floor beside Bella, and they lay still for a time. It seemed it would only become worse in the coming years, but thankfully, they would escape to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when they turned eleven. They merely had to make it until that point.

Chapter Text

On September 19, 1979, Sister Hermenia Muldrey came back to the convent after her morning walk. She rose with the sun and hiked five miles daily, and would return around eight in the morning.

She was running behind, and thus returned at eight-fifteen. At the churchyard gates, she saw a plain cardboard box, sealed with small cutouts on the top end. Sister Hermenia lifted the box to peer through the small holes, but it was too dark inside, and the lift made the contents shift within.

Taking it through the dormitories to the dining room, she took a small boxcutter and sliced the lid open, revealing a babbling, red-faced baby, presumably born within the last few hours, with soft auburn curls sticking in all directions and small blood and fluid smears across her chubby body. She was wrapped in a pink blanket, but further inspection showed no identification. She called in a few of the other sisters dispersed throughout the living room to discuss next steps; babies had been dropped here before, but usually they had some form of birth certificate or identification by a soul mark.

This child was with just a blanket, and her rosy skin was marked, but not in any typical way. Her spine carried three markings one above the other: a black horse’s head, like a knight chess piece located between her T2 and T3 vertebrae, beneath that an Aegean Blue spiral, and beneath that a serpent curled around a daffodil. It was normal to have one soulmate marking, two was practically mythical, and three? Three soulmate markings was not possible, no recorded cases in recent history.

Sister Hermenia rocked the child while sitting in her chair later that afternoon. Sister Margaretha had christened the child Hermione Vivienne, after Sister Hermenia, and they had begun contacting potential foster locations.

They had reached out to eight homes: 5 two-parent nuclear families (3 without their own kids, 2 who already had a child or two), 2 two-parent families with grown children who wanted to raise more, and 1 single widower. The sisters all shared a common fear for young Hermione; she was barely twelve hours into life and yet was destined for three people. If she landed in the wrong hands, who knew what would happen?

Sister Hermenia pondered this while she read The Secret Garden to Hermione that night, and prayed to all of the deities in existence that her namesake would live a long and happy life when she met her three soulmates. The next week was nothing but chaos for the convent residents. Between four ongoing background checks, doctors’ visits, social workers’ visits, and an unreasonably active and bizarrely mature baby (basically a one-year-old in appearance and mental capacity at this time), Sisters Hermenia, Margaretha, Clarissa, and Hildegard were all stretched very thin.

They would run to meet the paediatrician, then have to explain why the week-old infant now looked like a toddler (it’s really just odd, Dr. Moreno, we have no idea why she’s growing so fast), then race to do her feeding (though inevitably she would always have a bottle already, even though no one had fed her and they were typically in the ice box), then send off a quick social worker email before running to meet another family.

Sister Hermenia would always fall onto the couch in exhaustion before sitting Hermione next to her to read. They had torn through The Secret Garden quickly and moved on to Charlotte’s Web, Alice in Wonderland, and the latest and greatest, Matilda.

Hermione was somewhat of a Matilda figure herself, with precocious abilities and qualities as well as not much of a family, however, she would have one soon.

On October the first, Sister Hermenia brought Hermione to the house of the chosen parents.

They were a married couple that had just celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary, lived in a small two-bedroom two-bath outside of Vauxhall, about an hour-fifteen by car from the convent. They were delightful in disposition, the father cracked many cheesy jokes, the wife baked lovely brownies, and they took to Hermione immediately during the interviews. The husband, Richard Granger, was a local schoolteacher at a Catholic institution, and the wife, Catharine Granger, taught piano lessons to children in the neighborhood.

They were a model family, with strong Catholic beliefs, steady jobs, and a yearning for a child. Thus, Hermione moved in with the Grangers.

On September the eighteenth of 1979, Bellatrix Lestrange was twenty-eight, in the midst of a 12-year marriage with one Rodolphus Lestrange, and thoroughly angry with the lot she had been dealt.

She remained unmarked, and her parents had essentially paid the Lestranges with several holdings in Wales before they had agreed to marry her to Rodolphus. She was expected to be a perfect pureblooded wife, bear beautiful pureblooded children, and waste her brilliant mind and obscene dueling skills on this man, a man who couldn’t cast Lumos if he had cue cards and a training wand.

She thought back to the prophecy her Lord had shown her when she joined his ranks at fourteen, the one she and her sisters shared.

Three Black women bound in blood and tears

Having razed a path through sweat and fear

Will meet the queen on battle’s night

Illuminated by the pale white light.

Bound together, the four shall be bright

The Crown, the Knight, The Cyclone, the Fight

Turning the wheel, wooing the foe 

They share their soul, the pain, the woe.

Bellatrix knew it was nothing but a joke, a little hazing before she truly became a member, but she had held that hope until Rodolphus had put his filthy ring on her finger. Her sisters knew, and her Lord knew, but no more.

She lay in her bed in the North Wing of Black Manor in Wiltshire, and dozed lightly, getting no sleep, but resting. Before dawn, she jolted awake as something clenched in her being, her magic rippling out and reaching for something. Her sternum began to tickle, like someone was using a feather duster on it. Bellatrix lifted her shirt, and her jaw dropped. A black horse’s head, in the style of a knight piece from her wizards’ chess set, was shimmering between her breasts.

Fuck, she thought. I wonder if Cissy or Andy got anything. Of course she’s twenty-eight years younger than me, that is exactly how my luck goes. With that, she lay back down, fantasizing about her little witch and what she would be like.

Across the manor, Narcissa and her husband Lucius lay in bed together.

Lucius was snoring, as he always does. Narcissa was feeling practically murderous, it was terrible enough having to sleep near Lucius, worse yet not being able to sleep at all and being made to be next to him.

She had been made to marry him at fourteen, he was nineteen when he asked Cygnus and Druella for her marriage contract. It took many galleons and several property deeds, but her unmarked body became his. She was currently pregnant, and it had taken little Lucius and his mercifully short extra appendage nearly ten years to get her to be so.

