Chapter Two
Regulus Black was her father’s name.
Hermione had rarely ever heard anything about her father, much less his name.
Her Mum had been raised in a conservative, Catholic household. A lot of her childhood had been spent with her dreams and goals suppressed, being told that the most successful she could ever be was when she became a mother and wife. She barely talked about her childhood. Hermione had never even met her mother’s parents. The extent of their family was her mother’s longtime receptionist, Ellie, and Juliana, who had been Hermione’s babysitter since she was a toddler whenever her Mum needed to work when Hermione wasn’t at school. The very few times her Mum ever discussed her family, it was with a tone full of pain and betrayal.
All Hermione knew about her father was how her parents had met.
Her Mum had moved to London on a scholarship to Oxford. There, she’d been roommates with Celeste, who moonlighted on the weekend as a bassist in an indie band, The London Preachers. In an attempt to spread her wings, Amina often went out to Celeste’s small pub performances on the weekends.
Through her friendship with Celeste, she found a safety net and haven in music. When she felt wholly alone in the universe without her family, she would attend concerts—even when she didn’t know the artist—and make new friends.
It was on one of those night outs that she met Hermione’s father.
She’d noticed him a few times in the back of the pub Celeste’s band frequently played at. He’d always stand in the shadows and keep himself separate from those around him. Her Mum said she’d noticed him at first when passing her eyes over the crowd looking for a friend, but as time passed, she found herself more and more drawn to him. Eventually, she grew the guts to approach him. When she’d introduced herself, he’d supposedly looked like a stray dog who was unused to friendly interaction with humans—like the world itself frightened him to his very core; but to a woman who’d been thrust into an unfamiliar world, often left feeling like she was treading water and desperately trying to keep her head above the surface, her Mum had felt an understanding in his fear. Over time they grew to know one another and discovered even more music together until they were very much in love.
Hermione had only ever seen one photo of him too. It’d been buried in the attic in a memory box of her mother’s from university, in an old photo album. Hermione had flicked through it, finding photos of Amina and her university friend’s adventure: blurry film photos of smiling, sweaty faces in pubs, the beach, a bookstore, or in the small cluttered dormitory. It was at the very back of that photo album, tucked away and folded like it was meant to be hidden away from the world, that she’d found it. It was a photo taken from the side and Hermione could only see half of his face. He had dark, midnight-black messy curls just like Hermione, and a sharp, jaw, pale skin and a long nose, that had a slight bend in it as if it’d been broken before. On the back of the photo read: Earth, Wing & Fire—Wembley Arena—04/03/1979, with a small star drawn beside it.
By her calculations, her Mum had been pregnant then. And even though Hermione had never known her father, the idea that she had been there—in some form—at that moment made her feel much closer to him.
He’d disappeared only a few weeks after that photo had been taken, and in September, Hermione had been born to a mother who’d recognised the face of him in the daughter she was holding, while wondering how she would do this and finish up her studies.
To this day, it was rare for Amina to speak of him. Hermione sought him out in other ways. She’d look in the mirror for all of the features she’d gotten from him. She’d listen to her Mum’s extensive record collection, finding the ones with tiny stars drawn on the back—she knew these were either her father’s or ones her Mum associated with or that reminded her of him. Hermione would memorise the lyrics and wonder if somewhere in the world, he lived on . . . perhaps with a wife and other children, unaware that Hermione was still waiting for him to come home to this day.
For a long time, Hermione felt like she was missing something other kids had. She felt it more prevalently on days like Father’s Day, or during school dances when it was time for a Father-Daughter dance when she’d be in her Mum’s arms—though she loved her Mum deeply—instead of her Dad’s.
Now as her Mum cried beside her in the goblin’s office, Hermione wondered if magic, in a somewhat faithful way—like one might feel toward God, or religion, in general—drew a direct tie between her and her father. Wondered if the magnetism her Mum had always described him possessing had been magic . . . magic that now lived on in Hermione.
That thought soothed the seemingly hundreds of thoughts racing through her mind.
Her Mum did her level best to wipe her tears away and steel herself, the goblin across from them looking rather uncomfortable at all the emotions.
“What does this mean? Can I—Can I meet him?” asked Hermione eventually.
“Unfortunately, Mr Black has been missing, presumed dead since March of 1979.” To Hermione, that was even more devastating than him not being present out of choice. Not knowing whether he was dead or alive shattered something in her. “However, you are his heir, Miss Granger. It might not mean much to you, but to the magical world it does. ”
“What does that mean?” her Mum asked.
“Well, Mr Black is one of the last remaining children of the Ancient and Noble House of Black—one of the wizarding world’s oldest and most prolific families—and he is the only direct heir to have children. That means you stand to inherit properties and a large deal of money. It will also mean that many relatives will want to meet you.”
“I don’t want money or properties, I want my father.”
