Chapter Text
July 1995
It had been an all-around miserable morning, the entirety of Hampstead assailed by stinging sheets of rain that whipped against Hermione’s bedroom window. She’d watched the sky darken as the hours progressed, bringing an onslaught of heavy winds that bent the saplings her father had fostered so fastidiously. It had been such unusual weather for her unassuming village, as though Thor had set upon her home and translated his power in jagged, booming arcs across the sky.
Frowning at her reflection in the windowpane, she stepped away from her post, feeling an ominous foreboding blossom in her chest. It wasn’t strictly the weather that had her feeling off-kilter, as much as the unfamiliar static in the air setting her teeth on edge. It lacked the distinct essence of magic, so she could hardly bother the Order with something trivial, but it was decidedly unnatural. Even then, she had no proof to support her misgivings, so she likely faced a condescending pat on the head if she ever broached the topic with her professors.
No.
It would do no good to suggest anything out of the ordinary, even if it meant ignoring the suffocating feeling of being dragged beneath swelling tides. The disquiet buzzed along Hermione’s skin with every passing minute, leaving her feeling inexplicably antsy. Donning a jumper, she slipped into the hallway and wound her way downstairs to pace before the sitting room’s bay window.
Something was going to happen, and she could feel it like a splinter in her flesh, waiting for the unknown to unveil itself. Perhaps she might have smothered her unease had it not been for the nausea roiling in her stomach, threatening to purge her breakfast onto the carpet. Though it left her shaky on her feet, Hermione could not stop her frantic pacing, knowing that sitting would likely drive her to madness.
“Hermione?”
With a startled gasp, she spun on her heel to face her mother, distressed to discover her wand already pressed into the palm of her hand. “Mum? What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing, dear,” Jean said distractedly, rifling through her work bag. “Your father and I need to make a quick detour to the office this morning, and I wanted to check in on you before we left.”
Lowering her arm, Hermione straightened out of her defensive posture, attempting to show polite interest in her mother’s hurried explanation.
“—and he has an abscess, naturally, so we need to see to that rather urgently. If you’re hungry, we’ve left tea out on the table that you can help yourself to and—”
Careful not to draw too much attention to herself, she stowed her wand in her pocket and joined her mother’s side, interrupting, “I’m fine, Mum. I have a few things I’d like to get done, so you’re fine to stay as long as you need.”
“Excellent.” Jean smiled brightly and leaned forward to buss her daughter on the forehead. “You’re quite warm, Hermione. There’s some paracetamol in the medicine cupboard.”
“I’m fine,” Hermione stressed, herding her mother to the foyer where her father stood waiting. “I’ll see you both later.”
Her father offered her a smile before ushering his wife out the door, shielding the pair from the turbulent weather with a bright umbrella. Waving once, she twisted the lock and looked out the window, grimacing at the growing intensity of the pelting rain. She rubbed her sweaty palms over her shorts, finally noticing the odd dichotomy of wearing a heavy jumper in the height of summer. It was as though the heatwave had barely registered on the peripheries, smothered by whatever strange phenomenon was occurring.
Once her parents’ car had pulled out onto the street, Hermione retreated to their kitchen, empty save for the tawny owl affectionately known as Artemis. The bird kipped in her cage by the window, undisturbed by the clap of thunder rattling the crockery on the shelves. Seeing such peace amid the tempest raging in her breast was odd, and she dug through a nearby drawer, quickly withdrawing a pen.
After scrawling an almost illegible note on a piece of newspaper, she prodded the owl awake and said, “I urgently need you to take this to Professor McGonagall. When you return, I’ll give you all the toast you can stomach.”
If the owl could talk, no doubt there would have been a particularly cutting remark, but Artemis retrieved the note without a fuss, taking wing through the kitchen window. Clutching the sink with a blanching grip, Hermione groaned lowly as magic erupted from her fingertips, fashioning dark etches into the steel face. It was distressingly abnormal, and she sank to the floor as it passed, trembling in the aftermath.
It felt an aeon before the doorbell rang, and she heaved herself upright with herculean effort, seeing magic splintering off her skin in erratic bursts. Every step was frustratingly unsteady, dragging her to the front door slowly, making her want to weep tears of helplessness. Similarly, the lock was a cumbersome task, and by the time she finally unveiled Professor McGonagall, Hermione was seconds from hysteria.
“Help me,” she whined through clenched teeth, hugging her arms around herself as the intensity of her magic grew. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I can’t control it.”