It was not terribly uncomfortable yet, as she was only about three months along, but it was odd. She jolted fully awake at dawn, casting a Tempus to see it was about four in the morning.

Her right ear tickled, like it was being licked by an overzealous kitten, and she ran to the washroom to find a serpent curled around a daffodil had appeared behind her ear. She stared at it for a moment in shock, petting it lightly to see if it would do anything. The snake stuck its tongue out happily, but that was it.

Narcissa exhaled and hid it with her hair, then climbed back into bed. I will tell Andy and Bella at a more respectable hour, she thought as she stared up at the ceiling, conflicted.

Andromeda was in the attic at four that morning, painting her latest scene of a lighthouse.

Her adopted daughter, Nymphadora, was at her birth parents’ house for the week. Andy had adopted her at 19, when Nymphadora was 14 and needed a home outside of her birth parents Ted and Josie’s. Andy took Nymphadora in, and they had an almost sisterly relationship, being so close in age.

Nymphadora loved lighthouses, and Andromeda really wanted to get this scene right as a birthday gift for her Nym. She startled when she felt a prickle on her right ribcage beneath her breast.

Expecting a small bug or loose thread, she lifted her top slightly, yelping and knocking over her paint mug when a deep, muted blue spiral glittered there.

Well, at least there’s someone for the three of us… I won’t wake Bella or Cissy up yet, but we’ll need to discuss it. As the grandfather clocks throughout the house hit seven chimes, the sun came streaming through the windows, and three sisters cracked bleary eyes open, the memories of the early morning revelation hit. Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Andromeda all sprang from their horizontal rests and ran to the kitchens.

Bursting simultaneously through the doors, they caught their breath and merely stared at one another for a moment.

Bella took the initiative quickly. “It would seem that the prophecy may not have been a joke,” she flashed a grin, eyes glinting, “Our witch has found her way here. Of course she had to do it when I am twenty-eight, though I don’t look a day over twenty.”

Andy piped in quickly, “One can only hope she’ll match our stamina, else maybe we were better off unmarked.” Narcissa scoffed at this, for evidently she was the only one who had any real concerns regarding this situation they had been placed in. “Clearly, you have both neglected several key circumstances of our position. Firstly, we have no clue who or where this girl is, nor how to find her, nor the status of her magic or bloodline. Secondly, Bella and I are married, like it or not-”

Bella interrupted that train of thought very quickly. “Yes, Cissy, obviously that is a technicality. You’re welcome to stay with Lucius if you would prefer his comforts as well, however, I understand that meeting our little witch will break our current marriage bindings, thank Merlin. Lord knows Lucius is bad enough without having a spawn running about under his care.”

Narcissa threw a sharp look at Bella before continuing. "Additionally, I am pregnant. This girl will be in the same year at Hogwarts as my little dragon, assuming she is magical and in Britain.” That shut Andy and Bella up quickly. “I believe it is time for Bella and I to find our way to the ministry’s birth records. They will be accurate, even if our witch has anything other than a pureblood or otherwise magical family.”

Bella swept out of the room, grabbing a slice of toast and an apple from Kreacher’s platter on her way out. Narcissa let out a world-weary sigh, unready for the havoc Bella would wreak at the ministry if let loose on her own. She accepted a cup of tea from Kreacher and made her way up to her wing, leaving Andy silent and alone in the kitchen.

Andy leaned back in her chair with a lovesick expression on her face, and turned to Kreacher. “I do wish that we meet her soon, it has been too long since I have felt that sort of love, if ever.” She exhaled deeply, and dismissed Kreacher. All she could do then was sit with her cup of coffee and the Daily Prophet, and mentally plan her future dates with their witch.

Chapter Text

Thus, Hermione came to live with the Grangers.

She was a handful from the start, somehow always having a book in her bassinet and a stuffed toy near her playing area. Richard and Catharine were nothing short of lovely, if a little distant or absent at times. They went to Sunday Masses, and held prayer circles at their church. Richard helped her learn to read very quickly, she was wading through Anne of Green Gables within months, Orwell and Dickens within a year and a half, and Austen and Tolkien within two.

She could discuss the nuances of the Bible with skill and ease, debating morality and faith with the faithless. She grew absurdly quickly, her doctors were nearly concerned. At the ripe old age of three, Hermione appeared nearly eight, and her spine markings only grew more vibrant.

She was placed into nursery school at three, much to her chagrin. One of her teachers noted in her charts that “Hermione provided a thorough analysis of Sense and Sensibility before she learned how to tie her own shoes.” She could write better papers than many GCSE students, and all of the administrators chalked it up to her father’s educational background. 

At age five, they elected to place Hermione in Year Two, hoping that surrounding her with students two years older would help slow down her accelerated learning, which by that point was nearly uncontrollable.

The girl seemed to thirst for knowledge, finding oceans of it in books and soaking it all in. No one could identify how she seemed to learn and comprehend so quickly, but it was remarkable to watch this five year old, who may as well look twelve with her sharp jaw and knowing eyes, perform complex calculus, write thorough academic papers, and identify every mineral in its raw form.

Frankly, it was intimidating to many around her.

While she was praised by the adults, her peers saw her prodigy as a threat, and she was quite isolated. Year Two and Year Three came and left quickly, with no end to the bullying. Hermione worried little about the other children, she could run circles around them in a coma, or bury herself in her beloved books. Her favorite that year had been Medea by Euripides, having done the impossible to beat out Roald Dahl’s Matilda, her once-eternal favorite. 

It wasn’t always possible to put her isolation out of sight and mind at all times, however. Her routine was consistent: during school days she wakes, prays her morning prayers, makes her breakfast and eats it alone, kisses her parents goodbye, catches the school bus alone, goes to classes, etc.

She learned she could remain silent for around 12 hours a day without being made to talk, excepting the days when the older students chose to single her out, which was usually during lunch and after school let out. The nineteenth of September, 1986 was her seventh birthday, and Year Four was looking positive, for the most part. Hermione went about her routine as usual, until her lunch block rolled about.

