King Lear
Day 1: Saturday
The first day after she sent the letter was spent in a familiar cycle which began with waking up from a fitful night of nightmares. So, that was her first priority.
She knew these “nightmares” could not truly be dreams, which left her with two other possibilities. Either she had mystifyingly become a divination prodigy overnight, or what she was seeing belonged to someone else.
They were memories.
Hermione stood by her belief that the entire subject of Divination was woolly, the class not helped by the fraud Professor Third Eye Trelawny. Still, Hermione had memorised her entire copy of Unfogging the Future by Cassandra Bablatsky, and Hermione, herself, certainly did not have the so-called gift of the third eye.
The first possibility was thus crossed out.
In all honesty, Hermione was not sure if the second possibility was more or less outlandish than the first. If she was witnessing memories, they would have to have already occurred. Was it a case of time travel? A version of herself from an alternate reality she had somehow come into contact with?
The thought reminded her of the new, eerie voice that had taken to prowling through her head.
In an absurd moment of frustration, she hesitantly focused on repeating the question of “How did you get here?” over and over again in her head.
I’m not sure, its response was enough to have her flailing off her desk chair. There was some sort of ritual, I can’t remember much of it.
“Do you remember anything about the ritual?” Hermione timidly asked.
Familial blood.
“So my parents were dragged into some ritual–”
No, the voice snapped. There are very few rituals which involve Muggles—they don’t have the magical energy to contribute to the strength of it, and oftentimes dilute it.
“Well, I don’t exactly have any magical relatives I can call up and ask about their participation in a ritual that has not even occurred,” Hermione hissed back.
Don’t act like a half-wit. Muggleborns are just descendants of squibs, something we already suspect at this age.
Hermione growled, their words only sparked more frustration.“It doesn’t make sense. If that were the case more people would be aware of it.”
It’s not as though purebloods would want the fact painted across the sky, especially when so many preach about their superiority at every opportunity. The voice gave a long-winded sigh, one which reminded her all too much of Professor McGonagall. We learned this in elementary Hermione, we have known this for years. Genes are passed down, even recessive genes. We, or I suppose I, never figured out if it was the combination of enough new blood being added through the generations which allowed for the recessive genes to make a reappearance, or if there was more to it. Plenty of Muggleborns have Muggle siblings, which could either be because their siblings had a heterozygous genotype—or homozygous genotype where they received only dominant genes—or it could be due to a combination of recessive genes and epigenetics allowing the trait to reappear.
“That’s something at least,” and she couldn’t help but mourn the fact that she didn’t have access to the Restricted Section during the summer holidays. While wizarding kind didn’t give anywhere near enough credit to Muggle science, there would surely be something there to help. “Though, if we don’t figure it out–”
And Hermione pointedly ignored that she had begun to use the word “we” in their wild conversation.
“–do we have any idea how the trait showed up in me?”
Like I said, the voice huffed, we never figured out the exact reason why.Go to Gringotts, I doubt they’ll be able to tell you how, but they should be able to tell you whose blood played a part in it. Then again, I can’t be certain they can, by the time I started truly looking into it Gringotts had already been decimated.
Hermione choked, eyes wide at that last comment. Of course! Thinking back, it made sense that the bank would be destroyed if Diagon Alley had been attacked—those memories, because that’s what they had to be, were like a scene out of a horror movie. Still, processing the fact that the warrior race had been taken down, likely in as much of a slaughter as the rest of Diagon Alley, was chilling.
She forced her attention away from the images which forcefully planted themselves in the forefront of her mind once more. If she wanted to make any progress on this issue she would need to focus, and at present that meant turning her focus to Gringotts. Getting to Diagon Alley could prove to be a challenge this early in the summer. Student reading lists had not been mailed out, so she couldn’t use that as an excuse to have her parents bring her to the Alley, and she certainly couldn’t chance them deciding to go into the Alley with her. They would have too many questions about what she was doing at the bank, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to have so many people involved in this mess yet.
While Hermione had managed to make it to and from Diagon Alley the day before without her parents knowing, a trip to Gringotts wouldn’t go unnoticed. Her parents had taken to calling at noon each day, and the morning would prove too short a time to get to the Alley, take care of her business at Gringotts, and make it home by noon. The afternoon was also risky, as she wasn’t sure how long her trip would last, and did not know if she would be home when her parents returned.
