The Russian Rose

Organized chaos engulfed the Granger household for the first few days after their short holiday in Russia. Gringotts goblins laid runic arrays and wards around the house. Several of their top ward masters added more. To top that, the Krums sent their personal master to help connect and ward the floo. Having international access simply made sense. Between the budding friendship of the Grangers and Krums, David’s new obsession with quidditch, and the convenience of the family vaults in Moscow, the Granger’s suburban two-story became The English Family Home. 

Dear Harry,

You will never believe me when I tell you just how exciting my short time in Moscow was this year! I scarcely believe it myself, except for, you know, I was there. I cannot even begin to express to you how much I learned, and how amazing Wizarding museums are! I bet even you can find something amusing there. Perhaps the war portraits. They are quite chatty. 

I wanted to thank you for sending me a letter so early in the holiday! I know it must be difficult, being either kicked out of the house or cooped up all alone. But, please, don’t do anything too dangerous! You’re already on thin ice with the ministry after last summer’s incident with Dobby. I know it’s hard, but please, keep your temper!

Now then, tell me how you have been? What are you doing to fill your days? I hope the last book on defensive wards helped somewhat. You mentioned wanting to know how better to protect your stuff from the Dursleys, and that seemed to fit the bill. I know I’m not Ron, and I can’t just consult my family for all the magical answers. So, we must be content with books when we cannot practice our magic. Horribly dull, I know. 

One last thing, how do you feel about me visiting? I recently discovered a type of magical transport witches and wizards are able to use without triggering the trace. It’s called the Knight Bus. There is just so much I found out and I need to tell you, Harry. It’s important. Don’t worry about what you look like or how horrid your family is, I don’t care about any of that stuff. Really, Harry, how could you still think I would care about such superficial nonsense! You are my friend and I want to visit.

Let me know and send a letter back with Fadeyka (my new golden eagle, and yes, it’s part of the whole story that, no, I cannot possibly explain in a letter).

Yours affectionately,

Hermione

P.S: If you are able, please give him something better than an owl pellet. As much as Hedwig adores them (and you know I have a stash just for her and Errol), I don’t think Fadeyka would appreciate them. If not, just tell him how handsome he is and ask if he wants a scritch. He seems to like that, too.

“Ah, there you are, Fadeyka,” Hermione addressed a massive eagle as she carefully inserted the letter into the leather tube tied to his left claw. “Here is a letter for Harry Potter, number four, Privet drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England. I know you would prefer a treat, but he’s not in a good place right now. Please don’t hold it against him if he only has owl pellets for his familiar.” 

A soft, affectionate kaw answered before the large bird of prey bunted his head against Hermione’s cheek. It swooped out her window a moment later soaring into the overcast English sky. On the perch, Viktor’s red kite, Byoka, rested after her flight. A quiet moment allowed her to respond to the small pile of letters. Harry’s letter instantly drew her attention, and that clear, decisive feeling told her all she needed to know.  

Wax seal broke beneath her fingers as she opened the next letter at her leisure. 

Dear Hermione,

In case you didn’t know, it’s Ron! Everyone knows your chicken scratch. It’s the only recognizable thing about your handwriting! 

Ginny’s neat loops snarked at her brother. A soft smile grew on her face. The past few weeks of therapy and normalcy did the youngest Weasley a world of wonders. No longer perpetually twitchy and shy, Ginny began to assert her boisterous presence.

Ginny, stop! This is my letter to Hermione! Go and write one yourself! Make me! It’s not like we can overburden Errol, anyways. He’s too old, you know.

Yeah, whatever, just write it after my part then.  Fine, fine, I’ll just post it too. 

I’m not sure how that will go, but just don’t believe everything she says! HEY! YOU ASKED FOR IT. See, don’t believe her! Anyways, I just wanted to let you know something super exciting! Dad won the annual Ministry lottery! Every year, one person is randomly chosen and given a large sum. So, he’s taking us to visit Bill in Egypt! Isn’t that bloody brilliant? Aren’t you so jealous? 

Just so you know, we leave in a week. You can send a reply, but we won’t be able to respond for a while. I’ll owl when we get back and we can see about Diagon. 

Until then,

Ron

A small gap separated Ron’s part (well, what was mostly Ron’s letter, anyway), from Ginny’s neat lines.

Seriously, ‘Mione, how do you put up with him? Ugh, he’s just trying to make you jealous, and we both know it. Good thing you are too smart for that. 

I heard that you went to Russia! Mum was kind of freaked out about it until Ron mentioned the start of the National season. She calmed down then (we didn’t tell her you aren’t a huge fan, don’t worry). Our ickly little Grangie-kins not a huge fan of quidditch- -We never would have guessed! Not on our lives- -We swear! Oi! Shove off! This is my time to talk to Hermione about girl things. 

A giggle escaped the young witch. This letter appeared to be from the whole Weasley family. It reminded her of the Gryffindor table during supper. Even if they weren’t the most polite, the Weasleys never disappointed. Fiery and dramatic, every meal entertained the House, and to some degree the rest of the school. 

We can girl talk, too- -Didn’t you know that Harry Potter has- -the most

magnificent eyes!- -So green- -so sparkly- SHUT UP, BOTH OF YOU. 

Blotches of ink trailed off the page, probably from Ginny shoving her brothers out of the room with the quill still in hand.

There! As I was saying, we don’t talk enough and I am going crazy with all these boys! Please tell me you met someone, preferably cute and single, over your holiday in Russia? Like Ron said, we won’t be able to reply until we return from Egypt. Just, I’m dying, Hermione! PLEASE. You know the Burrow (or you don’t, seeing as you haven’t visited yet, but you know the family and that’s what’s important). Things are dull and irritating all at once. Give me something.

Yours truly,

Ginny

Hermione rather thought the letter done until she turned the second page and found the twin’s elegant scrawl. Where they learned decent penmanship eluded her. Still, she read with interest. 

Granger,

We know you are reading this- -and we need some advice.- -You’re good with numbers and logic and that rot- -we’ve seen your planner, for Merlin’s sake.- -Take mercy on our prankster souls- -and help us this year. At the very least- -with quidditch. Now, now, now- -before you go retorting and saying you know nothing- -we saw the notes you sent with Harry.- -How Wood thought that Harry wrote them- -no one quite knows. The important bit is- -we can really use you this year.- -Just think about it.

Gred- -and Forge

Blinking, Hermione frowned. The twins asked for help with quidditch (and probably pranks, if she read it correctly) of all things. Deja vu dawned on the brunette. For the second time this short holiday, a quidditch player observed she understood the game. In fact, they asserted she knew the game so well, she could help.What universe am I in, she wondered not for the first time. With an incredulous shake of her mane of curls, Hermione responded to all three. 

