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– Monday, August 31, 1998 –

A sigh tumbled out of Hermione’s lips, her foot tapping against the stone flooring. Her nerves were starting to get to her as she continued to wait outside of the Headmistress’ office. 

She tried to recollect her memory – she had an excellent meeting with the other Prefects and the Head Boy and Girl (a mixture of fifth through eighth years) the night before. They all agreed to come two days before the first day of term as it has only been a few months since the war ended. They may have all survived, but that isn’t to say they came out of the war unscarred – physically and mentally. Hermione could at least vouch for herself – the nightmares that used to terrorize her at night have started to dwindle to only once a week, but the pain was still there. The ‘Mudblood’ scar was permanent – nothing she or any Healer did could get rid of it. She couldn’t even glamour it away. It was just… there. 

Despite everything that happened, Hermione knew that something needed to change this year. They had needed to come up with a plan – with how the war went, and the tragedies that everyone endured, they – she – knew that there may be some reluctance towards the Slytherins. Even if some were neutral throughout the war, many people associated the house of Slytherin with Voldemort and have shown clear distaste towards them before the war even started. With the return of the Slytherin students, Hermione was afraid that things would get worse for them. She had heard some talk go around about how second and third years were reluctant to come back – in fear of how they would be treated. Hermione did not fight in a war against prejudice and superiority only for it to fall back into place in her safe haven. 

She was tired of being at war. She was tired of it all. 

Hermione shook her head, another sigh falling from her lips. 

The brown-haired girl couldn’t wrap her mind around what the Headmistress could possibly want to talk to her about. She felt like she is doing rather well with her Prefect duties. She had been a shoo-in for the Head Girl position, but after everything, she just couldn’t find the strength in herself to take that much responsibility. She just wanted one normal year to focus on herself and her studies. The Head Girl position had instead gone to Ginny Weasley and Hermione couldn’t be prouder. She deserved it – truly. Ginny was a great leader and the Prefects responded to her with respect and all seemed to want to work together for a better future for the younger students at Hogwarts. While the two Slytherin Prefects, a quiet Theodore Nott, and a distant Pansy Parkinson, mostly kept to themselves and tried not to interfere with the others, she felt like things seemed to be falling into place – leading towards a somewhat peaceful year ahead.

She hoped so, at least. 

“Ah–” Hermione gasped softly as the door to Headmistress McGonagall’s office suddenly cracked open, a quiet ‘Come in, Miss Granger’ sounding from inside the office. The Gryffindor Prefect gulped – her voice was different. Of course, it was her voice. There was no denying that. But… the tone in her voice made her nervous. Did it sound defeated? Or was that pity? She had no clue, but she might as well get on with it. 

“Good afternoon, Professor.” Hermione spoke softly as she walked inside the office, closing the door behind her with a slight ‘click’. She took one step forward before pausing, her eyes blinking in surprise as she took note of the other person in the room. 

It was a rather stubby woman, who wore a god-awful amount of blue make-up on her face, in blue dress robes that seemed to sparkle whenever she shifted around in her chair. The lady sniffled, her nose in the air as if she was being bothered by being here. 

“Hello, Miss Granger. Please take a seat. There is… much to discuss, unfortunately.” Professor McGonagall nodded her head towards the chair opposite the woman, who has yet to introduce herself. 

Hermione quirked a brow at the woman, silently questioning the Headmistress with her eyes as she took a seat on the comfortable chair, sitting tall and eager to find out just what this is about. Being in the presence of this woman made a pin of dread form in the bottom of her stomach. Whatever this is, she hoped it wasn’t anything bad. She didn’t know if she could stand any more bad news. Not after her parents. 

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, as if to speak – but was quickly interrupted by the blue-wearing woman, who cleared her throat and took out a scroll from her robes. “I believe I can handle it from here, ehm... Headmistress, is it?” Her voice was even worse than what she was wearing. It was so high-pitched and nasally, Hermione had to keep herself from wincing – it was even worse than Umbridge’s voice, which was hard to believe. 

The professor’s mouth shut, her lips twitching as she stared at the woman, a slight flush appearing on her cheeks. Her nostrils flared and for a moment, Hermione thought that she was going to snap at the woman – but it never happened. She just gave her a curt nod and motioned for her to continue.

