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lavanya_sixA bit of history: The Broken Masquerade was a story I started writing when I had first been overcome with writer's block on Taking Sights. I never finished this fic for a number of reasons: I didn't know enough about HP canon to write anything without doing a lot of research first, I discovered Avatar: The Last Airbender and got sucked into that fandom, and I started writing Facing Fearful Odds. But mostly? I stopped writing it because I realized I had no story to tell. I had a lot of fun doing the worldbuilding for a post-revelation world with wizards and muggles living together, but I didn't have any sort of unified character plot to tell.
So here's what I wrote of The Broken Masquerade, alongside occasional comments {in brackets} to elaborate things.
Summary: In 1981, Peter Pettigrew framed Sirius Black for a crime he did not commit by blowing up twelve people on a Muggle street. It was a cunning plan, and it would have worked perfectly if Peter hadn't unknowingly done it in front of a television news crew broadcasting live on the BBC. The year is now 1991. Harry Potter has just received his Hogwarts letter. What sort of world does he live in?
.
At ten past nine, the BBC called the election for Remus Lupin.
At once, a momentous cheer went up across the living room at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The tense, uneasy atmosphere of the recent hours gave way to happy smiles, hugs to strangers and streams of tears. Even the group of Goblin delegates sent by Gringotts, who had spent the evening murmuring quietly in a tight circle near the fireplace, saluted at the news. One boisterous House Elf set off a stream of red and green incandescent sparklers in the shape of a vine of roses. Her celebratory display was soon garnished with the multihued wand waving of the Witches and Wizards in attendance. The Muggles, lacking such easy access to fireworks, broke out into song.
Soon every voice in Grimmauld Place joined the chorus. The song came easily; the lyrics familiar after repeated use these last few weeks on the campaign trail. The idea for the song had come for Remus, who had told Sirius that this Muggle song was fit for the situation of every magical being. His voice cracking, not from emotion but rather from an extreme lack of talent, Sirius Black, too, belted out the words:
"Well, she'll be finding out the good news at the same time as Remus, won't she? So it's not really waiting." When his cousin seemed to accept that bit of false cheer, Sirius excused himself with, "Speaking of the new Minister..."
"Kitchen!" she shouted over the din.
After he had worked his way downstairs, Sirius found various campaign volunteers knocking up sandwiches and drinks for partygoers. It wouldn't have done to have a reporter stumble in on liberated House Elves working the stoves at Remus Lupin's victory celebration. Which is why, when Sirius walked in, he nearly went into convulsions at the sight of a half-dozen House Elves sitting at a make-shift table playing Exploding Snap with Hunter S. Thompson and Rita Skeeter.
"Goddamn bats," he heard one of the House Elves mutter over the clatter of serving platters moving and the tinkling of champagne glasses refilling themselves. A salt shaker was open in front of him, its white contents spilled across the table. "Goddamn bats."
Rita Skeeter - a bottle of Firewhiskey in one hand - took a handful of multi-coloured pills offered by her fellow Gonzo journalist. "You should try that shit when you're a beetle. Merlin!"
Sirius quietly ducked out of the kitchen, unseen.
The ground floor and first floor showed no sign of the Hogwarts Headmaster, which didn't surprise Sirius Black. It wasn't entirely wise for Albus to be here, especially with the Conservatives (and, thus, Rufus Scrimgeour, new MP of Hogsmeade) in power, but the Headmaster still had still nipped in to several major political functions on Election Day, so it wasn't as though he was singling out Lupin or Labour. It paid not to be seen as such, though.
A search of the upper floors of Grimmauld Place, sealed to partygoers and reporters alike, proved more fruitful. On the staircase leading up from the third to fourth floors, Sirius found Albus Dumbledore resting on the steps, playing a game of Gobstones with Draco Malfoy.
Young Draco, wary-eyed despite the excitement of the night, looked up at Sirius with guarded curiosity. A glance at the game pieces revealed the Headmaster was several points behind, an idea reinforced by the outrage of colour splattered across his fine dress robes.
"Shouldn't you be in bed, young man?"
"But Uncle Ted said it was OK," replied the boy, fearful.
Despite his counterargument, the young child looked exhausted. Sirius sympathised. With the immediate elation of the victory fading, the strain of the day's activities, combined with the wear and tear of the campaign, made him feel like finding a nice, dark corner to curl up in as Padfoot.
Albus plucked a sweet from a white paper bag at his side on the step. "Tonight is a special occasion, Sirius. I believe we can make a rare exception to the rules."
Sirius grinned at Draco. "I don't think your Aunt minds looking the other way tonight, but I'm afraid I'll need to borrow the Headmaster."
The young boy pouted but, as Andromeda had seen to his upbringing, he didn't whine. "I'll go and read in the study."
"That's a lad."
When the scion of the Malfoy's had padded away out of sight, Sirius tasted burning hair as he felt a tingling rush of anti-surveillance spells fill the air. Dumbledore did the wand waving, and the spells were of his own design. The Headmaster was not inclined to share his protection against eavesdroppers of the magical sort or otherwise. Sirius didn't blame him... much.