Before the older woman could answer, something shattered in the foyer, embedding porcelain shards in the walls. A frown furrowed McGonagall’s brows to see the debris littering the floor, and she withdrew her wand to cast a Patronus. “Come immediately,” she urged, watching the silvery feline bound into the darkened sky.
“We’d best move further indoors,” the woman muttered, careful not to touch Hermione as they retreated into the sitting room. The front door slammed behind them as though touched by a gust of wind, vibrating in its frame.
Now fully safeguarded once more, Hermione bent at the waist and moaned painfully, slamming a shockwave of magic into the surrounding walls. The bookshelves buckled unsteadily as the anchors gave way and toppled to the ground, spilling books along the sitting room carpet. The lightbulbs in the lamps burst in the aftermath, hurtling minute shards of glass through the room as smoke permeated the room.
The rain-burdened skies darkened the room, and Professor McGonagall lit the tip of her wand with a silent charm, casting an eerie glow. Her expression was bewildered, but she stood unaffected by the eruptions of magic, having secured herself behind her shields. It became a matter of waiting for company, knowing there was little the older woman could do but watch events unfold.
Two catastrophic outbursts tore holes into the adjacent walls as Professors Dumbledore and Snape appeared, inspecting the ravaged room with matching expressions of surprise. Before either could enquire further, Hermione clutched her head and screamed, folding her body in on itself. Magic ripped from her skin in the most significant wave of magic yet, knocking out the power grids of the surrounding homes.
“I’ve never seen anything of the like,” McGonagall said with concern, looking over at the girl. “She’s been growing steadily worse since I arrived.”
Dumbledore stepped over the debris without a reply and came to Hermione’s side, lowering himself to his haunches. Gingerly, he placed his hand against her sticky cheek, pulling back sharply as though burnt.
“How peculiar.”
He carefully swept a tangle of hair from her neck, spying inflamed etchings marked deep into her skin, oozing blood into her jumper. “We should return her to Hogwarts immediately. It is unwise to keep her here among unsuspecting Muggles. Set to rights what you can, Minerva and leave words with her parents.” Dumbledore straightened. “Severus and I will take her to the infirmary. Join us as soon as you are able.”
“Do you have any idea—”
“Not here,” he cut the older woman off with a sudden wave of his hand. “Whatever you tell Miss Granger’s parents, ensure it is vague. We cannot afford to have this reach the wrong people.”
Though Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, she nodded in deference, lifting her wand to repair and mount the fallen bookcases. Dumbledore reached down to grip Hermione’s forearm and, with the help of Professor Snape, heaved her to her feet. They were pulled into the ether and disappeared from the small village of Hampstead back to the grounds of Hogwarts.
When they arrived in the infirmary, the headmaster left Professor Snape to lead her to the cot, instructing the man in hushed tones. Meanwhile, he disappeared into the adjacent office searching for Madam Pomfrey, carrying a hurried conversation that Hermione could barely make out.
With her professor’s help, she was situated on the cot, ignoring the acute humiliation of being so vulnerable in front of her most unlikeable professor. There was a certain indignity to it, and it didn’t help that her magic arced wildly from her skin, slamming into the wards he’d erected around himself. Perhaps it was another grievance he’d seek to blame her for, gathering ammunition for the next unsuspecting moment.
It was to her surprise, then, that Snape was gentle in his touch, using the kind of ginger manner the headmaster employed earlier. Whatever scathing remark Hermione had expected was absent; instead, there was a weighty silence as they awaited Dumbledore’s return.
For whatever reason—an instance she didn’t want to analyse—her magic seemed to seek Snape out most frequently, bombarding his erected shields with heavy strikes. If he noticed, the man said nothing, seemingly unmoved by the cacophony of light and sound reverberating in the room like a thunderclap. He called to this unfamiliar power in her breast in a way that had her squirming with embarrassment, wondering when he would bear down on her for the audacity.
Hermione hissed suddenly, feeling as though she’d been struck, and she lifted her blouse, staring at the unblemished skin in confusion. Whatever magic this was had left no noticeable mark on her skin, yet she could feel it like an acid seeping into her veins and tissue like a poison. It dawned on her that she might have been cursed, but the likelihood of having encountered a Death Eater after she’d spent most hours at home seemed vanishing small.
Only then—as confusion and fear mounted—did Dumbledore return, the mediwitch in step alongside him. The scowl on Hermione’s expression couldn’t be helped, as though she found his absence insulting, leaving her to confront this nightmare alone. But he took no offence, simply gazing over his half-moon spectacles as Madam Pomfrey cast diagnostic charms.
