Chapter 1: The Girl that Looks Like Elira
Notes:
Welcome, dear reader, to What the Years Made of Us—my second fic, brewed slowly in the cauldron of plot bunnies while I was elbow-deep in Heir of the Unspoken. If you’ve read that one, you already know I tend to post twice a week (unless I’ve been hexed by writer’s block or distracted by my actual book, which occasionally demands attention like a screeching Howler). So yes, I’ll do my best to keep that rhythm here too.
This story came to me while I was tangled in timelines and emotional arcs from my first fic. I couldn’t shake the idea: time travel, the Marauders, and a trio bound by blood and grief trying to rewrite fate. Who doesn’t love that? (I do. I definitely do.)
But fair warning—this journey doesn’t begin with time turners and pranks. Part One is heavy. It’s raw. It might hurt. I’m sorry in advance if your heart feels a bit bruised by the end of a chapter. But I promise, when we reach Part Two, the healing begins. The magic deepens. And the years start to make sense.
So thank you for choosing to read this fic. Whether you’re here for the angst, the lore, the reclamation arc, or just to see Hermione Granger absolutely wreck Draco Malfoy with a single sentence—I’m glad you’re here.
With love (and a few emotional hexes),
Sam
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Part One: The Years that Broke Us
Igor Karkaroff arrived at Hogwarts on a bitter October morning, the kind of cold that clung to your robes and settled in your bones. The castle loomed ahead, ancient and indifferent, its turrets shrouded in mist. He stepped from the carriage with the other Durmstrang delegates, his breath fogging in the air, and tried not to scowl. He hated England. Too damp. Too sentimental.
But as he crossed the threshold into the Great Hall, his eyes caught on something—or rather, someone.
A girl.
Seated beside the Potter boy, her hair a wild halo of chestnut curls, her expression sharp and thoughtful. She leaned in, murmuring something to him with the kind of quiet authority that made Karkaroff pause. There was something about her. Something familiar. Not just in the face, but in the way she held herself—like someone who’d learned to carry weight far heavier than schoolbooks.
He dismissed the thought. Children often resembled people you’d known, especially if you’d lived long enough to bury friends. But the feeling lingered. It tugged at him, subtle and persistent.
Hermione Granger. That was her name. Muggleborn. Top of her class, always buried in books or trailing after Potter like a second wand. She’d been helping him since his name came out of the Goblet—unasked, unwanted, and clearly a mistake. The red-haired boy, Weasley, didn’t seem to take it well. Jealousy, perhaps. Or fear. Karkaroff had seen that kind of fracture before—loyalty strained under pressure.
But it wasn’t her friendship with Potter that unsettled him. It was her proximity to Moody.
Alastor Moody was always watching, always muttering. And the girl was often at his side, speaking in hushed tones and asking questions that a fourth-year ought not to be asking. Karkaroff didn’t trust Moody. Never had. But the girl seemed drawn to him, and Karkaroff, for all his suspicion, couldn’t help but admire her tenacity.
Then came the First Task.
In the champions’ tent, just before the draw, she was there—hugging Potter, whispering last-minute advice. Viktor stood nearby, quiet and composed, but Karkaroff saw the way his eyes lingered on the girl. Respect. Affection, perhaps. She was clever, no doubt. But when she laughed—when she turned to Viktor and said something that made him smile—Karkaroff felt the world tilt.
That laugh.
It wasn’t just familiar. It was hers—Elira’s.
Elira Rosier had been his friend’s wife. A bright, fierce woman with a laugh like wind through autumn leaves. She’d died in childbirth, years ago. The child had vanished. No funeral. No grave. Just silence.
He didn’t say anything. Not yet. He needed to be sure.
After the Yule Ball, where she danced with Viktor in a gown that shimmered like moonlight on snow, he began to watch her more closely. Not out of suspicion, but out of something quieter. Something like grief.
She returned from the holidays looking pale and withdrawn. The Prophet had been cruel, as always—painting her as fame-hungry, attention-seeking. But Karkaroff overheard her speaking to Moody one afternoon, just outside the Defence classroom. Her voice was low, trembling. She didn’t just speak of feeling misunderstood. She spoke of hurt. The kind that made Karkaroff’s stomach twist. He couldn’t tell if it was physical or emotional, but it was there—in the way she hesitated, in the way Moody’s face darkened.
He began to wonder. Who would take a child from a family that loved her? Who would place her with Muggles, strip her of her name, her legacy? It made no sense unless someone had wanted her hidden.
He spoke to Viktor about it, cautiously. Told him the girl reminded him of someone he’d known long ago. Viktor, ever loyal, listened. Asked questions, promised to keep an eye out.
By the time the Second Task approached, Karkaroff was restless. The girl hadn’t been seen that morning. Not in the stands. Not by the lake. Viktor noticed too—his gaze flicking toward the crowd, searching. After the champions dove beneath the surface, Karkaroff made his way to the one man who might know where she’d gone.
Moody.
He approached carefully, hands visible, voice low. Said he didn’t mean harm. The girl reminded him of Elira Rosier, he said. Asked if Moody remembered the case—the missing child, the sealed records, the silence that followed. Moody didn’t answer. Just stared at him for a long moment, then turned and walked away.
That night, after Viktor returned from the lake, Karkaroff knew. It wasn’t just resemblance. It was blood. The girl was Elira’s daughter.
He sent an owl to an old friend—Elira’s husband. Told him everything. The girl’s laugh. Her brilliance. She is at the top of her class. Her quiet strength. The friend wanted to meet her. Needed to.
Karkaroff promised he’d speak to Snape. Arrange a meeting. Let the truth come to light.
The library was quiet, save for the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional scratch of quills. Late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, casting golden stripes across the long oak tables. Hermione Granger sat at her usual spot—third table from the Restricted Section, tucked beneath a shelf of dusty Arithmancy volumes. It was her favourite: quiet, secluded, and just far enough from Madam Pince’s line of sight to allow whispered conversation.
Across from her sat Viktor Krum, hunched slightly over a thick tome on magical creatures. His brow was furrowed in concentration, lips moving silently as he read. Hermione had offered to help him revise for his Theory of Magical Defence exam, though truthfully, they’d spent more time discussing Easter plans than Grindylows.
“I could ask Professor McGonagall,” Hermione murmured, her brow furrowed in concentration as she flipped a page in the weighty tome before her. The worn paper whispered under her touch. “She might let me Floo to Bulgaria for a few days. If I promise to revise while I’m there.”
Viktor looked up from his own studies, his dark, intense eyes softening with warmth. “You come, I show you Sofia. Is nice city. Old magic there. My mother cook for you. Very good stew.”
A genuine smile bloomed on Hermione’s face, a rare, unguarded expression. She brushed a wayward curl behind her ear, a nervous gesture she often made. “I’d like that. I’ve never been outside Britain, not properly.”
“Then you come,” he stated, his voice a low rumble. “I make plan.” She was about to reply, a cascade of thoughts about travel arrangements and pocket money tumbling in her mind, when she felt a subtle but distinct shift in the air—a definite presence drawing near. She didn’t look up immediately. She’d grown accustomed to these inevitable interruptions: students feigning an interest in the nearby shelves, their furtive glances stealing stolen moments with Viktor, or the audacious requests for autographs cloaked in the guise of borrowing ink. It had become an unavoidable facet of being in his orbit. She’d learned to develop a practiced indifference, a shield against the constant clamor.
But this time, the approaching presence didn't drift past, a fleeting shadow. It stopped. And then came the sound—a carefully cleared throat, deliberate and sharp, slicing through the library's hushed atmosphere.
Hermione finally looked up, her expression carefully guarded, an unreadable mask settling over her features. Standing beside the heavy oak table, his tall, lean frame casting a subtle shadow, was Theodore Nott. He held a folded parchment in one hand, his fingers long and slender against the cream-colored paper. His gaze, when it met hers, was steady and, like the parchment, completely unreadable.
“Nott,” she said, her voice clipped and devoid of any welcoming inflection. “Did you need something?”
He extended the parchment toward her, his movements economical and precise. “Snape told me to give you this.”
She took it, her fingers brushing his briefly as their hands met. He didn’t withdraw immediately. He simply stood there, a silent sentinel, his unnerving gaze fixed on her.
“Was that all?” she asked, her tone bordering on dismissive as she turned the parchment over in her hand, the crackle of the paper unnaturally loud.
Theo offered a single, curt nod, then turned on his heel with a decisive movement. His dark robes swished crisply behind him as he walked away, melting back into the muted shadows of the library.
Hermione unfolded the note, her anticipation tinged with a prickle of unease.
The library, usually a sanctuary of hushed whispers and the rustle of turning pages, felt charged with an unspoken tension. No explanation. No pleasantries. Just instructions, delivered with a curt efficiency that prickled at Hermione’s nerves.
She glanced at Viktor, a flicker of bewilderment crossing her face as she raised an eyebrow.
He offered a subtle shrug, one broad shoulder lifting in a gesture of casual indifference. “I hear Karkaroff speak with Snape. Yesterday.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed, a knot of concern tightening in her chest. “About me?”
Viktor nodded slowly, his gaze steady and earnest. “Da. He say… you look like someone. From long time ago.”
Unbeknownst to them, Theo hadn’t gone far. He lingered just beyond the nearest towering shelf, a phantom in the dusty twilight, half-hidden behind a formidable stack of Transfiguration texts. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, the intrusion of his presence a stark betrayal of his own intentions, but now, caught in the current of their conversation, he couldn’t stop. Why had Snape chosen him, of all people, to deliver that note? Why not one of her fiercely loyal Gryffindor friends? He knew Snape harbored a deep-seated disdain for them – but still. The choice of him felt peculiar, almost pointed.