"Sherbet Lemon?" Dumbledore offered.
"No. Thanks."
"Hmm." Albus pondered, poping the candy into his mouth. "I trust the cheer Master Malfoy and I heard affirmed a victory?" When Sirius nodded, he added, "Ah. So congratulations are in order."
"Remus Lupin – MP Godric's Hollow." Sirius let the words linger in the air. "It's still hard to believe. Six years ago, I never imagined we Wizards would have come this far. A werewolf in the Muggle Parliament!"
"It is our Parliament as well," chided Albus, still drawn up to his knobby knees on the staircase, "and I needn't remind you, Sirius, it would not do for you to err with regards to that distinction in the future."
To this remark, Sirius bit back a comment concerning Muggles and erring. Instead, he subdued his bitterness and quipped, "We are all Muggles now, eh?"
"No," said Albus. "No, not yet." Both men fell silent.
Downstairs, a cheer cut through the dull din of the partygoers. Another Labour victory, Sirius supposed.
"I'll be leaving for the Detention Facility shortly," he said to the Headmaster, "but before I go, Remus instructed me to thank you again for coming through on the Wolfsbane issue."
"Tell Minister Lupin his thanks are most welcome, but the issue for me was one concerning the well-being of my afflicted students. It was only natural for the NHS to ask my opinion on the matter."
"Of course." Sirius cleared his throat. Despite the anti-surveillance spells, he dropped the level of his voice to a hush, "And tell Horace his help will not be forgotten either."
Albus Dumbledore drew himself up. "If you excuse me, I believe it is time I collected Miss Tonks and returned to Hogwarts. Tomorrow is still a school day, you know."
"'To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow...'"
The Headmaster paused at Sirius' side and fixed him with a cool look. Sirius felt no need to excuse his miniscule outburst, yet he still could not entirely meet Dumbledore's narrowed blue eyes. After a few moments, the elderly Headmaster continued on down the stairs. In his wake, the anti-surveillance spell ended and the sound of the party downstairs returned.
Sirius Black leaned back and rested his head against the wallpaper. Best to wait and not be seen colluding with the Headmaster, he thought to himself, his eyes closed. In the silent stairwell, he whispered along with the people singing below:
Oh, deep in my
Heart
I do believe
We shall overcome
Some day
Deciding that enough time had passed since Dumbledore's departure, Sirius tramped downstairs to the Floo Room. In a steel-bared cage far from the prying eyes of cameras, Britain's first Werewolf MP awaited him.
Hermione Granger's parents never spanked her.
Granted, Hermione did little as she grew up to merit a spanking. Even the legendary April 1989 incident, when she disassembled the TV to figure out how it worked, had sparked more bemusement than anger on her parents' part. On the rare occasion when Hermione did step out of line, her parents would sit her down at the kitchen table and they would all discuss matters like rational people.
So when her father called her into the kitchen one summer morning using That Tone, Hermione was understandably confused. During the walk downstairs she racked her brain for some explanation as to what she could have done wrong. Unless, she mused, it's not me...
Hadn't her mother just gone in for a mammogram? Had they found something? Hermione's stomach turned at the thought of her mother having Cancer. Or maybe their business was in trouble. Hermione's Mum and Dad were always talking about how they were losing patients to that new place across town, Madam Liss's Completely Painless Dentistry. Could they have decided to up and move some place where there wouldn't be a Witch competing with them?
Or worse, her mother had cancer and they were moving away.
Hermione pulled up a chair at the table. Her parents sat opposite her, grim-faced and silent. Her father was looking at her mother. Her mother, meanwhile, wasn't looking at anything; she stared off into the distance, as if the eggshell blue paint on the kitchen walls held some great secret. In her hand she clenched a handkerchief like a lifeline.
Cancer, Hermione decided. Oh God, it's cancer.
"Is it terminal?" she blurted out.
Her parents were startled. "What?" asked her mother.
"Your cancer. Oh God, it hasn't metastasised yet, has it?"
"Your mother is perfectly healthy," said her father, Hugo Granger. "I'm perfectly healthy." "It's you, dear," said her mother.
"Rose!”
"It's true, Hugo!"
"That doesn't mean you need to blame her. It's not her fault she's a Witch!"
Hermione's jaw dropped.
"I'm... I'm a w-w-witch?" Her eyes drifted towards the papers resting under her father's elbow. There was a large, red, broken wax seal affixed to the paper. A great icy lump settled into her stomach as she remembered it was July the twenty-fifth. "That's a Hogwarts letter."
Her mum dabbed her eyes with a tissue, face flushing as she struggled with emotion. Her father leaned over and gave her shoulder a tender squeeze.
"I'm a witch," she repeated, not quite believing it. "A witch. I can do magic."
"Yes," confirmed her father.
