Identity
Friday, July 8, 1994
“Ioana, come on, it’s lunch!” Polina said, snatching the quill from Hermione’s hand.
“I’m not hungry, Polina,” Hermione mumbled, still staring at her parchment.
Polina scoffed. “No, you’re avoiding Viktor, just like you have for the past three days, and that’s enough.”
“I am not!”
“Come on – Viktor’s avoiding you, you’re avoiding him, but there is absolutely no reason you can’t eat lunch with the team. Come sit with Tsveta and me.”
“My language charm is almost worn off, I really should read this...” Hermione said, waving her Bulgarian-language copy of “A Brief History of the International Confederation of Wizards: Volume CVI, 1743-1752”.
Polina raised her brows. “Sounds fascinating. But I think you need to work on your spoken Bulgarian. And... I have this” She dug into her shoulder bag and pulled out a book, waving it enticingly - Legends of Stara Planina by Yordan Yokov.
“Ooh – is that a Muggle novel?!” Hermione demanded, grabbing for the paper back.
“Nope. After lunch,” Polina said. “You can have it, after lunch. There is more to life than parchment and Tsveta is will need to make you new eyes, if you keep this up.”
“I’m being far more restrained than I was at exams!” Hermione huffed.
“Lunch, or no book.”
Hermione stood reluctantly, and followed Polina into the lunch room. Viktor looked up as the door opened, face brightening momentarily, before scowling and turning his shoulders to face Radimir. Hermione gathered her food and sat down at the table with Tsveta and Emil, deliberately choosing a chair with her back to Viktor. Two could play that game.
“What, not going to sit with our illustrious seeker?” Emil taunted. “Tired of his scowling face already?”
“Shut up, Emil, or go away,” Polina said. “I just barely managed to get her here.”
Emil huffed, but shut up.
“Are you excited for the party on Tuesday night?” Tsveta asked. “It must be boring for a teenager to be living with my aunt.”
“Party?”
Tsveta rolled her eyes.
“Has my aunt really not done anything but work since Polina was cursed?” Hermione didn’t try to answer that – no, not really. She’d been working long hours, buried in arithmancy and runes, and Hermione only saw her for perhaps half an hour a day. But Tsveta seemed to see Hermione’s answer on her face. “Of course not. My uncle is hosting a party – well, it’s really for Viktor’s birthday – but of course, with his mother planning it, it will be basically every witch and wizard in Eastern Europe. I know you’re invited, but these are the sorts of things she forgets to mention.”
“Oh. I don’t think I should-” A party, with a bunch of people she didn't know, in honour of Viktor's birthday? Probably full of all sorts of blood supremacists and Muggle-haters. Hermione could think of few things less appealing.
Polina reached out and lightly whacked her shoulder. “Nonsense. I’ve been to a Krumov party – everyone will be there. You can avoid Viktor all you like, but you need to see Bulgaria, outside of your arithmancy textbook. The whole team’s going, Iskra is going, Tsveta’s going, and you’re going too.”
“It might be a party in honour of my rude cousin,” Tsveta said, shooting a glare towards Viktor at the other table, “but my aunt invited you, and your staying with the family – it would be rude not attend.”
Hermione looked down, flustered, at her team robes. “I don’t have anything appropriate to wear, I didn’t really pack for a wizarding party...”
“It’s nothing fancy – just dress robes,” Tsveta said.
“I don’t own any,” Hermione admitted. “Just school robes, and of course, these...” Hermione gestured to the team robes she was wearing.
Tsveta blinked. “I’d forgotten – you’re Muggleborn.” She said it in a tone rather like she might say ‘you’re from the moon’, and Hermione bristled. “Well, consider this part of your summer education on being a witch – Saturday afternoon, barring an emergency, I’ll take you to Tarnovo, and get your first robes. Has Iskra taken you to the bank yet?” Hermione shook her head. “We can finish setting up your account, too, then, your first paycheque should be there, and it would be good to get the vault blood-bonded...”
“And Tsveta will take you to the best bookstore in Tarnovo, too, right?” Polina said, cajolingly, and Hermione brightened. Who knew what books there’d be in Bulgaria, that you couldn’t get in London or Hogsmeade? She’d finished all the Bulgarian language books in Iskra’s house, already – there wasn’t much to do in the evenings other than read. And she’d been working so much overtime, surely she could afford to splurge a little on a few new books... A few hours shopping, a few hours at a stupid party (maybe she could find the library?) and then many hours curled up with new books...
This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, really. What was the harm of robe shopping, when there was a whole world of new books to explore?
///
Saturday, July 9, 1994
Saturday afternoon found Hermione following Tsveta through the floo, while the team worked on a strategy session.
“Hopefully, they can manage not to injure themselves in the conference room,” Tsveta said, “but if they do manage, there’s an alarm set and I can apparate back in minutes – you’ll understand?”
“Of course. Duty first,” Hermione agreed.