As she sat eating her ham sandwich in the cramped and dirty canteen, an older student from Year Ten walked over to her side. Hermione recognised him as Maxwell, the brother of another student in her year, a brownnosing blond boy named Charles who was consistently attempting to outdo her. She attempted to ignore him, burying her face into her copy of Ivanhoe and quietly chewing.

Not to be ignored, he reached over and slapped the book to the floor. “Granger, is it?” On Hermione’s irritated nod, his smug face glowed with sick glee. Disregarding her protests and fearful looks, he seized her wrists and yanked her out of the canteen to the washrooms. Of all the indignities he gave her, worst of all in Hermione’s mind was selecting the boy’s bathroom. Ugh.

His cronies, several other Year Nines and Tens, as well as Charles awaited him there, unfortunately. He dragged her to the center and shoved her to the floor, looming over Hermione’s body like the eucalyptus tree in the Grangers’ yard, minus the lovely shade and scent, obviously. 

That was the first thing to hit her, the scent, and also will be the most prominent thing she remembers of this ordeal in the coming years. The boys’ bathroom positively reeked of sweat and fecal matter, making Hermione double over, eyes swimming and triggering a gag. At this, Maxwell decided to begin the torment.

The boys took turns with their kicks and punches; the younger ones weaker than the eldest, but nonetheless painful. She tried to fight back, and faintly registered blood in her eyes, nose, and mouth, but could do nothing about it; escape wasn’t possible and she was outnumbered greatly. She drifted in and out of consciousness, watching her body be pummeled in the third person.

The last thing she remembered was Charles spitting on her before she lost consciousness.

Some time later

She came to in the infirmary, uniform shirt ripped and bloody, searing pain and aches across her whole being, and her brain feeling stuffed with cotton. She could not remember on her life what had happened after she blacked out. 

The nurse walked in, a sweet woman named Rebecca who had tended to Hermione when she had been hurt previously. She was carrying a clipboard and scribbling furiously, and trailing behind her was a rather severe looking man Hermione recognized as the headmaster.

“Hermione Granger, age seven, height one hundred and thirty-seven centimeters, weight thirty-three point-eight kilos. Parents Richard and Catharine Granger have been contacted, investigation is ongoing.”

As Rebecca rattled this off, the headmaster frowned intensely at Hermione, as though weighing her guilt for a crime. “Miss Granger,” he began, “do you have any awareness as to what happened today leading up to and following your loss of consciousness?” When Hermione responded in the affirmative, up to the point of her blackout, he eyed her suspiciously. 

“At twelve-fifteen in the afternoon, our surveillance footage shows Mr. Charles and Mr. Maxwell Wadsworth abducting you from the canteen, and dragging you to the men’s washroom on the first floor. At that point, we have no video, of course. After that, we rely on injuries and witness statements. We have spoken to all of the boys present, and they gave corroborating stories; You, Miss Granger, had recently cheated off of an exam of Mr. Wadsworth the younger, and they were exacting revenge.

After speaking to you calmly, it intensified when you denied it, and several punches were thrown by all parties involved. At that point, they claimed to have been thrown backward by an invisible force that knocked them away from you. Your injuries are much worse than theirs, although they are healing at a much faster rate. Nevertheless, you and the two Mr. Wadsworths are each facing a two-week suspension for fighting on school property, and you are receiving a zero on the exam.”

By the end of this spiel, Hermione’s eyes had gone wide and she stared at him in horror. The Grangers chose that minute to thunder through the doors, Richard’s eyes scanning angrily for Hermione.

“Hermione VIVIENNE,” Richard bellowed, “WHAT ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH DID YOU DO TO THOSE POOR BOYS? THEY EACH HAVE A CONCUSSION FROM BEING SLAMMED INTO STALL DOORS BY AN INVISIBLE FORCE. THE DEVIL WILL HAVE YOU FOR THIS, WITCH!”

His ruddy face contorted with rage, his voice reaching a high volume while Hermione shrunk into herself. Richard had never behaved like this before, Catharine was trying to calm him down and shooting fearful looks at Hermione in an attempt to sooth her. After Richard and Catharine spoke to the headmaster, they drove home in silence.

They pulled into the driveway of their little home, and Richard got out of the car and stalked inside, slamming the door. Catharine gathered Hermione into her arms while Hermione burst into tears, burying her face in Catharine’s shoulder. They had always been closer than Richard and Hermione, Catharine was the real greatest mentor and teacher in Hermione’s life.

“Mia, my darling girl. I haven’t seen your father behave this way in years. He lost his job earlier today at the school, and he is in a terrible mood. I am so terribly sorry for all of this.”

Bellatrix

19 September, 1986. Or, as Bella Black was tentatively calling it, Day 1,730 in HMP Azkaban, if the countless tallies on her legs were to be believed.

She had yet to mark the new day, and dragged herself over to the corner brick that hid her glass shard. She quickly sliced another tally into her quadriceps femoris. Staring as the blood ran in rivulets down to the stone floor, she contemplated the past five-ish years. 

On Christmas Eve in 1981, she had gone with Crouch Jr., Rod, and Rab to the house of the cowardly Longbottom Aurors to investigate their Lord’s disappearance. He had stopped communications almost two months prior, the last missive was on Samhain.

The three men had done most of the Crucios, Bella was more focused on gathering intelligence from the photos and files about the house. She had, however, dealt Alice Longbottom’s final curse, cackling as her former lover writhed on the floor. Alice never did admit that their dalliance was better than any man could do, after all.

After that, Crouch and Rab had fled when the Aurors showed up, and Rod had been caught in the crossfire, thank Morgana.

January 12th, 1982, she was put on trial, and after a twenty-one minute trial, she was sent to Azkaban. Nothing much had changed in that time: she still hated the mudbloods, she still loved to torture and maim, and she still anticipated her future outside of prison, knowing her Lord would return for her.

She hid these feelings deeply with Occlumency, obviously, it wouldn’t do for the dementors to catch her with any strong feelings. She had found that out the hard way a week after imprisonment, when she had thought of her prophecy and her sisters at precisely the wrong moment. She shuddered to think of the dementors’ reactions, they had seemed practically giddy as they imbued her with dread, distress, and despair while removing the joy from the memories.