It took the last vestiges of her patience not to raise her voice in frustration, but Professor McGonagall interrupted as she stepped through the Floo, dusting the front of her robes. Like the others, Professor Snape was growing increasingly exasperated, and he glared at the headmaster, snapping, “Well?”
“Now that we are all here and accounted for, I believe it safe to divulge my suspicions.” Dumbledore glanced at Hermione with naked curiosity. “But I must ask your age, Miss Granger.”
Madam Pomfrey interjected, saying, “It seems she’s nearly seventeen.”
“How is that possible? Her classmates are only barely fifteen.”
Hermione cringed from her head of house’s suspicious tone, guiltily muttering something about her over-indulgence in her third year, using her time-turner with reckless abandon. She did not intend to tack an extra ten months to the permitted schedule, but the temptation to anchor herself in the Restricted Section was too great. Perhaps she’d exhausted herself beyond belief—almost grateful to return the time-turner at year-end—but she didn’t feel regret or remorse even now.
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. “Then that certainly explains a great deal.”
“We would appreciate similar clarity, Albus,” McGonagall snapped, barely flinching as the newest wave of magic hurtled from Hermione’s body. “We do not have all day to riddle through your hints.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels as he gathered his thoughts. “Tell me, Minerva, what you know of the caste of Circe?”
“Come now”—McGonagall wore a moue of exasperation, her frame rigid—“fairy tales?”
“Humour me, if you will.”
The older woman watched him warily before saying, “Of what little I’ve read and heard over the years, the legend states that the caste of Circe is a group of extraordinarily gifted women born in times of great need.” The lines around her mouth hardened as she continued, “But there have been many an era of need since and no resurgence of a daughter of Circe. This is folly.”
Dumbledore walked to Hermione’s side and looked down at her with an unreadable expression. “Perhaps not, Minerva. From the texts that were passed down to Hogwarts by Merlin himself, it is believed that the women are not revealed to the world until they reach the age of majority—”
“Which she hasn’t,” McGonagall interrupted tersely. “Poppy just said she’s yet to reach seventeen.”
He held up a hand to interrupt her objection before saying, “Variation is likely in all things. But in this instance, I believe that when the daughters reach their majorities, whatever magic had lain dormant is suddenly unleashed in one fell swoop. As you’ve witnessed, it is perilous to many, and only the strongest of the caste can survive it.”
“This is madness.”
The headmaster glanced at his potions master, looking obnoxiously unruffled despite the circumstances. “On the contrary, Severus. Though you might believe me misled, I do not think this conjecture.” Looking at Hermione, Dumbledore said, “If you would be so kind as to remove your jumper and blouse, Miss Granger. Madam Pomfrey will help you if you are unable.”
It was mortifying to submit to such a bizarre request, and she allowed the mediwitch to pull her garments over her head, sitting awkwardly as the adults seemed to lean in collectively. There were muted gasps and hushed words of surprise as they studied her, their proximity enough to make her want to crawl out of her skin. She had to bite her cheek to withhold a hostile remark, waiting in agitated silence as they studied her with unabashed interest.
“But how can that be?” Madam Pomfrey asked eventually. “If recorded history is to be believed, she would have to be the first in that caste for thousands of years. Why now? Why her?”
Why her, indeed, Hermione thought irritably, hissing through her teeth as soon as someone traced the skin of her back. “If everyone could stop touching me, that would be enormously appreciated.”
Her snarled words sprung reason into the minds of the adults, and they pulled away, creating an appropriate distance between them.
“Forgive us, Miss Granger. You are quite the novelty.”
“Perhaps,” she threw back, growing increasingly agitated as she sat half-naked and on display, “but I can’t imagine any of you would enjoy being prodded and ogled. Why not you, Professor Dumbledore? Shall we not all undress and cross every boundary known to man?”
The man inclined his head in acknowledgement, eliciting a touch of remorse for her unkind sentiments. “Yes, I imagine it must feel vulnerable to be in your position, but rest assured, we will not discuss this matter with anyone outside this room. We cannot do so unless we want to jeopardise your safety in any way.”
“Why would this”—she gestured at herself—“pose any danger to me?”