She wondered if perhaps it would be best to wait until after she met with Sirius—the thought only brought her back to impatiently waiting for a reply. Her first priority had to be Harry, regardless of the voice and all that it entailed.
She ignored the displeased buzz that flickered through her mind in response.
Hermione reminded herself that it had only been a day since she sent the letter, and Sirius would need time to reply. She took comfort in the knowledge that if the owl was unable to find him, the letter would be returned to her by the owlery along with a note explaining so. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be refunded if that was the case, as the owl had technically made the trip even if they had not located the intended recipient.
And so she spent the remainder of the day battling the memories that were determined to push their way back into her thoughts. Many she had seen before, but some were new. Today, the new ones mostly included herself walking through dreary halls and the blurred image of a wall that left a layer of dust on her finger when she ran it along the surface. There was something different to the texture of it, not smooth like the rest of the wallpaper she had seen so far in the house, instead, there was an odd pattern or print to it. The same blonde woman from before also appeared, and with her more tired smiles and whispered conversations with the never-responding portrait.
But for the life of her, she could not remember the address.
One thing remained the same: the jumbles of sounds and images were unavoidable for long.
Day 2: Sunday
The second day after sending the letter started off worse. After waking from a nightmare of Hogwarts disfigured with her classmates’ bodies, blood and viscera on the floor and walls that remained standing, and debris which ravenously littered the ground, she found herself bent over her toilet seat vomiting the contents of her stomach. She couldn’t decide if this dream was worse than the others with the villains it featured being Death Eaters instead of Muggles.
She needed Sirius to reply. She needed to figure out what she was going to tell him, what she was going to ask for, and what help she would need from him. She wasn’t even entirely sure what that would be, but as long as it helped Harry it would be a success in her book.
That was assuming he followed through on her request of not telling anyone else. There was a part of her that expected a knock on the door at any minute, Professor Dumbledore standing outside because she hadn’t yet responded to any of his numerous letters, because he saw the letter she sent and realised she was the one to send it.
Realistically, if Dumbledore were to help her in this self-appointed task he would be able to do far more than Sirius, an escaped convict. But if there was one thing she knew for certain amongst all this confusion, it was that she didn’t want him to know. And while a part of her wished to journey over to Hogwarts, march up to the Headmaster’s office and tell him that Harry needed help, that they needed to help Harry, she didn't. Perhaps it was because he would realise there was more to the story than she was telling. Or maybe, just maybe, even if she tried to ignore that increasingly persistent voice at the back of her head, she kept quiet because she knew he wouldn't do anything about it.
Don’t trust him, was whispered to her over and over again from that—from her—voice in her head. Even as it too respected the headmaster, it whispered not to trust, not to rely on him. Not when it came to Harry. Not when it came to Ron.
So for now, she needed Sirius to reply.
Maybe, the voice snipped, if you had bothered signing our name at the bottom he would be able to.
She sighed and returned to reading. After her miserable experience waking up, she had dug through her shelves and the trunks under her bed for the books she bought before third year. The ones on time travel. They had helped prepare her for the experience, and more than that helped her understand. Only not enough.
Her main takeaway from the year had not been positive. For every day her friends lived she lived two, sometimes three. She needed the extra time to study and complete assigned work, and there couldn’t be more than one of her in the same place at a time. The majority of her year was spent avoiding her friends, her common room, and dormitory. In many ways, it felt like the beginning of first year all over again.
And so, like the previous day, and the one before that, and the majority of her days home since term ended, she was dragged into memories and saw flashes of images behind her eyelids she wished she could forget as she went about her day.
That evening she sat at the table eating roast chicken with her parents. She smiled and even cracked a joke about how quickly it would be finished if Ron were present. Her parents smiled back and laughed, and the tense set of their shoulders finally began to ease.
Later, in her room, Hermione stared at the girl in the mirror and wished she would feel different things. Maybe if they smiled she could too.
Maybe hers would be real again.
Day 4: Tuesday
“You don’t remember much about the ritual,” Hermione considered, recalling their first conversation. She had settled in the backyard with the slightly too long grass to tickle her arms and legs.
No.
“Tell me what you do remember. I have to see it, tell me so I understand."
What would you like to know?
"Tell me about the world. Yours, I mean. The one that will one day be mine."