The goblin seemed unaffected by her emotions as he carried on, “Regardless, you will have access to the vault and money your father left you. If you wish to learn more about your family, I encourage you to speak with Andromeda Tonks or Narcissa Malfoy—they are your father’s cousins and will be able to answer any questions you might have. I can also deposit this money in your vault and take you to it if you wish. There may be items other than money inside that you may be interested in seeing.”
Her Mum looked at Hermione for her answer, wanting to leave it up to her to decide in the face of all they had just learnt. “I’d like to see the vault,” Hermione said quietly.
Griphook tapped a stone on his desk and Bogrod returned. “Take Miss Granger down to vault 950.”
Bogrod, a small gold key in hand, led them out of Griphook’s office. They were led deeper into the labyrinth-like halls, and it didn’t take long for Hermione to lose her way—which felt intentional on the goblins’ part. Soon, the hallway opened up into the mouth of a cave, lit by flaming torches. They were led to a minecart sat on a hovering track. Hermione climbed in carefully, not wanting to get close enough to the edge to see how far up in the air they were. They’d barely sat down when it hurtled off, twisting, dropping and rising with startling speed as they raced through the underground cave-like system. Hermione’s eyes stung from the cold, stale air, but she forced them to remain open, not wanting to miss a moment, even if her stomach was swooping with nausea. They plunged deeper into the bowels of the bank, passing an underground lake, and stalactites and stalagmites that formed alongside the ceiling and walls around them.
Finally, the cart rumbled to a stop and they climbed out on shaky legs, her Mum looking green and Hermione feeling like she had the time she’d gotten seasick on a cruise last summer. Griphook led the way down a short path, lighting their way with a hand-held torch. The copper and iron vault door at the end towered over them at least ten metres tall and was embossed with a crest: the top was bordered by a skull and gold filigree, set above a raised, wand-wielding arm and three ravens, at the bottom of which read the words ‘ Toujours Purs.’
“It is the crest of the House of Black. The motto is French for ‘Always Pure,’” explained Bogrod, who handed over the key. “This key is charmed to return to you if ever lost. The only other person who can use it is your mother. Anyone else will need to be added to your account to access your vault.”
Hermione inserted the key, turning it. The door rumbled loudly to a sight that greeted Hermione was one she hadn’t expected. She knew nothing of this new family of hers, but the amount of money sitting in her vault—and this was only her vault, she couldn’t imagine what sat in vaults belonging to other family members—was jaw-dropping. Hermione lived a very fortunate life, one which she was incredibly grateful for. Her Mum earned great money from owning her dentist’s surgery, and it had allowed them comfort in life that she knew others didn’t always have. They owned their three-bedroom house in Heathgate, which was a very nice suburb and Hermione attended a private girl’s school. She had travelled to many countries on her Mum’s eagerness to show Hermione as much of the world and what it had to offer as possible, had been allowed to join an after-school swim club, spoke French and Italian, and had access to a tutor if she should wish for one. And yet, despite all of that, the money sitting in her new vault was absurd even by her standards and would last well beyond her Hogwarts years.
Bogrod handed Hermione a leather pouch. “This is charmed to your vault. It will allow you to deposit or withdraw money from your vault no matter where you are. Similarly to your key, it cannot be used by anyone without access, and if lost will return to you.”
“We’ll collect money as we need it,” her Mum said, “For now, take a look around and see if there’s anything else that catches your eye.”
Hermione did as she was told and began to make her way around the vault, surveying everything inside that wasn’t money—and there was a good deal. There were towering tomes on various subjects, there was an entire display case of gleaming jewels that made Hermione feel a little faint at their obvious worth, there were a few pieces of antique furniture and a few old leather trunks that were filled with wizard's robes. Hermione only had limited pockets and a room, so she went through it all with a careful eye, knowing that she could return another time.
Eventually, she selected a silver necklace in the shape of a star that had Reggie engraved on the back, wished she placed around her neck, and three books: the Black Family Grimoire and History, Hogwarts: A History (First Edition), and an old edition of the book she’d need for Potions in first year, complete with dozens of annotations inside in what she guessed was her father’s handwriting—something she confirmed when she found scrawled in the front in elegant script: Property of Regulus Arcturus Black III, making Hermione smile when she realised they wrote their G’s and R’s in the same way. In the back of the vault, Hermione found a large, black-toned leather trunk with the Hogwarts crest encrusted on the front, as well as the initials on the side: R.A.B . It was clearly well made and would save Hermione having to buy one.
Back in the lobby, Professor McGonagall encouraged them to head off and explore alone—though she did warn them away from Knockturn Alley, which was frequented by dark mages and creatures, and wasn’t the kind of place one should be in without a wand or protection.