"That's -- "
Hermione meant to say "spectacular" because... MAGIC! There wasn't a child she overheard at school who didn't talk about wanting to be able to do magic. Hermione didn't – hadn't, she corrected herself – minded not being able to do magic, if only she could understand it. Even if her parents didn't want her to watch Quidditch games or anything else on telly, they sometimes let her watch documentaries that occasionally touched on the subject of magic. Hermione could almost feel herself picking up on what people like Albus Dumbledore and Remus Lupin would talk about in their interviews, but knowing about something wasn't the same thing as understanding it. However, well aware of her parents' body language at the present, she instead said:
" -- a surprise."
Her heart held its ragged beat as she watched her parents, looking to see if they had noticed the catch in her voice. If they had, they showed no sign of it. .
.
To Mr. and Mrs. Granger,
I am pleased to inform you that your daughter, Hermione Jean Granger, has secured a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. We understand that the innate aptitude of Hermione may come as a shock. As the legal guardians of Miss Granger, the decision of whether or not to pursue Hermione's magical education is your responsibility. We await official written notice of your decision by owl or post by no later than 31 July. Term begins on 1 September.
Regardless of your ultimate decision, Hermione has been officially classified as a Category I Meta-Normal per the Supernatural Oversight, Regulation, and Control (SORC) Act of 1982. As Hermione Granger is your biological child, you both are required by law to register as probable carriers of Meta-Normal genetics with the Ministry of Defence by 31 August.
Failure to do so will result in a criminal penalty, the maximum of which is one year in prison and a £5,000 fine (or Galleon equivalent).
For more information, please contact the Department of Education and Magic help line at 0770 090 04 61 or by owl post.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts
Special Liaison to the Department of Education and Magic
.
"Your mother and I have been talking the matter over and we feel it would be best to place you in a Practical Education course."
"What's that?"
"You'd attend that school with a focus on learning how to control your abilities. Your magical abilities," he choked out. "You would also study maths and science so, when you return to normal school, you won't be behind your classmates."
Hermione bit her lip. "I'm going to a magic school to not learn magic?"
"Magic won't lead to any worthwhile career," said her father, glancing to her mother, who nodded in affirmation. "Going to Hogwarts will only limit what you can do in life, baby girl. Right now you can do anything, if you put your mind to it. You're brilliant." He directed a hand towards the pile of papers at the centre of the table. "You shouldn't waste your mind on something that will have you filing out work permits every time you want a job, or filling for special one-time Visas whenever you want to visit the Continent. Four years at Hogwarts and then you can be back here where you belong."
Hermione scowled. "I'll still have to do all that paperwork for the rest of my life, even if I do take the four year track," she countered. "Being a fully-trained witch would give me more career opportunities than taking Practicals and trying to ignore the W-stamp on my work papers."
"What about your A-levels?" asked her mum. "Going to University?"
"I'll do both."
"But you won't be qualified for a normal school! They don't teach any maths, or science, or anything useful without a wand."
"I can take my A-levels without attending normal schools. It would be the same for me as if we were moving from the States or Canada. I can study on my own to keep pace with the maths and sciences, especially during the summer holidays." She paused. "Also, technically speaking, you don't need a wand to brew potions."
Her father hesitated; her mother would have none of it.
"Hermione Jean Granger," she said, and Hermione knew the day's battle was lost when her mum whipped out that particular phrase, "you don't need an education in magic to succeed in life. Your father and I certainly didn't!"
"I don't understand! What's so bad about learning magic? Is it because of Madam Li—"
"No," said her father, cutting her off. "It's not."
"Hermione," her mother said, voice shakey, "do you know what your classmates will do to you when they find out your aren't like them? That you don't come from one of their racist, in-bred families?"
Her father sighed. "I know you have made several good points, baby girl, but it's not safe for you to be a Witch." "But I'd only be at Hogwarts for seven years," she said, as if she could remember a time in her life past the age of seven or six.
"They won't stop." Her mum reached across the table and took hold of Hermione's hand. "You'll never be good enough for them, dear. They'll look at you and only care about where you were born, as if that even matters."
Her father added his hand to the pile. "It's safer this way, Hermione. A little magic might help later in life, yes, but you need to think about life after you graduate. You might be the smartest, bravest, best Witch there ever was, but those people will never accept you as one of them. Nobody should have to live in a world so cruel."
Rose Granger nodded at her husband's words. "Four years is too long, but better four years than a lifetime, even if you have to sacrifice a little, right?"
Hermione Granger didn't know if that was true. "I... what if they aren't so bad? Can I stay then?"
Her dad said nothing. Her mum sighed.
* * * *
The first of September rolled around faster than Hermione could have imagined on that morning when her letter had arrived, and it came with mixed feelings. Her stomach was too upset to do more than nibble on the lavish, sugar-free, breakfast her father had cooked for her. The journey to King's Cross station was silent, and if Hermione and her parents made any small talk she did not recall it. Hermione knew she had to say something during the awkward silence; otherwise her parents would be obsessing over how unhappy she was with leaving for Hogwarts. Letters and telephone calls aside, her parents would only believe what they saw. But Hermione had no idea what she could say.