Enjoy yourself Ron, and tell me all about it. I can’t wait. Well, Ginny, I can neither confirm nor deny your desire. What I can say is that the museums were beautiful, as was the shopping district. Fred, George, we’ll talk on the train. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, my sincerest congratulations on winning the Ministry lottery this year! I hope you enjoy your trip.

All that and more went on separate, small sheets of letter paper. Errol slept in a tree right outside her window, and Hermione hadn’t the heart to wake the poor dear. Instead, she set aside the letter addressed to the Weasleys and fingered a particularly thick envelope. In Cyrillic, it read From Viktor. Curiosity warred with an intense desire to analyze the packet. Just what could her new friend send her, so soon after their separation, that warranted so much parchment?

The burning desire to know won out. With great care, she eased the seal open, a simple VK over top a broom in burgundy wax. Hermione carefully set it aside. Inside the outer envelope were three, separate letters, all addressed to her. Careful hands drew the first towards her, in the same script as the outer piece. The exact seal held this letter safely shut. With less care the second time, rationalizing her excited quickness with the fact that she already had one seal preserved.

Dear Hermione,

I wanted to thank you for coming to my game on Saturday. I enjoyed the time we spent together, and find myself missing your company already. I must say, you made quite the impression on Mikhail and Dimitar, as well. They haven’t shut up about you since. It would be more annoying if I didn’t feel much the same. 

You must be wondering about the other letters by now. I know you are, with that inquisitive mind of yours, don’t deny it. After explaining our illuminating conversation the night before the match, our team analyst, Master Kosta Asenov, requested a letter of invitation. I did warn you, you know, that you know more about quidditch than you believe. Do not be surprised if he asks you to visit the stadium.  

The other letter shouldn’t surprise you either. It’s from Clara. She quite fancies having a little sister, being the youngest with older brothers, and has been peppering me with questions since the Meet and Greet. In all honesty, it’s been rather flustering. I’m still new to the team, and such brazen teasing is equally gratifying as it is frustrating. Gratifying, because it means I’m growing closer with the older players. Frustrating, because, well, no one likes to be harassed. 

I also heard from Maika a little bit about your trip to Gringotts. She didn’t say more than you were, indeed, from a Russian family and that everything was sorted. I will let you know a secret, perhaps the one most ill-hidden: I am remarkably curious. This is how I knew you were curious about the other letters, because I, too, share that trait! So, you see, I am quite intrigued, if you will spare any details. 

As for myself, I cannot say much has changed. Sunday is always our day off after games, and Monday the team went out for lunch at a local tavern. Otherwise, we practice both in the mornings and afternoons. I arrive home and study in the evenings after supper. It’s a glorious, glamorous life, that of a professional quidditch player, no? 

Byoka, my red kite, will know where to take my letter, and the others if you wish. Please send my regards to your parents.

Sincerely, 

Viktor Krum

P.S: But really, what did you say to Mikhail? He’s been insufferable!

Hermione smiled at the letter in her hands. It made sense that his written Russian surpassed her expectations. He explained that Durmstrang, to better accommodate a more diverse demographic, used it as the standard. While students were able to converse in their native tongues with others, classes and assignments were conducted in Russian. The letter itself felt warm and welcoming, a touch of sarcasm and mischief hidden behind the formalities. 

Instead of responding instantly, dainty hands slid to the next envelope. The neat script read To Miss Hermione Granger. Nothing more. The seal resembled Viktor's, though sporting a KA instead. The young witch deduced it to be a team seal, and probably team wax. Inquisitive nature stirred once more (she internally laughed at how right Viktor had been in his letter about it), she carefully removed the seal and set it aside. 

The contents of the letter itself were self explanatory and to the point.

Dear Miss Granger,

I am Kosta Asenov, master arithmancer and analyst for the Bulgarian National Team. It has come to my attention from our first string seeker, Mr. Viktor Krum, that you possess a singular mind suited towards analysis and logic. His recounting of the events that transpired on the _ of June, 1993, greatly intrigues me. If you are amenable, I would be happy to meet you sometime before our next game. 

Sincerely,

Kosta Asneov

Master Arithmancer

Bulgarian National Team

Hermione pondered the offer. Only completing her second year at Hogwarts, she knew very little of arithmancy. Just what she gleaned from the introductory texts she pursued before choosing the classes she wished to take in fall term (all of them). Talks of getting tutors turned serious the past few days, and just maybe an idea clicked in her mind.

Satisfied with her conclusion for the moment, the last envelope sported the team-standard seal. CI with a broom in burgundy joined the small pile she collected. Her quick, slanted script filled the page. It appeared Hermione procured another good conversationalist. It almost made up for the fact that Ron couldn’t be bothered, Harry rarely wrote real news, and Neville usually waxed lyrical about his greenhouse. 

Hello Nishka,

I am so excited I grabbed Viktor before he could send the post to you. I thought it inappropriate to open the line of communication on my own. But Clara, what do you care of propriety, you ask! That is a wonderful question, and one that is far too long and serious for a letter, of all things.

No, no, let us talk of lighter things! I heard that you are not fond of flying, and I must ask Nishka, is it the quality of the broom that scares you from our skies? Most schools use pretty terrible, old, clunky models that seem about ready to break from a stiff breeze. 

Next we are able, just you and me, I will take you on my handy Comet 3000. It’s not as flashy as Viktor’s Firebolt, I grant you, but it’s far more responsive and stable. Speed is all well and good for the most suicidal of our teammates, namely the beaters and seekers, but a chaser needs the ability to maneuver freely. The good news is that it makes Comets a good, steady broom to learn on, unlike the Nimbus and Firebolt. Both are temperamental branches with twigs, I swear. 

Enough about brooms, though! I am quite curious, how did you meet our surly little brother? I’ve never seen him so lively as the Meet and Greet after the match! Usually, he’s the strong and silent type, though I suppose that’s due to being the youngest in such a situation, and still in school! Then the way he burst in the morning of the match, practically vibrating with ideas. Some of them were quite good, and I heard we have you to thank for that. 

Take it from me, Nishka, men are dense and tend to over complicate matters. Having no women besides Miroslava, the team healer, feels like fighting a wall with a tickling hex. Nothing you say or do will get through their thick skulls without some other influence! Somehow, I think you know exactly what I mean. 

Please, write back soon and how often you desire. Consider me your big Bulgarian sister, yes? I heard that you are a Russian amongst the seas of English, which must feel restrictive. Are they really so stuffy? All the time? Do they truly consider it good manners to parrot back what you say? How do they function?  I need these answers, and more, Nishka! Don’t make me find you. I will.