“Someone named Elira,” Viktor added, his voice dropping to a low, resonant murmur that seemed to vibrate through the silence.
Hermione blinked, the name unfamiliar, yet it seemed to snag on some forgotten corner of her mind. “Elira?”
Viktor tilted his head, his dark eyes searching hers with an almost childlike curiosity. “He say… you have same laugh. Same eyes. Is strange, no?”
Before she could even begin to process the peculiar pronouncement, a sharp, ragged inhale echoed from the shadowy depths of the stacks, followed swiftly by the distinct sound of hurried footsteps retreating down the aisle, a phantom rustle of fabric against ancient paper. Hermione and Viktor both spun around, their eyes scanning the towering rows of books, but saw no one.
Hermione exhaled, her shoulders tensing as if bracing for an unseen blow. “I don’t know that name,” she said, her voice unnaturally tight, the carefully constructed composure beginning to fray. She began gathering her books with swift, practiced movements, sliding parchment into her satchel as if an invisible clock were ticking down. “I should go. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Viktor stood as she did, his own movements fluid and deliberate. He reached for her hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles, his voice a low, warm rumble. “You sit with me at dinner, maybe?”
Hermione hesitated, offering a small, almost apologetic half-smile. “Slytherins don’t let lions at their table,” she said, her gaze briefly flicking towards the distant, echoing halls of Gryffindor. “And I’d invite you to mine, but with Ronald…” She trailed off, the unspoken complexities of her friendships hanging in the air.
Viktor chuckled, a low, warm sound that seemed to chase away some of the library's chill. “Think on it, yeah?”
She nodded, a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken invitation. Then, with a final, lingering glance, she turned and made her way out of the library, her footsteps echoing against the cold, unforgiving stone floor, leaving Viktor standing alone amidst the silent sentinels of knowledge.
The descent into the dungeons was a disorienting blur, each echoing footstep amplifying the frantic thrumming in Hermione’s mind. What could Snape possibly want with her? He openly disliked her, a sentiment he’d made abundantly clear through countless pronouncements of “swot” and “know-it-all.” She wracked her brain, but no recent rule infringements came to mind. So why this summons?
Her hand, surprisingly steady, knocked softly on the imposing door of his office. To her surprise, it swung open of its own accord, revealing the dimly lit space within.
Snape stood at the threshold, his customary black robes billowing slightly as he gestured with a long, pale finger, inviting her entry. She stepped inside, the familiar, pungent aroma of brewing potions and the dry scent of aged parchment immediately filling her nostrils.
He motioned towards a vacant chair. Hermione turned to comply, but her movement hitched, her feet rooting to the spot.
Already seated beside the empty chair was a man. He appeared older, his dark hair liberally streaked with silver at the temples, and his gaze held an unnerving intensity, as if capable of piercing through the very fabric of her being. She offered a polite, almost imperceptible nod, her voice caught in her throat, and then cautiously sat beside him. Her posture remained rigidly straight, her hands clasped demurely in her lap. She waited, a knot of apprehension tightening in her stomach.
Snape’s voice, when it finally came, sliced through the charged quiet like a honed blade.
“Miss Granger,” he drawled, his head tilting with a subtle, almost condescending grace. “This is Lord Nott.”
Hermione turned, her brow furrowing in immediate confusion as she took in the man seated beside her. He was tall and carried himself with a dignified bearing, his face etched with the subtle lines of both grief and the passage of time. His robes were a deep, rich green, intricately embroidered along the seams with the distinctive Nott family crest – a serpent sinuously coiled around an upright wand.
“Nott?” she echoed, her voice a mere whisper. “Theodore’s father?”
The familial resemblance was now startlingly clear. The same sharp, aristocratic cheekbones. The same quiet, almost unnerving intensity in his dark eyes. She turned back to Snape, a wave of bewilderment washing over her features.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she began, her voice hesitant, “but I believed this had something to do with…” She paused, drawing a shaky breath. “…Highmaster Karkaroff.”
Lord Nott let out a soft chuckle, a sound low and unexpectedly warm. Hermione’s head snapped towards him, her confusion deepening.
“Did he speak to you?” Lord Nott inquired, his voice gentle.
She shook her head, feeling a prickle of unease. “No. Viktor told me… he said I looked like someone. Someone I don’t know.”
Lord Nott’s unwavering gaze remained fixed upon her. “Did Viktor mention who?”
Hermione’s eyes flickered towards Snape, but he remained resolutely impassive, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, his expression unreadable. She turned her attention back to Lord Nott.
“Elira,” she said, the name feeling fragile and unfamiliar on her tongue.
A slow, undeniably wistful smile bloomed across Lord Nott’s face. He reached deep into the folds of his robe and carefully withdrew a small, noticeably worn photograph. Without a word, he extended it towards her.
Hermione accepted it, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against his.
The woman captured in the faded image was breathtakingly radiant. Her hair, a thick cascade of wild, chestnut brown, mirrored Hermione’s own in shade and texture. Her eyes sparkled with an undeniable mischief and a profound warmth that seemed to emanate from the photograph itself. She was seated in what appeared to be a sun-drenched garden, her head tilted back in laughter, her hand gently resting upon her swollen belly. The frozen moment seemed to capture a loop of her joy – her infectious laughter, the graceful tilt of her head, the tender reverence with which she gazed down at her growing child.
Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat, a silent gasp escaping her lips. “She looks like me,” she whispered, her voice barely a tremor.
“That is my Elira,” Lord Nott said softly, his gaze fixed on the faded image with a profound sadness. “My wife. Theo’s mother. And yours.”
Hermione’s eyes, wide and glistening, welled with unshed tears, the corners prickling with an unfamiliar ache. “If it’s true…” Her voice cracked, a fragile sound against the heavy silence. “Why give me up for adoption?”
Lord Nott’s stoic expression twisted, a visible wave of pain washing over his features. “That is not what happened,” he stated, his voice laced with a deep, resonant regret. “We wanted both of you.”
She blinked, a flicker of disbelief crossing her stunned face. “Both?”
“You and Theo are twins,” he said gently, his words a soft balm against her confusion. “Elira died in childbirth. But nothing—nothing—would have made me give you up.”
Hermione’s gaze drifted back to the photograph, her thumb tracing the faint outline of Elira’s belly with a newfound tenderness. “So what happened?”
Lord Nott reached into the depths of his dark robes once more, his movements deliberate and imbued with a quiet solemnity. He pulled out a folded, yellowed clipping, its edges brittle with age. He handed it to her with a reverence that spoke volumes, a legacy entrusted.
Hermione unfolded it slowly, her fingers trembling slightly as the brittle paper crackled in protest.
Hermione stared at the article, her hands trembling violently as if a sudden, invisible force had seized them. “She was declared dead,” she whispered, her voice cracking, barely audible above the frantic thumping of her own heart. “They stopped looking.”
Lord Nott’s voice, when he finally spoke, was a quiet rumble, yet it carried an unyielding strength, a bedrock of unwavering dedication. “I never did.”
The silence that descended was a heavy, suffocating blanket, stretching long and taut between them, much like a held breath before a storm breaks. Hermione’s thoughts spun with a dizzying, disorienting speed, a chaotic maelstrom of disbelief, a searing ache of longing, and something deeper, a profound sense of mourning for a life, a connection, she hadn't even realized was missing until this very moment. Her eyes burned, a sharp, stinging sensation of unshed tears pricking at the back of her throat. She found herself utterly captivated, unable to tear her gaze from the fragile parchment clutched in her trembling fingers, nor from the faded, yet radiant, photograph of the woman who might, impossibly, be her mother. Elira. Captured in a moment of pure joy, her face alight with laughter, her hands cradling a swollen belly that had once held Hermione.
A gentle touch landed on her arm, a whisper-light pressure, so careful and tentative that it startled her so profoundly she nearly recoiled, her body jolting as if struck. The hand was withdrawn instantly, a silent apology, followed by the soft, almost imperceptible clearing of a throat. Hermione blinked rapidly, her vision swimming as she struggled to focus, but everything felt disturbingly distant, as if she were observing the scene through a thick pane of glass. The opulent room, the steady voices, even the rhythm of her own breath seemed alien and remote. It was as if the sheer, crushing weight of this revelation was pressing down on her chest, constricting her lungs, making it an agonizing effort to think, to simply breathe.
“There is a way to confirm it,” Lord Nott said, his voice now dropping to a low, steady murmur as he knelt before her, bringing his earnest gaze level with hers.
Hermione met his eyes, her own wide and swimming, the glassiness of unshed tears clouding their depths. She could only manage a small, almost imperceptible nod.
From the deep folds of his dark robes, he withdrew a folded parchment. It was ancient, its edges softened with age but miraculously pristine, framed by delicate silver thread that caught the candlelight. He held it with an almost sacred reverence, as though it were a relic of immeasurable importance.
“This,” he stated, his voice imbued with a quiet certainty, “is a bloodline scroll. An artifact of old magic. Pureblood families have relied upon them for centuries to authenticate lineage, secure inheritances, and solidify ancestral ties. It cannot be corrupted, it cannot be deceived. It does not lie.”
Hermione blinked, her voice a mere breath, barely audible. “Like a Muggle DNA test?”
Lord Nott’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “In essence, yes. Though our method is far older. And, I assure you, far more binding.”
He reached into his robes once more, his movements deliberate and unhurried, and produced a small dagger. Its blade was simple, unadorned by any elaborate carvings or magical enchantments, gleaming faintly with a soft, unearthly luminescence in the flickering candlelight.