Their shopping expedition to Diagon Alley had done anything but reassure her parents. While she had never been in any danger from the fenced-off protesters, walking past their chants of 'Suffer Not a Witch' and 'Remember Redan Lane' and 'Repent, Sinners' had rattled them all, Hermione included. The vitriolic jeers had cast a pall over the rest of their day.
Recalling the protesters, Hermione was glad she had been born in the UK rather than in the United States. She had been too afraid as yet to read in-depth about what it was like for Norm-born Witches and Wizards across the Atlantic - the stories mentioned off-hand in the Guardian and Times couldn't be as bad as they were made out to be, right?
There were two police barricades the Grangers' car had to stop at, requiring her father to present ID and Hermione's Hogwarts letter. After they were waved through, their car pulled into King's Cross station. There was a valet waiting with a cart for Hermione's luggage.
The train station itself looked to be nothing more than an average, ordinary train station; hardly remarkable in comparison to any other train station Hermione could recall visiting. The only thing that set it apart was the absence of people hustling around. That, and the uniformed men with guns and robed ones with wands. They, Hermione knew, were there because of what had happened in France the year previously.
Platform 9 and ¾ was easily located by the steady stream of people going in and out of, what otherwise looked to be, a solid brick wall. Holding her mother's hand (more for her mother's benefit than her own, really) Hermione ran into the wall.
"Oh my!" exclaimed her mother.
Hermione looked around. "Amazing!" She looked around the bucolic station, the quaint pocket space lifting the day's gloom from her spirits. "Folded spacetime - I'd read about it, but..."
Her voice trailed off at the dark look a boy boarding the train shot her. He was dressed in ratty, second-hand clothes. With one hand holding onto a brass railing, he shot her a glare of such pure loathing that Hermione was at once taken aback. She could practically hear the boy mutter 'Mudblood' under his breath. Thankfully, before her mother picked up on the connection between them, the boy turned away, hefted his trunk, and strode onto the carriage.
Together with her father, the Grangers moved down the platform and found a space for a quiet moment together. Rose Granger kneeled and hugged her only child tight. "If I had any say, you wouldn't have to go to that school dear."
"Suppose that's what we get for voting for Thatcher all three times," mused her father.
Hermione tried not to cry as her mother kissed her softly on her cheek. "You're brilliant, Hermione Jean Granger. Don't let any of those little inbred shits tell you different."
"Mum!"
"Rose!"
The matron of the Grangers ignored her family's scandalised reactions. "And don't let anyone tell you that you're less of a human being, just because you can do Magic. Witches are people too."
The rest of her parents' farewell went along similar lines. By the time Hermione boarded the train, her mother was all but openly sobbing. Her father was more stoic, but when Hermione took one last look over her shoulder, his eyes seemed to glimmer in the morning brightness -though perhaps that was merely a trick of the light. In any case, Hermione, with a heavy burden in her heart, wouldn't - couldn't - look back if she had any chance of avoiding a breakdown.
Inside the carriage, Hermione's feet seemed to possess a will of their own, carrying her down the carpeted carriage. She walked past older students. She walked past other first-years. In the end, she didn't know where she was walking until she found herself sliding open the door to an empty compartment.
Sighing with relief as she shut the door behind her, Hermione took a moment to lean her forehead against the frosted glass set into the wooden door frame. The eleven-year-old shut her eyes, grateful to be alone. She tugged at the collar of her black jumper, feeling stifled by what she normally considered her most comfortable piece of clothing.
It occurred to Hermione that she wouldn't see her parents until the holidays. Her mum and dad, who had come back from a day trip into London last weekend with bandages wrapped around their left forearms from giving blood samples to a government registry. Dentists who were losing their friends and neighbours to a carpetbagging Witch with a picture-perfect smile. And now? Their own flesh-and-blood was one of them.
Hermione Granger covered her mouth to keep from being sick.
The opening of the compartment's sliding door sent Hermione staggering backwards, almost tripping over her trunk. Before she could gather her wits, one of the two boys, a blond her age, stepped forward.
"Er, sorry. We didn't know you were standing there." "Honestly, Draco," said the other boy, who wore wire-framed glasses over eyes a shade of green Hermione found striking. "It was her own fault for standing against the door like that."
The blond boy let his companion brush past him. "You'll have to forgive Harry. He's pompous."
Something twigged in Hermione's brain. Her eyes darted to the dark-haired boy's forehead. Sure enough, there was a lightning bolt shaped scar. "Oh!" This was somewhat interesting. She'd never met a C-list celebrity before.
"Harry Potter," he said, thrusting a hand out, "at your service."
So here's what I wrote of The Broken Masquerade, alongside occasional comments {in brackets} to elaborate things.
Summary: In 1981, Peter Pettigrew framed Sirius Black for a crime he did not commit by blowing up twelve people on a Muggle street. It was a cunning plan, and it would have worked perfectly if Peter hadn't unknowingly done it in front of a television news crew broadcasting live on the BBC. The year is now 1991. Harry Potter has just received his Hogwarts letter. What sort of world does he live in?