They, like us, like Harry, like Ron, were children destined to be bodies at soldiers’ feet .
Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon laying in the grass under the tree in her backyard as she listened while the voice told her about everything she wanted to know, everything she now hated knowing. And whether or not intentional, while her mind heard, it also saw everything they spoke of.
By the time the battle of Hogwarts took place, so many of us already only had stones as weapons. The few wands and magicals present that escaped the battle after Harry and You-Know-Who’s deaths never stood a chance.
And Hermione could understand it. The lack of awareness the wizarding world had of Muggles was extraordinary. In an exceedingly horrifying way, especially since she began learning about her future. She might have dropped Muggle Studies after third year, but that decision did not take away from the topic’s value. Logically, Hogwarts should have been focusing on the unique and central aspects of Muggle life, how they related and differed from the lives of wizardkind. Instead, the entire year was spent on English classics, with the recurring authors being Shakespeare, Jane Austen and George Orwell.
While not irrelevant, they were in no way an accurate representation of Muggles. In fact, Hermione was only one of many to drop the course after her third year. Half the class had. It was little surprise wizards were so ignorant of the people they shared the planet with.
We can’t change my past, the voice said long after they have finished talking, but you’ll fight to make our future, this present, better.
And they said it with such confidence, such pride, Hermione knew she couldn’t let herself down this time. That meant she couldn’t keep relying on others. She was going to have to do most of this work herself. Consequently, she couldn’t keep waiting for Sirius’ reply.
Harry had been stuck with the Dursleys for as long as she had been home, and her already infrequent letters this summer came to a sudden halt a week ago, after Professor Dumbledore’s first letter forbidding continued contact. It was not because she agreed with what he wrote or had any interest in following his instructions on the issue in question, but because the more she thought about it the more she wanted to avoid Professor Dumbledore.
The guilt of feeling that way about her headmaster was mollified by everything she knew about what Harry had been through, and everything she now knew he would go through. He had been left on a doorstep—a tidbit of information she and Ron had come by one night in the Gryffindor Common Room at the end of third year, the evening after they had all been released from the Hospital Wing. They had been talking about Minister Fudge’s actions resulting in Sirius no longer being a viable option as a magical guardian, and he made a snide remark that the Dursleys would have been even more disappointed if they knew their chance at normalcy had literally flown out a window. They pried a considerable amount of information out of him after that.
And if his beginning at the Dursleys wasn’t enough, the state of Hogwarts proved to be a good argument. She wouldn’t give up her place in the school for the world, but it couldn’t be denied that studying at Hogwarts would likely cost her the world. If a second year, a thirteen-year-old student—regardless of being considered the Brightest Witch of the Age—managed to figure out that what was haunting their halls was a basilisk, with her limited time in the magical world and limited knowledge of the Chamber of Secrets in comparison to someone who had been present the last time it was open, how had nobody else?
How did a specific someone not put it together?
So, while the majority of the day was spent under the shade of a tree, Hermione couldn’t let it entirely go to waste. That night, when she lay in bed, she finally asked another question.
“So, what’s our plan?”
There was a light laugh, a bit hoarse from what she imagined must be disuse, and Hermione was sure that if the voice could smile it would. Then they told her.
Day 6: Thursday
The sixth day began like the fifth, like the fourth, like the third, like the second, like the first, like almost every day since she returned home. Except she didn’t plan to allow it to remain that way.
Breakfast was a quick affair, with her parents having to go into the clinic early due to an emergency with a local boy’s wisdom teeth.
“I was thinking,” Hermione began, her mother going through her yogurt cup at the speed an olympist might run the hundred metre, “I might stop by Diagon Alley today. There’s this new book, it was released last week you see, The Arborists Guilde. Of course, it’s not on the reading list, not that Hogwarts ever sends them out early enough, but the NEWT and OWL students I spoke with back at Hogwarts all said Professor Sprout hasn’t changed the reading material over the years. Still, I’m sure it would help with my OWLS. With my workload next semester, getting enough review done beforehand and cementing a better understanding will surely allow me to do better during term, and on exams.”
Her parents blinked, both having frozen a few seconds into her speaking.
“We won’t be there with you,” her mother said hesitantly. “Will you be alright by yourself?”
“Will those Weasley fellows be there?” her father asked absently as a hand stroked his chin.