Hermione glanced at the woman. She looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She couldn’t get a good read on the woman – but there was no friendly vibe coming from her and so Hermoine braced herself for what she was about to hear.

“Ahem,” The ministry worker cleared her throat as she unrolled the scroll, beady dark eyes glancing from left to right over the parchment, drinking everything in as she prepared to speak. “We have much to discuss, Miss Granger. I assume you remember your visit to St. Mungo's on the third of August, nineteen ninety-eight, correct?”

Gods. Even the way she spoke reminded Hermione of Umbridge. She tried to keep herself from scrunching her nose in distaste. Instead, she focused on trying to answer this woman’s questions. 

“Yes, that is correct. I visited to see if the healers could–”

“Could remove that pitiful word on your forearm, yes?” The woman interrupted her, her eyes hovering over one spot on the parchment. “That says Mudblood, hm?” She spoke so nonchalantly when she uttered that word, Hermione was almost positive she used it on a regular occurrence. 

Her brow twitched, furrowing slightly as she looked at the woman. She was starting to get agitated with her. “Yes. That is correct.” She forced out, her hand instantly going over to grip her forearm, feeling the pulse the mark gave when she touched it. 

Despite Bellatrix Lestrange being dead, the mark still hurts to touch sometimes, despite all these months. It didn’t seem to want to heal, at this point. Hermione had researched so many books, pouring hours upon hours to find a solution or a cure that would get rid of the cursed mark, but she could never find anything. That is why she had gone to St. Mungo's as a last resort. She thought perhaps she was missing something. Perhaps they knew something that she couldn’t find in her trustworthy books. But even they, who are trained professionals, couldn’t find a solution for this. All they were able to do was give her some healing salves that could potentially keep it from hurting for a little while – but she would have to reapply every few hours – and Hermione honestly did not want to have to do that for the rest of her life. There had to be a solution somewhere. But now was not the time to think about it. 

She tried to focus back on what the woman was saying –

“– a pity that happened. Alas, as you remember, during your visit to St. Mungo's, your Healers found something very peculiar about you. They ran rather simple diagnostic spells over you, merely to show basic information that they should have already known about you. To say, they were simple diagnostic spells that gave them your information that would be pulled from the Familial Records sub-division in the Ministry. Every witch and wizard are accounted for there. Healers always have access to these records to better understand the background of their patients without outright asking them. To – ah, how should I say it? – ah, to make things easier for them. But something struck them as strange. Miss Granger, something strange came up in your records that shook them. You see, we believed you to be Muggle-born, correct?” The ministry worker’s beady little eyes finally let up from the parchment to look straight into Hermione’s, which widened almost comically as she stared back at her, feeling her breath coming short. 

“W–... what do you mean ‘believed to be Muggle-born’?” Hermione choked out, her agitation finally starting to show on her face. “I am a Muggle-born witch, ma’am. The first one in my family. Dan and Helen Granger, two Muggles, are my parents.” Her words came out choppy, trying to keep her breathing at bay as her chocolate brown orbs pierced through the ministry worker’s dark ones. 

The worker just smiled patronizingly at her. 

“My dear, that is where you are wrong. You see, that simple diagnostic spell revealed your true heritage. Why, you are a Pureblood, Miss Granger. Birthed by two very prominent Pureblood families.” 

No. 

No, this couldn’t be happening. 

Pureblood? Her? Hermione Granger? A Pureblood? 

“You’re lying.” Hermione forced out, shaking her head as she stared down at her trembling hands. She could feel the bile start to gather at the back of her throat. Her heart rate was increasing. Her eyes were starting to sting. She was lying. She had to be lying. There was no way what this woman said was true. No. No, she didn’t want to believe it. 

