Abandoned Fic -- Ninth Lot

[lavanya_six]

Title: Purity of Character
Summary: I believe this was supposed to be a deconstruction of all those fanfics where Hermione turns about to be a Pure Blood, thus explaining her talent... and spotlighting some fans' misunderstanding of what Rowling was trying to say about racism with the whole Pure Blood/Half-Blood/Muggleborn system.

 

She was rereading Hogwarts: A History when her father knocked on her bedroom door and peaked his head in. "Darling, could you come down to the kitchen for a minute? You mother and I need to talk to you about something."

 

Looking back on that June afternoon in the summer of 1996, Hermione never suspected her life was about to change. If she had, she felt she should have at least worn proper jeans. The ones she had on at the time were ripped across the left knee, the result of a nasty spill off her bike three weeks before. Her newly healed skin was still pink from where the huge scab had flaked off. A normal, vain girl might sweat over the scar that might result. Hermione was neither normal nor vain (teeth modifications aside). Besides, she knew that once the summer was over and the restriction on the underage use of magic was lifted she'd be able to fix up her knee with a flick of her wrist. 

 

Down in the kitchen, Hermione found her parents, Hugo and Rose Granger, sitting at the small, round table. Placed in the center of the table were two items, a dusty old shoe box and an unfamiliar photo album. Hermione's attention was only drawn to those things for a moment – the look of her parents' faces set off an alarm in her head.

 

Her father, Hugo Granger, was a man well into middle-age and had the slightly saggy build to match. Every summer she returned home it seemed her father's hairline had receded further. The sight of the grey at her father's temples made Hermione feel strange. She tried not to dwell on it. He had a broad forehead and strong nose and always seemed to be smiling. But now? He looked deeply worried, sad almost. Hermione couldn't remember him acting so since the time she was six and her appendix unexpectedly burst at Lucy Sutton's birthday party. She had been very sick then. She'd almost died, and now he looked just the same as he had when she'd woken up in that hospital bed.

 

Her mother, Rose Granger, was seven years her husband's junior. Of average height and build, her mother had strong cheek bones and warm brown eyes. When she was young, Hermione had wished, in addition to her mother's eyes, she'd also inherited her mother's curly auburn locks instead of the bushy brown hair she had in reality. Her mother, face unexpressive, was sitting up very straight with a coffee mug gripped in her hands; hands with fingers that were trembling just a bit. Hermione knew how to read hands and their tricky fingers. All decent witches and wizards did if they wanted to make it through a wand fight. 

 

"Mom?" she asked. "Dad? What's the matter?"

 

Her parents glanced out of the corners of their eyes at each other, then her mother said, "Hermione, sweetheart, we have something to tell you and you probably should sit down."

 

She pulled out a chair and sat.

 

"Darling," said her father, "we need to tell you something. We always meant to tell you but… it was hard. We weren't sure how. And we were… we—"

 

"—were scared," finished her mother.

 

Hugo Granger nodded curtly, as was his way. "And we told ourselves you weren't ready, that we should wait until you were older, more mature."

 

"Of course," laughed her mother, "that was before we found out about your little adventure in the Department of Mysteries."

 

Oh crap. "You, um, know?" blurted Hermione.

 

Her father nodded again. "Yes, and don't think we won't be having a talk about you hiding that from us until later." His face softened. "Though I suppose that'd be the pot calling the kettle black, eh Rosy?"

 

His wife took one slim hand off the coffee mug and placed it over her husband's. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. The alarm in the back of Hermione's mind was now blaring loudly.

 

"Please tell me what's going on," she demanded. "You're scaring me."

 

Her parents focused their attention back on her. "I'm sorry," said Rose Granger, and as she spoke her husband was taking off the cover of the dusty shoebox. "Hermione, you're old enough and mature enough and… and we need to tell you about your parents. Your birth parents."

 

It didn't compute. "Pardon?"

 

"Hermione, you're our adopted daughter."

