Breeding Lilacs out of Dead Land.

Chapter 1 - Black Milk of Daybreak.

A thin veil of rain shrouded the streets of London – like a greyish, wet, angsty prelude to a horror story. The rain clung like mist to the woman’s tangled hair. Her lips formed a curse, then she was reminded of the small child’s presence beside her. A little, pudgy hand, clad in a knitted-wool glove, was reached out to hold her larger one, and the woman forced herself to smile.

“I’m tired, Mum,” complained the little girl, screwing her normally bright face.

“I know, darling,” Hermione answered tiredly. “There’s not much left to walk.”

“My legs are hurting.”

“Mine too.”

“I’m tired.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“But I’m still tired!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re way too insistent to be an eight-year-old, Aubrey.”

“I walked way too much for an eight-year-old!”

“Will you just be quiet for now?” Hermione asked in a sweet voice.

“My legs are hurting!”

Well, Aubrey had regressed to five years old pose again. And she deserved that, Hermione thought bitterly. Even the wisest, most mature child had the right to be a child. Aubrey had never had enough of this seemingly simple, obvious luxury in her short life.

Pregnant at seventeen and a half, having deliberately withdrawn from the Wizarding World, believed to be dead by her best friends and disowned by her parents, Hermione Granger had barely survived. The wish to get as far away as possible drove her abroad, and she found herself spending her slender savings on a plane ticket to the United States. Apparition was not an option. Using magic, she could have been tracked, and Hermione had every intention of letting people believe she was gone for good.

Dumbledore had given her his promise, but Hermione, being her diligent and calculating self, didn’t want to take any risk. The British Wizarding World held no future for her or her unborn child – only war, bloodshed and destruction. Running away was probably cowardice, but she was too wounded, too spent at the time, to let the notion of a possible cowardice be a consideration.

So she fled, and built herself a new life out of the broken, lost one. The first year was the hardest- there were not many possible jobs for a runaway teenager with no graduation diploma, and Hermione settled for waiting. Then, when her pregnancy made the long hours of moving around and serving costumers impossible, she compromised for a junior’s job in a vulgar, seedy, hairdressing salon.

Aubrey’s delivery was long and painful one. After 38 hours of labour, Hermione was spent. Later, she could barely assemble a picture of herself, walking out of the hospital with the too small, too fragile infant curled against her body. She remembered a deadly weariness. Soreness- as if her body were spent to the point where the shell of her skin became too thin to contain the fatigue and the pain and the anger. The memory of the strength she must have acquired, the strength that enabled her to step out of the hospital and go on with her life, had faded. Sunk inside her body and soaked to her bones, so she could not summon the taste, the feel or the sight of it. It somehow became the acknowledgment that there were some things you just had to do.

Luckily enough she had a neighbour who was of great help in taking care of Aubrey- thus enabling Hermione to go back into the job market. This time around she found a small, part-time job as a secretary in which she excelled. Due to her natural wit and talent and her never fading self-discipline, Hermione had slowly climbed up the clerical ranks, and at twenty-seven, she had a rather comfortable position, a boss who adored and depended on her, and a salary that made it possible to dream of a college education for Aubrey.

And she had Aubrey. She was too logical and probably too cynical to stamp her baby with a title such as: “What seemed like the most terrible experience of my life became my…” well, maybe salvation, or light, or anything of the sort, but Aubrey was – she usually closed her eyes as if in a prayer when thinking the words – Aubrey was hope molded out of flesh and blood. Aubrey was consolation. Like a bandage to an open wound. But Aubrey was also a nuisance at times. Every child was, and Hermione was comforted a little by the thought.

“Mum! When will we be there?”

“Decrease five digits from the last estimation I gave you last time you asked and you’ll have it.”

Aubrey pouted her lips. “That’s five minutes. Tell me again about the place we are going to?”

The first time she confronted Aubrey with the information was somewhat awkward. Her rational, clever, perceptive child refused to believe there was anything like magic in the world. Considering Aubrey was eight years old, her utter refusal to believe magic existed was somewhat saddening. Hermione then had no choice but to pick up her long neglected wand, which she kept in a locked drawer in her nightstand table, and amaze her sceptical child with a simple levitation charm. And then a repairing charm, and small transfigurations, Accio! and Lumos! And, oh God, she had gone rusty.

“Why now?” Aubrey was curled in a ball on the sofa, black eyes still wide with wonderment for all the marvels she had witnessed.

Sometimes, Hermione thought, her child was too clever for her own good. Or for her mother’s comfort. Hermione bit her lips, gathering her legs to her body, and turned to look at her bright daughter.

“Is it something bad?”