“Oh, dear. I assure you, I am not lying. Here.” The worker retrieved a small file from her robes and pressed it into her hands, forcing Hermione’s fingers to clutch it. “This is all the proof you need to understand that, no, I am not lying, Miss Granger. You are a Pureblood. Why, you even come from one of the most prestigious Pureblood families. You are one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, my dear. Your magical records will be updated as soon as possible to reveal your true heritage. You are Hermione N–”

“That is enough!” Professor McGonagall finally had it with this awful woman, throwing blow after blow to Hermione. Minerva had grown to care about Hermione, treating her like a dear friend – almost like a granddaughter. She deserved more respect than what she was currently getting from this woman. “I think your time is up, madam. If Miss Granger has any questions for you, she will owl you. Now, good day to you.” The Headmistress snapped out, standing up from behind her desk, and went to escort the ministry worker to the Floo. The woman looked offended at being interrupted and had no choice but to obey. Before she left, the woman threw a glance at the frozen girl, who did not seem to realize that tears were starting to flow freely down her face. She felt a pang of pity for the girl but it did not reflect on her face. 

“I will be only an owl away, Miss Granger. Good day.” Was all she said before she disappeared in a cloud of green, leaving Professor McGonagall and Hermione by themselves, the room thick with tension and unsaid words. 

Hermione barely registered the soft sigh that escaped the professor’s lips, who took a seat next to her. Her ears were buzzing. Her vision was blurry. She truly had no idea what to do. 

She was a Pureblood? Her parents had lied to her?

This had to be a sick joke played on her. But one look on Professor McGonagall’s face told her otherwise. Yet, she still relented. 

“Professor… how accurate can this be? T–there just is no way…” Her voice cracked in the middle as she tried to control her tears. “I can’t be…” 

All those years of torment. All of the prejudice. All of those snarky comments made about her blood status. Being hunted solely based on her being Muggle-born. 

The torture she endured by Bellatrix’s cursed knife. 

All of that… for it to be revealed that she was exactly what those people all cared about. What they cherished. What they held over others’ heads – knocking you down if you were anything but 'pure'. 

Her blood was as 'pure' as theirs. 

A rush of newfound tears was soon streaking down her face, her shoulders shaking from the force of her sobs. 

She cried for what seemed like hours, even if it were only a few minutes. 

She cried for herself. 

She cried for her parents. 

She cried for all of the lies. 

She cried and cried and cried until there was nothing left to cry out. 

Finally, all she let out were the occasional hiccups, her eyes red-rimmed and her lashes still caught with tears. 

With a harsh swipe of her palm across both eyes, she turned her head to look at Professor McGonagall, who in turn stared back at her calmly, waiting for her to settle so she could answer her questions. 

“I’m sorry… I wasn’t expecting this, Professor. It caught me off guard.” Hermione spoke softly, trying to keep her voice even as she continued to stare. She couldn’t make herself look at the piece of parchment in her hands. Not yet. 

“No need to apologize, Miss Granger. I understand that this is a difficult time for you and I know that this may change things for you in the near future.” Professor McGonagall seemed to hesitate for a moment before placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, “Hermione, please know that you are cared for. If there is anything that I, or any of the other professors, can do for you, please do not hesitate to reach out. We stood by you in a war and we will continue to stand with you through this confusing time.” 

“There are just so many questions running through my mind, Professor. I don’t understand why… me? I just wanted to move on. I wished and craved a normal year. Just one. I know I have all of my friends here with me, but my parents. They are dead and I just found out they’re not even my real parents!” Hermione spoke fast, tripping over her words as she shut her eyes tightly, willing herself to breathe in and out slowly before she fell into a full-blown panic attack. She knew she sounded childish. She knew that she sounded selfish. But just for once...

This is the first time that she has mentioned the reality of the fate of her parents out loud to someone that was not Harry, Ron, or Ginny – and it took everything in her to not shut down. Everyone had their demons, and she knew that she wasn’t the only one suffering, but knowing that those three have become her rocks since she confided in them the truth made her feel better, even if slightly. 

“I understand, my dear child.” Professor McGonagall spoke softly as she patted her shoulder gently, before letting it fall on her hand and giving it a firm squeeze. “I know you may be overwhelmed by the news, but perhaps it will be wise to look at the file in your hand, Miss Granger. It may seem like nothing, but the entire truth will be revealed to you soon. If you’d like, I could read it out to you or you can go to the privacy of your room. Whatever you decide, you have my full support.”

Hermione looked at the professor who many saw as stern and generally cold. But Hermione was one of the lucky ones to see the actual professor. She gave her a small smile and nodded her head before releasing a shaky breath. 