 

"I… what?" She took a deep breath. "I-I'm sorry," said Hermione. "I don't understand."

 

Hugo Granger slid the photo album over to Hermione. "You parents names were Rachael and Milton Ivoryton, though we thought they were called the Smiths for the longest time. They were magical folk, like you."

 

She open it and paged through the unmoving Muggle photographs of the two couples showcased within, one of which she recognized as her parents (dressed in garish 70s fashion). The other couple was unknown to her except… except that they looked familiar. A nose there, a chin there, and the woman's curly brown hair – they carried pieces of herself in their looks. A chill crept up Hermione's spine as Hugo Granger explained, "It was the war, you see. The first war with Voldermortte."

 

"Voldemort," absentmindedly corrected Hermione, her eyes fixed on the photos.

 

"Yeah." Her father paused. "Anyway, at least this is what Rachael and Milton told us, is that Voldemort scared a lot of people into hiding. Most of them hid among their own kind. You'd know more about that kind of magic than I would. Anyway, a few of them started hiding out in the one place no Death Eater would think to look." He tapped the table with a meaty finger. "Right here. In Perivale. As Muggles."

 

"I've heard of that happening. It didn't work so well for most." Hermione turned a page. It showed her parents, both sets of parents, raising their glasses to toast something. The picture next to it explained – it was of Rachael Ivoryton, dressed in a hospital gown, holding a small bundle: her. It was a picture of her and her real mother.

 

"We thought they were a bit strange at first," said Rose. "We just accepted it."

 

Her father nodded once again. "They said they were from the North."

 

"One day there was a knock on the door and Rachael came in asking how to change a light bulb. I thought 'poor dear' and helped her whenever I could. One thing led to another and we all became fast friends."

 

"Your mother and father were good people," said Hugo. "Salt of the Earth." He paused. "Thought Milton could be a bit of git when h—"

 

"HUGO!"

 

"Sorry, dear."

 

Hermione looked up from the photo album. "How long did this go on before you found out about… about what they were?"

 

"Dear, who they were," corrected Rose. "Wizards and witches are people too."

 

"People are people," said her father. "Doesn't matter who they are or what they do in their spare time."

 

"Fine. But when d—"

 

Her adoptive parents glanced at one another and a pall fell over the kitchen. Her father looked away, his lips pressed thin. Her mother took a long draught from her coffee mug, then set it down too quickly and the mug CLINKED loudly on the wooden table. All three Grangers were startled.

 

"Sorry," whispered Rose.

 

Hermione waited.

 

"It was the day after New Year's, 1979. I was organizing our files – we had just started the business and couldn't afford a clerk and your father's… Hugo's… rubbish with numbers – when Rachael bangs on the door. I let her and she's a mess," Rose's eyes grow distant as memory takes hold of her. "It took a good hour to get anything out of her. All she would say was 'He's dead' over and over again. I thought something had happened to Milton. I called Hugo home and by the time he ran over I managed to get a bit more out of Rachael. See, it was her brother who'd been murdered."

 

Hermione's stomach turned over.

 

"Your mother starts telling me about her brother Jacob and Death Eaters and magic and, well, that sort of thing. And as she's pouring this out half the furniture in the living room starts levitating!"

 

Hugo Granger laughs. It's a tad hollow. "I walk in and it's like a scene from Carrie. All that was missing was the pig's blood."

 

"Then Milton bursts in and he's flicking his little twig around, zapping things, and shouting at Rachael to get a hold of herself." Rose clears her throat. "After that we had a little sit-down. Got the whole story out of them."

 

Hermione nods, trying to take each new revelation in. "Why were they hiding? Were they a member of the Order of Phoenix? I don't remember Sirius ever mentioning any Ivorytons. Or was that before my mother was married?"

 

"Your mother had… fallen in with a bad crowd," said Rose. "And when your father got her out her friends weren't very understanding."

 

If Hermione hadn't already felt the world slip out from under her feet twice in the past hour what happened at that moment might have been a wholly unique experience in her life. "My… my mother...was a… she was a Death Eater?"