“If you are indeed a daughter of Circe, you have the distinct advantage of being one of the most powerful magical wielders. The possibilities to harness your magic are endless, from blood rites to sexual rituals that would allow it to flourish. It sounds so harmless in that context, but in the wrong hands, you could find yourself permanently bound to the caster whether or not you choose such a fate.”
His penetrating gaze made the hair on her arms stand on end. “Can you only begin to imagine the limitless power Lord Voldemort could control simply by binding you to a Death Eater?”
“Albus, you’re going to scare the girl,” Madam Pomfrey muttered disapprovingly.
“Even you must see the necessity,” he said firmly, glancing briefly at the older woman before returning his regard to Hermione. “No one can know what transpired today, not even your most trusted friends. You are a dangerous asset, and you cannot demonstrate this newfound power to anyone for your own sake. Those runes must stay hidden, Miss Granger.”
Hermione stammered, “But sir, the bathrooms—”
“You will be granted private quarters while you reside at Hogwarts. Should anyone enquire, direct them to us. We need—”
Pain flared up her back like a raging inferno, and she grabbed Dumbledore’s bare hand, unaware that it seemed to cause him significant pain. It was unrelenting agony, and just as she made to scream, an immense burst of energy blasted from Hermione’s magical core, shattering the windows. As glass rained down on the infirmary, she glanced around the room, seeing her teachers’ unmoving bodies splayed before her.
Breathing shakily, she stumbled as she rose, feeling disorientated. She brought her hands up to her face, noting the slight tremor and faint sheen of light emanating from her skin. Without thought spared to her rousing teachers, Hermione navigated the debris to the fractured mirror across the room. A part of her didn’t want to confront what she might find, but she braced herself, twisting to bare her back to the mirror.
A loud gasp shattered the silence as she spied rows of deeply embedded etchings, indecipherable runes inflamed and raw in her flesh. The foreign magic had marked Hermione from the nape of her neck to the waistline of her shorts, intricate strokes engraved in deep valleys over every exposed inch. It was as horrifying as remarkable, each rune precise and delicate regardless of the depth it had been gouged.
Gingerly, she touched the closest run she could reach and barely suppressed her scream, feeling searing agony beneath her flesh. It was enough to bring a grown man to his knees, and it took herculean effort not to collapse in the wake of it. Hermione had half a mind to wrench her brassiere free, suddenly uncaring that her professors stood mere yards away. How she’d managed to wear a blouse was mystifying, and she had to question the magic that had kept her shielded until this moment.
Before she returned to the others, she scrutinised herself, noting the ethereal glow of her body. Otherwise, she looked perfectly ordinary, except for the refined and mature features, giving the appearance of one in early adulthood. No one would notice unless their searching gazes were deliberate, which meant Ron and Harry would remain blissfully ignorant. The only danger lay with Lavender and Parvati, their unfriendly inspections of her appearance near constant.
“What now?” she asked eventually, her modesty forgotten as she walked to where they stood. “If I’m such a dangerous asset, I don’t imagine my schooling will continue as it has.”
Dumbledore shook his head, taking a careful step towards her. “I recommend we start immediate private study with the three of us. I take it you’ve heard of Occlumency.”
“In my reading, perhaps.”
“I will endeavour to teach you what I know of the skill as private lessons throughout the year. You will attend my office every Monday evening following dinner, and we will work through the various exercises you’ll need to master it.” Turning to his companions, he added, “Professor Snape will address your defensive and offensive skills—honing and improving what proficiency you possess now—while Professor McGonagall will cover the intricacies of pure-blood society.”
“Is such tutoring strictly necessary?”
Dumbledore nodded gravely, glancing over the mess of wood and glass atop the stone floor. “It would be irresponsible of us to unleash you upon this world without a thorough grounding in what would either strengthen or derail your power. You might have thought yourself insignificant in the grand scheme of things in your youth, Miss Granger, but now you sit at the epicentre of this world, watching as us mere mortals orbit around you.”
“That seems exaggerated, sir.”
Identical nods were shared by Professors Snape and McGonagall, and the headmaster inclined his head in acknowledgement of their scepticism. “For now, possibly. But you will advance beyond your peers, and then you will discover the truth to my words. With the proper education, you will surpass even your mentors, standing leagues above us all.”
“I have emphatically no desire to do any of that,” Hermione said harshly, digging her nails into her thighs. “I am not some saviour to be celebrated when Harry has already embraced that mantle!”
Dumbledore muttered something to Madam Pomfrey that had her hurrying to the Potions closet and swinging the doors aside. “You are the advantage we have hoped for, Miss Granger—the power the Dark Lord knows not. You are not a competitor in this war.”