Before they got to her list of items, they headed to Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour for a treat. They stared at the insane display of flavours, Hermione eventually choosing a strawberries and cream mix, and her mother a blueberry chocolate chip flavour. They took a seat outside in the fresh air, though under an umbrella so they were out of the sun.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them picking at their ice cream before her Mum spoke, “I didn’t know he—your father —was magic, Hermione. I certainly didn’t know anything about that vault,” she admitted, “When he disappeared, I just assumed he’d gone off to university elsewhere or something . . . I never imagined . . .” she trailed off with a quiver to her voice that further broke Hermione’s already shattered heart.
Hermione set down her ice cream and took her Mum’s hand. “Mum, I know. I’m not upset with you in the slightest . . . I’m just confused and surprised. It’s a lot to take in.”
Her Mum pulled her close and brushed her face lovingly. “I know I’ve always been quiet about Regulus, but I was wrong for that. You deserved to know your father, no matter my feelings. I promise that we will write to Andromeda Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy and get you, and us, the answers that we deserve, love.”
Hermione smiled widely. “Thanks, Mum. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
Unlike the bustling street outside, Tapio Trunk Supplies was blessedly quiet. The glow of orange candles bounced off of an endless amount of trunks, which were seemingly stacked everywhere they could like ivy taking back an abandoned house in a forest. Signs throughout the store signified the numerous features one could get added to their trunks: ones that could be lived in, others extended for storage for clothing, plants or potions; some were made specifically for jobs like Curse-Breaking, or Quidditch, with space for storing broomsticks.
The owner of the store, Irene, looked at her Dad’s trunk. She assured them that the leather was in tip-top shape and that the trunk was more than useable. Supposedly the trunk had a magical expansion—which was illegal, Irene warned them with a shrewd look—built into it and therefore Irene re-did all of the other charms to make sure none of them messed with that feature. There was a featherlight and shrinking charm, which would make Hermione’s job of carting it around much easier, and there were also charms added to the leather to protect it from weather or damage. And, Irene explained, once Hermione got her wand, she would be able to adjust the trunk to her specificities depending on what space she needed at any given time.
They paid Irene a handsome fee for her assistance—Hermione eagerly counting out the money so she could get practice—before heading to pick up her school robes, as well as some for casual wear.
Inside Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, one of Madam Malkin’s assistants was taking the measurements of a Hogwarts-aged boy with reddish-brown hair.
Madam Malkin appeared from in back of the store as the doorbell jingled. She was an older witch with blonde hair that was streaked with grey, ad wore glasses on a chain around her neck, which dangled onto the front of her emerald-green dress that looked slightly medieval. “Hello, dearie. Here for your Hogwarts robes?” she greeted with a wide smile.
“This is my daughter, Hermione,” her Mum introduced, “She’s going into her first year, so she’ll need a full set of uniform, and also some casual robes if possible?”
“Of course,” Madam Malkin nodded and pulled a tape measure from her pocket. “Step up onto the platform and I’ll get you measured up.”
Hermione stepped up onto the platform beside the boy who smiled at her gently. “First year?” he asked.
“Yes!” Hermione nodded eagerly, “I’m so excited!”
“You’ll have a lot of fun. I’m in my fourth year, in Hufflepuff. My name’s Cedric Diggory,” he introduced, leaning over to shake his hand despite the huffing of the woman measuring his waist.
“Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you!”
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
It took quite a while to get measured up, as she got a size up for growing into, though some of it needed hemming—particularly her sleeves. As well as her basic uniform, her Mum had her measured for a pair of winter gloves, a light cloak for before it was cold enough to need her thicker winter one, and then had her measured for casual robes. Hermione picked up quite a few pairs. One style—which she purchased in dark green, dark blue and black—had black buttons down the middle, and was a lot more modern, cinching in at her waist and flaring out as if she was wearing a peacoat. She bought a plum-coloured, as well as a burnt-red colour, of outer robes that fell to her calves, and looked like a Muggle coat, with a little more flair. She also purchased two pairs of Mary Jane's that were charmed against mud and rain, as well as a couple of pairs of black tights that were warm and charmed against runs.
While Madam Malkin packed it all up and Hermione paid, her Mum browsed the store and even purchased herself a set of robes—a pair in black, and another in brown—which made Hermione smile that her Mum wanted to be so involved in her life to go to the effort of buying herself robes.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
Hermione had a field day in the stationary store. She carried a basket around, which she loaded full of parchment, quills and ink, even though she would also be taking along Muggle pens and notebooks. And as a little gift, her Mum bought them a matching pair of journals that were keyed to one another, allowing them to communicate with each other no matter where they were—which was helpful as her Mum was terrified of birds, and therefore didn’t want an owl in the home.
In Slug and Jiggers Apothecary, Hermione walked around the dark, cold store in fascination. Loaded onto shelves were plants, mummified skeletons and animals floating in liquid-filled jars, cauldrons and stirring rods, knives of all kinds, and ingredients she’d never even heard of. Hermione gathered what was on her ingredients list, as well as a little extra in case some of her ingredients got ruined.