 

Rose Granger nodded.

 

Hermione stood up on shaky knees. "I-I'm going to be sick."

 

At once both Hugo and Rose were at her side. Rose took the lead, ushering her adopted daughter to the nearest toilet. As soon as the door opened Hermione fell to her knees and heaved into the porcelain bowl. When she was finished she washed up. Hugo hurried back with a cup of water. Hermione washed out her mouth and gurgled away the nastiness.

 

The trio stumbled back into the kitchen. Hugo and Rose pulled up their seats to flank their adopted daughter. Both kept one hand on the shoulder closest to them to reassure her.

 

"She was reformed," said Hugo. "Milton made her see what her mates were preaching was all crap."

 

"You don't know that," whispered Hermione, angry. "They could have been lying. They could have been the worst of the lot!"

 

Rose ran a hand down the back of her daughter's hair. "You’re a smart girl, Hermione, so don't be foolish. If they were the worst of the lot wouldn't you have heard of them by now, what with all that's going on? And would real Death Eaters have left their baby to a pair of Muggles?"

 

"Maybe. I don't know." She shook her head. "I need to do research."

 

"Later," declared Hugo.

 

Rose pulled over the opened shoe box. "They didn't keep anything that could trace them back to the Wizard World," her adoptive mother capitalized the 'w' in each word. "They didn't keep anything, not even those funny moving photos… except for these."

 

There, at the bottom of the shoebox, half-buried onto Muggle knickknacks, banded together with a piece of twine, were two wands. One was walnut, like her own, and about twelve inches long. The other was ash wood and only four or so inches long.

 

The teen made to pick up the wands but hesitated as her fingertips brushed against the quiet wood. "How did they die?" she whispered. "How did the Death Eaters find them?"

 

"They didn't, sweetheart," said her father.

 

"Then… they a-abandoned me?" she asked, her voice catching on that horrible word and all the implications it carried.

 

"They were in a car accident," explained Rose.

 

Hermione glanced to the left, then to the right, looking both of her adopted parents in the eyes. "…what?"

 

"There was this lorry driver," said Hugo, "and he'd been drinking. He ran a red and, well…."

 

"It was quick," added Rose. "The police said they didn't suffer."

 

"We'd been babysitting you that night," he said. "You were just a few weeks old and your father wanted to treat your mother to a nice dinner out on the town. Get out of the house for a while, you know? That's when it happened."

 

"The police weren't sure what to do at first. In the long-term, that is. Your parents had fake papers, good ones, but a lonely child with a fake name gums up the system." Rose sipped her coffee. "Your Uncle Donald called in a few favors from some friends in high places and come Christmas we were your parents. Y-your new parents."

 

The three Grangers sat in silence. Hermione started at the shoebox and photo album and tried to remind herself that they weren't staring back at her. In the distance she heard one of the neighborhood dogs barking.

 

"Darling," said Hugo, "I know you're probably upset with us fo—OOOF!" Mister Granger rocked back dangerously in his chair as his adopted daughter sprang on him and locked him in a big bear hug. He returned it.

 

Hermione buried her head into the crook of her father's shoulders. "You’re my dad," she said, tears dampening his dress shirt. "You're my parents, not them. Never them."

 

=-=--==-3=-=-=-=-=-

 

Later, after much crying and talking and far too much delivered Thai food, Hermione locked herself in her bedroom, obstinately to 'clear her head'. Instead of resting, Miss Granger whipped opened her school trunk for parchment, quills, and ink. She quickly composed a letter to the one friend who would be able to help her while she was stranded away from the resources of Hogwarts's library.

 

.

Dear Ron,

 

How are you? I hope you and your family it well. My summer has been boring; though I'm sure it beats Harry's.