With Sisterly Love,

Clara Ivanova

Even in her letters, Clara’s exuberance and distractibility read clearly. Part of Hermione rejoiced. Usually, she cared and fussed over others, taking on the role of mum or big sister. A sneaking suspicion wriggled in the back of her mind about what kind of older sibling Clara would turn out to be. If anything, Viktor’s letter with Clara’s corroborating account, Hermione wondered just how much she should have been careful with such a wish.

Late afternoon sun, warm and bright, illuminated the tidy room. Several agreeable hours passed, the scratching of a fountain pen on paper. Melted, red wax dripped onto the parchment, quickly stamped with a standard seal (an owl with the letters HG). Once satisfied with her correspondence, large, well-worn pages faced the rare English sun. The young Gryffindor ignored the softly ticking clock on her dresser, dutifully counting the passage of time. Her ears never registered the muffled opening and closing of doors, and the sounds of cooking. 

“Hey, Pumpkin, supper’s ready,” the perky voice of her father interrupted her studies.

“Eep!” She jumped in her chair. She threw a half-hearted glare at her father, who’s boisterous laughter carried down the stairs. “Papa!” 

“I couldn’t resist, sweetie,” he chortled, unrepentant. “You have a letter in the kitchen, by the way. I swear, that bird of yours has your mother wrapped around his talons.”

“He does have beautiful plumage,” Hermione commented, enjoying the playfully ruffled state her father reverted to whenever Fadeyka was mentioned. “Besides, that means Harry wrote back. I’ve been quite worried about him.”

Her father grumbled, turning back towards the hall. The subject of Harry Potter and his relative’s alleged abuse often circled the Granger’s dining room table. They lacked concrete details, which often frustrated the women -more prone to problem solving action than the patient data gathering of the father. Black ink finished the current sentence, before carpet quieted her descent. 

“My love, I have returned,” David Granger announced as he cleared the stairwell. Standing in the kitchen, her mother scratched her regal eagle’s neck. His golden eyes were closed, leaning into the touch. “How could you?”

“But my love, his glossy plumage,” her mother grinned, mischief in her eyes. “You know a woman loves the strong and silent type.”

Hermione withheld a delighted giggle. Her father, standing a mighty six foot one, cut a dashing figure, intimidating upon occasion. More lean and slim than Mr. Krum, her father could come across as strong. The silent part, not so much.

“I have been betrayed,” he cried, committing to the bit. “I thought you loved me. How could you?”

“Sometimes, when you know, you know,” winked her mother, moving towards the sink and washing her hands. “Dinner is on the table.”

Shaking her head, Hermione tuckered a stray curl behind her ear. Sitting down in their cozy dining room, fish, salad, and a fresh baguette occupied various platters on the table. A creamy letter sat upon her normal place setting, the familiar scrawl of her best friend scratched out in blue ink. Burying her curiosity, Hermione served herself, dressing her own salad as her parents came to the table.

“How was your day?” Inquired the girl, looking back and forth between her parents.

“Nothing spectacular happened,” her father hummed, placing a piece of pink salmon into his mouth. “This is absolutely delightful, my love. You have outdone yourself.”

“Thank you,” her mother flashed a smile towards her husband. 

Supper proved to be as lively and amusing as any other night. After sharing their respective days, speculative conversation followed. First, Hermione brought up Master Asneov’s proposal. While pleased, they requested to pen a letter to both the arithmancer and the elder Krums to discuss logistics. Next, the proposal of when to see Harry. Hermione skimmed the letter, gathering that Harry wished her to come sooner rather than later. It surprised the girl, her best friend often guarded his home life with the ferocity of a dragon with their horde. 

The family arrived at a consensus with little difficulty. On Fridays, the practice closed early to allow administrative catch up and to ready it for their historically busy Mondays. The small family formed a plan, and soon they shifted to other topics. 

The books never mentioned this, Hermione’s thoughts raced as the Knight’s Bus squeezed and swerved all around. Bile rose in her throat, her knuckles white with the force of her grip. A haggard looking man, bags under his eyes and robes rumpled, remarked how it must be her first time. She gritted her teeth, the voice of her parents about how much damage it did echoing in the back of her mind. 

Fingers grasped the handrails to steady wobbling legs. The driver, Stan Shunpike, heartily bid farewell until next time. Hermione barely returned the civility, hoping her stomach would settle. Greens and blues swirled together for a few, nauseating moments as the purple double decker zoomed out of existence and onto its next stop. Good riddance, she viciously thought.

White trainers trailed the pavement from one suburban home to the next. The same gabled roofs under their brown bricks lined the streets. White window frames, with their similar curtains and dressings, followed one after another. Overall, the village of Little Whinging looked like an absolutely ordinary, bland piece of suburban England. Only slightly different hedges and fences delineated each house from the next. Middle-class mediocrity at its best, Hermione’s father would say.

At number four, Hermione braced herself. Sufficiently recovered from her tumultuous ride, she squared her shoulders and held her head up, hoping to appear proper and trustworthy. The manicured front garden and common front hid a world of hurt for her best friend. Just as knuckles readied to rap the sturdy oak door, a sound caught her attention. 

“Psst, Hermione!” The disembodied voice of her best friend called from the side. “Over here!”

From the magnolia bush, white flowers rustling with movement, green eyes sparkled. 

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, though no louder than her friend. “What are you doing there?”

“It’s the only way I can get any telly,” the boy shrugged. “It beats working in the garden or running into my cousin and his gang.”

The brunette grimaced, her dainty hand extended. Green eyes smiled, pulling himself straight. A quick brush to rid himself of leaves, and the two Gryffindors began to walk. Hermione softly regaled her friend about her journey to Privet Drive. Hearty laughter followed the pair, especially when Hermione mentioned the haggard wizard drooling on himself. 

“I’m surprised your parents are letting you come visit me alone,” the boy remarked, a whimsical look in his eyes. 

“Well, I’m not completely alone,” Hermione hedged, a small smile on her face.

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re not wrong that they are protective of me,” she turned towards him. “They are at a cafe nearby. In fact, I was wondering if you wanted to have a spot of tea with us. It’s not a super fancy place -you look perfectly fine.” 

A black brow raised, amusement and exasperation in equal measure. Large, faded flannel hid the equally well-worn t-shirt. Overlarge jeans hung loose and low over battered, black trainers. 

“Like I said,” Hermione mustered, staring straight into his eyes. “You look fine. If you think something as superficial as clothes will keep me or my family from associating with you and having a nice meal, you are sadly mistaken. Besides, if you are so worried, we can just go shopping.” 

“S-shopping?!” Her friend spluttered, surprised by the mere idea that she, the bookworm of Gryffindor, even thought of clothes shopping. “No, no, I think tea will be perfectly fine.”

“As it should be!” Harrumphed the brunette, tossing her curly mane.

“What time will that be?” Scuffing shoes filled the short silence.

“At half three, so we have a whole,” wrist flicked forward, “two hours before we need to get going. Tell me, where is the last place you’d see your cousin?”