“You must use this,” he instructed, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It carries no magical properties. No enchantments whatsoever. This ensures that no spellwork, no extraneous magic, can interfere with the result. One single drop of blood, placed upon the scroll. That is all.”
Hermione remained silent, her focus entirely on the dagger. She simply reached out, her fingers closing around its cool, smooth handle, and turned it over once, her eyes tracing the uncomplicated line of the blade. Then, with a quiet, yet absolute, resolve settling upon her features, she pressed the tip gently to her finger, drawing a shallow, crimson line.
A single, perfect drop of blood welled up, dark and rich against her pale skin, and fell onto the parchment.
They waited, a shared, palpable tension hanging between them, as the droplet slowly soaked into the aged scroll, disappearing into its fibers as if by some unseen magic. For a fleeting moment, an eternity of silence stretched between them, and nothing happened.
Then, with an almost imperceptible slowness, words began to form upon the parchment, as if conjured from the very air. They appeared, etched in a vivid, blood-red ink, curling and unfurling across the ancient material like dark, nascent vines.
Hermione inhaled sharply, the air catching in her throat before exhaling in a long, trembling breath. It wasn’t the clean release of simple relief. It was something far more complicated, akin to the dull ache of a wound finally given a name, a tangible form. Her chest felt both achingly hollow and strangely, inexplicably full. Sadness, yes, a heavy blanket of it, but woven through it was a quiet, nascent joy, a profound sense of belonging she hadn't even realized she'd been missing until this very moment.
Lord Nott settled back into his chair, his expression a carefully constructed mask, utterly unreadable. Yet, if one looked closely, a profound grief flickered in the depths of his eyes, softened by something else entirely. Perhaps it was pride, a quiet acknowledgment of a strength he recognized. Or maybe, just maybe, it was hope, a fragile seedling pushing through the cracked earth of his sorrow.
“We should go to Gringotts,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to smooth the sharp edges of the room. “They’ll perform the formal testing. Magical confirmation, inheritance rites, the rest of it.”
Snape, who had remained a formidable, silent presence until now, stepped forward with a rustle of dark robes. “Tomorrow,” he stated curtly, his gaze fixed on Hermione. “Instead of boarding the train for the Easter holiday, you’ll meet me here. You’ll Floo with your father to Diagon Alley. First thing.”
Hermione nodded quietly, her eyes still locked on the aged scroll, its secrets now laid bare. Then her brow furrowed, a flicker of concern crossing her features. “I need to tell Viktor,” she murmured, her voice a little shaky. “We had plans. I’ll have to change them.”
Lord Nott inclined his head in a gesture of understanding. “Of course.”
A subtle hesitation hung in the air as Hermione’s gaze shifted, a new thought taking root. “And Theo?”
Lord Nott’s carefully maintained composure wavered, his expression softening with a complex mixture of apprehension and resolve. “He’ll come home by train. We’ll speak to him once everything is confirmed.”
Hermione’s frown deepened, a spark of fierce protectiveness igniting in her eyes. “No,” she declared, her voice gaining strength. “I’ve spent my whole life wishing I had a family that cared. Now I do. I’m not leaving him out of this.”
A pregnant beat of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken emotions. Then, slowly, Lord Nott nodded, a grudging admiration entering his gaze. “You’re right. You should tell him.”
Snape’s voice, ever dry and precise, cut through the quiet. “Tell him to meet you here tomorrow morning. He’ll come with you.”
Hermione gave a small nod, her voice finding a surprising steadiness. “May I go to dinner? I need to eat. And I need to speak with them both.”
Snape simply gestured a long, elegant finger toward the heavy oak door. “Go.”
She stood, the weight of the newly discovered truth still settling upon her like an unfamiliar cloak, yet as she carefully tucked the ancient-looking scroll into the worn leather of her satchel, a strange sense of liberation bloomed within her. Her steps, as she turned toward the echoing corridor, were slow, deliberate, each one a conscious movement. The parchment's secrets clung to her, but no longer as a crushing burden; instead, it felt like the nascent stirrings of an uncharted future, a powerful beginning.
The familiar path to the Great Hall seemed to stretch before her, her footsteps heavy not with weariness, but with the sheer force of her churning thoughts. Hermione’s mind was a tempest, replaying the revelation of her lineage, her chest tight with the profound emotional resonance of everything she had just learned. She had a father. A brother. A name, Mireya Calanthe Nott, that resonated within her like an ancient spell half-whispered, a melody both alien and deeply familiar.
She paused at the imposing entrance, her gaze sweeping across the bustling expanse of the Great Hall, its cacophony a stark contrast to her inner stillness. Harry, perched at the Gryffindor table, caught her eye, his brow furrowed with a palpable concern. With a subtle mouthed promise of "just a minute," she redirected her attention, her path now veering towards the gleaming Slytherin table.
Viktor Krum was seated towards the far end, his normally imposing posture softened by a casual ease, his fingers idly tracing the cool, smooth rim of his goblet. As she approached, a tremor of anticipation ran through her as she pulled the parchment from her satchel, her fingertips brushing its brittle edges as if it might dissolve into mist if she dared to loosen her grip.
“You come to eat with me?” Viktor asked, a playful smirk gracing his lips, but the amusement in his eyes quickly dissolved as he truly looked at her. He stood immediately, his earlier nonchalance vanishing as he enveloped her in a warm embrace. His voice, when he spoke, dropped to a low, tender whisper, intended solely for her ears. “Is everything already, kotyonok?”
Hermione didn't respond at once. Instead, she gently held up the parchment, just enough for the stark, blood-red ink to catch his attention. “I won’t be able to go with you this coming week,” she said, her voice soft and tinged with a quiet regret.
Viktor’s eyes, the color of a stormy sea, searched hers, and in that intimate moment, the teeming world around them simply ceased to exist. The clamor of the Hall, the curious stares, the hushed whispers—all of it faded into an irrelevant background hum. She felt a profound disinterest in what anyone else might see. This was the first moment, since her earth-shattering encounter with Lord Nott, her father, that the persistent clamor in her own mind had finally fallen silent.
He pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to her temple, then rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. “Is okay,” he murmured, his voice a comforting balm. “This is… important. Maybe I come see you after, when you finish, yeah?”
Hermione could only manage a nod, her throat unexpectedly tight. As she stepped back, he bestowed one last, tender kiss upon her forehead and whispered a single, encouraging word, "Go talk to him."
She mouthed a silent "thank you" and then turned, her gaze finding Theo. He had been watching her, his expression unreadable, but a silent understanding passed between them.
Her presence beside him was a sudden stillness, a subtle shift in the boisterous atmosphere of the Great Hall. Hermione cleared her throat, a small, almost tentative sound that nonetheless commanded attention. “Nott,” she began, her voice low but firm, “we need to talk.” In her hand, she clutched a rolled parchment, its edges slightly crinkled, its contents still a carefully guarded secret.
From his position at the Slytherin table, a sneer, as familiar as it was unwelcome, twisted Draco Malfoy’s lips. “Why would he want to talk to you, Granger?” he spat, his tone dripping with derision.
Hermione’s gaze snapped to him, her usually bright eyes darkening with a sharp, defensive glint. “Because I bloody said so,” she bit out, the words sharp as shards of glass. “And if he wants to know why Snape sent him to me earlier…” Her voice softened as she turned back to Theo, a flicker of shared understanding passing between them. “Then he’ll want to see what’s on this parchment, yeah?”
Malfoy let out a dismissive scoff, a puff of air laced with contempt. “Why can’t you just give it to him and leave?”
Hermione tilted her head, a slow, almost predatory smile stretching across her face, transforming her features into something both innocent and dangerous. “Why must you talk?” she asked, her voice deceptively sweet. “You must like the sound of your own voice.”
A ripple of stifled snickers, a collective intake of breath, spread across the nearby tables.
Leaning forward, her hands braced on the polished wood of the table, Hermione’s smile didn’t waver. “I suppose me breaking your nose didn’t help with the sound of it.”
Gasps, sharp and incredulous, punctuated the sudden silence. A few hushed murmurs followed, a whispered disbelief – Did she just say that? She’s got teeth.
Hermione’s gaze returned to Theo, her smile unwavering, a silent reassurance. He mirrored it, a quiet pride glinting in his eyes, a look that spoke volumes without a single uttered word.
Theo turned his attention to Draco, amusement lacing his voice as he drawled, “Draco,” he said, the name a silken insult, “sod off, will you?”
Before Draco could even formulate a retort, Theo was already on his feet, a decisive nod towards the grand doors of the Great Hall.
Hermione cast one last look at Malfoy, a smirk that conveyed a universe of unspoken triumphs, and then followed Theo, a confident stride carrying her away from the lingering tension.
“Never thought I’d see the day Granger showed her bite,” Theo chuckled as they navigated the bustling corridor.
Hermione didn’t immediately reply, but offered a soft, knowing smile in return. Then, her gaze fell to the parchment in her hand. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she passed it to him.
Theo unfolded it with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the cramped script with a swiftness that spoke of familiarity. His eyes snapped up to hers, a distinct puzzled frown creasing his brow.
“Snape had me come to his office,” she began, the words a careful explanation, “because your father was there—”
“Our father,” Theo interrupted, his voice carrying a new weight, a dawning comprehension.
Hermione’s eyes widened, a spark of disbelief mixed with burgeoning hope. “You believe me?”
Theo nodded, a quiet affirmation that resonated in the sudden hush between them. “I know what this parchment is. It can’t be faked.” He glanced back down, his gaze lingering on a particular line. “Who’s the older twin?” he mused aloud, a hint of wonder in his tone.