Iskra bustled out of her office, looking frazzled. “Tsveta, Ioana says you’re taking her to get dress robes?”
“I am.”
“Mora bless you, Tsveta,” Iskra said. “I’d not even thought about it, what with how busy I’ve been. Here -” she said, pulling a chain from her pocket, and dangling it and the attached pendant towards Hermione. “Put this on.”
Hermione did so automatically, then picked up the pendant, studying it. The chain was thick and silver, intricate links that looked like twisted rope. The pendant was flat silver, engraved with the logo of the Bulgarian National Quidditch team on one side, and on the back, her Bulgarian name was inscribed in blocky Cyrrillic and Latin script. “Ioana Denisova Petrova”. Her Bulgarian name.
“What’s this?” Hermione asked.
“Standard practice for support staff for high profile events – I should have given it to you when you arrived. It’s a thieves’ pendant.”
“Thieves’?!” Hermione dropped it, horrified.
“It’s just a name. It’s a very clever bit of magic that causes everyone who sees you to be unable to connect you to any other identity outside of your chosen role. Ideal for these sorts of events, where we don’t want to create security vulnerabilities. I have no idea why Daskalov didn’t remind me to give you one. Never mind that. Hold on to it- “ Hermione picked it up again, a bit more gingerly “-and think very carefully about your English name, and who you are in England – your friends, your family, your position in society, your place in school, how people think of you. Focus on it. ”
Hermione thought about it – her name of course, “Hermione Jean Granger” in childish neat block print on her kindergarten assignments. “Hermione Jean Granger” signed in elegant cursive on her new books in a calligraphic quillhand she’d taken months to perfect when she’d learned she’d using a quill pen at Hogwarts.
But beyond the name, who was she? Harry Potter’s best friend? Ron’s friend? The daughter of the respected Drs. Granger? An eager hand raised in the air, a know-it-all? A permanent chair and a stack of books at the Hogwarts library? And the bad thoughts – taunts from other students, calling her Mudblood, and buck-toothed and bushy-haired. The whole house against her, for that stupid broom. The rescuer of Buckbeak? Frozen at the eyes of a basilisk? Crying in the bathroom, almost killed by a troll?
The pendant warmed under her hands.
“Good,” Iskra said. “Now say “I am not” and your Muggle name, three times.”
“I am not Hermione Jean Granger.” The faces of Hermione’s parents flashed before her eyes. They loved her name, were proud of it, how all three of them had names from one Shakespeare play. Hermione firmly pushed that thought away. It was just for the summer.
“I am not Hermione Jean Granger.” (‘Chin up, Hermione,’ her father said. ‘You’re Hermione Granger – you’re the smartest little girl I know, and I’m proud of you.’)
“I am not Hermione Jean Granger.” (That letter, from Professor McGonnagall this summer, the first time she’d really felt like all her effort wasn’t going unnoticed).
The pendant warmed further.
“Now – say “I am” and then your witch name,” Iskra siad. “Three times, again. Focus on who you are here.
“I am Ioana Denisova Petrova,” Hermione said, thinking of hours spent hunched over arithmancy, and the pride she had in it – she was doing work that had to be NEWT level, now!
“I am Ioana Denisova Petrova.” She thought about Viktor, teasing her, the look of approval in his warm brown eyes as she’d renamed herself, how he'd looked on the beach, playing in the water – no, no, next thought!!!
“I am Ioana Denisova Petrova.” She thought, picturing herself dressed in team robes, sitting in the lunchroom, feeling included, laughing on the beach, eating banitsa in the morning, sipping Turkish coffee instead of tea....
The pendant cooled in her hands.
“Very good – you can drop the pendant,” Iskra said. “The pendant should be set. Tsveta, you try, what is Ioana’s Muggle name?”
Tsveta shrugged. “I should recall, but I can’t. I think it’s worked.”
“It’s a form of memory alternation, isn’t it?” Ioana asked.
“It is – an old fashioned one, it’s Bulgarian, and predates Obliviation,” Iskra said. “But occasionally very useful.”
“Do you have a book, on the theory behind how to make the pendant?”
“I don’t,” Iskra said. “This one was made by a friend who specializes in enchantments. I assume you’re headed to the bookshop? Ask for book on Old Slavonic enchantments and you might find something.” One thing Ioana loved about Iskra was that she never seemed to question why Ioana might want to know something.
Ioana froze as she saw Viktor walking towards them, on the way to the conference room. Chin up, Ioana, she reminded herself, squaring her shoulders to meet Viktor’s glare.
“Aunt. Cousin,” he said. Viktor paused, registered Iskra’s tsk at his rudeness, and continued, sourly, “Ioana,” and stalked past, slamming the door to the conference room.
“What has gotten into that boy?” Iskra muttered. “No matter.” She turned to Tsveta. “Go, thank you for taking her – you know I’ve no interest in those sorts of things.”
“I know,” Tsveta laughed. “Let’s go, Ioana.”