A bright, considering twinkle gleamed in Harry’s eyes. Cinnamon eyes narrowed at her best friend. Grinning, the boy led her by the wrist to a more ornate brick building. Immediate relief and amusement radiated from the bookish Gryffindor. A library! Of course, everything her friend related arrived at such a tidy conclusion. They found the common area, away from the front desk but still discrete. An ideal location to speak and appear busy, but not too suspicious.

“So, you went to Russia,” the boy started off, doodling on the printer paper in front of him. “And something huge happened, so you sent your bloody eagle with a letter to meet me.”

“Did he surprise you?” She retorted. A soft laugh shook her shoulders, hand covering her mouth at the ironic glare. “Okay, but at least it was something different.”

“I wish Aunt Petunia could have been the one surprised,” Harry tilted his head back. “That would have been brilliant.” Lips pursed in further thought. “At first, really. She would have had my hide afterwards.” 

“Then I suppose it was a good thing Fedyaka went to your room first,” cinnamon eyes rolled skyward. 

“Care to explain?” Inquisitive brow rose. 

And so she did, in general terms at first. How her parents made magical friends this vacation, a phenomenon Harry knew all about, though Ron could care less. Going to dinner and spending time with them. A part of Hermione wondered why she protected Viktor and his family. Her friend understood the pains of being a celebrity. He may not even know about the Bulgarian seeker yet, due to the lack of information Privet Drive afforded. Yet, vague references to the quidditch game her father so thoroughly enjoyed filled the space. She hoped her plan succeeded. 

“So, you’re what, a Russian Pureblood?” Harry mused aloud, comfortably leaned back in the wooden chair with crossed arms. “Won’t Malfoy have the shock of his life!”

“Harry, be serious!” Scolded the girl, even though her eyes glimmered with similar amusement. “If we’re to be technical, I’m a squib-born, which is at least somewhat more respected here.”

“Does that mean you’re rich now, too?” The corner of his mouth quirked.

“Filthy,” her stoic response rendered her friend useless with giggles. “But really, it was all something of a shock. Thinking about it more, of course it makes sense. Mum always knows if people are lying, or if they have what she calls a bad aura. Papa’s intuition, especially with numbers and statistics, is a bit more accurate than most.”

A soft hum from across the table filled the air between them for a moment. Then, a comfortable silence, born of camaraderie and general understanding, settled upon them. Weight lifted from her small shoulders at Harry’s easy acceptance. Ron, she knew, blustered when left out of things (though she fully intended to point out that his trip to Egypt and Errol’s advanced age prevented her from telling him any sooner), but accepted things after processing the information.

“You mentioned getting a new wand,” a rushed, excited whisper brought Hermione’s mind back to the present. 

“Yeah,” she grinned, her friend’s excited expression relaxing her further. 

A burnished, reddish piece of wood comfortably fell into her hand. An elegant swirl glided from the thin tip to the hilt, reminding her of a unicorn’s horn. Engraved into the smooth handle, the opposite pattern shimmered with small runes. Adorning the end, wooden prongs held a small amethyst. Wonder, just like the first time she touched it, spread through her whole body, her magic happily flowing through her. 

“They say it’s one of the last Gregorovitch himself made before retiring,” Hermione explained. “He retired in the 80’s, you know-”

“And you can, you know,” Harry’s emerald eyes conspicuously glanced around the room.

“Yes, that’s the point of it,” she confirmed, giving her friend an exasperated expression. “Though, not here. And if you keep on looking like that, people will think we’re up to something naughty!”

“Oh, sorry,” his sheepish expression turned once more to awe at the sight of the slim, elegant wand. “But wow, Hermione. This is brilliant!”

“Right?” She grinned, her large front teeth on display. “When our new friends told us that almost all pureblood families ignored the trace, it was very upsetting! Apparently, they have something similar over there to keep muggle-born and muggle-raised witches and wizards from alerting those they shouldn’t, what with the Statue and everything. However, the trace is not linked to each and every person’s magical signature -instead it’s fixed to the wand’s signature.”

“So Ollivanders wands,” Harry started, brow furrowed as his mind whirled.

“Can be bought without the trace, just like Gregorovitch wands,” the girl finished, assured in her knowledge. “However, for students' first wands, they all have it.”

“Then, how can all purebloods get around the Trace? Wands aren’t exactly cheap,” he snarked, though interest clearly piqued. 

“What is the one thing that pureblood homes have over our’s, Harry? Think,” Hermione instructed, wanting her friend to piece it together. At his nonplussed expression, a hefty, exasperated sigh rushed from her. “Magic, Harry! They have wards that keep the ministry from finding out just who performed magic. It muddles up the wand-signature tracing. Plus, if magic happens in a muggle-borns’ house, there’s only one viable culprit, even if it’s wandless.” 

“But then that means,” her friend muttered, almost to himself. “That Ron could’ve been using magic this whole time at home!”

“You forget that Mrs. Weasley doesn’t appear to be a woman who can be gainsaid,” Hermione remarked. “I highly doubt she’d let her children use magic. That doesn’t mean that other classmates don’t get tutored at home, or practice on their own.” 

“You’re bloody kidding me,” the curse escaped her friend, hurt and anger contorting his features. “So, you’re saying, because we live in the muggle world, we can’t use magic at all until we’re of age, but everyone else can? It’s only parents enforcing the rule? I almost got expelled over it!” 

“The ministry isn’t exactly fair,” Hermione sighed, bothered by the same thing. “And let’s be honest, how many people will actually go to another wandmaker and get a different wand? It’s a pretty safe way to keep everything under wraps.”  

“Isn’t that just convenient,” Harry grumbled, running an agitated hand through his messy hair. “Do you think -would it be possible for me…?”

“Let me put it this way, Harry,” a small extended to grab the one across the table. Her hold gentle, she gazed into his eyes. “I have a plan, not just to get you a wand, but more. Do you trust me?”

“Yeah, of course,” he responded immediately, not even thinking.

“Then, let’s get some tea,” an impish grin spread across her face. 

Happy chatter bounced around the table. Harry’s hands demonstrated some quidditch technique, explaining why a certain move performed better under certain circumstances. Hermione chimed in on occasion, usually adding statistics to either support or argue against an anecdotal claim. All the while, the mother observed everything. 

Narrow, chocolate eyes settled upon the content and amused face of her daughter. Somehow, she inherited the uncanny ability to present her case in the best light possible, all without expressly saying a single word. Shuffling, worn trainers and downcast, bruised eyes, an arresting and clear green, peered around the little cafe. The boy appeared nervous and unsure, clinging to Hermione’s blouse as she talked a mile a minute. Her confidence in the situation and nonstop chatter calmed the jumpy child.

