She was seventeen
She was seventeen, trying not to cry as the charm came back positive,the curtains pulled tight around her bed, a silencing charm thrown up for good measure as her world reordered itself to include another person. She was too young for this, but she would make it work, she had to.
She was eighteen. Only just. Graduated, overly familiar with concealment charms and trying not to cry as the mediwitch stared at her in pity, her newborn cradled in her arms. A tiny pink scrunched face, and wide, blue, trusting eyes that broke her heart staring up at her, blinking in the harsh light of St Mungo’s. The love was overwhelming. But so was the fear.
She was eighteen, trying to control her shaking hands as she handed over her baby. Her son. To the meditwich who assured her it was for the best. A squib would resent their magic. Better he be given to the muggles to raise. This time, she didn't bother trying not to cry, her heart breaking as the best part of her was carried out of the room and out of her life. She knew she’d made the wrong decision the moment the door had shut.
She was nineteen, forcing herself to harden her heart. To never be vulnerable. To weed out everyone's secrets so she had material should they ever discover her own. She was going to be invincible. She had to be. Because inside she was empty, crumbling and so very, very alone.
She was fifty four but looked 34, cosmetic charms were good like that. She was ruthless, cutting and exceedingly good at her job, sauntering into the Champions tent, feeling her knees buckle at the feeling of familial magic as it barrelled into her, startling both her photographer and the Champions.
She was fifty-four, feeling every one of those years, sat in a dingy little pub, the wide brown eyes of her granddaughter, Evan’s eyes, staring back at her, apprehension clear on her face. For a witch who had built her career on words, she found herself without any as she drank the tiny witch in and tried not to cry, the emptiness feeling slightly less overwhelming as some of the cracks filled in. Her curls in Evan’s brown, his eyes, her face shape, powerful, intoxicating magic. She wouldn't make the same mistake twice. No one was taking this girl from her. She was no longer eighteen.
She was fifty four, watching her granddaughter twirl around the dancefloor with the Bulgarian Champion, her quill itching to be used as she fought the urge. Like any addict, the habit was hard to break. But she wouldn't. She couldn't, not when the girl was finally beginning to open up. Not when she finally had some small piece of her baby back. Not when she was finally starting to feel less alone.
She was fifty five, her granddaughter wrapped tightly in her arms as she tried not to show how scared she was. Voldemort was back, and no one was safe. This girl, this precious girl of hers, even less than most thanks to her association with Harry potter. She had no idea how they were surviving this.
She was fifty five, too old for nerves really. Despite what she told herself, her hands shook as she reached up to ring the doorbell, coming face to face with her baby, no longer a baby but a grown man, the spitting image of his father, wanting to dissolve at the sight of him. The years of grief and regret and self hatred coming back full force in the face of his kind, if awkward smile as he introduced himself as Richard Granger and invited her in.
She was still fifty five, feeling older by the day as she escorted her granddaughter into Gringotts for a heritage test. They’d agreed it was best, despite her son and daughter in law's apprehension. Her girl had been unconvinced but in the end she’d given in. And now they were here, being escorted down to a vault to key it to Hermione's magic. And as she watched her granddaughter go through the motions with the goblin guiding her, she sent up a silent plea to the Gods that this would protect her, even while knowing it was futile.
She was fifty five, picking up her quill, her favourite tool now feeling foreign in her hand. Instead, she put it down, picking up the eagle feathered one Hermione had given her at Christmas, and began to write, feeling the words flowing faster in her fury as she exposed Dolores Umbridge for the monster she was. The owls would come tomorrow, she imagined, although there was only one she wanted to read. Her granddaughter had been candid in her distaste for her sensationalist form of journalism, but this, this was entirely factual. For the first time in a long time, she felt proud of something she’d written. She only hoped it would be enough.
She was fifty five, her heart hammering at the frantic message her granddaughter had scrawled in their two way journal as she raced to get a message to Sirius black. She found out afterwards that if she’d been any later the night could have ended differently. Instead she allowed the relief to permeate her as she got word that all the children were fine, safe in Hogwarts, and Black was exactly where he was supposed to be.
She was fifty six, trying to get to know her son and his wife. It was getting easier, less awkward. Surprisingly, he didn't hate her for her decision. She could see Hermione in him as he probed her for information about her, his father, the magical world. His wife was warier, not that she blamed the woman. She just hoped that once all this was over, they’d have time and peace. Merlin how she hoped for peace.
She was fifty seven. Dumbledore was dead, her granddaughter was not going back to school despite her begging and she was struggling to work out how to keep her son and his wife safe. Hermione was refusing to listen to her and she could feel the world spiralling out of control. For just now though, her girl was here, dry eyed but trembling in her arms, one hand clasped tightly in Harry Potter’s. It was selfish but, oh, how she wished she’d let the boy go.
She was fifty seven, feeling close to death. Her son and his wife were hidden safely, but her granddaughter was missing. She couldn't sleep, she was barely eating, fear like she'd never known was now a permanent companion. Hermione's face was everywhere. Undesirable number two. She'd been questioned, she knew she was being watched. Her only comfort was that Sirius Black was as in the dark as she was, and really it was no comfort at all. She could handle the hurt at the idea that Hermione still didn't trust her if she had an adult, any adult at her side. But she didn't. All she had said was that Harry had been given a mission. A mission! For three teenagers! It was absurd! She was tempted to resurrect Dumbledore so she could murder him again, far,far more painful than Snape had. She had a feeling Sirius would help.