“I doubt it, Mr. and Mrs. Wealsey have been quite busy this summer. And yes, I’ll be fine.” She gave them both a reassuring smile and continued on her oatmeal.
“Do you need money for the cab?” her father asked after a minute of silence.
“I have some galleons left over from my allowance. Enough to get to Diagon Alley, purchase the book and return.”
And she did. Even with everything she had spent on owl orders during fourth year—most of which were for books—almost half her allowance from the year was saved up. It was helped by her mother increasing her usual allowance once she learned her daughter was seeing someone. She had been disappointed to learn Hermione had ended things before returning home, but was pleased it gave her the opportunity to explore her options. Her mother had stressed the importance of doing so often.
“Alright, I suppose we’ll see you tonight,” her mother said, still sounding unsure about the whole thing.
Her parents were headed out the door within the next five minutes, surely late after their stilted conversation. At the door, her father paused, looking between Hermione and where she assumed her mother was getting in the car.
“Your mother is quite proud of you.” He gave her a gentle smile, and it reminded her of all the times they used to go on adventures over the weekend, sneak ice cream in the middle of the night, and when she would ride on his shoulders after she complaining her legs were too tired to take another step—even though that was never why she asked. “I am, as well.”
Her eyes burned, and when she spoke her throat was heavy, “I know.”
“Right.” He nodded one last time, fired off one last smile at her, and was out the door locking it behind him.
Hermione remained seated at that table long after she heard the car pull out from the driveway. She wondered if she would forgive herself for walking away later this summer like she planned to. It wouldn't be permanent, but when she could only spend two months with her parents every year, and more often than not remained at school over the winter and spring holidays, leaving halfway through the summer felt like a heavy weight against her chest.
“Do we–did we still love them, in seventh year?” Could she have if she Obliviated them?
Yes, even more, The voice went quiet after that, and Hermione assumed that was the end of the conversation. But as she finished washing her dishes and placed them in the dishrack, they added one more thing, We love them enough to have them look us in the face and walk away.
When she called the Knight Bus it was midmorning and she was wearing the simple but quality robes she had purchased last year. The original article Skeeter released about Hermione two-timing Harry had been followed by a whole slew of other articles, the witch only desisting when Krum’s agent threatened to sue the Daily Prophet. Apparently, at least according to the avid reporter, Hermione’s stylistic choices of witching apparel and general robes were pitiful, enough that Skeeter began including a few “suggestions”, claiming that her belief of witches sticking together demanded she help the young, ignorant girl.
Hermione, unwilling to allow such an insult, had taken to wearing her robes more often in her free time when not in her school uniform. If she was to be criticized about her style it would not be from that obnoxious looking muppet, Rita Skeeter. Funny enough, the reporter was suddenly less inclined to talk about her wardrobe and was careful to avoid pictures of her clothes in future articles.
Most of the robes she wore were ones she had purchased last summer, however, some were bought in response. It was unfortunate that the only reason she had bought some of them was because of a spiteful bitch, especially since the spite-bought ones were her favourites. It felt a bit like Skeeter had won.
But not enough for Hermione to stop wearing them.
Originally, she planned to use the ride to review the steps that would need to be taken once she entered the bank. It quickly became clear that wouldn’t be happening.
While she had known about the existence of the Knight Bus from some lightreading during the summer after second year—Transporting Through the Centuries: A Complete History by Annabelle R. Selwyn was an informative read, and further explained a vital piece of wizardkind’s lives and way of life. It was the first book in a trilogy on magical transportation. Interestingly enough, it was double the size of her copy of Hogwarts: A History—she now wished she had taken the time to ask Harry about his own experience before third year.
It somehow managed to surpass the nauseating sensation of a portkey.
Once arriving at Diagon Alley and stumbling her way through the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione was able to refocus on the task at hand.
She recalled the conversation from last night on how she would handle the goblins, and how she would get what she, they, needed from them. It was also made clear that any mention of the dragon and previous—or rather future—adventures was to be avoided at all costs. Instead, she had to achieve the following:
Request an ancestry test.
Discuss goblin laws regarding the guardianship of a minor and any way to circumvent the Ministry’s agenda.
Look into the proceedings of Sirius Black’s arrest and lack of trial.
Attempt to convince the goblins to aid her in her quest, at least parts of it. For a price, of course.