As she blacked out, she pictured a lovely young brunette with hazel eyes and a tortured gaze. It will end, she thought. My Lord will free me, and I will find you.

Narcissa

September 19, 1986 was just another day in a blur of days. Draco had woken very early, bounding between his room and Narcissa’s (she had taken a separate bedroom from Lucius’s eventually - it was unbearable to put off his disgusting advances while trying to rest from a day of caring for an overexcited six-year-old), and was trying to pry open her eyes.

She sat up carefully, trying not to squish him as she removed her eyelashes from his chubby fingers.

“Draco, please pay a visit to Tippy in the kitchens and ask when breakfast will be ready. Mummy must put on her dressing-gown and clean her teeth before we eat.” She sighed as he sprinted out; he was her pride and joy, but this would be so much easier with her sisters.

Bella’s absence hit like a spear into her heart, and Andy had it no easier. Someday we will reunite, and the world is not prepared for the great Black sister reunion. With hope in her heart, she dressed and descended to the dining room to eat with Draco.

Chapter Text

It only got worse after that first episode.

Hermione was now almost eleven, but she may as well have been seventeen in appearance. She had grown, a muscular, limber figure that belied her age.

Richard found another teaching position that he held until August the fifth of 1990. On that date and the days following, almost four years after Hermione’s first outburst, he showed the same behavior as he had just under four years before: Berating Hermione for any sign of abnormality placated him, but unlike before, he grew unsatisfied with it after a day.

On August the sixth, he determined the quickest was to return Hermione to her faith in God and normalcy, without demonic influences, was to withhold food until she stopped. 

After two days of this, he began keeping her home from school, fearing she was obtaining food there. She was said to have scarlet fever, and she was so far ahead in every class that her absence was negligible.

Four days after that, he caught Catharine bringing her food late at night, and threw Catharine against the wall and slapped her, then locked Hermione into a closet. He let her out a day later, still without food, and Catharine was nowhere to be seen.

Three long, monotonous days of being locked within various rooms followed, sans food. She saw Catharine wandering the house aimlessly after this, but Catharine was merely a shell of a human. She was beaten and bruised, her lip split and hair torn. She was emaciated from lack of food.

Hermione by this point was weakened, but still had more strength than she reasonably should have, according to Richard. He used the next two days to switch between beating her unconscious and locking her into the closet, almost out of routine rather than punishment. 

In mid-afternoon on August nineteenth, Hermione stepped out of her closet, which had been unlocked during the night. Richard was nowhere to be found, and his car was gone, so Hermione went up the stairs to the second floor, where the master bedroom and bath were.

She called out for Catharine, but heard no response, so she gathered some clothes and went to start the bath. She entered the bathroom, and as she looked to the tub, she found Catharine.

Catharine Granger was surrounded by thick, sludgy reddish-brown liquid, fully naked, reclined almost peacefully. The illusion was broken by the mid-size bowie knife lying on the carpet beneath Catharine’s outstretched fingers, and the angry slices crisscrossing her arms and legs.

Hermione’s eyes saw those second, the first and most notable thing she noticed was the gaping scarlet maw where her pale neck once was.

The splatter patterns against the bathroom wall and tile were uninterrupted save the tub outline, and Catharine’s right hand dangling limply near the knife was caked with her own dried blood. Her eyes were open and glassy, staring without seeing unblinkingly.

She had been dead for nearly a day, judging by the very dry blood on all surfaces, her frozen fingers, and the congealed blood obscuring her wounds.

Hermione collapsed to her bony knees on the tile, ignoring the bite of the surface into her weak kneecaps. She stared at the scene, unflinching and empty. One month before Hermione’s 11th birthday, her adoptive mother had committed suicide, and the blame rested entirely on Hermione.

With a final glance and an instinctual shudder, she shut her eyes and ran.

She sprinted down the stairs, out the door, and slammed into her father’s wide torso as he stepped out of the car. He grabbed her by the neck, and yanked her into the entryway of the house, leaving the door swinging wide and car keys in the ignition.

In shock and utterly desperate, she let out one shrill scream before his other hand clamped her mouth shut, and once she was quiet, he slammed her back to the ground.

“First, you took over my home and spread your satanic beliefs at school. Then, you used your devil’s powers to hurt innocent young men, and made me lose my job. Now, you’ve gone and killed your mother, and very soon, you’ll have killed yourself. I think, before you do that, I should get repaid for what I’ve given you.” He unzipped his pants and removed his belt, and Hermione’s tear-filled eyes met his, widening in terror. She would only face worse by fighting back. He spun her, and began to rape her. 

From here, Hermione remembers nothing.

The next thing came after she regained consciousness, being shaken awake by a police officer handing her a box of apple juice. She stared at the officer in her cobalt uniform, unsure if it was a hallucination of a weird purgatory.

Behind the officer, several medics were loading Richard's body into a sheet-covered stretcher. Based on the state of him and the wall, Hermione had to have thrown him backwards at great speed, his head was crushed in and there was blood and residue on the walls. A second team of medics was carrying down a bloody stretcher covered with a white sheet, under which Hermione presumed lay Catharine. 

She spun back to the officer, who was watching her patiently with a very concerned look.

“Hello, Hermione. I am Lieutenant Maggie Nielsen, but feel free to call me Mags. We’re very worried about what happened to you, and we would like to take you to the hospital if you feel comfortable standing. We can assist if you are not.”

Hermione shook her head gently, staring blankly at Mags. Mags slowly reached to Hermione’s hand, holding it in a firm and comforting grip, and led her to the waiting ambulance. 

In the confined space, Hermione’s pulse began to skyrocket, and her dizziness and headaches came tenfold. She began seizing, and the medics quickly injected her with a sedative and medication to get her to the hospital and in a bed. 

Some time later

In the hospital 7 days later, Hermione had shown remarkable physical healing.