“I think I’ll read this in my dorm, Professor.” She mumbled under her breath, looking at the file in her hand before standing up to take her to leave, unaware of the owl that swooped in with a scroll attached to its leg. 

“Very well, Miss Granger. I will be here in case you may ever need anything.”

Hermione didn’t go to her dorm. 

Due to the eighth-years being all of age now, Professor McGonagall and the Minister had both deemed that it simply would be too inappropriate for them to house with their respective house members, considering there are plenty of minors there. The eighth-years now had their own special tower and different set rules. 

Hermione hadn’t been too fond of the idea originally. She knew she would miss the Gryffindor common room. The warmth. The memories. That was home. 

She would miss it all. 

At least she would have Harry and Ron by her side in the new tower. Plus, with Ginny being Head Girl, she had her own wing where she and the Head Boy would be sharing a common room – and she’ll know the password to the eighth-year tower (as well as the other Houses), so she’ll be able to come and go whenever she pleases. That thought made her calm down a bit – she wasn’t alone. She had her three best friends, and other great friends, surrounding her this year. She will be fine. 

Everything will be fine. 

Yet, she wasn’t ready to go into the tower just yet.

Hermione let her feet guide her – not paying attention to where she was going. She just wanted to be by herself right now. She would tell Ginny, who was off becoming acquainted with her new room as well, later at dinner. Right now, she needed to do this by herself. 

She could do this. 

Before she knew it, she had guided herself into an empty classroom – one that she was not vaguely familiar with, but this would do. This would give her the peace and quiet that she needed. 

After dropping herself unceremoniously on a chair, she placed the file on the desk. She stared at it for a long while – her mind running with thoughts on what she would find. The main thought that fluttered through her mind was – who? Who could she possibly be the daughter of? Does this mean she has siblings? If she truly was related to one of the Sacred Twenty-Eights, who could it be? She didn’t know many who were considered one of them. The Weasley’s? That wouldn’t make sense. Molly and Arthur would never abandon a baby like that. Who else could it be? If she does have siblings – do they know? Did they know they had a sibling? A cruel thought popped into her head. Were they side by side this entire time in Hogwarts? Did they belittle her because of her being Muggle-born? Did they fight against each other in the war?

A shudder ran down her spine at the thought. 

There is only one way to find out. Hermione has procrastinated too much already. Where is her Gryffindor courage when she needed it most?

The curly-haired girl shook her head, her hands gently patting her cheeks. “Come on, Hermione. Get a grip!” She hissed to herself, eyes set and determined now as they stared down at the file. 

With shaky hands, Hermione opened the file and started to look through the parchments inside. The first parchment didn’t hold much of anything – it was mainly on her recent visit to St. Mungo’s. There was a bit of information on what was found out about the cursed mark on her forearm. There were even notes taken on the salve that they gave her. The second parchment listed the spells that they used on her. The third parchment was miscellaneous information on her – hair color, height, weight, etc. However – the next bit caught her eye and made her blood turn cold. 

Blood Status:Muggle-born Pureblood

Parents: Dan Granger (deceased) – father Tobias Nott Sr. (living) – father

             Helen Granger (deceased) – mother Emilia Zabini (living) – mother

‘Nott and Zabini? As in Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini?’ Hermione thought to herself, her mouth agape as she stared at the parchment. 

There was no more information on that – all it showed was the crossed-out names of her parents and were instead replaced with the names of the people that birthed her. 

They hadn’t even crossed her mind. 

She had a brief encounter with Nott. Sr during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, but otherwise had no real recollection of him. All she knew was that he was a Death Eater – one that is now serving a lifetime in Azkaban, one that she fought against. She wondered – does he know that he has another child? 

Emilia Zabini is a mystery. She never interacted with nor encountered Blaise Zabini (except during Slughorn’s party), much less knew anything about his parents. Emilia Zabini has never so much as been written about in the Daily Prophet – so either she was neutral in the war or she fled the country before she would have been forced to state where her loyalty was. 

All in all… Hermione had no idea what to think. What would she even do with this information? It’s not like she could go up to Theodore Nott or Blaise Zabini and blurt out to them that she is their half-sister. It’s absurd! They would both think that she had gone mental – or worse, they would straight up attack her or accuse her of trying to steal their family vaults. The thought made her snort. As if she wanted any of their precious galleons. 