.
Prologue:
A TRANSFORMATIVE ELECTION
[1987]
A TRANSFORMATIVE ELECTION
[1987]
At ten past nine, the BBC called the election for Remus Lupin.
At once, a momentous cheer went up across the living room at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The tense, uneasy atmosphere of the recent hours gave way to happy smiles, hugs to strangers and streams of tears. Even the group of Goblin delegates sent by Gringotts, who had spent the evening murmuring quietly in a tight circle near the fireplace, saluted at the news. One boisterous House Elf set off a stream of red and green incandescent sparklers in the shape of a vine of roses. Her celebratory display was soon garnished with the multihued wand waving of the Witches and Wizards in attendance. The Muggles, lacking such easy access to fireworks, broke out into song.
Soon every voice in Grimmauld Place joined the chorus. The song came easily; the lyrics familiar after repeated use these last few weeks on the campaign trail. The idea for the song had come for Remus, who had told Sirius that this Muggle song was fit for the situation of every magical being. His voice cracking, not from emotion but rather from an extreme lack of talent, Sirius Black, too, belted out the words:
Oh, deep in my
Heart
I do believe
We shall overcome
Some day
A young girl with arms as thin as matches and a mop of shocking pink hair appeared at his side. "Isn't it wonderful?" asked Nymphadora Tonks, fourteen years old, tears gleaming in her soft eyes. Her smile slackened. "Too bad tonight's a full moon." Sirius nodded. It wasn't his choice to be sipping cocktails and rubbing elbows while Remus was dealing with his 'furry little problem', but someone needed to be the face of the candidate. "Delyth really wanted to be here, too," she said, concerned for her school friend. Heart
I do believe
We shall overcome
Some day
"Well, she'll be finding out the good news at the same time as Remus, won't she? So it's not really waiting." When his cousin seemed to accept that bit of false cheer, Sirius excused himself with, "Speaking of the new Minister..."
We shall all be free
We shall all be free
We shall all be free some day
It took Sirius an age to cut across the room, packed as it was with Wizards, Witches, and Muggles. Running on automatic, he shook hands and welcomed the goodwill of those he encountered without actually registering their words or their faces. Skimming around the rigid ring of die-hards still following election results by the television, he walked into the Tonkses. Ted, on his part, merely nodded curtly. Sirius decided then and there to buy the man the finest bottle of brandy possible for his next birthday. He touched Andromeda's arm. "Albus?"We shall all be free
We shall all be free some day
The whole wide world around
The whole wide world around
The whole wide world around some day
The whole wide world around
The whole wide world around some day
"Kitchen!" she shouted over the din.
After he had worked his way downstairs, Sirius found various campaign volunteers knocking up sandwiches and drinks for partygoers. It wouldn't have done to have a reporter stumble in on liberated House Elves working the stoves at Remus Lupin's victory celebration. Which is why, when Sirius walked in, he nearly went into convulsions at the sight of a half-dozen House Elves sitting at a make-shift table playing Exploding Snap with Hunter S. Thompson and Rita Skeeter.
"Goddamn bats," he heard one of the House Elves mutter over the clatter of serving platters moving and the tinkling of champagne glasses refilling themselves. A salt shaker was open in front of him, its white contents spilled across the table. "Goddamn bats."
Rita Skeeter - a bottle of Firewhiskey in one hand - took a handful of multi-coloured pills offered by her fellow Gonzo journalist. "You should try that shit when you're a beetle. Merlin!"
Sirius quietly ducked out of the kitchen, unseen.
The ground floor and first floor showed no sign of the Hogwarts Headmaster, which didn't surprise Sirius Black. It wasn't entirely wise for Albus to be here, especially with the Conservatives (and, thus, Rufus Scrimgeour, new MP of Hogsmeade) in power, but the Headmaster still had still nipped in to several major political functions on Election Day, so it wasn't as though he was singling out Lupin or Labour. It paid not to be seen as such, though.
A search of the upper floors of Grimmauld Place, sealed to partygoers and reporters alike, proved more fruitful. On the staircase leading up from the third to fourth floors, Sirius found Albus Dumbledore resting on the steps, playing a game of Gobstones with Draco Malfoy.
Young Draco, wary-eyed despite the excitement of the night, looked up at Sirius with guarded curiosity. A glance at the game pieces revealed the Headmaster was several points behind, an idea reinforced by the outrage of colour splattered across his fine dress robes.
"Shouldn't you be in bed, young man?"
"But Uncle Ted said it was OK," replied the boy, fearful.
Despite his counterargument, the young child looked exhausted. Sirius sympathised. With the immediate elation of the victory fading, the strain of the day's activities, combined with the wear and tear of the campaign, made him feel like finding a nice, dark corner to curl up in as Padfoot.
Albus plucked a sweet from a white paper bag at his side on the step. "Tonight is a special occasion, Sirius. I believe we can make a rare exception to the rules."
Sirius grinned at Draco. "I don't think your Aunt minds looking the other way tonight, but I'm afraid I'll need to borrow the Headmaster."