“Yes, darling, I’m afraid it is.” Hermione had never treated her daughter like a small, incapable child. She always followed the notion that whatever information Aubrey was clever enough to ask for, she might as well be able to handle. Hermione had encouraged Aubrey to learn and explore, delighted to see that her daughter’s hunger for knowledge matched her own. Ever since she had been a baby, Hermione had provided Aubrey with stimulation, following her advances and supplying her with means to fire her rich imagination. She had guided Aubrey through the foreign, fascinating world of letters and numbers, and then left her to choose her interests, accompanying her child along whatever path she decided to take. Aubrey was a prodigy, probably brighter and quicker than Hermione herself had ever been. Hermione was clever enough to encourage her, while letting her do things in her own time and pace. When the question of her motives to return to the British wizarding world had arisen, Hermione wished she had also protected Aubrey from the pain that might follow the understanding. A burden Aubrey was not mature enough to carry, though mature enough to understand.

“Mum?”

“Yes, yes. I’m with you Darling, Just… thinking for a moment,” She outstretched her hand to ruffle Aubrey’s surprisingly blond hair. The curls were soft, fine and perfect. Hermione sighed, choosing her words. “Well… once upon a time there was a great, evil, wizard. As strong as he was, he was twice as wicked. Like the Wicked Witch of the West, if you like-“

Aubrey rolled her eyes. “Really! That\'s just pathetic! You’re talking to me as if I was a baby.”

“Well,” answered Hermione, attempting humour, “you are a baby.”

Aubrey stuck out her tongue. “No, I’m not!”

“You just proved my point,” Hermione laughed, sweeping her daughter into a hug. “Now, will you let me finish a sentence?”

The child giggled, snuggling closer to Hermione.

“Well, my love, as I said, once upon a time there was an evil wizard. This wizard’s name was Voldemort and he was-“

“Doing many evil deeds so his Mum got angry and spanked him?”

“That’s not even worth a reference, yet I’ll be kind enough to enlighten you his Mother had died when giving birth to him.”

“So his Dad spanked him?” Aubrey kept giggling.

“Where are you getting all these ideas? Should I call Mrs Lloyd and ask her what it is you learn in this school of yours?”

A shriek of laughter.

“You have a very twisted sense of humour.”

She buried face in Aubrey’s hair, breathing. A mixture of fresh mud, strawberry flavoured lollypops, sugar, vanilla and sweet, milk fragrant skin. She knew she was avoiding Aubrey’s question, and Aubrey knew it too, subconsciously distracting them both from the topic. It was easier to pretend everything was nothing but a fairy-tale. The truth was so much like one that the pastel, silver and gold colouring of a legend was almost invited. And Aubrey’s sniggering. The child knew it was something bad. She told her at last, not sure whether to expect fear or disbelief, and surprised to meet the fascination of those who never faced true evil. Sometimes Hermione forgot Aubrey was just a child. The thought made her shudder.

“So this wizard Voldmort is now very strong and you want to go back and help defeat him?” Aubrey finally asked.

Hermione moistened her lips. “I think I should.”

She was guilt ridden ever since she bumped into the creased, yellowing copy of the “NY Ensues”- New York’s magical community’s daily newspaper. The paper was resting on the small porch in the back of her apartment, edge caught in the rusty iron strips of the posterior staircase. Hermione could imagine a barn owl’s orange eyes flickering in the darkness. Like a daydreamed omen.

The American wizarding world paid little attention to the British community’s distress. Flipping frantically through the pages, with haste Hermione didn’t know she acquired or maybe didn’t allow herself to feel for such a long time, she located a small report concerning the firm struggle “of our brothers in the U-K” against the dark wizard known as Lord Voldemort.

Lord Voldemort. Of all things, it was the deliberate and explicit mention of the dark wizard’s nickname, the carelessness in which it was used, that made Hermione realize she was needed. There was a fight to be fought and the American wizarding world wasn’t going to fight it. But she would. She had to.

Aubrey seemed to understand her mother’s reasoning. Hermione didn’t know what to make of the child’s quiet approval. Aubrey was eight. She wasn’t supposed to understand or approve. Hermione wasn’t supposed to cling to her child’s solemn confirmation. Aubrey was like a pond of undisturbed light among a chaos of shadows and hardly discerned figures of sharpened claws and teeth. She wondered when the world had begun looking like that again, yet it was only inevitable.

Within two weeks Hermione Granger purchased a couple of plane tickets to England, packed up their belonging, wrapped up her life in the United States and was off to… well, maybe to meet her destiny, though her rational attitude toward life had barely allowed her to indulge in such sentiments.