David, bless her husband, teased bits and pieces of dialogue from the boy. What little they pried from him alarmed the couple, both for the few facts and the sea of the unsaid. As soon as the boys began on the universal topic of sports, both magical and mundane, he opened up. The change stole her breath away. Here sat the very best friend of her daughter as the letters described. Energetic. Enthusiastic. Care-free. Just what a thirteen year old boy ought to be. 

It shouldn’t take a meal, where he could only pick at his plate, and much conjoling from her daughter to bring it out. So, as conversation turned to the many sporting events David dragged Hermione to over the years, the adults shared a weighted look. Another mark added itself against Magical Britain. It appeared the Grangers needed to take charge, and so they would.

“Harry, I insist! You are going to come to the next match,” David exclaimed. The boy attempted to extricate himself, saying they didn’t need to take him. “Now, now, none of that! And for such a match, you will need to properly represent.”

“Papa, no,” Hermione groaned, playing along (though, in reality, she despised shopping, her mother knew). “Not the sports shop!”

“Yes! That will do just the trick,” her husband’s enthused, fanatical gleam putting Harry on edge, though he enjoyed Hermione’s distress. “Come now, children. I will even stop at the bookstore afterwards, Pumpkin.”

“You know how I detest the sports shop,” she pouted, arms crossed. With a heavy, dramatic sigh, she conceded. “But I will do it.”

“For the books?” Harry arched a brow, grin on his lips.

“For the books,” she grumbled to the laughter of the other two.

“I’ll see you all at home later,” Alisa waved as they departed, good-natured banter following. 

Little did Harry understand the extent of her daughter’s machinations. A small smirk bloomed on the Russian woman’s face as she approached her automobile. Her daughter’s personality may very well be her husband’s at times, but her cunning and ruthless streak mirrored Alisa. 

The very night they visited Gringotts, a thick packet rested upon the ornate hotel desk. Hermione stayed awake, consulting her parents as to the convoluted language and meanings of what she read. Morning dawned upon a very upset, very angry little lioness. Thoroughly disgusted by the obvious lack of integrity and fairness of the trial and subsequent conviction, Hermione penned the first of many letters.

Dear Lord Black,

My name is Hermione Granger, Heiress of House Orlov and a distant relative of the Black family through my father. He is the squib son of an Alphard Black, your uncle, if I am reading the family tree correctly. From what I understand, your uncle kept my father a secret so bad people couldn’t use my father against him. So, we are something of second cousins, and it makes me the fourth in line for the House of Black (which just sounds stuffy, if you ask me, but we work with what we have). Please don’t be upset with your Uncle.

I am writing to inform you of several things I believe you will find both of deep interest and import. First and foremost, we are working with a team of solicitors to have your case tried once more. Not only was your trial a complete travesty, it is against the wizarding laws to let that ruling stand. From what my parents have gathered thus far, even if the British Ministry doesn’t go through with it, the ICW will take your case once more. We will get you free, one way or another. 

The other is a more personal matter. According to the family records, you are the godfather of my best friend, Harry Potter. I am sorry to inform you that Headmaster Dumbledore placed him in the care of his aunt Petunia Dursely. Assuming you knew anything about her, as you must since you are his godfather, Harry hasn’t had the best of lives. 

I view him as the little brother I never had, and will do everything I can to protect him. I don’t know if my parents have figured it out yet, but Harry won’t be living with his relatives much longer -not if I have any say in it! He says the Headmaster makes him return to renew a blood ward from his mother. I believe my family has something that will help get him away from there for good!

If you have any ideas to add or a preferred solicitor, please let me know. I will try to get a note from Harry in our next letter.

Yours, etc.

Hermione Jean Granger

Heiress of the most Illustrious and Magical House of Orlov

Dirty thumbs traced the well worn parchment again and again. Someone on the outside believed him, and decided to fight for his worthless hide. For that alone, he’d protect and adore the girl -Hermione. Even if she held dark tendencies, though, who was he to talk? Blacks notoriously aligned with dark magic (the name Black didn’t reference just their hair). 

And Harry! Poor, dear prongslet! Stuck in a home with his loathsome, jealous harpy of an aunt! Just what was Dumbledore thinking? The pragmatic part of his mind, the one thing still shockingly intact around the dementors, rationalized the move. He learned, long after his imprisonment, that they all were pieces to the Headmaster. Sure, emotions gripped the headmaster just as any other mortal, but he possessed the uncanny ability to tidy them away. On some level, Sirius respected that quality. 

However, it landed him in Azkaban for over a decade, and put Harry in harm’s way. For that alone, Sirius would never truly forgive or forget. So, the young witchling (for, if she was Harry’s friend, she must have been fourteen at best) wanted to play this the proper route. Get him free in both name and person, and back to being a member of society. He could be patient. Hell, he’s been doing nothing but waiting since the fog of grief and guilt lifted from his mind. 

Despite being disowned by his mother, the old paterfamilias never struck him from the family, mindful of having a male heir despite political differences. For that alone, Sirius liked the man. It allowed him to make House decisions behind bars. And so the full power of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black now rested in the small hands of this little firecracker. The future looked much brighter, indeed.

A smart car pulled to the side of Number Four, Privet Drive. Petunia Dursley, always mindful of the comings and goings of the neighborhood, wrinkled her brow. Just who would visit at half four on a Friday afternoon? Soon, an equally elegant woman, sunglasses perched on her pert nose, rounded the vehicle. Perhaps someone thinking of moving, her mind greedily concluded. The thought of adding such an acquaintance to her circle excited the vain woman. 

So, straightening her clothes and touching up her lipstick, Petunia waited in the front parlor. Relief swept through her, knowing that that boy hadn’t returned yet to muck it all up. When the doorbell rang, she called out and calmly walked to the door, a winning smile on her long face.

“Good day, my name is Petunia Dursley, what can I do for you?” She greeted, noting the beautiful, styled brown locks that accentuated her perfectly oval face. 

“Hello Mrs. Dursley,” the woman smiled, though never reaching her eyes. Not that Petunia noticed or cared. “My name is Doctor Alisa Granger, may I come in?” Hastily pulling the door aside, the woman, a doctor, observed her perfectly put together entrance, the tastefully chosen family portraits and small vase. “What a lovely house you keep.”

“Thank you,” Petunia preened, delighted that such an elegant lady found her home lovely. “To the left is the front parlor. Would you like refreshment? Some tea, perhaps?”

“Not at this time, I thank you,” her formal response nearly made Petunia swoon. 

The woman spoke excellent English, though there was a little something in her vowels that indicated that her native tongue laid elsewhere. Once seated, her penetrating gaze pinned the homemaker. Discomfort began to bubble inside, no longer so sure about her initial conclusion.