Hermione snorted softly, the sound laced with a relief she couldn’t quite contain. “Snape said to tell you to meet me in his office after breakfast tomorrow. Our father will be there. We’ll Floo to Diagon Alley and go to Gringotts for the formal testing.”
Theo nodded again, his silence a testament to the gravity of the news.
Hermione extended her hand, palm open. Without hesitation, he returned the parchment, a silent gesture of trust.
She turned to head back towards the Great Hall, then paused, a sudden thought striking her. “Oh, Theo—don’t say anything until it’s confirmed. Not even to Malfoy.”
She waited, her gaze steady, for his acknowledgement.
Theo nodded, a promise in his eyes. “See you tomorrow.”
Hermione rejoined the Gryffindor table, slipping into the seat beside Harry, who immediately turned to her with a questioning look. She offered a subtle, conspiratorial moue. It’s a secret, she mouthed, and then, under the protective cover of the table, she unfolded the parchment, letting him read its astonishing contents.
She held her breath, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the table. Harry’s eyes, a familiar, comforting hazel, slowly lifted from his plate and met her searching gaze. A wave of raw, unadulterated panic, cold and sharp, licked at the base of her spine—but then, as if conjured by her desperate hope, his lips curved into a smile. It was a soft, utterly warm smile, one that reached his eyes and chased away the lingering shadows of their shared past. He leaned across the small gap between them, his arm circling her shoulders in a surprisingly firm embrace, and spoke in a low, rumbling tone directly into her ear, his breath a gentle warmth against her skin. “That makes sense. I’m happy for you, Mione.”
With a shaky sigh that felt like the release of months of pent-up tension, she exhaled, hugging him back with equal fervor, her own arms tightening around his familiar frame. “Tomorrow, Theo and I are going with our father to do the formal test. Keep it quiet, yeah?”
Harry nodded, the steady movement a reassuring anchor. They let go, the lingering warmth of their shared moment fading as they turned back to their plates, the clinking of cutlery a gentle punctuation to the conversation.
Hermione picked up her fork, the precious parchment, now bearing a future she'd only dared to dream of, tucked safely away in her robes. For the first time in her young life, as she sat there amidst the comforting aroma of their shared meal, she felt an overwhelming sense of belonging. She wasn't just sitting at a table with friends; she was at a table with family.
Notes:
Well, would you look at that—Karkaroff actually did something useful. The lost daughter’s been found, the Notts are a whole family again, and Draco Malfoy just learned what happens when Hermione Granger shows her teeth.
Hold onto your wands, friends. We’re just getting started.
With magic and mischief,
Sam
Chapter Text
The next morning dawned not with the cheerful chirping of sparrows outside her dormitory window, but with a churning knot of nerves in Hermione’s stomach. Breakfast in the Great Hall was a blur of half-swallowed toast, the rich aroma of bacon and sausages a lost cause against her apprehension. She sat stiffly at the Gryffindor table, the worn oak beneath her fingers offering little comfort. Her fingers curled around a chipped mug of tea that had long since gone cold, the steam that usually curled upwards like a question mark now absent. Ron, bless his oblivious heart, kept nudging her with his elbow, his brow furrowed in genuine concern.
“Did you forget something? Is McGonagall making you stay back for extra credit? You didn’t hex Malfoy again, did you?”
If it hadn’t been for Harry’s steady presence, Hermione might have snapped. He leaned in, a quiet calm emanating from him, and murmured, “Family emergency. She’s Flooing out to get there faster.” His voice was a reassuring anchor in the sea of her anxiety.
Hermione reached under the table, her fingers finding his, and gave his hand a grateful, quiet squeeze. He didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on his plate, but he nodded once, a silent acknowledgement, and continued to eat.
As she finally managed to extricate herself from the Gryffindor table, her satchel slung over one shoulder, its leather creaking with the weight of her books and anxieties, Viktor Krum intercepted her near the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall. He pulled her into a hug, his embrace warm and surprisingly grounding. The scent of his familiar cologne, a mix of woodsmoke and something uniquely Bulgarian, filled her senses.
“Good luck, котенце,” (Kitten) he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “Enjoy your week. I wait for you, yeah?”
She managed a genuine smile, nodded her thanks, and slipped away, a fleeting pang of regret for the shared week ahead. Her path, however, was immediately blocked again by the imposing figure of Professor Moody, who loomed like a thundercloud near the grand marble staircase, his trusty walking stick planted firmly before him.
“You alright, lass?” he asked, his magical eye swiveling with its unnerving intensity. “Going home to family can be… complicated. If you need to talk when you’re back, you know where I am.” His gruff tone was laced with a surprising tenderness.
Hermione nodded again, murmured her thanks, and hurried on, the weight of his words settling heavily upon her.
Just as she reached the ornate, dark wood door of Professor Snape’s office, it swung open with an almost anticipatory creak. Theo Nott stepped out, his smile impossibly bright and boyish, a stark contrast to the usual dour demeanor of the dungeon master’s domain.
“Morning, sister,” he said, holding the door for her with an exaggerated flourish.
She stepped inside, the soft, definitive click of the door behind them sealing the moment, ushering them into the familiar, potion-scented confines of the office. Their father stood in the centre of the room, his robes immaculate, hands clasped behind his back in his usual, almost regal, posture. His smile was quiet, tinged with a pain she knew well, but also undeniably proud. Hermione could see the pride in the way his dark eyes lingered on them both, a quiet approval that meant the world.
“Told you it was a good idea,” she teased, her voice lighter than it had been all morning.
Theo gasped dramatically, hand flying to his chest as if mortally wounded. “You weren’t going to tell me!”
Snape, leaning against his desk, looked thoroughly unimpressed. Their father, however, merely tilted his head, rolled his eyes, and exhaled slowly, a silent testament to his children's theatrical natures.
Hermione smirked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “That explains your reaction to Malfoy’s smug face at breakfast.”
Theo gave another dramatic bow, his wrist flicked with effortless flair. “I do have a flair for the theatrics,” he said, grinning, his eyes sparkling.
Theodore Nott cleared his throat, his voice a low, resonant rumble. “If you two are done with your Hogwarts-level melodramatics,” he drawled, gesturing towards the waiting fireplace, “shall we?”
Hermione and Theo exchanged a conspiratorial grin, a silent understanding passing between them, then stepped into the swirling emerald flames of the Floo Network, their father a steady presence beside them.
They emerged in the dim, cozy confines of The Leaky Cauldron, a faint dusting of soot clinging to their robes like pixie dust. The pub was hushed, the air thick with the comforting scent of butterbeer and the lingering aroma of pipe smoke. A few heads turned as they materialized, recognition flickering in the eyes of the patrons who knew the Nott name, a name that carried weight even in this wizarding haven.
Tom, the venerable barkeep, gave them a polite nod from behind his bar, his expression unreadable, but said nothing, maintaining the pub’s customary discretion.
Outside, the bustling thoroughfare of Diagon Alley was brisk with the crisp spring air. The ancient cobblestones were slick with the morning dew, and the shopkeepers were just beginning to heave open their heavy wooden shutters, revealing tempting displays of enchanted goods. Hermione walked between her father and Theo, their presence a quiet force beside her, trying, with limited success, not to notice the curious glances they drew from passersby.
The late afternoon sun, a pale, watery affair typical of London, cast long shadows across Diagon Alley. The air, usually thick with the scent of enchanted sweets and dragon dung from the wizarding shops, was tinged with the damp chill of approaching autumn.
Theo, of course, was unfazed, his usual air of languid amusement firmly in place. “So, Father,” he said, his voice light and carrying with a practiced ease that always made Hermione bristle, “who’s older? Me?” He gestured to himself with a flourish, a stray strand of dark hair falling across his forehead. “Or her?” He wagged a finger, his gaze sharp, at Hermione.
“Theo,” their father said without missing a beat, his voice deep and resonant, “your sister is.”
Theo gasped, pausing mid-step on the cobbled street, his expressive face a mask of mock disbelief. Hermione smirked, a quiet, satisfied sound escaping her lips as she let out a soft hum, the injustice of his perpetual, albeit manufactured, surprise almost too much to bear. Their father chuckled, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very flagstones beneath their feet.
They passed Flourish and Blotts, its grand bay windows a riot of enchanted movement. A window display of magically animated quills danced across parchment, their tips dipping and swirling in an invisible inkwell, leaving behind trails of shimmering script that promised adventure and arcane knowledge. Outside Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, where the hum of enchanted sewing needles was a constant backdrop, a pair of witches in sensible, dark robes whispered conspiratorially as they walked by, their eyes – wide and curious – flicking to Hermione’s face, lingering perhaps on the unusual intensity of her gaze.
Theo leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “You know, you’ve got the Rosier jawline. That’s why they’re staring.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, the gesture an unconscious rebellion against his probing. “I’ve got your dramatics, more like.”
Gringotts loomed ahead, its stark white marble façade gleaming under the weak morning light, a fortress of goblin power and wizarding wealth. The colossal goblin guards at the imposing entrance stood as rigid and unyielding as the stone itself, their polished spears held at the ready, their eyes, small and sharp, peering out from beneath the shadow of their heavy helms.
Inside, the bank was a symphony of hushed activity. The air, cooler than the bustling alley, felt vast and cavernous. Grand chandeliers, their iron arms twisted into serpentine shapes, hung from the impossibly high ceiling, casting flickering, almost theatrical light across the polished stone floor, illuminating the sheer scale of the place. Goblins, their skin a leathery grey, bustled behind high, imposing counters, their quills scratching furiously across ancient parchment, ledgers flipping with a crisp, decisive snap.
They approached the nearest goblin, who looked up from his meticulous work with a blink of mild, almost imperceptible irritation, his pointed ears twitching.