Check on the possibility of doing an ancestry test outside the bank.
Getting Harry to the bank would be difficult, especially if she was to remain unnoticed, so her best bet was to see if she could take a test “to-go”. While there was a ritual that could also trace back family lines, Hermione had been unable to obtain any specifics about it. It was likely the information was only available to professionals—Healers and Unspeakables, possibly Aurors too—and would require one to complete it. Seeing as she did not want any undue attention pointed at Harry, at least not yet with how the Ministry was acting, involving a Healer, Unspeakable or Auror was out of the question.
There wasn’t a line in Gringotts, a goblin teller calling her over immediately.
“I’m here for an ancestry test, I believe Gringotts administers those?”
“We do,” Lurgor, the teller, confirmed curiously. “Though it will cost. Gringotts does not offer its services freely.”
“I’m aware.” Hermione smiled pleasantly.
“Fifty galleons.”
Hermione scoffed, though wasn’t entirely surprised. “That’s an absurd price for a piece of paper and a little bit of ink. If I were to find a healer and pay them for their time and the materials needed, it would cost much less.”
“And yet you are not, I wonder why that is.” Lurgor smiled viciously.
“I’ll pay twenty-five, still far above an acceptable rate.”
“Forty-five,” the goblin fired back.
“Thirty-five. That’s the final offer,” Hermione said firmly. “If that’s not doable then I’ll cut my losses and find a healer.”
Oh, she would find one. She most definitely would not contact them though.
Lurgor’s eyes narrowed, his pointed nose becoming even more pronounced as he did. “Thirty-five it is. I will lead you to a room, and you will pay after.”
He led her behind the desk of the main teller, through a series of clipped corridors and curved stairways until they arrived at a simple office. The red carpet looked incredibly soft, though not as soft as either of the chairs separated by a grand desk. She hid a grin when she noticed the chair behind the desk was notably higher.
A gold name plate sat on the desk, engraved with the name Iadlerx.
“The goblin who will administer your test shall arrive shortly. When completed, they will take payment and then lead you back out.”
She barely had the time to nod before he was out the door.
She sat herself down, the quiet of the office allowing her to recall part of her conversation the night before.
“I still believe you aren’t thinking clearly,” Hermione said, careful to think the words in her head instead of saying them aloud. Her parents were sleeping just down the hall.
My thinking is perfectly clear, the voice responded snidely. You’re the one who won’t face facts. You’ve seen what happens when the adults you want to trust are allowed to help and look out for the interests of others. Of Harry and Ron.
“I understand keeping Dumbledore out of it,” and it still felt wrong to hold such an opinion about her headmaster, “but not accepting help from anyone will only set us back.”
There are very few people we should trust with Harry and Ron’s safety. At least Ron is safer at headquarters.
“Have you managed to remember where that is, by the way? I can see the inside of it, the halls and a portrait, plenty of memories of it, but I can’t remember how it looks from the outside,” and it was quite frustrating too, that a place that featured so often in those oh so memorable memories wasn't entirely remembered.
Still nothing, the voice sighed. The name is on the tip of my tongue but I can’t seem to recall it. Even remembering the portrait, I know who the woman is, yet I can’t put a name to the face.
The voice—her voice—had explained to her the magnificence of the Fidelius charm on Tuesday. Hermione had, of course, known about the charm beforehand, but it was comforting amongst all the horrific things she had learned that day to know that no Muggle government had managed to find a way around the charm. If only more of wizardkind knew how, and were able, to cast it.
“Well, at least we can be sure wherever Ron is, nobody is getting to him.”
The Fidelius will keep him safe, and the Weasleys want to keep him safe. Unfortunately, with their choices, that will not always be enough.
“We’ll need to get Harry to Sirius, and if he’s wherever the Weasleys are then a quicker way of getting in contact with him might be sending Ron a letter. We could also ask Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to help remove him from the Dursleys.”
They’re too involved with the Order. I don’t think they would go against the Order, and even if they did it would only be after they found out. After Dumbledore found out.
Hermione felt ice crawl up her spine. The idea of Professor Dumbledore finding out felt wrong. It wasn’t only the voice’s words which made her feel that way, the parts of her that were entirely her own felt that way too.