She was almost back to a healthy weight in an exceptionally short time, her intense bruising and lacerations had sealed and faded, and she could stay awake and speak to police and doctors. They were amazed by her overwhelming mental prowess, her maturity, and her compassion, even in the state she was found in.

She was a worrying patient from a mental health perspective, however, and the on-call therapist spent around four hours a day with her. She was still slipping through the cracks though, having no legal guardian and being too young for emancipation. On the 7th day, she had her first contact outside of the hospital.

She received a letter on a very strange, yellowed paper, written in sharp green slanted cursive. Stranger yet, an owl had dropped it into her lap, and it sat at her bedside until she read it. 

Dear Miss Hermione Granger of Number 93, Stockwell Circle,

It is my pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of supplies, as well as directions for where to purchase them.

The term begins September first. We await your owl by no later than August thirty-first. 

The Hogwarts Express train to our school leaves Kings Cross Station at eleven in the morning on September first. Please alert us if you will have trouble procuring the required materials.

Warm regards,

Minerva McGonagall (Deputy Headmistress, Head of House Gryffindor)

Hermione shut her eyes for a moment and reopened them. It certainly seemed like a joke, but the owl and the enclosed details seemed quite serious. She ripped a page out of her therapy journal, and scribbled an acceptance onto the page, sending it off with the owl after feeding it a bite of bagel. 

The next morning, she rose and snuck out of the hospital, returning home to locate her father’s wallet and her mother’s emergency wad of banknotes.

She stepped into the house, breathing deeply to calm herself as her therapist taught her. She quickly found the money and left, standing on the walkway up to the front door.

Before stepping out, she had turned on all forms of natural gas in the house, and spread her father’s grilling lighter fluid on the floors throughout the house.

With one final mournful glance to the sky, she lifted her small rucksack of belongings and threw three lit matches in quick succession through the open doorway, before spinning and sprinting.

She ran until she could not feel legs nor lungs, and then ran more, until she reached the station at Liverpool Lime Street. Ignoring the teller’s disapproving glare, she bought one single-direction ticket to Charing Cross Station, and boarded the train, not looking back.

Chapter Text

Hermione stepped off the train at Charing Cross, finding her way to the nondescript little bar near the dodgy end of the road.

She turned the knob slowly, stepping into the grimy pub. It was… an odd place, she decided. People of all different sorts were there, some may not have been people, but she was not going to question that which she did not know.

She walked to the bar, and poked her head over the top to catch the bartender, a middle-aged balding man with a hunched back. “Hello, sir,” she started, “do you have an inkling as to how I can reach Diagon Alley? The letter listed bricks inside this pub, but I see no brick walls.”

The barkeeper turned at the small, confident voice that had asked him the question, and yelped when he saw the strange little girl. She had a veritable rat’s nest of hair on her head, as well as a missing tooth, a black eye, a crooked smile, and the warmest coffee-colored eyes he had ever seen.

She was covered in discolored bruises faded to yellow and purple, dried blood, and her eyes were too sunken and cheekbones too prominent, but was indubitably a beautiful young girl who needed assistance, and he took pity on her.

She was clearly there alone, after all, and couldn’t have been older than seventeen. “Well, for a start, I do believe we cannot let you loose in Diagon looking like that, my dear. I shall reserve you a room to clean yourself, and if it pleases you I may call my friend Minnie to assist.” At this, her face fell.

He realized she must not have any wizarding money, many muggleborns tended to face this problem. He led her carefully to room 17 with a platter of warm beef stew and potatoes, and promised to come back after calling Minnie.

He threw some Floo powder into his office fire, and stepped through.

“MINNIE,” he yelled, “I NEED YOUR PRESENCE AT THE CAULDRON!”

McGonagall’s affirmative was heard, and she burst into the room a moment later, following him through the Floo to the Cauldron. They walked over to room 17, and Tom cautiously knocked on the door before announcing his arrival and his companions.

Minerva walked through the door in concern, unsure what she had been summoned for, but it was quite clear the moment she saw a half-clothed girl on her knees at the foot of a bed sobbing into a blanket.

The girl was skin and bones, littered with healing bruises and dried blood. She had eaten much of the stew Tom brought her, and all of the potatoes, and it would do her well, as she was clearly malnourished. Minerva walked carefully over to her, staying in her line of sight as the girl’s cherry-brown hair crackled with waves of accidental magic.

She sat in front of the girl, holding her hands and removing them from her eyes, drawing the child into a hug. The girl froze at first, wide coffee eyes pinning Minerva with a desperate and fearful glare.

She seemed to deem Minerva safe, and melted into Minerva’s arms, evidently somewhat touch-starved, and hiccuped into Minerva’s shoulder. Minerva raised her hands to stroke the girl’s hair, which was unkempt and long, but no less pretty.

“May I ask your name, age, and what brought you here, mo chridhe? I am Minerva, and I am here to help.”

The child inhaled deeply, preparing for the reaction. Tom still did not know the story either, but wished to offer comfort if needed. She began her story from what she knew as the beginning.

“I don't know exactly how to begin speaking about this, so I'll just launch. I was found on the steps of a Dominican convent on the day of my birth, by a nun named Sister Hermenia. I am named for her, my name is Hermione Vivienne. My surname was Granger after my adoption, but in light of recent events, I wish to change it, so please refer to me as Hermione.

I am unaware as to any details about my birth parents, I have no names on my birth certificate other than my own. About four years ago, when I was seven and in Year Four, I was being bullied quite badly. Several other students dragged me to a washroom to beat me, and they succeeded, but at some point, I expelled an invisible force that knocked several of them into bathroom stall doors, and they were concussed.

After this, my adoptive father Richard, who was very religious and a schoolteacher, began referring to me as demonic, satanic, and every form of witch that exists with a negative connotation.

He refrained from laying a hand on me, merely using his words, until August fifth of this year. He began to beat me, lock me away in a closet for days and some nights, starve me, and harm my mother.”

At this, Minerva and Tom had grown very pale, and were appearing quite shocked. Hermione spoke about these terrible things so calmly, casually, as though they had happened to the neighbor child down the street that you didn’t like very much. She was just numb, staring blankly while in the midst of the memory.