“Business?” he asked curtly, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate in the air.
Theodore, Lord Nott, stepped forward, his presence commanding despite his lean frame. “I am Lord Nott. This is my son, Theodore Nott Jr., and my daughter—recently rediscovered—Mireya Calanthe Nott. We’re here for a bloodline confirmation.”
The goblin’s already narrow eyes narrowed further, a flicker of keen interest sparking within them. “A lost heir?”
“Yes,” Theodore confirmed, his voice even. “I’d like it handled discreetly.”
The goblin sniffed, a sound like dry leaves rustling. “You’ll want Archivist Grindlehook. He deals with inheritance and bloodline matters of this nature.”
With a surprising agility for his bulk, the goblin hopped down from his stool and disappeared through a nondescript side door, the sound of his shuffling footsteps fading quickly.
Moments later, another goblin emerged, this one noticeably taller and older, his long fingers adorned with glinting silver rings, a thick, leather-bound ledger tucked securely beneath one arm.
“Lord Nott,” he said, his voice a gravelly rasp, smoothed by years of administrative duties. “Miss Nott. Mr. Nott. Follow me.”
They were led down a narrow, echoing corridor, the stone walls lined with ancient, faded tapestries depicting epic wizarding battles and the silent, steady glow of floating lanterns that bobbed gently in the air. At the corridor’s end stood a heavy oak door, its surface intricately carved with glowing, arcane runes.
Grindlehook, with a swift, almost delicate tap of his clawed hand against the door’s ancient wood, opened it. “This way.”
The door creaked open with a mournful groan, revealing a large, high-ceilinged office carved directly into the living stone of Gringotts itself. The walls were a tapestry of knowledge, lined from floor to ceiling with countless ledgers and scrolls, some so ancient their brittle bindings looked as if they might crumble to dust at a touch. A single, magnificent chandelier hung above, its wrought-iron arms twisted into menacingly serpentine shapes, casting a pool of flickering, ethereal light across the room. The air carried a faint, intoxicating scent of old ink, sealing wax, and something undeniably metallic – the lingering aroma of potent, old magic.
At the far end of the room stood a wide, imposing desk of blackened oak, its surface polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the dancing light of the chandelier. Behind it, a tall-backed chair, carved with intricate goblin runes, awaited its occupant. Two smaller, equally sturdy chairs sat opposite, and a third had been added beside them, slightly mismatched with the others but no less solid.
Grindlehook gestured wordlessly for them to sit, his ancient eyes scanning their faces with an unnerving acuity.
The air in the Gringotts interview room, usually thick with the scent of parchment and old coin, seemed to hold a new, almost palpable tension. Outside, the grey drizzle of a typical 1990s English afternoon was a distant murmur. Hermione settled into the middle chair, the worn velvet of its upholstery a familiar comfort against her school robes, her satchel resting against her hip, a comforting weight. Theo dropped into the seat beside her with a casual sprawl, his dark hair falling across his forehead, while their father, Lord Nott, remained standing for a moment, his gaze sweeping the room, a subtle intensity in his eyes, like he was reacquainting himself with something long buried beneath layers of forgotten time and grief.
The goblin, Grindlehook, climbed into his chair with practiced ease, his long, surprisingly dextrous fingers steepled before him, a gesture of considered authority.
“What is it you seek, Lord Nott?” he asked, his voice a gravelly, resonant sound, yet precise as a perfectly struck bell.
Theodore stepped forward, his tone formal, a stark contrast to Theo’s usual laid-back demeanor. “Confirmation. My daughter, Mireya Calanthe Nott, was taken from her cot at two years old. Declared dead. She has been found. I wish to have her bloodline verified and her inheritance restored.”
Grindlehook’s sharp, assessing eyes flicked from Theodore to Theo, then lingered for a fraction longer on Hermione. “Twins?”
“Yes,” Theodore confirmed, a quiet strength in his voice. “The parchment test was performed yesterday. We seek Gringotts’ confirmation.”
The goblin nodded slowly, his leathery brow furrowed in a way that offered no hint of his thoughts. “This is a private matter. It will require the ancestral scroll and the ceremonial blade. Both are kept in the vault archives.”
He rose, his dark goblin robes rustling like dry leaves disturbed by an unseen wind. “Wait here.”
With that, he disappeared through a side door, the heavy wood closing with a soft thud, leaving the three of them in a heavy, expectant silence.
Hermione glanced at Theo, who was absently tracing the ornate, carved edge of the heavy mahogany desk with one finger, his gaze distant. Their father had finally sat down, his posture straight, his hands folded neatly in his lap, a picture of controlled anticipation.
The room was quiet, save for the faint, rhythmic ticking of a large brass timepiece mounted on the wall, its steady beat the only audible sound in the charged stillness.
The silence in Grindlehook’s office had stretched long enough to become a presence of its own, a tangible entity woven from unanswered questions and nascent hope. The ticking brass timepiece on the wall marked each second like a heartbeat, steady and unrelenting, a constant reminder of the passage of time that had kept Hermione lost for so long. She sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, the memory of the parchment test still fresh in her mind, the weight of her new, undeniable name pressing gently against her chest, a secret waiting to be fully revealed.
When the goblin returned, the door opened with a low, protesting groan, and he stepped through with a deliberate, almost ritualistic care. In one hand, he carried a scroll bound in shimmering silver thread, its edges glowing faintly with an ancient, intricate enchantment. In the other, a dagger—slim, its handle carved from what looked like smooth, polished bone, and utterly unadorned, but possessing a sharpness that gleamed wickedly in the flickering, uncertain light of the overhead chandelier.
He returned to his chair, placing both items on the desk with a profound reverence that spoke volumes of their importance. The scroll gave off a faint, resonant hum, like latent magic waiting to be acknowledged, a song of lineage and belonging.
“This,” Grindlehook said, his voice dropping to a low, formal register, “is the ancestral scroll. Miss Nott, you’ve performed a parchment test before. This is similar, but far more comprehensive.”
Hermione leaned forward slightly, her curiosity overcoming her apprehension, her voice a quiet murmur. “How is it different, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Grindlehook rested one clawed hand atop the scroll, his touch surprisingly gentle. “This record will confirm not only your parentage and siblings, but also your godparents, magical designation, estate ties, vault holdings, and any contracts or enchantments bound to your name. It is the full measure of your legacy.”
Hermione nodded slowly, her brow furrowed in concentration, her eyes tracking the familiar, yet always slightly unnerving, process. “So just like the last one? Just a drop of blood?”
“Indeed,” the goblin said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that echoed faintly in the cavernous, marble-lined hall of Gringotts. He held out the dagger, its wickedly sharp blade glinting under the enchanted torchlight that cast dancing shadows on the towering stacks of gold and silver. “This blade is unenchanted. No magic may interfere.”
She took it without hesitation, the intricately carved handle, depicting a snarling dragon, cool against her palm. The weight felt right, a familiar tool of arcane necessity. With practiced ease, honed by years of study and necessity, she drew a shallow cut across the tip of her finger. A single drop welled up, impossibly dark and vivid against her pale skin, and she let it fall onto the ancient, slightly crinkled scroll laid out on the sturdy oak counter.
The parchment absorbed the blood slowly, as if savoring it, the dark fluid spreading like frost across glass, tracing intricate, unseen patterns. For a long, taut moment, nothing happened. The only sounds were the distant murmur of activity from other banking halls and the soft rustle of the goblin’s fine robes.
Then, in elegant, curling script, impossibly precise and flowing, the scroll began to write itself—slowly, deliberately, as if the ancient magic contained within its fibers was remembering her, recognizing the echo of her lineage, the undeniable signature of her wizarding blood.
Hermione stared at the ancient, crackling scroll, her breath caught in a complex knot between profound awe and utter disbelief. The faded ink, imbued with centuries of lineage, seemed to pulse with a life of its own.
Theo leaned in, his sharp eyebrows drawn together in a question, a curious tilt to his head. “Wait—your magical age is older than your actual age?”
Still reeling, her mind a whirl of impossible revelations, Hermione answered without conscious thought. “Time Turner. Last year.”
Their father, a man accustomed to a certain order and control, turned sharply, his voice a low, clipped rasp that cut through the hushed room. “What?”
Hermione blinked, the words she’d just uttered hitting her with the force of a rogue spell. The implications, the sheer recklessness of revealing such a secret, dawned on her. “I—I’ll explain later.”
Grindlehook, the goblin whose presence usually exuded a shrewd, business-like demeanor, cleared his throat, his ancient eyes betraying no hint of surprise. “I will send for the Rosier family ring. It is bound to the Head of House. It will recognize her.”
Lord Nott nodded, his face a carefully constructed mask of impassivity, but his eyes, dark and deep, lingered on Hermione with an undeniable spark of wonder, as if seeing her for the very first time.
The goblin slipped out of the room with silent, practiced grace, leaving the three of them adrift in the sudden, profound quiet, a tangible air of reflection settling upon them like a heavy cloak.
Theo leaned back in his ornate chair, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, a slow, unfolding grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So you’ve got your own manor now.”
Hermione let out a soft, involuntary laugh, the sound fragile, almost brittle, yet undeniably real. “Apparently.”
Her gaze drifted back to the scroll, the parchment still shimmering with an internal light, then she frowned, her mind latching onto another anomaly. “Rita Skeeter?”
Theo’s eyebrows climbed higher, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Explains why she’s always writing about you. She’s your godmother. Probably felt the pull, even if she didn’t know why.”
Their father nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful as he processed this new piece of the puzzle. “And Igor… that’s likely why he noticed you. Why he found you.”