It was one of those rainy, taxi-forsaken days when she and Aubrey arrived in London. They managed to go some of the way using the public transportation systems, but there was no escaping from some walking as the last underground station was located about a quarter of a mile from the Leaky Cauldron. Aubrey, tired and spent from the last day’s frantic activity, was more short-tempered and impatient than usual. She clung to Hermione’s coat, demanding, then pleading to know when they’d finally arrive. The child, who had been ecstatic at the beginning of the day, faded into an angry, exhausted imitation of herself. Aubrey was on the verge of tears when at last, the signboard of the Leaky Caldron came into sight.

Her small fingers dug into Hermione’s coat with desperate anticipation. “Is that it?”

Hermione nodded, and followed the now excited Aubrey through the front doors of the establishment. Tendrils of heat curled outside the open door, enwrapping themselves around the woman and child. Hermione closed her eyes as a vapour of warmth, smelling of food and ale and open fire, stroked her cold skin.

Several heads rose to stare at the two figures dressed in Muggle clothing figures. Aubrey, her fingers still secured in Hermione’s coat, lifted her gaze with an unspoken question. “These people look weird,” she whispered.

“Maybe we look weird to them.”

“They are staring at us …”

“Well, you may stare back at them if you wish.” She smiled at Aubrey, and taking her hand, led her toward a side-table.

The waiter, little more then a teenaged witch, eyed the muggle-looking mother and child suspiciously.

“Can I get you anything?”

Hermione looked at Aubrey. “Is there anything you’d like to eat darling?”

“Hot-chocolate, please”

Hermione turned to the waitress. “Hot chocolate, one butterbeer and… mm… what soup do you serve today?”

“Rich pea soup.”

“Then I’d also like to order some soup.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that’ll be it, for now. Thank you very much.”

The waitress nodded courteously and left them.

Aubrey observed the place with huge, black-milk eyes.

“See anything to your liking?”

A crease appeared in Aubrey’s brow, a sure sign she was immersed in thought. “It looks like we’re in a story, or that we’ve returned back in time to the Middle Ages and… it’s pretty.”

“Pretty?”

Aubrey frowned. “I knew you’d laugh,” she accused. “It’s pretty, like… like an old castle, you know. It’s not really pretty but it makes you think of… stuff.” She stared at the table’s surface and nervously brought her thumb to her mouth, biting down on her fingernails.

Hermione outstretched her hand, pulling Aubrey’s fingers away from her mouth. The child had the most destructive habit of chewing off her nails when she was tired or nervous or distracted. “Stop that, Aubrey. You’ll end up hurting yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Mum.”

“Madam-“ their conversation was interrupted by the waitress voice, “your orders-“

“Why, thank you.” Hermione watched the young woman placing their drinks on the table. Aubrey reached for the steaming mug, tightening her fingers around thina ina as if trying to absorb the heat. Soft mist that swirled off the hot liquid entrapped in Aubrey’s fine locks, covering her skin with a thin film of humidity.

Hermione watched Aubrey while sipping her almost boiling soup. A couple of times she tried to offer the child a sip of the broth, unsurprised when Aubrey turned down the offer. Her daughter didn’t have much of an appetite, and she tended to eat even less when feeling unsettled in any way. Though she still had some childhood fat about her, Aubrey Granger was very thin. ‘And definitely not thanks to my exquisite genome,’ Hermione thought. She had managed to keep an approximately trim figure during her school years, but never bothered to regain her former shape after giving birth to Aubrey. In a way, it suited her. This plump, lush version of her was softer, inside as well as outside; she was easier, prepared to accept the inevitable and better acquitted to fight her hopeless wars -if she chose to fight them. It definitely served her means now, upon returning to the Wizarding World. The girl she once had been was no more. It would have been painful to be recognized as herself. No, she preferred to let time conceal the fact and meet the people she left behind on her own terms. She wanted to meet them as the woman she became, not as the girl she once was.

She finished her soup, then, as an afterthought, ordered herself and Aubrey more food. Hermione noted food had become something of a whim for her. Aubrey refused to eat, and then compromised by picking at her food with a fork, at her mother’s demand.

Forty-five minutes later Hermione settled the bill, rather relieved when the young waitress didn’t recognize her name on the Gringotts account. She signed for a room, and pretty much coaxed the half-sleeping Aubrey upstairs. Only then, after her daughter was carefully tucked into the double bad, did she let herself relax. A deep and comfortable armchair was set in front of the mantel and Hermione sank into it, exhausted. It had been a long day, and from what she knew about herself, tomorrow was not going to be any improvement. Tomorrow she was going back to Hogwarto meo meet her ancient, seemingly omniscient headmaster, her old allies and foes, and inevitably, the father of her child.


* The chapter\'s name, \"Black Milk of Daybreak\" is taken from the opening line of Paul Celan\'s poem, \"Fugue of Death\".