Hermione didn’t miss Professor Snape’s stiffening frame at the declaration, and she didn’t cow beneath his intense regard, lifting her chin in challenge. But in the silence of their shared gaze, she finally noticed the odd tugging in her magic—in the space below her breast—that pulled to the centre of the room. It felt like it was searching for something—someone—and she could feel it begging to be acknowledged.
“What of the avowed chastity, Albus? We can’t reasonably expect a teenage girl to remain virginal.” McGonagall looked distinctly uncomfortable as she voiced the point, her lips pursed. “This isn’t the era of Merlin any longer.”
The headmaster chuckled, looking disturbingly at ease given the topic. “Perhaps it won’t matter. With writings of adelfés psychés—a preordained mate—it’s possible she could be exempt from those rulings.” Inclining his head to the mediwitch, he paused as the woman popped the lid off of an unmarked tub of balm, rubbing large globs of the solution onto Hermione’s back. Relief was immediate, and Hermione let her head fall forward as the cooling sensation of the ointment dressed her irritated skin. “Soulmates are rare but not unheard of, and the daughters of Circe may be blessed with such an opportunity.”
Professor Snape snorted once, but it was devoid of humour and sodden with derision. “Blessed seems an odd choice of word, Albus, not least because of the ultimate death sentence she’d face if her mate died. Or is she set apart from her peers in that way, too?”
“Now, Severus,” Dumbledore said genially, “I didn’t think you a believer of soulmates. Perhaps the lady doth protest too much.” Ignoring the soft growl from the Potions master’s direction, the old man continued, “We have no definitive proof that life forces are shared between bond mates. You are not predestined to die just because of a few instances of coincidence. In fact, the bonded mate often enjoys an extended life span alongside the daughter, from what I’ve read.”
It was odd to agree with her most reviled professor, but she remarked, “You seem to know a great deal on the topic, Professor Dumbledore. Perhaps you would allow me to examine these texts of Merlin if only to reach similar conclusions for myself.”
“You are welcome to the tomes whenever you are present in my office. I will endeavour to set time apart from your Occlumency study so you might have time to look those over.” Turning to his companions, he added, “I will require a vow of silence from each of you. Think of it not as mistrust on my part but rather much-needed protection of our youngest member of the Order.”
“You mean to induct me? Surely not.”
Dumbledore sent her a patient smile over his shoulder. “Naturally, you will be included in matters of the Order if only for your continued safety. It would be unwise on our part to leave you without the knowledge to protect yourself.”
“The way you do, Harry?”
The lines of the headmaster’s face hardened almost imperceptibly in response, and he threaded his hands behind his back, directing his gaze at the shattered windows. “Though I may seem callous, Miss Granger, understand that much of what I elect to do has been done with great thought to everyone’s safety.”
“But even you must know that if you need to protect anyone, sir, it should be Harry. He should have the induction to the Order.”
“Yes,” he murmured quietly, watching Madam Pomfrey wrap bandages around Hermione’s middle, “and no. While Harry does indeed require the sort of safety and security that only Hogwarts and the Order can afford him, you are now our priority. If I am correct in my assumptions—and I imagine my colleagues agree with me—your continued protection within these halls could mean the difference between life and death.
“It is a terrible decision to involve children in the war, and I do regret it; however, you and Harry mark the end of Lord Voldemort’s reign.” Carefully patting the sticky skin of her cheek with the back of his hand, he finished, “I only ask that you trust us.”
Hermione’s attention shifted from Dumbledore’s genial mien and landed on Snape, only to find that his eyes were already upon her. His expression was unreadable—seemingly carved in stone—but she couldn’t imagine he was any less disturbed than the rest.
The call to the centre of the room pulsed sharply again, and she asked him, “Do you believe Professor Dumbledore is right, sir?”
It surprised them both that she’d enquired after his opinion, seeing the brief look of confusion puckering his brow. Perhaps, in another life, he would have barked something cutting, but McGonagall interrupted as he hesitated, saying, “Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in the middle of this, Miss Granger, but I think it would be too great a risk to pretend there is nothing afoot. Rather an excess of caution.”
“Indeed,” the headmaster agreed. “This development need not be the sort of omen I think you may consider it, Miss Granger.”
Having yet to shrink from Professor Snape’s increasingly severe expression, Hermione blinked once and turned to the older man, giving him a nod in deference. “As you say, sir.”