Variance

Chapter Three: Naming and Communications

Lucius Malfoy poured himself a small glass of elf-made wine as he sat in his well-worn
chair. He resisted the urge to run his fingers through his hair, though he did check to
ensure that the straightening and fixing charms were still in place.

His thoughts fled back to the past, to the day after their meeting when she quarreled with
the muggle boys. He had noted at the time how she so easily played the innocent. Of
course, her precious tome was stolen and desecrated, but she did exacerbate the
altercation into a physical fight, yet as soon as she saw an approaching adult, she stopped
immediately and let the fool boy shove her to the ground.

How distinctly Slytherin of her. He had approved then even as he approved now. He
remembered how it had been his hope that she would overcome her Gryffindorish
tendencies. He chuckled and sipped his wine. It would be as likely as the goblins handing
out free gold, or the Chudley Cannons having a winning season, or those blasted Weasleys
actually obeying the dictates of their blood. Not that, he grimaced slightly, he himself had
not violated the spirit of the customs if not the law. Yet.

Still, even now he disliked to admit to himself how difficult it had been to feign
nonchalance that first night, waiting for night to fall. The actions of the day had both
pleased and worried him. The girl’s response would determine if his investment was
worth the time and energy. He realized now that he had been a fool, for there was
something that drew him towards the girl. Something undefined and unmeasurable, yet
mesmerizing, felt after that first midnight foray, and ensorcelled by it after the first
exchange of letters. After that, he now realized with faint chagrin, he was well and truly
trapped, thoroughly gone.

It had taken him many years, many sleepless nights and restless wanderings, to realize the
depth of her draw upon him.

He didn’t mind, not anymore.

+++

Lucius traveled the same path that night to Granger’s house, appearing in the alley a few
houses away. He spared no glance for the utter muggle-ness this time, but swept away
and strode quickly to his destination. He told himself that it was because he despised
being in a locale so beneath him, that his eagerness was inspired by disgust and the desire
to complete his business and return to a proper, dignified locale.

As he had the night before, Lucius carefully cast a Notice-Me-Not charm and Invisibility
spell on himself before opening the door and silently gliding inside and up the stairs to the
girl’s room. Eyes well-adjusted to the darkness and aided by the slight moonlight, he
easily spotted the white paper on her desk.

He ignored his heart, beating loud enough that he was sure the girl, had she been awake,
would be capable of hearing it. His breaths wanted to come more rapidly, but aided by
years of self-discipline, he schooled his body into behaving. He did not know why he felt a
sense of impending importance; it was just a silly letter from an unimportant slip of a girl,
no matter her potential.

Lucius carefully reached for the paper, eyeing the sleeping figure on the bed. He skimmed
the letter quickly, than reread it more slowly, eyes narrowing. He felt a surge of an
unknown emotion wash over his body and his fingers tightened on the dirty muggle paper
as he felt his iron-control slipping. At a slight movement out of the corner of his eye,
Lucius turned on his heel and apparated, leaving the dim room and the stirring child.

He appeared in his office, no less overcome with emotion. Furious, he balled the paper up
and launched it at a corner before pacing rapidly. He was aware that he was out of
control, which further irritated him – Malfoys never lose their level-heads – and put him
even more out of sorts.

With the speed of a striking cobra, he spun and whipped out his wand, slashing it violently
at an elegant vase on a stand in the corner of the room. It shattered and exploded, razor-
sharp splinters flying. He winced as he felt a few slice his face and a cool liquid begin to
trickle down. Rooted to the ground and breathing deeply, Lucius lifted a hand and wiped
the blood off of his cheek.

The bright red gleaming against his pale skin both grounded and stirred him. Malfoys
were not supposed to bleed, either, yet the obvious contradiction between traditional
beliefs of superiority warred against the stark reality of the blood. His blood.

The sight of it reminded him that he, too, was only human, prone to missteps and errors
in judgment. If he considered the matter honestly and logically, what did he expect out of
the girl? Feet of parchment displaying a truly Slytherin personality including but not
limited to a detailed dissection of her benefactor’s possible identity?

Lucius sighed and sat heavily in his chair. He conjured a small mirror, carefully extracting
the splinters from his cheek. His expectations had been inappropriately high, he saw that
now. He had anticipated something, he wasn’t sure what exactly, and the disappointment
when that something was absent had surprised him.

The pieces removed and the cuts expertly healed, he chuckled wryly. He had been due for
exploding another useless priceless heirloom, anyway. At least this one was in his office
and not in a public room, so Narcissa would not bitch about it.

Lucius wordlessly summoned the scrunched up paper, gently smoothing it out on his
desk. He reread it slowly and noted the neat printing. While certainly not as advanced as
he had foolishly expected – not foolishly, Weasleys were foolish, Potters were foolish,
Malfoys always acted logically even if the logic was inexplicable to outsiders – it was at
least on par with the short essays Draco wrote for his tutors, and his son received expert
guidance.

Dear Sir,

Thank you for leaving me the book and for saving it from those evil boys. I am sorry that I
was not thinking when I took it from my room. I am reading the book and it is very
interesting. I figured out that the man with light hair in the Leaky Cauldron was Lord
Malfoy. Do you think he will remember me and be mean later? If you know him, please tell
him that I am very sorry.

What is your name?