“I am afraid I am here on a matter of business, and not pleasure,” began the beautiful doctor. “You see, my daughter, Hermione, is excellent friends with your nephew, Harry Potter.” An unconscious snarl further distorted Petunia’s features at just the mention of that boy. “So, I approach you with a proposition. You will sign over the legal rights to Harry Potter, and you will never need to see or hear from him again.” Tempting, though she remembered the magical coot’s warnings. “Or, I can file a lawsuit against you for neglect and abuse of a minor as well as fraud concerning his trust fund. The choice is yours.” 

Red suffused her face as she vacillated between rage and fear. How dare this woman, this alien upstart, threaten her family in such a way?! Regardless if her claims on both accounts were true, it was none of her business! Though, a feeling told the petty woman that this doctor, a supposedly upstanding normal citizen, spoke true. The fear of losing her family, of going to jail, froze her. Even worse, the thought of damaging her carefully cultivated reputation, decided the matter. For several moments, Petunia deliberated.

“Fine. Just know that trouble follows that boy,” Petunia spat in defeat, deciding her material comfort far outweighed the nonsense the magical professor spouted.

“What is life without its dangers,” the woman smirked. “I will take his things, all of them, and leave. My solicitor will be here within the week.” 

“Harry, we need to talk,” Mr. Granger gently sat down at the Granger’s breakfast table.

“Did I do something wrong?” Harry panicked.

He thought the day had gone quite swimmingly. After Hermione started the topic of sports, and how her dad just discovered quidditch, everything clicked. He opened up, and started really talking to the Grangers. He cast his mind back to the last few hours to determine where it went wrong.

“Oh, god no!” The older man laughed, patting him on the shoulder. “Not at all! No, nothing so grim, so don’t look down. I promise you.” 

Calming down, curiosity tilted his head towards the older man. When Mrs. Granger arrived, not so long ago, she asked for Hermione. The girl, seeing her mother’s expression, grinned and ran off without a word. So, the two males remained in the kitchen, talking about what to expect at the football match.

“I want to ask you something, but it’s very serious,” a grim, stern look transformed the face of the previous genial man to that of a concerned parent. “Do you like living with your aunt and uncle? And please don’t lie to me, I promise I’m trying to help.”

Harry swallowed a large lump in his throat. No one ever asked him before, not the Weasley’s, not the professors, and certainly not his friends. Though, he suspected Hermione pieced together a good deal of the truth without needing so many words. Black locks of messy hair shook, green eyes shyly looking up through his long lashes. 

“That’s what we thought,” breathed the man, nodding to himself. “What would you think about living with us? Becoming part of the family?”

“I- ex- what?” Harry stuttered, not quite sure he comprehended the offer. “B-but I can’t!”

“And why is that, Harry,” cinnamon eyes, so much like his best friends, patiently gazed into his own.

“W-well, Professor Dumbledore said I had to return every summer,” the words poured out of his mouth. “It’s to renew wards that my parents placed on me when they d-”

“Yes, Hermione told us about those,” Mr. Granger nodded, a kind smile upon his lips. “She mentioned that they renew when you live with a blood relative, yes? What if we found a way around that? Or rather, that Hermione found a way around that? Would you like to be part of our family, then?”

“I- well, that’d be-,” one hand ran through his messy locks, eyes staring into the distance. 

What would it be like, to be Hermione’s brother, for real? With adults that cared about his welfare. He’d need to pull his marks up, that’s for sure, but they seemed like the people to help and encourage him instead of tear him down or place him on a pedestal. And, bloody hell, he already viewed Hermione as something of his swotty, bossy big sister, anyways. He’d get regular meals, and go to matches with Hermione and Mr. Granger -David. Alisa would spoil them, but not too much. 

“C-can I?” His small, unsure voice, his hopeful, green eyes (which were definitely not stinging with tears) once more meeting the familiar, twinkling pair. 

“I bloody well hope so,” Hermione called from the front room, breaking the ephemeral moment (and keeping him from all out bawling). 

“Hermione, language,” Mrs. Granger mindlessly corrected, walking in with a small, pleased smile.

“I didn’t just drag your trunk all the way upstairs and placate Hedwig when she couldn’t find you for nothing,” huffed his best friend as she appeared next to her mother. “What did he say?” She pointed her question towards Mr. Granger.

“Well, if you let him speak, he could very well answer,” the calm, amused admonishment drew a sigh from her friend.

“So, what of it, Harry? I told you I had a plan,” the soft, accepting smile from his best friend, his big sister, sealed the deal. 

“I-, well, yes, I’ll stay,” Harry accepted, smiling at his new family. 

He grunted from the impact of Hermione’s hug, laughing all the while. Tears slid down his face, and he didn’t care. Straightening up, and noticing the sniffles from her as well, Hermione declared it wonderful and started to show him around the house. She mentioned that her parents were only children, so there was no need to worry about explaining him to aunts and uncles. Once out of ear shot, Hermione softly explained how her parents always wanted more children, and how this felt like a dream come true for all of them. 

He found his own bedroom, next door to Hermione’s and across from their shared bathroom. Surprisingly, an emerald green and cream scheme greeted him. A single eyebrow rose towards his sister, though he knew not how the particulars would be taken care of, and chuckled at her blush.

“Well, I couldn’t leave it gray forever, and I got my new wand, so I wanted to test it,” she muttered. “And I know that you love the color green, but hate to admit it at school. So, I made it a bit different than Slytherin…” At his continued silence, her eyes widened as her babbling continued. “I can change it, if you’d like. I got the charm down for the walls. Mostly, at least.”

“Hermione, it’s perfect,” Harry smiled, happiness shining from his eyes.

“Really?” Her perfectionist anxiety showed through. “Are you sure?”

An assessing glance around the room revealed nothing out of order. It was as large, if not larger, than Dudley’s second room (his old one). The warm wooden desk and chair were situated under the window. A large perch stood next to it for Hedwig with multiple branches and what appeared to be a hollow space in the trunk. The full sized bed, with a green quilt and cream sheets, stood to one side, a matching nightstand next to it. He had a full closet, with doors and all, as well as a dresser and, what he concluded to be a Granger family staple, a bookshelf. It felt surprisingly like home, though he couldn’t articulate why.

“Yeah,” his response relaxed Hermione. “It’s more than perfect.” It’s like a dream come true he left unsaid. 

“Wonderful! I’ll let you get settled. We’re probably going to get take out. Is there anything you prefer?” She inquired, half out the door.

“Anything,” he laughed. 

He took an hour or so to carefully consider and unpack his meager belongings. In that time, Hedwig phased through the window, much to his shock and surprise. Harry noted to ask just what this house had that allowed for such convenient access. She rubbed his face and neck affectionately before exploring her new perch. With one last look at his room, Harry took off down the stairs.

“Ah, there you are,” David Granger greeted him. “You have excellent timing. Take out should be here any moment.”