She briefly considered getting in contact with Professor McGonagall but quickly decided against it. While she might respect her head of house, the witch already worked three jobs, which no professor should have to do as they would never manage to give any of them their all. Despite the abnormality of not having faith in her professor, she reminds herself of all the other professors she has had who were most certainly not the type to be relied on. Defense had always been an adventure. Her head of house was quickly crossed off the list.
Oddly enough, Percy might have been more helpful than any of our professors. It’s a shame he’s shoved himself so far into the Minister’s pocket.
And up his arse.
“Is it odd though?” If things had gone differently in second year, if she had begun remembering by the time she was thirteen and had learned about a chamber underneath their school, Percy might have been the one she approached about the basilisk. He was a senior prefect at the time and would have looked into it. She didn't doubt that he would have come to the same conclusion. Astonishingly, the twins would probably have been her next best bet.
Oh, they would have been wonderful, the voice laughed. And ever so helpful too.
Hermione remembered that the twins had been to the Dursley before. Twice. The first time they had even pulled up in a flying car. She wondered what they would do if they were given the chance once more.
Undoubtedly something far more eccentric, and though the voice didn’t have any real physical form—aside from the older version of herself in her new memories—Hermione could see their smirk. If the twins found out about the basilisk in second year she would have surely woken up one morning to find roosters everywhere. Knowing them, they would have started a black market selling the birds to students.
Her imagination, and the brief change it brought to the images in her mind, were appreciated. She would have thanked them if they were here, even if they didn’t understand why.
In any case, they aren’t a viable option. Not currently, the voice reminded her. Headquarters is a mess right now, and when they aren’t being watched over by Mrs. Weasley, surrounded by Order members, or having their every breath criticized by a portrait and house elf, they’re locked in a room.
Hermione grimaced, flashes of memories from the weeks spent at headquarters pulsing behind her eyelids. “I’m happy we didn’t go there so early this time.”
It hadn’t even been three weeks since she returned home, and she had already spent more time here this summer than last time around. She supposed repeatedly seeing a future world where Harry and Ron were lost, and then all the memories of the world which followed could change a fair bit.
The voice didn’t reply, but it seemed pleased.
We didn’t get much reviewing done there anyway, it sniffed.
Well, if Dumbledore and McGonagall weren't a feasible choice, and none of the Weasleys proved to be a good option, who else was there? All of the Order members were immediately crossed off the list, Sirius being exempt from her doing so. But Sirius wasn’t replying.
The issue is this: The people we trust wouldn’t be able to help, and people who would be able to help wouldn’t manage to do so before the Order got involved.
The arrival of another goblin, presumably Iadlerx, had her springing back to the present, literally. She almost slid off her chair.
He paused before his desk, staring at her intensely. “Lurgor did not mention you were a wanderer.”
“Pardon?” Hermione wasn’t entirely sure what she was hearing, but it had her heart stuttering as she tried not to get her hopes up.
“A wanderer,” the goblin replied obviously, as if she was dimwitted. “Your magic along with your soul is capable of wandering.”
“Hypothetically,” Hermione began slowly, before throwing caution to the wind, “it could result in the voice of a future version of one’s self making a sudden appearance?”
“That is what a wanderer is,” the goblin sighed, clearly growing bored with the conversation. He continued on his way to the desk and hopped up onto the chair.
“Right.” Hermione blinked and returned to the purpose of her visit. “I’m Hermione Granger, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Iadlerx, Senior Medic of Gringotts. I suppose it makes sense that Lurgor chose to assign you to my care given the circumstances.” He shuffled through a few pieces of paper, grabbing a few more from a drawer in the desk. “Is an inheritance test your sole reason for this visit?”
“It’s not.”
“I see. Well, let's begin with it.” He placed a grey looking piece of parchment in front of her and opened a small metal container which held a knife barely the length of her pinky. “This will require three drops of blood on the parchment, after which the knife will be banished.”
“Understood.” She positioned the knife against her thumb.
“Not there. One of the veins on the inside of your wrist will work best, the purer the blood the more accurate the results. And no,” Iadlerx said snidely, “I cannot do it for you.”
Hermione pressed the tip of the knife over one of her veins, just barely piercing her skin. The blade was so sharp it took her a few seconds to feel the sharp sting. She lifted her hand over the piece of parchment—which upon closer inspection had tiny symbols drawn over it—and allowed three drops of blood to fall onto it. “Is there any specific reason it has to be me?”