The young boy pouted but, as Andromeda had seen to his upbringing, he didn't whine. "I'll go and read in the study."
"That's a lad."
When the scion of the Malfoy's had padded away out of sight, Sirius tasted burning hair as he felt a tingling rush of anti-surveillance spells fill the air. Dumbledore did the wand waving, and the spells were of his own design. The Headmaster was not inclined to share his protection against eavesdroppers of the magical sort or otherwise. Sirius didn't blame him... much.
"Sherbet Lemon?" Dumbledore offered.
"No. Thanks."
"Hmm." Albus pondered, poping the candy into his mouth. "I trust the cheer Master Malfoy and I heard affirmed a victory?" When Sirius nodded, he added, "Ah. So congratulations are in order."
"Remus Lupin – MP Godric's Hollow." Sirius let the words linger in the air. "It's still hard to believe. Six years ago, I never imagined we Wizards would have come this far. A werewolf in the Muggle Parliament!"
"It is our Parliament as well," chided Albus, still drawn up to his knobby knees on the staircase, "and I needn't remind you, Sirius, it would not do for you to err with regards to that distinction in the future."
To this remark, Sirius bit back a comment concerning Muggles and erring. Instead, he subdued his bitterness and quipped, "We are all Muggles now, eh?"
"No," said Albus. "No, not yet." Both men fell silent.
Downstairs, a cheer cut through the dull din of the partygoers. Another Labour victory, Sirius supposed.
"I'll be leaving for the Detention Facility shortly," he said to the Headmaster, "but before I go, Remus instructed me to thank you again for coming through on the Wolfsbane issue."
"Tell Minister Lupin his thanks are most welcome, but the issue for me was one concerning the well-being of my afflicted students. It was only natural for the NHS to ask my opinion on the matter."
"Of course." Sirius cleared his throat. Despite the anti-surveillance spells, he dropped the level of his voice to a hush, "And tell Horace his help will not be forgotten either."
Albus Dumbledore drew himself up. "If you excuse me, I believe it is time I collected Miss Tonks and returned to Hogwarts. Tomorrow is still a school day, you know."
"'To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow...'"
The Headmaster paused at Sirius' side and fixed him with a cool look. Sirius felt no need to excuse his miniscule outburst, yet he still could not entirely meet Dumbledore's narrowed blue eyes. After a few moments, the elderly Headmaster continued on down the stairs. In his wake, the anti-surveillance spell ended and the sound of the party downstairs returned.
Sirius Black leaned back and rested his head against the wallpaper. Best to wait and not be seen colluding with the Headmaster, he thought to himself, his eyes closed. In the silent stairwell, he whispered along with the people singing below:
Oh, deep in my
Heart
I do believe
We shall overcome
Some day
Deciding that enough time had passed since Dumbledore's departure, Sirius tramped downstairs to the Floo Room. In a steel-bared cage far from the prying eyes of cameras, Britain's first Werewolf MP awaited him.
1.
TEN YEARS ON
TEN YEARS ON
Hermione Granger's parents never spanked her.
Granted, Hermione did little as she grew up to merit a spanking. Even the legendary April 1989 incident, when she disassembled the TV to figure out how it worked, had sparked more bemusement than anger on her parents' part. On the rare occasion when Hermione did step out of line, her parents would sit her down at the kitchen table and they would all discuss matters like rational people.
So when her father called her into the kitchen one summer morning using That Tone, Hermione was understandably confused. During the walk downstairs she racked her brain for some explanation as to what she could have done wrong. Unless, she mused, it's not me...
Hadn't her mother just gone in for a mammogram? Had they found something? Hermione's stomach turned at the thought of her mother having Cancer. Or maybe their business was in trouble. Hermione's Mum and Dad were always talking about how they were losing patients to that new place across town, Madam Liss's Completely Painless Dentistry. Could they have decided to up and move some place where there wouldn't be a Witch competing with them?
Or worse, her mother had cancer and they were moving away.
Hermione pulled up a chair at the table. Her parents sat opposite her, grim-faced and silent. Her father was looking at her mother. Her mother, meanwhile, wasn't looking at anything; she stared off into the distance, as if the eggshell blue paint on the kitchen walls held some great secret. In her hand she clenched a handkerchief like a lifeline.
Cancer, Hermione decided. Oh God, it's cancer.
"Is it terminal?" she blurted out.
Her parents were startled. "What?" asked her mother.
"Your cancer. Oh God, it hasn't metastasised yet, has it?"
"Your mother is perfectly healthy," said her father, Hugo Granger. "I'm perfectly healthy." "It's you, dear," said her mother.
"Rose!”
"It's true, Hugo!"
"That doesn't mean you need to blame her. It's not her fault she's a Witch!"
Hermione's jaw dropped.
"I'm... I'm a w-w-witch?" Her eyes drifted towards the papers resting under her father's elbow. There was a large, red, broken wax seal affixed to the paper. A great icy lump settled into her stomach as she remembered it was July the twenty-fifth. "That's a Hogwarts letter."