“On August nineteenth, I believe that would be nine days ago today, correct?” Tom nodded, and she continued. “I awoke in the afternoon, and my father was gone. I went up to the top floor to take a shower and collect resources to run away, but when I entered the bathroom, I found the nearly decapitated corpse of my mother in the bath, where she had committed suicide the day before.”

Minerva led out a gasp at this point, causing Hermione to look up and pause. Minerva had tears running down her face, staring at Hermione in sheer awe for what the child had been through. 

“It’s alright Minerva, I know it was my fault she did so, and I’ve accepted it. However, it didn’t end there.

After that, my father arrived home, where he beat and raped me one last time before I blacked out. I woke up after having slammed his body into the wall and crushing his skull. I don’t know nor remember how I did so, after all, I am not even eleven years old, I am female, and I am small for my age and height.

When I came to, the police were there, and I was brought to the hospital, where I stayed for 7 days before receiving a Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry letter. On the eighth day, yesterday, I used the instructions to come here, as you all know, after escaping the hospital and burning down my family home.” 

Minerva and Tom both stood stunned, staring at this wonder. She didn’t have a home, a guardian, or friends, and she seemed to be limited in money and resources.

Minerva shook herself to the present quickly, thinking to the next week. “If you’re not averse to it, I can assist with getting you set up for wizarding life. My legal name is Minerva McGonagall, as I’m sure you recognize from the letter.”

At Hermione’s nod, Minerva continued. “I can use scholarship funds and my own funds to provide for your school materials and necessities, and can help you set up a wizarding bank account at Gringotts. Of course, I will ensure your dormitory is well stocked once you are at Hogwarts, and you will have myself as a your mentor no matter your house, due to my Deputy Head status. I suggest you get some sleep, Hermione, and I will have Tom bring you some food and drink, as well as Dreamless Sleep and anti-anxiety potions.”

Hermione nodded her approval, her exhaustion apparent, and gave Minerva and Tom one last grateful hug before fetching a set of clothes and walking to the showers.

Minerva and Tom stayed behind, staring at one another in utter amazement. How this girl was alive at all was a mystery, but they knew the world would be better off if she stayed alive, and they were obligated to protect her.

With one last glance at the bathroom door, they left to take care of what needed doing.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Hermione awoke to Tom’s voice softly calling through her door, notifying her of impending breakfast and shopping with Minerva.

She dressed and got ready quickly, slipping out of her room to go to the downstairs pub/dining area where Tom was. As she walked in, he glanced up and shot her a warm smile.

How can these people be so kind to me, don’t they know I’ve killed my parents? She gave a weak smile, and sat at the breakfast bar before him. Climbing into the high seat, she took in her surroundings before the bells on the door chimed and Minerva walked in.

Minerva chose the seat next to the quiet Hermione. She was practically elfin in her delicate proportions, with her wide and expressive amber eyes observing the world, her fine jawline and tiny nose, and her regal cheekbones. Noticing Hermione had leashed her unruly cinnamon hair into a haphazard bun, Minerva could see her face much more clearly, and the worrying thinness of her skin and bruising still concerned her. 

Minerva and Hermione began eating plates of eggs and French toast in a comfortable silence, parsing through their exigent thoughts.

Hermione broke the silence first. “Where are we looking to shop today after my account setup? I have my father’s bank card and plenty of muggle bills, so I doubt I will be in need of too much assistance for now, but we will see.”

Minerva instantly saw the girl’s main concern. “Your tuition, room, and board will be covered by our scholarship fund, but today we will determine your financial situation. I wanted to ensure that you are in agreement with having me as your legal guardian for the time being, and we can confirm that at Gringotts bank today if it suits you.”

This seemed to placate Hermione some, and Minerva took it in stride. She led Hermione to a stone wall outside of the Cauldon, and tapped several bricks in a simple pattern with her wand. 

Hermione gasped as the bricks reorganized themselves, creating an arch beyond which lay a crowded street.

As they stepped through, Hermione’s awe only grew; the Tudor style townhouses and shops on either side of the street were pitched inwards, the wares themselves were strange ("Who needs iridescent beetle scales? Six Knuts per wing, and I’ll throw in an extra if you buy in bulk!"), and there were dozens of bizarrely-attired people within twenty feet, let alone throughout the entire alley.

Minerva sensed her distress, and gently pulled her by the hand to venture deeper into the bustling little town. Traversing the cobblestone roads on foot was difficult; Hermione was shoved this direction and that by passerby, but guided by Minerva, they arrived at Gringotts within fifteen minutes. 

The stately white building was easily four or five stories above the rest of the surrounding structures, and its imperious Corinthian columns and uniformed guards put Hermione on edge immediately.

Minerva crouched to Hermione’s level and placed herself directly in Hermione’s line of sight, blocking the overwhelming new environment and making eye contact with her. The hyperventilation slowed, and Hermione’s heart rate decreased from the jackrabbit pace it had inhabited previously.

They both took a deep breath and continued to the portico. The guards on either side were not what Hermione had thought, up this close they were quite short, albeit slightly sharp-looking. Non-human humanoids, though Hermione. Huh. She gave them a grateful nod as they held the door and thanked them.

Minerva noticed her curiosity toward the guardians of Gringotts, and quickly explained to her their situation.

“The beings that run Gringotts are known as goblins. Their race are the best smiths, warriors, and metalworkers, and they are trusted to run the wizarding bank. They make the safest vaults, use the most secure wards, and handle everything from an outside perspective.” 

Together they approached the goblin that managed the main floor, who was seated at a high desk weighing large golden coins. Minerva waved Hermione forward to address the goblin with her problem.

“Hello sir, my name is Hermione Vivienne, and I am going to go to Hogwarts on the first, but my parents were Muggles. I have their assets to convert to wizarding currency, and I need to open an account. Are you able to assist me with that?”

The goblin assessed her from head to toe, eyeing her trainers and jeans. She passed whatever his invisible test was, as he addressed her in return. “Hello Miss Hermione, do you have a family name? You may call me Blodhgar. I would be delighted to be at your service.” 