 

I need to ask you a favor. I'm doing some research on the Death Eaters and You-Know-Who and came across a name I'm not familiar. I want you to ask your mother and your father about her because this is very important. Her name is Rachael Ivoryton née Pearce. She was a Death Eater during the first war. She may be connected with a wizard named Milton Ivoryton, though I'm not sure if he was a Death Eater or not. I know she disappeared sometime late in 1977. Please write back to me with what you learn as soon as possible. It's important.

 

Best wishes,

Hermione

.

 

She stared at the letter for several seconds, feeling she made a mistake. Then she saw it. Quickly, she corrected her error.

 

.

Best wishes,

Hermione Granger

.

 

There. That was better. That was right. She usually left off her full name on letters to Ron and Harry but today she just had to use it. It was hers.

 

No one would take it away from her.

 

=-=--==-3=-=-=-=-=-

 

She was washing dishes with her mother a week later when she heard the screech of the owl. Acting as casual as possible, she finished with the dishes before walking at a normal speed upstairs. The owl was a tad peeved by the time she let it in but the bits of meat and cool water she brought it seemed to smooth its ruffled feathers.

 

.

Hermione,

 

Got your letter a few days ago. Sorry for the delay.

 

Mum and Dad didn't remember much about that woman's name you asked about so Dad did a bit of digging. He didn't find a whole lot, just that she was a mid-level Death Eater during the early years of the war before disappearing one day. No one knows where or why. Her name's connected to a lot murders and attacks of Muggles and all that stuff but Dad says its hard to prove what's true and what's people naming names to get themselves off. Apparently the slimy gits would blame stuff on their dead Death Eater friends when they got rounded up at the end of the war to make themselves look better. Sorry, that's all Dad was able to find but I think we both know what sort of person becomes of Death Eater. Oh, and she had a brother named Jacob. He was just a bloke that the Death Eaters killed for protecting some Muggles, the poor bastard. Don't know if that's useful.

 

That other guy, Milton Ivoryton, Mum actually knew a lot about. Apparently he was some scion of the Ivoryton's. They were an old pureblood family from the North back in the day. Like the Malfoys but not, y'know, evil arseholes. Milton died in the middle of the war and all his money disappeared at the same time. The old family manor burned down the same night with a Death Eater signal overhead. Nobody knows what happened since no one ever took credit for it. Scary stuff, huh? Anyway, I hoped that all helped. Be sure to tell me why this is all so important when we get together next week, okay?

 

I can't believe summer is almost over! Pretty soon we'll be back at school and meeting the new dead man walking (or, as Dumbledore call 'em, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor). Hey, maybe we could get You-Know-Who to take the job! We'd be guaranteed to be rid of the bastard once and for all. But imagine what class would be like for that year.

 

On second thought, let's not.

 

Your friend,

Ron

.

 

Hermione reread the letter five times, checking to see if she missed anything, overlooked some important clue. Just fantastic, she thought to herself. This tells me nothing at all! There was a knock on her bedroom door and it startled her.

 

"Hermione," called her mother, "dinner."

 

"I'll be right down!" And with that the teen hastily folded the letter and stuffed it into her copy of Hogwarts: A History for safekeeping.

 

 

=-=--==-3=-=-=-=-=-

 

 

Soon enough it was the first week in July and the time came for her to leave for the Burrow. Hermione always looked forward to going back to the world of witchcraft and wizardry. Spending most of the year away from home had left her with no real friends in the mundane world. She tried, when she was bored, but the Muggles her own age lived lives that were too different for her to connect with; not to mention there were the necessary lies about who she was and where she went during the school year.

 

But this year?

 

Her parents had each talked with her privately about the revelation of her birth mother's past. Hermione had assured them that she didn't care, that it didn't matter who gave birth to her because she didn't consider that person to be her real mother. And she didn't. But being the (biological) daughter of a Death Eater? Hermione knew she couldn’t talk with her parents about that. They didn't live in the world she did. They didn't understand.

 

Ron and Harry, however, would. That idea terrified her.