Hermione nodded absently, her gaze distant, her mind already weaving through the intricate tapestry of her newfound heritage. The scroll shimmered faintly on the polished desk, the ink still glistening as if freshly applied.
She didn’t hear the heavy oak door creak open again, nor did she register Grindlehook’s return until his gravelly voice cleared his throat, a distinct sound that pierced through her deep contemplation. She looked up, her honey brown eyes meeting his.
“We will have both vaults reinstated by the end of the day,” he announced, his tone businesslike, yet with an undercurrent of something akin to respect.
He held out a small, dark velvet box, its surface worn smooth with age. Inside, nestled in a bed of deep, midnight-blue silk, lay a ring. It was fashioned from gleaming silver, set with a single, deep green stone that seemed to hold the very essence of ancient forests. The Rosier crest, a complex and delicate symbol, was etched into its face in intricate filigree, a whisper of forgotten power.
“This belongs on your right pointer finger,” he said, his gaze steady.
Hermione reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and took the box with a care that belied her inner turmoil. She carefully slid the ring onto her right pointer finger. As the cool metal touched her skin, a distinct pulse of magic surged through her – warm, ancient, and quietly, undeniably powerful. It felt as though it had always belonged there, an intrinsic part of her very being.
Grindlehook, his gnarled fingers steady despite the years, handed a second, heavier box to Lord Nott, its dark wood gleaming with a faint, polished sheen.
“This was meant for her eleventh birthday,” he said, his voice a low, rumbling growl. “The family necklace.”
Inside, nestled on a bed of crushed velvet, was a fine silver chain, its delicate links intricately woven. Dangling from it was a small charm, exquisitely wrought in the shape of the Nott family crest. “It carries protection enchantments,” her father said softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Subtle, but strong.”
Hermione turned, the movement a conscious effort to reveal the slender column of her throat. Her father fastened the necklace gently, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary, a silent, paternal benediction.
She looked down again at the ring, its intricate metalwork cool and smooth against her skin, watching the way it shimmered faintly, catching the ambient light.
“It’s recognizing you,” her father said, his voice laced with a quiet awe. “As head of House Rosier. It may unlock abilities you’ve not yet discovered.”
Grindlehook nodded, a slow, deliberate movement of his reptilian head. “We will send an owl once the vaults are active. Miss Nott, would you like copies of the record?”
“Yes,” Hermione said, her voice clear and steady, though a tremor of anticipation ran beneath it. “Three sealed copies. And any ledgers tied to the Rosier vault. I’d like to begin reviewing them.”
Grindlehook gestured with a sharp, clawed finger to a hulking goblin guard, who stood sentinel nearby, and the formidable creature slipped out of the grand hall as silently as a shadow.
When they returned to the echoing, cavernous lobby, the goblin guard, his expression impassive, handed Hermione a substantial leather-bound folder, its edges thick and worn. It was sealed with a weighty dollop of dark red wax, stamped with the imposing Rosier crest. The weight of it was solid and grounding in her hands—real, undeniable, a tangible tether to a lineage she was only just beginning to comprehend.
Grindlehook walked them to the ornate, heavy oak door, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and metallic tang. “Gringotts thanks you for your discretion.”
Hermione turned, her gaze meeting her father’s with a newfound resolve. “We should go to the Ministry. They need to know I’m not dead. That I’ve been found.”
Lord Nott nodded, his expression a mixture of relief and stern purpose. “Agreed.”
The Ministry of Magic was a symphony of controlled chaos, as bustling and alive as ever. Its vast, golden atrium gleamed with an almost blinding brilliance beneath the sweeping expanse of enchanted skylights, the polished marble floor reflecting the kaleidoscopic swirl of enchanted robes and the vibrant, crackling flare of fireplaces like a dark, still lake. Wizards and witches moved in purposeful currents, their footsteps echoing softly, some clutching tightly rolled scrolls, others locked in deep, animated conversation, and a few pausing their frantic journeys to cast curious, lingering glances at the unexpected trio who had just emerged from the emerald embrace of the Floo.
Hermione stood anchored between Theo, his dark eyes scanning the throng with a practiced ease, and their father, her leather satchel tucked securely against her hip, the Rosier ring a cool, constant presence against her skin. She felt the immense, undeniable weight of it all – the heavy scroll nestled within her bag, the silver chain of the Nott necklace at her throat, the potent, resonating name she now carried. It was like stepping into a world that had always held a place for her, a birthright that had remained stubbornly unrecognized until this very moment.
Lord Nott, with a subtle, practiced flick of his wrist, adjusted the immaculate cuffs of his robes and turned to face them both, his gaze steady. “We’ll start with the Department of Magical Records. Vital Registry Division. They’ll need to update the birth ledger and strike the death notice.”
Theo raised a single, dark eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his tone. “They actually keep track of all that?”
“Of course they do,” Hermione murmured, the knowledge settling into her with a quiet certainty. “It’s how magical inheritance is tracked. Estates, vaults, bloodlines…”
Theo gave a low whistle, the sound almost swallowed by the ambient din. “Bloody hell.”
They navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the Ministry, their steps echoing against the ornate stone walls. They passed the bustling offices of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, where shouts of victory and groans of defeat occasionally spilled out, and by the immense, clanking lift that shuddered with the deafening sound of memos zooming overhead on invisible currents, until they finally reached a quieter, more austere wing – a corridor lined with gleaming brass plaques and imposing, thick wooden doors.
The Vital Registry Division, a hushed sanctuary of bureaucratic finality, was tucked behind a frosted glass door etched with the solemn pronouncements: Births, Deaths, and Magical Status Confirmations. Inside, the air, thick with the ghosts of ink and the dry, comforting scent of old parchment, settled around them. A witch, her presence a quiet anchor in the room, sat behind a substantial mahogany desk. Her wire-rimmed spectacles, perched precariously on the very end of her nose, seemed to magnify the intensity of her focus as her quill, a finely-tuned instrument, scratched with unwavering steadiness across a thick, leather-bound ledger.
Lord Nott stepped forward, his imposing figure momentarily eclipsing the soft glow of the enchanted lamps. His voice, though carrying the weight of authority, was remarkably calm, each word delivered with a quiet but firm conviction. “I’m here to correct a record. My daughter, Mireya Calanthe Nott, was declared deceased in 1982. She has been found.”
The witch, her concentration unbroken until his voice pierced the quiet, looked up. Her eyelids, fringed with wisps of silver hair, blinked slowly, as if recalibrating from the depths of her meticulous task. “Declared deceased… and now found?” Her gaze, sharp and assessing, swept over Hermione, then lingered on Theo, before finally returning to Lord Nott, a question hanging in the air. “Do you have documentation?”
Hermione, a wave of nervous anticipation coiling in her stomach, stepped forward. With deliberate, careful movements, she pulled the sealed scroll, its edges crisp and the parchment stiff with authenticity, from the depths of her satchel. She placed it gently, with a reverence that belied its legal purpose, onto the polished surface of the desk.
The witch’s gnarled fingers, surprisingly nimble, opened the scroll. Her eyes, magnified by the spectacles, scanned the stark, blood-red ink with a practiced efficiency. As she read, her expression underwent a subtle but significant shift—first a flicker of surprise, then a softening, an unexpected warmth blooming in the depths of her gaze. “This is official. Gringotts confirmation?”
Lord Nott nodded, his posture unyielding. “As of this morning.”
With a rustle of her robes, the witch rose from her seat, her movements economical as she navigated the narrow space behind her desk. She moved towards a tall, imposing cabinet, its dark wood gleaming with age and the hint of forgotten secrets. From within its depths, she retrieved a thick ledger, its binding a rugged, richly textured dragonhide, a testament to its immense importance. She opened it to a page meticulously marked, the familiar script proclaiming: Nott, Mireya Calanthe. Her wand, a slender and elegant piece of polished wood, hovered, poised above the line that read, stark and final: Status: Deceased.
With a precise flick of her wrist and a soft, almost inaudible hum of magic, the offending ink faded, dissolving into nothingness as if it had never been. She tapped the parchment again, her wand tip a beacon of renewed intent, and new words, imbued with a vibrant, living energy, appeared.
Status: Living. Magical designation: Head of House Rosier. Vaults reinstated.
She turned back to them, a faint smile now gracing her lips, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s done. The record is corrected. Welcome back, Miss Nott.”
Hermione, her throat suddenly tight with emotion, managed a small, grateful nod. “Thank you.”
They made their way next to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the air shifting perceptibly as they entered its imposing halls. The atmosphere here was heavier, more charged with purpose—lined with stern, unblinking portraits of former Aurors whose painted eyes seemed to follow their progress, flanked by towering shelves groaning under the weight of innumerable case files, and permeated by the faint, almost imperceptible hum of protective enchantments woven intricately into the very stone of the walls.
A young wizard, his uniform immaculate and his demeanor eager, greeted them at the front desk, his voice crisp and professional. “Can I help you?”
Lord Nott stepped forward once more, his presence commanding but his tone measured. “We’re here to report the recovery of a missing child. Mireya Calanthe Nott. Taken in 1981. Presumed dead. She’s been living under the name Hermione Jean Granger.”
The wizard’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, his eyes widening slightly. “Granger? As in…”
“Yes,” Hermione confirmed, her voice barely a whisper, a tremor of vulnerability in its quiet strength. “No one thought to look in the Muggle world.”
The wizard nodded slowly, his initial surprise giving way to a thoughtful comprehension. He then gestured for them to follow him, his movements crisp and efficient, down a narrow corridor that led to a small, utilitarian interview room. Inside, bathed in the stark, functional light, a senior Auror waited—his robes a deep, shadow-like black, his wand holstered at his hip with practiced readiness, and his eyes, sharp and unnervingly perceptive, seemed to bore into them, assessing and cataloging every detail.