By the time they got to Flourish and Blotts , the crowds were a battle to get through. In a featherlight-charmed basket, she stacked all of her textbooks and then did a round of the store for anything that drew her attention. She bought a couple of Wizarding fiction books, as well as some that would teach her more about the world. She bought some books on history, including one titled Modern Magical History, as well as some that would give her some education on the inner workings of this world, such as A Guide to the Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot, and a Legislative Guide to the Proper Use of Magic, before meeting her Mum at the counter.
“I’m surprised you haven’t sold out the store,” her Mum joked and Hermione rolled her eyes fondly.
“The girl working the counter smiled amusedly at Hermione’s basket as she rang up all of the items and wrapped them up. “Are you interested in a subscription to any of the wizarding newspapers or scholarly journals?” She gestured to the small stand on the counter that listed them all.
Not wanting to hold up the line, Hermione took one of the order forms and ticked the boxes for the Daily Prophet, the Wizarding World News, and three scholarly journals. She added both Hogwarts and her home address to the form so she and her Mum could receive them, and handed over 1 knut for each to the girl, as well as the price of her books.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
Ollivanders Wand Shop was the last stop on their trip to Diagon Alley, and it was unlike any other shop they’d visited so far—at least physically. There was something more to it . . . The store itself was longer than it was wide, and it smelled of age and dust. It was lit only by a couple of candles and was pin-dropping quiet, except for the faint buzzing in Hermione’s ear that sounded like a bee was flittering around her. Her Mum stepped up to the empty wooden counter, ringing the bell while Hermione looked around. At the sound of the bell, a flutter of noise came from the back of the room, where row after row of bookshelves overflowed with boxes in all shapes, sizes and colours. Upon a sliding latter came a man with hair as white as snow, and eyes such a pale shade of blue they were unnerving to look into.
“Ah, Miss Granger, I was wondering when I’d be seeing you . . .” he said, clambering down from the ladder in purple and gold robes that floated around him.
Her Mum pulled Hermione close, as she eyed the man warily. “How do you know my daughter’s name?”
Mr Ollivander seemed to pay no mind to her accusatory tone. Instead, he moved up and down the store aisles, until he made an aha noise as he carefully tugged one from a stack that wobbled precariously. “I know all who are set to venture into my store,” he said as if it clarified anything. He opened the box and displayed a thick wand of pure black wood that he extended to Hermione. “Try this.”
Hermione took it gingerly, equal parts nervous and excited, but her stomach dropped at the touch of it—the feeling of it unsettled her. “I don’t like that one,” she told him firmly, setting it back in its box.
Mr Ollivander seemed to perk up at her words. “Oh, a sensitive one—how exciting!” Hermione couldn’t discern if that was a good thing or not but didn’t get a chance to ask as he disappeared in search of other wands. This time he returned with three boxes, but Hermione could tell just by looking at them that they weren’t right. She didn’t know how she knew, she just did, and Mr Ollivander only seemed to grow more excited by that prospect. “ Very sensitive indeed.”
As they continued to try and return new wands, Hermione noted that he seemed to remember exactly where they were before—not just the shelves, but the very boxes they fit with. Eventually, he seemed to ponder to himself in thought before setting off toward a shelf at the very back of his shop. He retrieved a wand that sent dust clouding in the air, signifying the shelf was rarely ever touched. When he returned, Hermione’s heart thumped madly in her chest.
“I’ve been saving this particular wand for a very special person.”
He unwrapped the wand from the box and cloth that protected it and Hermione gasped. The wand was made of brown wood that was so pale it was only slightly darker than the colour of bone. Its entire length had been carved by images: vines that crept in swirls, a moon on one end and a star on the other, with stars spread between them. It felt a fitting wand considering the stars her Mum had always drawn on things that reminded her of Regulus.
“It’s beautiful,” Hermione whispered in awe. It didn’t seem like it should be touched—like it belonged in a museum, where it could be marvelled at for centuries. Hermione reached for it carefully, feeling a call rising from the depths of her soul when she touched it. Lightning seemed to skitter across her arms, raising the hairs. Magic—pure magic—filled her body and had the candles in the room flickering brighter. She felt like a long-forgotten light switch had been turned on in a place she’d returned to after a long time away. Behind her, her Mum gasped in wonder at her daughter.
“I think we’ve found your wand,” said Ollivander with a satisfied smile. “10 and three-quarter inches; vinewood, and with a dragon heartstring core.” Hermione drank in his words, promising herself to find a book on wands to discover what that meant. “It was one of the first wands I made when I left Hogwarts to apprentice in wandmaking under my father. It will serve you well, Miss Granger, and I’m excited to see what you’ll do with it at your side.”