Unfortunately, even with being stuck with all those memories of the future—hopefully a future she would no longer live—the older her hadn’t managed to pass on any of her pain tolerance.
“Aside from me having no interest in doing so?” Iadlerx asked, now waving his hand in complicated patterns above the parchment. A few seconds in and she had lost track of them. “Family magic protects each other, members can’t use it to harm each other. The magic within your blood would conceal itself if it felt attacked, even if you willingly allowed me to draw it. The results of the inheritance test would be murky at best.”
Hermione hummed in response, committing the answer to memory so she could research it at a later time. The next few minutes were spent in silence, the three drops of blood managing to spread out and cover the entire page, before coming back together again and finally separating to form little lines and words.
Names, she realised, not words.
Her parents' names appeared above her, though the letters were jagged and split. The names above on both sides of the family followed the same pattern until she reached Marius Brooks nee Black. The son of Cygnus Black II. Her great-great-grandfather on her mother’s side.
The first thought that crossed her mind was that it was hardly a surprise Black blood managed to survive so many generations of being infused with Muggle blood. With the family's enthusiasm towards inbreeding, it had to be incredibly concentrated with their magical genes. Her next thought was also that it was hardly a surprise magic passed over Marius and many of his descendants, due to that very tendency towards inbreeding. With the inevitable decrease in dominant magical genes from the lack of fresh blood, recessive genes would have begun appearing more often, therefore increasing the likelihood and rate of them being expressed, and ultimately leading to children with only the recessive magical genes, unable to overpower the “squib trait”. The introduction and continuation of enough “clean” blood from her Muggle ancestors would explain her popping up. Still, whether or not epigenetics were somehow involved in the reappearance of the magical trait was unknown, though she suspected it more and more.
“I had assumed I would be seeing the Dagworth-Granger Family, not the Black Family.” Iadlerx lifted his gaze from the parchment to Hermione. More specifically, she suspected, her hair. “Understandable, I suppose.”
Hermione was unable to string any words together, her mind shooting to and fro between her thoughts. As she continued to gawk at the names before her, Iadlerx banished the knife and box it came in. “You are, of course, welcome to take the results with you. A copy will be made and stored at Gringotts for record purposes.”
“If someone finds out–”
“The security of our records is taken quite seriously, Miss Granger,” he replied, eyes narrowed. “Now, I believe you mentioned another purpose for this visit?”
“Right. Yes, of course,” she said, scrambling to get back on track while ignoring the ranting voice in her head.
I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.
That daft woman could have said something the entire time, she certainly suspected something.
Imagine if Draco found out, the voice barked out a laugh at that, finally lowering their intensity to a low mumbling Hermione couldn’t keep up with.
“I was hoping to arrange a few matters and get some clarification on how Gringotts may be able to assist me going forward?”
“Arrange or rearrange, Miss Granger?” the goblin asked curiously.
“Both I suppose. Arrange some, rearrange others, and hopefully avoid some from occurring altogether.”
“I see,” and oddly enough he did seem to see. “Is it a long list?”
Hermione stared at him as he pulled out a new piece of parchment and grabbed a quill. She certainly wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, however, his acceptance of her goals, and his willingness to help her with them, was slightly off-putting if not suspicious.
“Oh, I assure you,” Iadlerx smirked dangerously, he seemed to understand her thoughts without her expressing them, “Even if the upper goblins, the ones who remain above ground, were entirely wiped out, it would be equivalent to the removal of a single grain of sand from a beach.”
And despite the ferociousness of the goblin in front of her, and what was undoubtedly a threat against everything, Hermione found herself relieved to hear it. She gave a small smile, “Good news at last.”
Iaderx’ following laugh sounded more like snarling, but it too felt good to hear. “How may Gringotts assist you, little wanderer?”
It was late Thursday evening, hours after Hermione had returned home, that she finally received a reply.
Midnight, Friday, Luchino Caffè.
–P
It’s what she had been waiting for, what she had hoped for. She spent the rest of her evening before falling into an inevitably restless sleep planning how she would get to the caffe the next night, and what she would do once she was there. Her choices would determine how things played out, and there is no scenario where she could plan too much for such a determining point in achieving her goals.
Your actions, yes, the voice concedes, but your words, they should be chosen just as carefully.
And they would have to be.