She paused. What if, and she hoped this wasn’t the case, they already knew? Did that ministry worker go to them first before her? Did they know? Did they care that this is now their reality? 

A groan escaped her lips, head pounding from all of the thinking she has done since this morning. She should be tackling this strange situation head first – not trying to find a way to avoid it. Whether or not they knew already, she knew it was bound to come out – eventually. She would confront them as soon as possible – preferably tomorrow, once she had time to process everything. Her head hurt too much to do any more thinking. 

She took out her wand, mumbling a soft incantation under her breath as the time hovered slightly over it. 2:41 pm, it read. A few hours before dinner. Hermione Granger hardly ever took naps but this is one for the books – all she wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep away her problems, locking them away enough to figure out her game plan for tomorrow. 

Yes, that is what she will do. Nap and figure everything out tomorrow. 

With a heaving sigh, she pushed herself up from the chair, making sure to put all of the parchment back into the file, and placed it inside her robe, clutching it close to her person as she made the walk to her new common room. 

She hoped the other eighth-year Prefects were locked inside their rooms. She didn’t know if she had the strength to face Theodore Nott – whether he knows or not. She has to make this quick. 

It took her no time to arrive at the new tower, marveling at the uniqueness of the door. While some might find it gaudy, Hermione liked the intricate carvings that showcased all four mascots of the Hogwarts houses. Her hand reached out and gently caressed the Gryffindor lion for a moment, feeling her magic tingle. A small smile appeared on her lips for the first time since her meeting with Professor McGonagall. 

“Unitas praevalebit.” She whispered softly, the door swinging inwards, revealing a large common room. She took a step inside and looked around from her position – the door yet to shut as it waited for her to submerge completely into the room. She was just in here marveling at the room yesterday when she saw it for the first time – but it never failed to take her breath away. 

There was a little bit of everything in here – there were two wooden tables (each with four chairs that had a House mascot carved out on the back of it) meant for studying or lounging around in, and bookshelves that lined up against the far right wall. The windows were made of stained glass that represented each House and the way the sun hit made little gems of red, blue, yellow, and green bounce off the walls and floors. There was a large fireplace in front of a cozy-looking black sofa that could probably fit five to six people comfortably. Two individual accent chairs were neatly situated near the said sofa, with a glass coffee table in the middle of all three. Off to the left, there was a small kitchenette with all the necessities that they may need if ever hungry or thirsty. Eighth-years even had access to the Hogwarts elves, though Hermione knew she would never willingly call for them. 

Hermione gazed at the back wall, eyes roaming up slowly. The back wall held their rooms. There were many who came back, despite her original surprise, and therefore, the wall was adjusted to be two stories. There were about ten rooms situated on the first level and ten more on the second level – each door held a bronze plate with the name of the intended occupant. Hermione was pleased last night when she saw that her room was on top – on the far left with Harry on her right. At least she would have a friendly next-door neighbor this year. 

With everything that she knew now, she couldn’t help but let her eyes wander, zoning in on Theodore Notts’ door – coincidentally on the same level as hers, only on the far right, with Draco Malfoy to his left. Her breathing shuttered as she saw Blaise Zabini’s nameplate next to Draco’s. 

‘I suppose family does need to stay close to one another,’ Hermione thought bitterly to herself, shaking her head. She didn’t want to think about this right now. 

The witch stepped completely into the common room, hearing the door finally swing shut. 

She had one goal – to head straight to her room without anyone else seeing her. She could do that. 

However, a few steps in and she was quickly stopped when Theodore Nott’s door swung open with a swift bang that echoed through the common room.

He had rushed out of his room and practically ran down the stairs, staring intently at a piece of parchment clutched tightly in his hand – knuckles white and straining. He was muttering to himself when he finally noticed he had an audience. He stopped short in front of Hermione – brown clashing against amber. 

Both of their eyes widened as they stared at each other – the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. 

“Granger.” Theodore’s voice was strained – guarded yet weak at the same time. It was as if he were trying his best not to reveal too much. His eyes glanced down at the parchment briefly and fluttered back to hers – his jaw clenched and set. 

Hermione felt her mouth go dry. No, no, no. This shouldn’t be happening now. Not yet.