 

Could she just keep it secret? Hermione thought she could. After all, she'd never heard of either Rachael Pearce or Milton Ivoryton before three weeks ago. Her birth mother was an unknown and her birth father was only half-remembered gossip. Who could figure it out? But, whispered a treacherous voice in the back of her mind, what if someone did? What then?

 

Hermione had seen what trying to shoulder a secret alone did to a person. That half-frantic gleam in Professor Lupin's eyes when that bogart had turned in a Full Moon, so mysterious at the time, suddenly made horrible sense to her. But could she tell Ron and Harry? And, if she was being realistic, would they be able to keep the secret forever and ever?

 

No.

 

And that hurt.

 

 

=-=--==-3=-=-=-=-=-

 

 

It was a sweltering July morning when Ron, his father, and one of the twins showed up at her door. The trip to the Burrow had been planned since the start of the summer. But even the cheer she felt at seeing the Weasleys had a pang of nausea poisoning it. 

 

("You mother had… fallen in with a bad crowd.")

 

"Hallo," said Ron. His father, meanwhile, was tapping one of the light switches on the wall with a frown. "Sorry we're a bit late. Ginny was being a little—"

 

"Ronald!" snapped Mister Weasley.

 

"Sorry," said the sheepish boy.

 

Hermione grinned. "It's good to see you, Ron."

 

"Y-yeah."

 

The two teens missed the knowing look shared by Mister Weasley and the Grangers. "So," said Hugo, "let's get this show on the road."

 

Packing didn't take long, though the Weasleys were sweating by the time they were finished loading the microbus. Since her house of the Floo Network, Hermione needed to move her things by port key. The nearest one was a few miles down the road; something to do with zoning regulations. So to avoid upsetting the secrecy statutes Hermione had to cart her trunks and whatnot without magic; though where Mister Weasley found a rickety Volkswagen microbus she didn't know.

 

"This doesn't fly, does it?" she asked him.

 

Mister Weasley deflated. "No. Not since Spain."

 

Hermione didn't press the issue.

 

Hugo Granger scooped his daughter up in a hug. "Stay safe, darling."

 

"Daddy!" she protested half-heartedly.

 

He released her. "Sorry, sorry." To Mister Weasley he said, "Make sure she stays out of trouble!"

 

Rose Granger, meanwhile, offered her daughter a wrapped present along with a hug. "For later," she told Hermione, "when you're alone."

 

Soon enough she and the Weasleys were pulling away from the Granger residence at a mind-bending fifteen miles an hour. Judging by the sputtering and coughs of the engine, Hermione was just glad that the rust bucket hadn't caught fire yet. Miraculously, they arrived at the port key unexploded, and from there it was a quick hop to the Burrow.

 

 

 

=-=--==-3=-=-=-=-=-

 

 

"Ron," she said, "there's something I need to talk to you about."

 

=-=--==-3=-=-=-=-=-

 

 

"If I look so much like her, why didn't you ever suspect I was her daughter?" demanded Hermione.

 

"Because," said Snape, "unlike you, your mother was an exceptional dolt."

 

"Wh-what?"

 

"Surprised?" he sneered. "Don't be. You do share… certain traits. Rachael Pearce might have been a loud-mouthed pureblood supremacist without two brain cells to press together but she was a tenacious advocate of the Dark Lord's ideals – brute force, curses, hexes, arson, even the odd murder or two. She perused her beliefs with all the vigor of you and your House Elf liberation nonsense." He smirked. "Blind belief in one's own moral superiority… perhaps that should have tipped me off to you. Who knows? Given a disturbance of fate you might be out there right now, the Dark Mark burned into your arm, plotting to kill some mudbloods."

 

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself to stave off the chill that had taken her.

 

Professor Snape turned and made for the exit. "Good day, Miss Granger."

 

She watched him leave before some force inside her cried out, "Does it matter who my mother was? My birth mother?"

 

He paused in the doorway and glanced over his shoulder. "Miss Granger," he said flatly, "do I look like a person who cares about who someone's parents are?"

 

Hermione let that last comment pass unremarked.