Her mum dabbed her eyes with a tissue, face flushing as she struggled with emotion. Her father leaned over and gave her shoulder a tender squeeze.
"I'm a witch," she repeated, not quite believing it. "A witch. I can do magic."
"Yes," confirmed her father.
"That's -- "
Hermione meant to say "spectacular" because... MAGIC! There wasn't a child she overheard at school who didn't talk about wanting to be able to do magic. Hermione didn't – hadn't, she corrected herself – minded not being able to do magic, if only she could understand it. Even if her parents didn't want her to watch Quidditch games or anything else on telly, they sometimes let her watch documentaries that occasionally touched on the subject of magic. Hermione could almost feel herself picking up on what people like Albus Dumbledore and Remus Lupin would talk about in their interviews, but knowing about something wasn't the same thing as understanding it. However, well aware of her parents' body language at the present, she instead said:
" -- a surprise."
Her heart held its ragged beat as she watched her parents, looking to see if they had noticed the catch in her voice. If they had, they showed no sign of it. .
.
To Mr. and Mrs. Granger,
I am pleased to inform you that your daughter, Hermione Jean Granger, has secured a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. We understand that the innate aptitude of Hermione may come as a shock. As the legal guardians of Miss Granger, the decision of whether or not to pursue Hermione's magical education is your responsibility. We await official written notice of your decision by owl or post by no later than 31 July. Term begins on 1 September.
Regardless of your ultimate decision, Hermione has been officially classified as a Category I Meta-Normal per the Supernatural Oversight, Regulation, and Control (SORC) Act of 1982. As Hermione Granger is your biological child, you both are required by law to register as probable carriers of Meta-Normal genetics with the Ministry of Defence by 31 August.
Failure to do so will result in a criminal penalty, the maximum of which is one year in prison and a £5,000 fine (or Galleon equivalent).
For more information, please contact the Department of Education and Magic help line at 0770 090 04 61 or by owl post.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts
Special Liaison to the Department of Education and Magic
.
"Your mother and I have been talking the matter over and we feel it would be best to place you in a Practical Education course."
"What's that?"
"You'd attend that school with a focus on learning how to control your abilities. Your magical abilities," he choked out. "You would also study maths and science so, when you return to normal school, you won't be behind your classmates."
Hermione bit her lip. "I'm going to a magic school to not learn magic?"
"Magic won't lead to any worthwhile career," said her father, glancing to her mother, who nodded in affirmation. "Going to Hogwarts will only limit what you can do in life, baby girl. Right now you can do anything, if you put your mind to it. You're brilliant." He directed a hand towards the pile of papers at the centre of the table. "You shouldn't waste your mind on something that will have you filing out work permits every time you want a job, or filling for special one-time Visas whenever you want to visit the Continent. Four years at Hogwarts and then you can be back here where you belong."
Hermione scowled. "I'll still have to do all that paperwork for the rest of my life, even if I do take the four year track," she countered. "Being a fully-trained witch would give me more career opportunities than taking Practicals and trying to ignore the W-stamp on my work papers."
"What about your A-levels?" asked her mum. "Going to University?"
"I'll do both."
"But you won't be qualified for a normal school! They don't teach any maths, or science, or anything useful without a wand."
"I can take my A-levels without attending normal schools. It would be the same for me as if we were moving from the States or Canada. I can study on my own to keep pace with the maths and sciences, especially during the summer holidays." She paused. "Also, technically speaking, you don't need a wand to brew potions."
Her father hesitated; her mother would have none of it.
"Hermione Jean Granger," she said, and Hermione knew the day's battle was lost when her mum whipped out that particular phrase, "you don't need an education in magic to succeed in life. Your father and I certainly didn't!"
"I don't understand! What's so bad about learning magic? Is it because of Madam Li—"
"No," said her father, cutting her off. "It's not."
"Hermione," her mother said, voice shakey, "do you know what your classmates will do to you when they find out your aren't like them? That you don't come from one of their racist, in-bred families?"
Her father sighed. "I know you have made several good points, baby girl, but it's not safe for you to be a Witch." "But I'd only be at Hogwarts for seven years," she said, as if she could remember a time in her life past the age of seven or six.
"They won't stop." Her mum reached across the table and took hold of Hermione's hand. "You'll never be good enough for them, dear. They'll look at you and only care about where you were born, as if that even matters."
Her father added his hand to the pile. "It's safer this way, Hermione. A little magic might help later in life, yes, but you need to think about life after you graduate. You might be the smartest, bravest, best Witch there ever was, but those people will never accept you as one of them. Nobody should have to live in a world so cruel."
Rose Granger nodded at her husband's words. "Four years is too long, but better four years than a lifetime, even if you have to sacrifice a little, right?"
Hermione Granger didn't know if that was true. "I... what if they aren't so bad? Can I stay then?"
Her dad said nothing. Her mum sighed.