She was fifty seven, no longer sure how she wasn't much, much older, yet again trying not to cry as she held her granddaughter’s frail body through the cruciatus aftershocks that tore through her. Family magic was a funny thing, and Evan had been Bellatrix’s cousin, but instead of protecting her girl, the hate seemed to have amplified the effects, Bella’s disgust at being related to a squib clear as the minutes turned into hours and seizing continued. As had become her want, she sent silent, desperate prayers to whatever gods might be listening that they got through this, that her girl survived, that her mind, her precious, incredible mind wasn’t altered by her cousin's vitriol.
She was still fifty seven, although merlin alone knew how and she was putting her foot down, using a tone she was sure she had never used in her life as the three children in front of her tried to argue with her that the plan, insane as it was, was the best they had. It wasn't. It couldn't be. Her granddaughter was still pale, still gaunt, a haunted look in her eyes that broke Rita's slightly less hardened heart, her hands still displaying tremors. She had never been more grateful to have back up, as Bill Weasley and his wife echoed her stance. Instead, they came up with another plan, a plan that didn't involve the insanity of breaking into Gringotts while polyjuiced, a plan that worked, thank all the gods, even if it did alert Voldemort that they were onto him.
She was fifty seven. Still. Just. Throwing hexes and curses, and just trying to stay alive, desperately fighting to get to where she had last seen her granddaughter, trying not to think the worst. Trying not to let her fear show when she found her, bruised and bloody, being forced to catch her too thin frame as her girl's knees gave out at the sight of Harry in Hagrid's arms. She was far too old for this.
She was still fifty seven. Feeling like she'd lived several lifetimes over the last year, most of them in the last weeks. It was over, they were safe. He was gone. Hermione was next to her, exhausted, half asleep with her head on her lap, Harry's head in hers. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to let the girl out of her sight again. Silently she sent up thanks to the gods who had apparently been listening to her prayers. And while she wasn't stupid, everything was not now fixed, she allowed herself a moment of relief, revelling in the feeling of her granddaughters curls under her hand and the knowledge that they’d survived the worst.
She was fifty eight, her son and his wife finally home again, their world half rebuilt, watching her granddaughter flush prettily at the boy teasing her as they worked on restoring one of the staircases. She made a mental note to look into the boy, having a horrible feeling that he was a Nott and therefore a worry. She was trying not to judge, or at least, she was trying to keep the judgement to herself, but Merlin the stories she'd heard about Nott snr were sickening. She would not allow her precious girl to be involved with a man like that. She had contacts. Illegal contacts but contacts nonetheless. If it came to it, the boy would simply disappear. Looking at her girls smile though, she almost hoped it didn’t come to that.
She was sixty, passing herself off as thirty five. Jokingly, unfortunately, her twenty one year old granddaughter was rather well known. Sitting with her family, the parents who had raised her baby, and what felt like half the wizarding world, watching her granddaughter gasp at the ring the boy, who was absolutely a Nott and thankfully nothing like his father, held out to her. Her girl would say yes, of course. Did say yes. But she had to admit she was grateful when she confessed that they were planning a long engagement. They had plans, both of them. Him in rehabilitating his name, setting up a charity for abused women and children, and a home for those orphaned during the war or those given up or removed from homes that weren’t suitable. No other Tom Riddle’s would grow up unnoticed in their lifetime. And her girl with the Unspeakables alongside her own charity, orientating muggleborn’s and their families much earlier than eleven, and helping squibs remain with their families while getting the education they needed to thrive. It would be slow going, they all knew. But she had never been prouder of another person in her life. Her son was planning to help, and although she had originally been unsure of her welcome, so was she, offering an ear that truly understood what was going through a parents head, helping prevent anyone ever being backed into a corner as she had been.
She was sixty five, not bothering to hide her tears as she watched her beautiful granddaughter glide down the aisle on the arm of her father. And as she watched her girl bind herself to her new husband, more of the cracks filled in. Her son's other mother squeezed her hand and she no longer felt alone, lost. The wedding was beautiful and her granddaughter was radiant in her joy, the joy she had fought so damn hard for. And Merlin was she thankful. Accepting the hand of her new, grinning grandson-in-law, she allowed herself to feel some of that joy as he twirled her around the dancefloor until she was laughing and breathless and something close to whole.
She was sixty eight, cradling her great grandson, hating how old it made her sound and yet loving this tiny boy with every ounce of her being. Silently, she wrapped an arm around her exhausted granddaughter, her son peering over her, reaching to run a hand down his new grandson's velvety cheek, his other hand resting on her shoulder, and she let go of her ever present guilt. She had regrets. So many of them. But she couldn't go back, all she had was now. And she intended to make the most of it, glad that her granddaughters fate was not the same as hers, no one would question this boys place in their world, this baby boy would grow up knowing exactly where he came from, loved by his rather unconventional family, his mother would not spend years wishing she had been stronger, wishing she knew where her son was, praying that he was safe and loved. Her great grandson opened his eyes, wide, blue and trusting, and instead of it breaking her heart, they offered absolution.
She was sixty eight, and finally she felt whole and at peace.