Chapter Text
Hermione Granger died before the sun came up to welcome a brighter, Voldemort-free world.
It was a curse. No one knew what hit her. Ron, who was there when it happened, told everyone it was green— but not Avada green. It was darker and almost looked like sand until it hit her and disappeared. He said it was Rookwood. Ron hit him with the strongest Impedimenta one could ever cast. The dead Death Eater now lay among his companions, body nearly torn to pieces. Ron will live a long, full life, guilty for many things that happened in the war but never toward killing Rookwood.
They buried her beside Lily Potter in Godric’s Hollow. Harry was the last to leave, kneeling by her grave and tracing the words he wished he didn’t ever have to choose.
Hermione Jean Granger
September 19, 1979 - May 3, 1998
A friend, a sister, a hero.
“Death does not discriminate between a friend and a foe”
Hermione Granger died before the sun came up to welcome a brighter, Voldemort-free world.
In a different reality, almost parallel to this one, dark green sand swept over the village of Godric’s Hollow. Witches, wizards, and muggles alike reported a strange feeling coming over them. When they were asked about it the next day, no one seemed to remember anything.
Nothing aside from a loud shrill of a baby crying.
Hermione Granger was born just as the sun came up to welcome a dark, dangerous future ahead.
Hermione grew up knowing she was different. The other children in the orphanage couldn’t make flowers bloom. Or change the colors of their clothes.
They didn’t wake up in the middle of the night from nightmares that didn’t make sense.
Everyone was afraid of and for Hermione. She could do things no one else could and she had dreams no one else understood. But she was kind and sweet, and never hurt anyone with her special abilities.
Hermione had arrived in St. Mary’s Home for Children when she was only a few days old. She was found by a priest near the cemetery in a village called Godric’s Hollow, wrapped up in a cloak that had the name Hermione Granger stitched up on the inside.
Thus became her name.
She was loved and adored by the matron of the house. Such a quiet little baby with hair so curly and eyes the color of her favorite sweets. She was kind and thoughtful, never complaining even when donations came close to none and they had to make do with what they had. She rarely smiled, but when she did, it was always bright and beautiful.
She was loved fiercely. And when weird, unexplainable things happened around her, she was loved worriedly.
Now, the matron of the house wasn’t naive. She was raised a good Catholic girl, but her grandmother was from the old country with wisdom even religion couldn’t reach. She used to talk about the things that lived in the woods. Fairies. Elves. Of people who can wield forms of nature with their hands.
“Be wary of the river and the stones, A ghra, for they carry stories of a world beyond our imagination.”
She knew little of the Old ways her grandmother used to talk about. But she knew enough to know there were people out there that can help the kind, little girl she loves. Someone who can help her wield forms of nature with her hands. Someone who can help Hermione with the terrifying nightmares she continued to suffer.
“Albus Dumbledore,” the old, peculiar man introduced himself.
“Sarah O’Brein, Matron of the house.” She shook his hand and took him upstairs to the room at the end of the hallway. “I ask that you be kind to her, Mr. Dumbledore. Hermione is a sweet, young girl. I will wait here by the door.”
There are people that can help Hermione. People like Dumbledore who arrived out of nowhere with an invitation to a prestigious, exclusive boarding school. They can help her wield nature. She will learn of the fairies and the elves and the Old ways her grandmother used to talk about.
And maybe. Maybe Hermione wouldn’t have to return to this harsh world. She will learn and she will live.
“You will help her?” She asked, or rather begged, when she accompanied Mr. Dumbledore out of the building. “I know she is special, Mr. Dumbledore. She can do many wonderful things we cannot explain. But she’s only just a child.”
The old man smiled at her. Soft and genuine. “We will. You have my word.”
Albus Dumbledore feared many things despite several claims saying otherwise.
When he entered the squeaky iron gates of St. Mary’s Home for Children, he feared of meeting another pair of vacant eyes speaking of horrors and viciousness. The last child he met of the same instance turned out to be one of the few wizards that actually put fear in Albus.
He feared it happening all over again.
That is until he actually met her.
Hermione Granger. A sweet, young girl according to the matron of the house. She spoke in a soft, gentle voice, bright and full of wonder and life. The people around her, children and adults alike, all think she’s special and kind. She loves to make flowers bloom, to call butterflies and let the younger children gather and play.
When Albus offered to teach her more, Hermione smiled. It was a smile so warm and bright, he could never have thought he’d been afraid to meet her. He told her about Hogwarts and all the magic she can learn of.
“Can magic help me with my dreams?” the girl asked.
“What kind of dreams?” Albus asked in return, gentle but firm.
“Sometimes I dream of castles and lakes. And friends with lightning bolt scars and hair like my favorite tangerines. Those are the nice ones,” she said, “but sometimes the dreams are dark. Of me running through a forest, a big house with a scary woman, and a green light.”
Albus met several true seers in his life. They are rare, and often exhibit an unnatural aura about them. But this girl is different. Special in ways he cannot explain yet. He believes her dreams are visions, but not in the way seers see it. Guilty as he might, Albus entered her mind as gently as he could to see a glimpse of her dreams. They looked and felt like a memory. But how could that be? Hermione Granger is only eleven.
Her papers said she was left in the orphanage at only two days old, found in Godric’s Hollow of all places— the village that had once held all of his own childhood. Albus will have to look into her past. Maybe he can find someone, a relative, who can take her and raise her.
Someone who can keep an eye on her.
Albus Dumbledore feared many great things, and not knowing something important was his greatest fear of all.