The air in the dimly lit room was thick with unspoken questions and the faint scent of old parchment. "We’ll open a new case,” he said, his voice resonating with a quiet authority. “We’ll need to know everything. Who found her? Where she’s been. And why a Muggle family?”
Hermione sat down, her fingers instinctively curling around the smooth, cool edge of the polished wooden chair, a small anchor in the swirling uncertainty. “I don’t remember anything before the Grangers.”
The Auror's brow furrowed, a subtle crease appearing between his dark, observant eyes. “We can try a memory trace. See if anything lingers.”
With a practiced, almost fluid motion, he summoned a Pensieve, its crystal basin catching the ambient light as he placed it gently on the table between them. Hermione leaned forward, her own wand held firmly in hand, a familiar weight. With a soft incantation, she extracted a single, silvery strand of memory. It swirled in the basin, shimmering with an ethereal, faint luminescence.
The Auror peered into the swirling depths, his brows drawing together in concentration. After a long, charged moment, he looked up, his gaze meeting Hermione's with a grave expression.
“There’s nothing before the age of four. It’s been wiped. Cleanly. No magical signature remains. It’s been too long.”
Hermione sat back, the lightness in her chest replaced by a familiar, heavy ache. “So whoever did it… covered their tracks.”
The Auror gave a slow, deliberate nod. “We’ll dig. But it may take time.”
By late afternoon, the opulent, echoing halls of Nott Manor welcomed them back.
The grounds were hushed, serene beneath the gentle caress of a soft spring breeze, the air still carrying the lingering fragrance of damp earth and the delicate perfume of blooming orchids that lined the winding garden paths. The manor itself stood as a silent, imposing sentinel, a memory preserved in stone and ivy, its windows aglow with the warm, golden light of the approaching evening. Inside, the drawing room offered a sanctuary of warmth and stillness. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, its flames casting dancing, flickering shadows across the richly detailed tapestries and the gleam of polished dark wood.
Hermione stood near the large, leaded-glass window, her satchel, now securely filled with the day's unearthed scrolls and ledgers, resting by her side. The weight of the day’s revelations pressed gently against her shoulders, a palpable burden, like a cloak she hadn’t yet learned the proper way to wear.
“I’d like to invite my godparents,” she said, her voice quiet, almost a whisper, yet carrying a new, resolute strength. “Igor and Rita. I want to thank him. And I need to speak with her.”
Lord Nott, his noble profile silhouetted against the fading light, nodded his assent without hesitation. “I’ll send for them.”
Theo, already settled into a plush, velvet armchair, his arms casually crossed behind his head, let out a low, disbelieving whistle. “This is mad, isn’t it?”
Hermione offered a faint, knowing smile, her gaze drifting towards the shadowed corners of the room, the secrets it undoubtedly held. “It’s only just begun.”
Time passed in a gentle, almost imperceptible lull, the grand manor settling into a quiet rhythm. Lord Nott, his brow furrowed in thought, summoned Brixie, the house elf, a creature of humble service. The elf, with a solemn nod, received the owl letters, her small frame already seeming to vibrate with anticipation before vanishing with a soft pop that echoed the closing of a door on the past. Meanwhile, Theo, his movements imbued with a subtle grace, led Hermione through the manor’s labyrinthine halls, a silent guide through a forgotten world.
“This was your nursery,” he said, his voice resonating softly in the hushed corridor. He paused outside a small, intimate room, its walls adorned with faded lavender wallpaper, a shade that hinted at forgotten dreams. A solitary rocking chair remained tucked in the corner, a silent sentinel. Above it, a mobile of stars hung suspended from the ceiling, enchanted to spin with a slow, celestial grace, casting ever-shifting patterns on the walls. “They never changed it. Not really.”
Hermione stepped across the threshold, the worn floorboards creaking a gentle welcome. Her fingers, tentative and trembling, brushed the smooth, cool edge of the cot, a tangible link to a life unremembered. The air within the room was thick with a faint, sweet scent of lavender, interwoven with the subtle, potent aroma of old magic.
Her new bedroom, however, was a stark and beautiful contrast. Situated in the sun-drenched east wing, it was a space of expansive light and freshly woven enchantments. The walls, painted a soft, dusty purple, were elegantly trimmed in a creamy hue, exuding an air of refined comfort. A grand four-poster bed dominated the center of the room, its canopy draped in a gossamer fabric, exquisitely embroidered with threads of shimmering silver. A sturdy writing desk, positioned beneath the generous window, offered a view of the manicured grounds and was flanked by a tall, imposing wardrobe, intricately carved with the ancient Nott crest, a symbol of lineage and history. The adjoining en-suite bathroom gleamed with opulent marble fixtures, featuring a claw-foot tub that promised luxurious repose, and shelves meticulously lined with an array of glass bottles, each holding enchanted oils and soaps, their scents promising rejuvenation and peace.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath of wonder.
Theo’s smile was warm, genuine. “It’s yours.”
He then led her to the portrait gallery, a hushed sanctuary tucked discreetly behind the grand library. At the far end of the long, richly paneled corridor, a painting commanded attention. It depicted a woman with cascading chestnut curls framing a face alive with warm, knowing eyes – Elira Rosier-Nott.
Hermione stepped forward, her breath catching in her throat, a silent gasp of recognition.
“My girl,” the portrait whispered, her painted eyes shining with an uncanny luminescence. “My sweet girl. You’ve come home.”
Hermione reached out, her fingers trembling with a mixture of awe and longing, grazing the ornate edge of the gilded frame. “I’ve missed you,” she murmured, her voice thick with an emotion she was only just beginning to understand. “Even before I knew I had.”
Elira’s painted smile widened, radiant, exuding a timeless beauty. “You look just like me. Beautiful.”
Theo chuckled, a low, warm sound. “She’s got my dramatics, too.”
Hermione laughed softly, a fragile sound, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, blurring the exquisite features of her ancestor. “I’ll come back later. I want to talk properly.”
Theo nodded, a silent promise conveyed, and together they walked towards the library, the anticipation of dinner settling around them like a comfortable cloak.
The resonant sound of the Floo echoing through the manor’s vast expanse announced the arrival of guests. Hermione’s heart fluttered nervous excitement, and she made her way with swift, purposeful steps towards the entrance hall. Igor Karkaroff emerged from the swirling green flames, his dark robes dusted with ash, his sharp, piercing eyes scanning the hall with an almost predatory intensity.
He took one look at her and, without a moment’s hesitation, pulled her into a firm, encompassing hug, his embrace conveying a profound relief.
“I knew it had to be you,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion that seemed to momentarily soften his formidable demeanor. “It’s a good thing I brought him.”
The Floo roared again, a vibrant plume of emerald fire, and Viktor stepped out, brushing lingering soot from his sleeves with an air of practiced nonchalance.
Hermione’s eyes widened, a spark of pure joy igniting within them. She instinctively let go of Igor and ran towards Viktor, her movements a blur of exhilaration, leaping into his arms.
“Kotentse, toku-shto me vidya tazi sutrin,” (Kitten, you saw me this morning,) he said, his voice a deep, rumbling murmur against her ear as he kissed her temple, the words a familiar melody in a new setting.
“E, tazi sutrin se useshta kato tsyala vechnost s vsichko, koeto se sluchi dnes,” (Well, this morning feels like an eternity with everything that happened today,) she replied, breathless, the words tumbling out in a rush of shared experience.
He chuckled, his arms still wrapped securely around her, a grounding presence. She turned in his embrace, her back pressed against his chest, the familiar scent of him a comforting anchor. Her father and Igor exchanged warm, knowing smiles, a silent acknowledgment of the unfolding reunion. Theo, however, narrowed his eyes, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his features.
“Since when do you speak Bulgarian?” Theo asked, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity as he glanced at Viktor Krum.
Hermione, a small, delighted puff of laughter escaping her lips, brushed a stray strand of dark hair from her cheek. “Viktor taught me.”
“She learn fast,” Viktor said proudly, his broad shoulders expanding a fraction. “Pick it up quick. Natural.” He reached out, his calloused fingers lightly brushing her arm.
Hermione swatted at his hands playfully, a coy smile gracing her lips as she tried to wriggle free from his affectionate grasp. He chuckled, the sound deep and warm, a resonant vibration that sent an unexpected shiver tracing a delightful path up her spine. Just as she managed to escape his hold, the familiar, crackling roar of the Floo network again filled the opulent entrance hall.
Rita Skeeter stepped out from the emerald flames, her signature flamboyant robes immaculate, her expression a mask of practiced boredom. She scanned the surroundings with a critical, hawk-like gaze. “Why did you ask me here, Theodore?” she said, her voice carrying a familiar, sharp edge. “I haven’t been back since—”
Her sharp eyes, however, landed on Hermione, and a flicker of bewildered confusion momentarily crossed her features. Then, a slow, predatory smile, the kind that usually preceded a scathing exposé, spread across her face. “Well, Miss Granger,” she purred, her tone dripping with saccharine amusement.
Hermione tilted her head, a slow, seemingly innocent smile spreading across her own face, a stark contrast to the sharp, calculating intelligence that now blazed in her hazel eyes. “Nott,” she corrected, her voice deceptively soft. “Mireya Nott, to be accurate. Your goddaughter.”
Rita’s perfectly composed face cracked—her eyes widened in disbelief, her mouth fell open, and a startled gasp escaped her before she could possibly stifle it. “Goddaughter?”