“We got pizza,” Hermione shrugged from the sofa, curled up with a thin leather bound book. “And, before you ask, yes we got meat lovers.”

“I always forget just how well you know me,” playfully narrowed eyes considered her. 

A pink tongue answered, and, just as he settled down himself, the doorbell rang. The siren smell of dough and cheese and meat wafted towards them, and soon they found themselves around the table once more. When the eating and laughter subsided, Alisa nodded to herself.

“Now, I know we’ve all had an exciting day, but there is one last thing I’d ask before we all start winding down,” she announced, drawing everyone to attention. “It has come to my knowledge that you haven’t been properly assessed by a medical professional in years, Harry. Now, before you argue, please listen.” Her brown eyes hushed all complaints.

“I trust that Hermione informed you of our vacation in Moscow, yes?” He nodded in the affirmative, wary of what was to come. He logically understood that doctors weren’t bad, but the thought of going to one always put him on edge. The Dursley’s certainly refrained unless absolutely necessary. “Well, one of our new friends is a master Healer. I am hoping to retain her services for the family, but, more than that, I want her to examine both of you.” 

Hermione simply nodded, a thoughtful look on her face. Oddly enough, her easy acceptance helped Harry to see past his instinctive fear. In his life, Harry recalled only Madam Pomfery taking care of any of his ills, and those were almost always injury related. She did not, to his knowledge, do any sort of health check-up. A small hand reached for his and squeezed. Harry no longer needed to rely on himself. An odd thought dawned on him. This is what concerned parents do for their children. They take care of them.

Going to the fireplace, Mrs. Granger pinched emerald floo powder from an elegant box on top and threw it into the fireplace. Green flames flared to life and, with a few words in Russian, stuck her head through. A quick exchange, entirely in the foreign tongue, followed.

“Ah yes, your first lesson as a son of Granger,” David wryly remarked, spotting the nonplussed expression on his face. “Russian.” 

“Is it necessary?” He asked, intimidated by the thought of learning a new language.

“Yes, but worth it,” grinned the man next to him. “Being able to talk in a different language around others is dead useful, especially at dry parties. Not to mention, catching your wife talking nonsense about her cousin’s relationship is quite amusing.” 

A dark haired woman, taller than Mrs. Granger, easily stepped out of the stone hearth. Elegant, black hair swept to the side framed her face. Deep, brown eyes regarded the gathered group, easily going about and bussing everyone on their cheeks. She told Hermione something that caused her to blush and stutter. He knew she abridged their conversation earlier, though not to what extent. 

“I am Madame Krum,” the woman addressed him with a small smile. Her accent, different from Mrs. Granger’s, colored her voice without breaking the English. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“H-hello, ma’am,” Harry stood, awkwardly extending his hand. “I-I’m Harry Potter.”

“I am glad to see that Alisa and David were able to take you in,” the warmth in her eyes settled Harry’s nerves. “They have told me very little of your condition. As witches and wizards, we sometimes have different results than muggles. Alisa called me to both ensure your health and your privacy.” She glanced up to Hermione, who’s blush receded. “For both of you.” 

“We’re trying to keep my inheritance quiet in Britain for as long as possible,” Hermione explained. “People tend to judge rather harshly here, and I just want to get through school in one piece.” 

“Tsk, you should both be in Durmstrang,” tutted the woman, her eyes glittering with amusement. “Hogwarts’ curriculum is so limiting.” 

“We’ve talked of this, Ogynana,” laughed the Russian woman, relaxed in a way Harry noted she only was inside the house.

“Very well, you know that Karkaroff will take them,” Madame Krum chuckled. “Now, who will go first?”

“Fine,” Hermione sighed, standing up, winking at his relieved glance. “I’ll go.”

She stood up, facing the woman who beckoned her back to the kitchen. All the while, David entertained Harry with embarrassing stories about Hermione growing up. Alisa disappeared into the kitchen, ostensibly to make tea. A troubled expression quickly vanished from her face when she appeared once more, hot beverages on a wooden tray.

“And you will tell us, all of us, the absolute truth, is that understood young lady?” The stern command of Madame Krum floated into the room as both she and Hermione reappeared. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Hermione conceded, head hung at the disappointment in the elder’s tone. 

“That goes for you, as well, Mr. Potter,” she fixed her gimlet gaze upon a suddenly paralyzed Harry. “Tomorrow, I will be back with the boys, and we will hear the whole of it. Do not lie.” 

Concern and discomfort settled on his person. Without asking, Harry knew the imposing women meant the full tale of their time at Hogwarts. Considering Hermione’s new situation, it probably would be best to tell the adults, their parents, Harry mentally corrected, the whole truth. That same feeling told him that they wouldn’t fly off the handle like Mrs. Weasley.

“Now then, Mr. Potter-”

“You can call me Harry, ma’am,” the boy murmured, not used to such formalities

“Harry, then,” her eyes softened. “It’s your turn. Would you like someone there with you?”

“Er, uh, c-could,” he tripped over his words again, eyes searching the room.

“I’ll look away, if that’ll help,” Hermione offered, his own lips tilting up at his gratitude. 

“Thank you,” Harry breathed as he readied himself. 

“Now then, Harry,” the woman snapped to healer mode once more. “Before we start, I want you to know that, as a healer, I cannot tell anyone who is not a guardian, about your health, well-being, or any treatments we decide to pursue. Do you understand what that means?”

“Y-yeah, I think so?” His thoughts raced, wondering what differed between this and a normal healer. 

“The difference is that, as a Bulgarian healer and unaffiliated with your country, I am not obligated to report my findings to the Headmaster or your Ministry. If a healer at the hospital here were to find something alarming, as a child, they are obligated to report,” she answered the unspoken question.

“Oh,” he blinked. “That makes loads more sense.”

“I gathered,” she chuckled with a small shake of her head. “Now, for some simple questions…”

His birthday fell on July 31st. No, he never underwent any surgeries, magical or muggle. He couldn’t remember when he got his teeth checked, nor when he saw a doctor or a healer last. Harry felt fine, as normal as ever. As for strange things, he sometimes got very conveniently timed headaches from his scar, usually when in mortal peril. 

Color him impressed. Madame Krum barely batted an eyelash at his admissions. When asked to strip, Hermione pointedly faced away, the thin volume playing between her fingers on top of the table. A sudden shameful shyness overtook the boy. Being in Privet Drive for almost three weeks resulted in a multitude of cuts and bruises. His clothes covered them, Uncle Vernon saw to it. He hunched, trying to hide the blotches of purples and greens and reds. 

With a click of the tongue, diagnostic spells and charms washed over him. Warmth, like a thick blanket, rippled along his skin with each wave of the wand. He uncurled, bit by bit, as a piece of parchment and quill recorded the findings. In the end, she nodded, as if satisfied by the results. 