* * * *
The first of September rolled around faster than Hermione could have imagined on that morning when her letter had arrived, and it came with mixed feelings. Her stomach was too upset to do more than nibble on the lavish, sugar-free, breakfast her father had cooked for her. The journey to King's Cross station was silent, and if Hermione and her parents made any small talk she did not recall it. Hermione knew she had to say something during the awkward silence; otherwise her parents would be obsessing over how unhappy she was with leaving for Hogwarts. Letters and telephone calls aside, her parents would only believe what they saw. But Hermione had no idea what she could say.
Their shopping expedition to Diagon Alley had done anything but reassure her parents. While she had never been in any danger from the fenced-off protesters, walking past their chants of 'Suffer Not a Witch' and 'Remember Redan Lane' and 'Repent, Sinners' had rattled them all, Hermione included. The vitriolic jeers had cast a pall over the rest of their day.
Recalling the protesters, Hermione was glad she had been born in the UK rather than in the United States. She had been too afraid as yet to read in-depth about what it was like for Norm-born Witches and Wizards across the Atlantic - the stories mentioned off-hand in the Guardian and Times couldn't be as bad as they were made out to be, right?
There were two police barricades the Grangers' car had to stop at, requiring her father to present ID and Hermione's Hogwarts letter. After they were waved through, their car pulled into King's Cross station. There was a valet waiting with a cart for Hermione's luggage.
The train station itself looked to be nothing more than an average, ordinary train station; hardly remarkable in comparison to any other train station Hermione could recall visiting. The only thing that set it apart was the absence of people hustling around. That, and the uniformed men with guns and robed ones with wands. They, Hermione knew, were there because of what had happened in France the year previously.
Platform 9 and ¾ was easily located by the steady stream of people going in and out of, what otherwise looked to be, a solid brick wall. Holding her mother's hand (more for her mother's benefit than her own, really) Hermione ran into the wall.
"Oh my!" exclaimed her mother.
Hermione looked around. "Amazing!" She looked around the bucolic station, the quaint pocket space lifting the day's gloom from her spirits. "Folded spacetime - I'd read about it, but..."
Her voice trailed off at the dark look a boy boarding the train shot her. He was dressed in ratty, second-hand clothes. With one hand holding onto a brass railing, he shot her a glare of such pure loathing that Hermione was at once taken aback. She could practically hear the boy mutter 'Mudblood' under his breath. Thankfully, before her mother picked up on the connection between them, the boy turned away, hefted his trunk, and strode onto the carriage.
Together with her father, the Grangers moved down the platform and found a space for a quiet moment together. Rose Granger kneeled and hugged her only child tight. "If I had any say, you wouldn't have to go to that school dear."
"Suppose that's what we get for voting for Thatcher all three times," mused her father.
Hermione tried not to cry as her mother kissed her softly on her cheek. "You're brilliant, Hermione Jean Granger. Don't let any of those little inbred shits tell you different."
"Mum!"
"Rose!"
The matron of the Grangers ignored her family's scandalised reactions. "And don't let anyone tell you that you're less of a human being, just because you can do Magic. Witches are people too."
The rest of her parents' farewell went along similar lines. By the time Hermione boarded the train, her mother was all but openly sobbing. Her father was more stoic, but when Hermione took one last look over her shoulder, his eyes seemed to glimmer in the morning brightness -though perhaps that was merely a trick of the light. In any case, Hermione, with a heavy burden in her heart, wouldn't - couldn't - look back if she had any chance of avoiding a breakdown.
Inside the carriage, Hermione's feet seemed to possess a will of their own, carrying her down the carpeted carriage. She walked past older students. She walked past other first-years. In the end, she didn't know where she was walking until she found herself sliding open the door to an empty compartment.
Sighing with relief as she shut the door behind her, Hermione took a moment to lean her forehead against the frosted glass set into the wooden door frame. The eleven-year-old shut her eyes, grateful to be alone. She tugged at the collar of her black jumper, feeling stifled by what she normally considered her most comfortable piece of clothing.
It occurred to Hermione that she wouldn't see her parents until the holidays. Her mum and dad, who had come back from a day trip into London last weekend with bandages wrapped around their left forearms from giving blood samples to a government registry. Dentists who were losing their friends and neighbours to a carpetbagging Witch with a picture-perfect smile. And now? Their own flesh-and-blood was one of them.
Hermione Granger covered her mouth to keep from being sick.
The opening of the compartment's sliding door sent Hermione staggering backwards, almost tripping over her trunk. Before she could gather her wits, one of the two boys, a blond her age, stepped forward.
"Er, sorry. We didn't know you were standing there." "Honestly, Draco," said the other boy, who wore wire-framed glasses over eyes a shade of green Hermione found striking. "It was her own fault for standing against the door like that."
The blond boy let his companion brush past him. "You'll have to forgive Harry. He's pompous."
Something twigged in Hermione's brain. Her eyes darted to the dark-haired boy's forehead. Sure enough, there was a lightning bolt shaped scar. "Oh!" This was somewhat interesting. She'd never met a C-list celebrity before.
"Harry Potter," he said, thrusting a hand out, "at your service."