Hermione’s well-trained etiquette benefited her greatly, it’s unusual for a goblin to be so warm to a wizard, thought Minerva as she watched the exchange.

Hermione explained her dislike for her surname to Blodhgar, and he understood her issue. In order to make the account, however, she needed a surname, and thus she needed to select a new one.

“Is there any chance you can do a DNA or heritage test? I would like to at the least determine a region to pick a name from,” she frowned in consideration, “I never knew my birth parents, so I don't know my background at all.”

Blodhgar shared with her the procedure for the test, and upon her approval, they stepped into a side room for privacy during the test. He pricked her finger with an ornate pin, and let three drops of blood fall into a basin. He then poured in a potion, and muttered a short incantation. A swirling map glimmered into place above the basin, centered on a region in the Northwestern fringes of France.

Hermione stared at it for a moment uncomprehendingly. She was a British citizen with a British passport and a British accent, how had she ended up in Vauxhall? Her birth parents were listed beneath the birthplace, two names she had never seen before, but resonated familiarly: Émilie Manon Gaultier, deceased & Guillaume Alexandre Charbonnet, deceased. 

She glanced hesitantly at Blodhgar, who gave her an encouraging nod. He nodded to the contract for legal change of name, where the last input needed was her new chosen surname. She lifted the quill and carefully printed “Hermione Vivienne Gaultier-Charbonnet” with a teary grin.

She set down the quill and directed her focus to the goblin waiting patiently. “You have my everlasting gratitude, sir. Thank you.” Blodhgar gave a bow, clearly very pleased at the respect the child showed him. She was certainly unusual. 

They left the room to return to the desk, where Minerva sat in wait. “Miss Gaultier-Charbonnet has selected her name and altered it legally, and once you sign this, Madame McGonagall, you will be her legal guardian in the eyes of the Wizengamot.”

He slid a piece of paper to Minerva, who signed it with a flourish, thrilled for the future of the amazing child. Hermione gave her a bone-crushing hug, standing on tiptoes to press a kiss to her cheek. From their conversations, the two got along swimmingly, and were similarly matched in intellect, and Hermione was excited to call Minerva her guardian.

There was only one step remaining in their Gringotts adventure: currency conversion. 

Blodhgar led them to the vaults, describing the system of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, and its relation to the pound. One Galleon at that moment was about five pounds, and seventeen Sickles to a Galleon, twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle.

Hermione pulled her wallet out of her rucksack, and placed her father’s bank card and mother’s cash on the desk. Blodhgar counted it quickly, tallying the totals on receipts. “Miss Gaultier-Charbonnet, you have a current balance in pounds of £5971.24, which equates to 1,194 Galleons, 4 Sickles, and 7 Knuts. Would you like to convert it all?”

Hermione glanced to Minerva, who nodded confirmation. She voiced this to the goblin, who snapped his fingers to disappear the muggle money. In its place remained a key with a number 236 on it. “May I lead you to your vaults?” 

When they got to Vault 236, and Blodhgar opened it, Hermione’s eyes grew wide. The room was filled with gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and copper Knuts. She pulled out a coin purse. “How many of each should I bring for supplies today?” Minerva retrieved the list and scanned it quickly. “I believe 40 Galleons and a small handful of Sickles and Knuts would suffice,” she nudged Hermione toward the coins. 

Back on the surface once the Gringotts tasks were complete, Minerva thought it only appropriate that their first stop be Flourish and Blotts, knowing how much of a bookworm Hermione was from their conversations.

They stepped inside the shop, and Hermione’s eyes practically jumped out of her head in excitement. “Go, mo chridhe, I’ve given you the book list, and anything else you wish to spend your money on will not bother me.” At this, Hermione practically jumped with glee and sprinted off. 

Pacing the aisles, Hermione quickly found all of her textbooks, as well as several books in subjects that seemed fascinating. Most notably, she had found a text on Occlumency, which from the blurb was a sort of mental shield against mind-reading magic Legilimency, and a text on contemporary Transfiguration innovations. Minerva had spoken some about the subject, and it seemed like a superb subject

She moved in the direction of the register, turning a corner and slamming directly into a tall, warm body. This knocked her off balance, and she was only still on her feet because of the two solid arms gripping her shoulders gently.

Tipping her head up to see her rescuer, she noticed her savior was dressed scrumptiously, in a grey dress shirt and black robes with a rich green lining.

When Hermione’s eyes reached her face, the woman wore an intense deep green stare, a regally carved face with magnificent cheekbones and a sharply pointed nose, and had glossy deep brown coiled hair reminiscent of 1950s-era pin curls.

As they made eye contact, a lightning bolt shot through Hermione, like a puzzle piece cementing itself into place. The woman startled quickly, the briefest lapse in her composure, before lasering in on Hermione’s face and rearranging.

“Hello, darling. My name is Andromeda Black. As much as I adore holding you like this, I typically require a few dates first.”

This last was said with a playful smirk that made Hermione’s brain short-circuit and a deep blush rise from her chest to her hairline.

“Who are you, darling?”

Chapter Text

Andromeda 

On the morning of August twenty-ninth, Andromeda Seraphina Black had ventured to the Flourish and Blotts in Diagon in search of a very particular book.

She knew Minerva was on the hunt for a very specific edition of Transfiguration Today that was released in the 1970s but sold out very quickly, and thus Minnie had to borrow a copy when it was released and return it eventually. She was very averse to spending so much money on one thing for herself, but Andromeda was more than happy to purchase it for her, Merlin knew she had the money.

She had placed it on back order, and thus could go pick it up, but before she went to the register to do so, she felt a strange urge to parse through the other Transfiguration options in the section. On her way to the aisle, she ran headlong into a small figure moving at high speed.

As they collided, Andy caught the child, who appeared to be about seventeen. The moment her hands touched the girl - for she was definitely a girl - a monumental shock ran through her whole body, like a massive bolt of energy striking her at her soul’s core. Her mark beneath her right breast sparked, almost what could be called a tickle, but much less innocent. 