“Well, Harry, I daresay it is fortunate our Hermione is quite so clever,” she remarked, going to the large purse on the counter. “The good news is that there is nothing irreparable. You are malnourished, and have been since you were a child it appears, but that is easily rectified. You may not grow to be as big as you should, but you’ll be healthy all the same.”

Emerald eyes blinked in surprise. So, he was going to be okay? The thought alone boggled his mind. He convinced himself that the stay at the Dursley’s would forever damage some part of him. He almost missed her speaking.

“As for that absolute beastly brute, he didn’t break or crack any bones, which is a blessing,” her seething resentment crept into her words. “Those appear to be in good order, though skelegrow would fix any pre-existing issues.”

“Eer- yeah,” he scratched the back of his neck. “I, uh, had an incident last year and had to regrow some bones.” 

“Very good,” black hair bobbed. “Here is bruise paste. If you need more, I daresay Hermione can brew for you. Apply it twice a day, once in the morning and once at night. They should fade and heal completely within a week. If you need help getting it on your back, ask for it. Now then, clothes on. I want to examine that scar of yours more closely.” 

Harry scrambled to obey, glad to shield his body once more. His hand grabbed Hermione’s to bring her to his side. Madame Krum’s dark eyes regarded the pair, curious and thoughtful. Her crisp voice instructed Harry to sit down and stay as still as possible. Her wand waved over her hands, coating them in a pearlescent sheen. Oh so gently, delicate fingers tipped his head back. A thumb brushed over the famed lightning bolt, only for her to release a low hiss.

“I knew it,” Hermione breathed, looking between him and the healer. “There’s something very wrong about the scar.”

“You are far more attuned to auras than you think,” hummed Madame Krum.  “I shall teach you how to use it. Let us go and speak to your parents, hm?” 

They gathered around the low coffee table, tea and coffee properly prepared and handed about. Nestled next to Hermione, he sipped what was probably the best cup of tea of his life. Muscles relaxed as quiet conversation filled the space.

“Now then, onto the results of the check ups,” Madame Krum asserted, setting her cup of coffee down. “Hermione is, on the whole, healthy. There seem to be some residual effects from a potions accent,” here, she arched a brow at the girl. Harry giggled, turning into Hermione, who’s blush gave it away. “It is more of an advantage than anything. As expected, her magic is what the English called ‘dark aligned,’ a family trait.”

“But, isn’t that a bad thing?” Harry stuttered, glancing between Hermione and the Bulgarian woman.

“Bah! This is what I mean by limited, Alisa,” scoffed Madame Krum. “No, Harry. There is no true difference between light and dark magic, simply the intent. One can kill with a flipendo as easily as the avada. Why people call ‘dark magic’ as such is because it is harder to control, easier to become addicted to, and can cost the caster more than just the raw power needed to cast. Casting the cruciatus can cause both the caster and the victim to go mad. Killing in cold blood with the avada will split the soul. Blood rituals can just as easily protect as they can damn.

“Magic is all about intent,” her dark eyes bored into his. “Take the avada, for instance. It was developed by healers as a form of assisted suicide for terminally ill patients, to quickly put them out of their pain. Does that sound evil to you?”

Black, unruly locks shook back and forth. Put in that light, Harry could see why, say, cancer patients or the mortally wounded would want such an end. His world pitched upside down. ‘Dark’ and ‘evil’ were often synonymous in Britain, a branch to be condemned and looked down upon. Anything different threatened the black and white world view thus far built in his head. 

“Now, used with the intent to kill without purpose, it rips the soul,” she continued, seeing her point take hold. “Of course, if someone were to be truly remorseful, the soul mends. That’s how healers, law enforcement and those in combat situations are able to stay whole -they are truly sorry they took a life. Those we call ‘Dark’ witches and wizards revel in it, and lose their humanity bit by bit.

“There is nothing wrong with being aligned towards one side or the other,” an elegant shrug continued. “It means that certain types of magic are far easier to learn and more powerful when cast. For instance, I’m sure Hermione is good at hexes and jinxes, even some forms of transfiguration. However, she may struggle with defensive spells and certain charms, such as the patronus.”

Harry blinked. How did she know? A glance revealed a thoughtful, intrigued Hermione, lower lip grasped between her teeth. She fingered the hidden sleeve holster where the cherry wand resided.  

“Does this mean that, for instance, when we learn to conjure flowers, it would be easier if I chose something like a belladonna or nightshade as opposed to tulips?” Her curious gaze flicked forward. 

“Very good, Hermione,” the Bulgarian woman beamed. “Yes, framing such light spells will help greatly in your ability to master them. In time, you should be able to conjure or charm anything with ease.” 

“What about me?” Harry inquired, excited and a bit nervous.

“Ah, yours is interesting,” a soft hum answered. “It is neutral, though able to shift either way. I do not believe that is the natural state of your magic. I will address this in a later time.” She turned back to the enthralled parents. “The biggest issue is that Hermione’s chronologically a few months younger than she should be at this point in time.”

“Chronologically?” Mr. Granger’s voice trailed off. A stern, uncompromising gaze settled upon the children. “We will hear of this tomorrow, do you both hear me?” 

“Yes, Papa.”

“Yes, David.” 

“The good news is that it’s easily remedied and she will fully recover,” Madame Krum’s prognosis calmed her, their parents. “As for Harry,” he shied away from their combined glance. “He has bruising and some tissue damage, but will make a full recovery by the end of the summer. He is malnourished, and has been for a long time. However, healthy meals and a vitamin potion will set him to rights. I am happy to say that, physically, there is nothing more to report. He should, by all rights, be perfectly healthy by summer’s end.”

A relieved smile graced Alisa’s face, David openly beaming. Lightning struck Harry that moment. These people worried about his health. They worried about his well being. For what reason? What did they gain? The Dursleys were paid, he knew, and Dumbledore, as kind as he’s been, always needed him for something. The Weasley’s seemed involved for both Dumbledore’s and Ron’s sakes. It always felt forced. The Grangers just cared.

“There is one hiccup,” proceeded the healer. “The scar has some dark magic attached to it. Now, normally, dark magic does leave permanent scars, such as Harry’s. However, when properly healed, they should be clear of all magic. I think the goblins of Gringotts will be able to do more at this point. It is certainly something I would consult with their curse breakers.”

“Is that going to-” Hermione nibbled on her lip again, nerves showing.

“I am afraid it will, dear,” Madame Krum sighed, wry smile in place. “It would be highly irresponsible to go forward with the ritual, Hermione. The good news is that your current bond will suffice for now.”

“Ritual?” Harry questioned, his own brow raised.

“How else did you think we’d get the blood wards to work without your aunt?” Hermione retorted.