“Yes,” Hermione nodded, her movements fluid and deliberate as she reached into her satchel, a worn leather bag that seemed utterly out of place amidst the grandeur. She withdrew a final, elegantly sealed scroll. “I figured you’d believe this more.”
Rita took the scroll, her gaze narrowing as she recognized the distinctive Gringotts seal. With deft fingers, she broke it open, her eyes scanning the parchment quickly—then again, slower, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. When she finally looked up, her face was unnervingly pale, the color drained from her cheeks. The incriminating scroll slipped from her nerveless fingers and fluttered to the floor.
Suddenly, her earlier composure shattered. Rita rushed forward, her arms encircling Hermione in a fierce, tight embrace. “I’ve missed you, my petal,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion as she buried her face in Hermione’s dark, impossibly familiar hair. “How did I not see it? You look just like her.”
Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned by the unexpected display of genuine affection. Rita pulled back, her eyes now glassy and swimming with unshed tears.
“I went to school with your mother,” she said, her voice trembling, raw with a pain that seemed to echo across decades. “She was my best friend.”
Just then, a small, winged house-elf, Brixie, popped into the room with a soft thud, bowing low to the ground with profound reverence. “Dinner is ready, Master.”
The dining room was a breathtaking spectacle of opulence, boasting soaring high ceilings and a long, gleaming mahogany table meticulously set with gleaming silver cutlery and delicate crystal goblets. Unseen sources caused candles to float serenely above, casting a warm, inviting light over a magnificent spread of culinary delights: platters laden with succulent roast lamb, perfectly glazed carrots, crisp Yorkshire pudding, vibrant minted peas, and a glistening treacle tart.
Lord Nott, a figure of stern authority, occupied the head of the table. Hermione and Theo, a shared understanding passing between them, took seats on either side of him. Viktor, his presence a comforting anchor, sat beside Hermione, while Igor, a taciturn figure, sat beside Viktor, and Rita, her initial shock now replaced by a keen, almost ravenous, curiosity, settled beside Theo.
They ate in a comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the gentle clink of cutlery against fine china and the soft, ambient hum of unspoken thoughts filling the grand space.
Then, Hermione looked up, her gaze meeting Rita’s directly. “I think you should be the one to write the article,” she said, her voice calm and measured.
Her godmother’s eyes gleamed with a predatory delight. “Oh, petal,” she purred, a mischievous smile playing on her lips, “I would enjoy nothing more than that.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Hermione continued, her mind already weaving the narrative. “Hermione Granger—or is she Mireya Nott? The lost heir living among Muggles, right under our noses. Mention the night I went missing, how I was declared dead. Ask: Who could have done this? Why would they do this? And say the DMLE has opened a new case.”
Viktor reached for her hand, his touch a tender question as he brought her knuckles to his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. "Za nyakoĭ, koĭto mrazi da bŭde te proroka," (For someone who hates to be in the prophet,) he teased, his voice a low murmur laced with amusement. "Izglezhda ti kharesva tova, Kotentse." (You seem to like this, Kitten) His eyes, the colour of a stormy sea, held a playful spark.
Hermione, her expression serene, met his gaze with a knowing glint. "Azbira se, tya umee da boravi s dumi, taka che zashto ne?" (Of course, she knows how to use words, so why not?) she replied, her voice like the gentle rustle of leaves. She offered a small, confident smile, a subtle hint of steel beneath her calm exterior. "Add your flair, your fluff. Work your magic."
Theo, ever the enthusiast, practically bounced into the conversation. "Can’t forget to say how happy we are to have found you," he declared, his words brimming with genuine delight.
Lord Nott hummed in resonant agreement, a deep, sonorous sound that seemed to echo the sentiment. Rita, her laughter a soft, melodious chime, added, "Just like your mother," as she elegantly sipped her wine, the ruby liquid catching the light. "I’ll have to tell you about her sometime."
Hermione nodded, a warmth blooming on her face, her smile as soft and comforting as a summer breeze.
Theo, with a flourish of theatricality, stood, his movements creating a ripple of anticipation. "Well, I’m off to Draco’s to tell him—"
"Not yet," Hermione cut in, her voice sharp but not unkind, a sudden stillness falling over her. "Let him read it in the Prophet. He’ll come over all dramatized—either in disbelief or feeling sorry for himself."
Her father frowned, his brow furrowing with a touch of bewilderment. "Why would those be his reactions?"
Looking over to her father, her expression softening into an almost impossibly innocent smile, Hermione tilted her head, a subtle mischief playing in her eyes. "Well, let’s see."
She held up one slender finger, each gesture deliberate. "He’s always thought he’s better than me."
A second finger joined the first, her gaze unwavering. "This year he hit me with a hex to make my teeth grow. Good thing I got those fixed."
Now three fingers, each point a testament to past transgressions. "He tried to get an innocent hippogriff executed. Key word: tried."
Theo blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "Wait—it’s not dead?"
Hermione gave a small, triumphant nod, a fleeting shadow of smugness touching her lips. "Nope. Buckbeak escaped. Thanks to a time-turner and a bit of clever planning."
She tapped her chin thoughtfully, her mind already moving to the next point, and raised a fourth finger, the memory casting a pall over the room. "Ah. Called me a mudblood."
A profound stillness descended upon the room, a suffocating blanket of stunned silence. Shock, raw and palpable, rippled across every face—Igor’s jaw clenched, his expression hardening into a mask of fury; Rita’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint appearing within their depths; and Lord Nott’s usually placid features turned to unforgiving stone.
"He what?" her father managed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, each word laced with barely suppressed rage.
Hermione, with a gesture that dismissed the weight of the insult as if it were mere dust, waved her hand dismissively. "Second year. He hasn’t said it since. I didn’t react, so he stopped. I’ve been called worse."
Igor leaned forward, his voice now a gentle, almost paternal inquiry, his gaze fixed on Hermione. "Is that why you talk with Moody?"
Hermione nodded slowly, her gaze drifting, drawn by an invisible thread, toward the grizzled wizard. "He asked me to stay after class at the start of the year. Said he was there if I ever needed someone to talk to. I brushed it off at first, but… you saw how Ron acted after Harry’s name was called. Moody saw how I reacted to that and pulled me aside."
She looked down, her gaze falling to her lap, her fingers unconsciously curling into the soft, familiar fabric of her robes. "He asked about my home life. Said I showed signs that concerned him. Since then, he’s been someone I can talk to. About living with the Grangers."
Igor’s voice was a low murmur, barely disturbing the heavy silence of the room. “I overheard something.”
Hermione’s bright, intelligent eyes snapped up, a flicker of raw panic, quickly suppressed, betraying her.
“It’s okay,” he said gently, his tone a soothing balm. “You don’t have to talk about it now. But you don’t have to be with them anymore.”
Her father, his hand calloused yet surprisingly gentle, reached for her own small hand, drawing her gaze irrevocably to him. “My flower,” he said softly, his voice rich with paternal affection, “I’m glad there’s someone at Hogwarts you feel safe enough to talk to about that.”
Her eyes shimmered, prisms holding unshed tears. She drew a deep, steadying breath, the air catching in her throat. “I should go to them. Get my things—the ones I can’t take to school.”
“We’ll do that tomorrow,” her father said, a hint of amusement touching his lips. “After breakfast. Maybe after Draco’s dramatized meltdown.”
That pronouncement earned a burst of genuine laughter from the table—a sound that was warm, cathartic, and laced with a palpable sense of relief.
The evening wound down as gently as a sigh. Plates were cleared with quiet efficiency, the flickering candles dimmed to soft embers, and the vast manor settled into a comfortable, companionable hush.
Hermione stood, moving first to hug Igor, her arms wrapping around him tightly, then Rita, who planted a light kiss on her cheek and whispered, her voice a breathy secret, “You’re going to change everything, petal.”
Lord Nott, his imposing figure silhouetted against the dimming light, turned his attention to Viktor. “You’re welcome to stay the night. But not in her room.”
Viktor, with a charming grin and a disarming twinkle in his eye, raised his hands in mock surrender. “Of course, sir.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, a fond smile playing on her lips. Together, she and Viktor walked down the long, echoing corridor toward her room. The manor was draped in a deep quietude, the ornate sconces casting soft, golden pools of light that chased away the encroaching shadows on the cold stone walls.
At her door, Viktor paused, his presence a comforting warmth beside her. He brushed a stray curl from her cheek, his touch feather-light, and leaned in, pressing a gentle, chaste kiss to her forehead.
“Sleep well, Kotentse.”
“You too,” she whispered, her voice a mere breath against the stillness.
He turned then, his retreating footsteps fading down the hall toward the designated guest room. Hermione stepped inside her sanctuary, closing the door with a soft click, shutting out the world.
She changed into soft, familiar cotton pajamas, her fingers moving with practiced ease. Brushing her long hair until it cascaded like silk, she climbed into the inviting comfort of her bed. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender and the subtle, ancient magic that permeated the old manor. She curled beneath the covers, her gaze fixed on the intricately carved canopy above, a world of dreams awaiting.
Notes:
And that’s the chapter—scrolls signed, vaults unlocked, and one very dramatic twin absolutely thrilled to have a sister. Theo didn’t question it for a second. He just smiled like it made sense.
Mireya’s name is back where it belongs, and the Prophet’s about to stir the cauldron. Now the real question is: how do you think Draco’s going to react when he sees that headline over breakfast? A dramatic gasp? A floo-call tantrum? A full-scale identity crisis?
Drop your theories, your favorite Theo moments, and your best “Draco meltdown” predictions below. I solemnly swear Chapter Three is brewing something delicious.
Until then—watch the owls. They’re carrying secrets.
🪄
—Sam
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