She took a step back and surveyed her witch. If she remembered the date of her marking correctly, the girl was…. Andy’s eyes widened and hands shook, for the girl who appeared to be of legal age and full maturity was not yet eleven.

She had too much magic in her core, too much knowledge in her eyes, and too much sadness in her aura to be physically or mentally eleven, but she most certainly was. Andromeda felt queasy when she noticed the girl’s soft curves and gorgeous auburn hair, and when she met the girl’s eyes, she practically melted. Her witch had the largest amber eyes, filled with emotion and sadness. 

Andy knew she would have to break the silence, but she didn’t want to let on that she knew anything and scare off the tiny witch before anything even began. “Hello, darling. My name is Andromeda Black. As much as I adore supporting you like this, I typically require a few dates first.”

As she said that, she gave a sly smirk, thinking about how jealous Bella would be knowing Andy met her first. The girl’s skin flushed, reddening from below her collar to her hairline in an almost comically deep blush. Andy wanted to know her name and background, obviously, so asked just that.

“My name is Hermione Gaultier-Charbonnet, and I’m nearly eleven. I’m looking for my guardian Minerva, have you seen her? I suspect she’s well known, from the amount of people who’ve stopped us today.”

Andromeda’s mind raced with this new information. So her name was Hermione, and she was evidently French, even with her pronounced Scouser's accent. Secondly, she was indeed ten years old, which was nearly unbelievable if Andy didn’t know it was the truth.

Thirdly, Hermione was Minnie’s ward. They were obviously not related, so Andy’s mind worked a mile a minute trying to figure out why she was in Minnie’s care. “I am actually here to pick up a purchase intended for Minnie, so if we can make our way to the pickup counter, I can help you find her afterwards.” Hermione nodded her assent, and they quickly found the magazine at the counter, paid, and left. 

Looking around the street, Andy figured Minnie had to be inside the Cauldron, talking to Tom. They were pretty friendly, and it was one of the few places in Diagon to get a good drink of any sort.

She relayed this to Hermione, who agreed quickly, saying, “Of course! Tom did intend to talk to Minerva today, I believe it was regarding payment for my rooms. I should inform them that I now have the funds to pay for room and board, but I can also earn my room via working.” This further confounded Andy, but she set it aside and they entered the Cauldron. 

Minnie was at the bar talking to Tom over a glass of firewhisky, engaged in an animated conversation over what appeared to be an important topic. As they approached, Andy caught snippets of “Richard and Catharine,” whoever those were, and “precocious magical ability.”

They shut up instantly as Hermione came into view, simultaneously turning to Andy and Hermione. Minnie’s eyes narrowed as she scanned Andy as a threat, and eventually relaxed when she saw that Hermione was comfortable. “Mia, I was just speaking to Tom about you, and Andy, what are you doing here?”

Out of the blue, Hermione’s eyes watered and she looked on the verge of tears and in distress. She carefully walked around Minnie to the stairs, where she broke into an ascending run. Minnie looked very concerned and utterly lost, so Andy elbowed her to spur her into action.

The two of them left Tom to tend the bar and patrons and rushed upstairs. Minnie led Andy to Room 17, where Andy assumed Hermione was staying. Minnie cast Alohomora, and gently opened the door. Hermione was curled in a ball under her desk, with several bloody slits running horizontally along her arms.

Minnie rushed to her side, offering a gentle hug and kissing the crown of her head cautiously while Hermione sobbed. Andy summoned a small chocolate from the bar downstairs, and slid over to the desk to crouch with Minnie. 

“Hermione, mo chruidhe, what happened?” Minnie whispered to a hiccuping Hermione. She raised her head, and explained, “My adoptive mother Catharine used to call me that. It was her special nickname for me when I was younger, and it was just between us. I’ve never let anyone else call me that, and now that I know I will certainly never hear it from her again, it made me very sad, and I felt quite guilty. After all, it is my fault she committed suicide, and my fault her life had been so terrible that she felt the need to do so.”

She said it so casually, it very nearly tore Andy in two. She had now heard a small portion of Hermione’s story, but knew it was only the tip of the iceberg. Minnie gripped her into a tight embrace, and Hermione seemed to deflate, broken and empty. She sobbed onto Minnie’s shoulder for a moment before raising her head to Andy.

“Thank you for your patience and kindness to me. I’m sure that you think I’m some sort of monster for all of that,” Hermione whispered. “I would love to get to know you better, Andromeda, if you are amenable to that.” Andromeda felt her own tears begin tracking down her face as she nodded her assent, before reaching out to pull Hermione into another hug. Andromeda’s hair crackled brightly as they held one another; Hermione shivered under the weight of their meeting.

After a little while, Andromeda and Minerva lay Hermione in her bed; she had drifted to sleep in Andromeda’s arms, mind and body exhausted but at ease.

With one final glance at the remarkable little witch, Andromeda glanced over at Minerva inquiringly. “Any clue where her robes are? I’d like to change her into pyjamas, if we can.” Minerva thought about it for a moment, worried whether being undressed would trigger a trauma response in Hermione.

She seems to be exhausted, she’s practically knocked out right now. May as well make her comfortable. Minerva nodded and retrieved clean pyjamas. Andy did a quick divesto, turning to give her privacy, but not before seeing something shocking on her spine. 

Firstly, the girl’s body was littered with bruises and scars, most of which put Andy and Minnie’s to shame.

She was covered on her bottom half with a blanket, so Andromeda quickly got Minnie’s attention to what she had noticed. The girl, Hermione Vivienne, had three soulmate markings; a blue spiral, a black horse’s head, and a green serpent wrapped around a white daffodil. Andy’s eyes went straight to the spiral. Morgana’s tits, she thought. I suppose that's the confirmation that I found her.

Minnie’s eyes were wide, three soulmate markings was unheard of in modern history. “This is a very special girl, I suppose.” Andromeda raised an eyebrow and turned to Minnie at that, and lifted her shirt to show her spiral on her ribs. “Indeed, Minerva. Who would have guessed.”