Hermione Granger

He decided to continue the charade. The chit would grow and mature as all children
inevitably do, and with his guidance, he felt confident that he could mold her to his will.
She would be an excellent addition to his retinue and he could already imagine the look
on that fool Dumbledore’s face when he was revealed that he had a mudblood for a
champion. Lucius Malfoy! Beloved by all, even those he hates!

A smirk on his lips, Lucius pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill to compose his own
response.

Dear Miss Hermione Granger,

You may refer to me as Munin…

He folded the parchment and placed it in a deep pocket in his over-robe to be delivered
the following night. He hesitated over her letter to him. If it were found, there would be
many questions and concerns, but he could not bring himself to destroy it. It could be
useful later.

Lucius cast a preserving charm on the flimsy and wrinkled paper and placed it in a secret
compartment in his desk, which had a permanent notice-me-not enchantment directed
towards everyone but himself. It would sit in this location for months at a time,
occasionally retrieved to compare writing and personality progress, until it was nearly
forgotten under further years’ worth of correspondence.

+++

It was this letter that Lucius pulled out from his desk, tapping the appropriate spots on the
side of the drawer to pop out the secret compartment. It was filled to the brim with her
letters and smelled pleasingly of old parchment with the faintest touch of her particular
scent. He closed his eyes, savoring the mixture of old tomes, clean soap, and her own
indescribable scent that had built up over the years, now concentrated in the small space
and which spilled out whenever he opened it.

He fully acknowledged to himself that he was damned.

Lucius, feeling nostalgic, reread the letter, then dug through the pile again, searching for
the first letter that made him genuinely proud, and which had given him great hopes for
his future plans.

+++

Hermione Granger was the happiest girl on the planet. Of this, she was positive. Sure, the
other children in school were too stupid to want to be her friend, but she didn’t need
them anyway. None of them had a drop of magic in their veins. None of them had a
secret magical mentor. None of them had Munin.

It was just over two years since he had contacted her after her excursion into the Leaky
Cauldron. In those two years, they had rarely missed a day of contact and like clockwork,
or magic, her letters disappeared over night and his appeared on her desk the next
morning. Sometimes she attempted to stay up late to catch him in the act, but every time,
even when she sat at her desk and read to stay awake, she found herself in bed
underneath the covers.

Hermione couldn’t complain, not when she had such a devoted and caring magical mentor
who coached her about the wizarding world and gave her fascinating texts to read, who
gave her advice about the neighborhood bullies which once consisted of her giving them a
sheet of incorrect answers on an upcoming exam. He tutored her in manipulation,
through writing and speaking, and helped her gain control over her accidental magic. The
last time the bullies came after her, she used his lessons to cause them pain, as she had
the first time. They hadn’t dared come near her after that.

On her eighth birthday, he had gifted her with another thick text, called Nature’s Nobility: A
Wizarding Genealogy. Although she didn’t understand it very well then, she recently
reread it and found it fascinating. He had also given her a large stuffed snake, which she
often hugged to herself while she read, even though her parents admonished her about
leaving behind childish toys. Even though he gifted her captivating educational tomes on
her ninth and tenth birthdays, the snake was her favorite.

She named it Munin so that whenever she hugged it, she could pretend she was hugging
her best friend.

Hermione sighed in happiness under her warm covers as she stretched languorously. She
kept one arm wrapped firmly around Munin as she reached with the other to pick up the
daily letter. She curled on her side, reading by the soft morning sun shining through the
window.

She frowned and read through it again, then again. She was confused, never had a letter
from her beloved mentor caused such consternation. He prodded her sometimes, made
her think and evaluate herself and her principles, but this was a thinly veiled scornful
attack on her heritage, and by extension, herself.

Her eyes alit on the most troubling paragraph, the last one…

…Hermione, you should count yourself very lucky, not only for the priceless gift of
having been born magical and thus the opportunity to rise about your meager forebears, but
also for the guidance of a magical mentor, especially one with my impressive knowledge. No
other muggle-borns receive such an opportunity, and so never fully integrate into the
Wizarding World. They stand with one foot in each world, belonging in neither. You do not
seem to properly appreciate your inherent magical nature. Embrace your muggle heritage if
that is your decision, but know that they are nasty and brutish – you have seen this yourself.
Know, however, that you can only choose one, not both worlds. Read the muggle
newspapers, see your wonderful heritage.

Her eyes began to glisten with tears. Why had he responded like that?

Hermione threw the letter from her bed and sat up, hugging her snake. She bit her lip as
she tried to figure out what had brought their warm exchange to this unveiled scorn, this
hatred.

It had started innocently enough, she supposed. Munin was lecturing her about modern
wizarding achievements, exciting new spells, the thriving economy, and years of peace,
“for wizards are naturally kind and peace-loving,” he had written. He had also mentioned
that the prosperity was through no small assistance by himself and his ancestors.
Hermione had swelled with pride for her mentor, for she knew how important it was to
have ancestors to admire and emulate.

She wrote back to him with a light heart, pages full of descriptions of new muggle
advances – “scientists are working on cloning, that’s making an exact identical clone of an
animal,” “there’s this new technology called computers that connects people and people can
use them to write faster than a typewriter or pens, and my school might be getting one,”
“they are finally about to tear down the Berlin Wall and unify Germany.” She was eager to
demonstrate to her benefactor that she and her heritage was also advancing, that she was
worthy.

Hermione did not expect to receive such scathing phrases as, “If I wanted another animal,
an exact copy, I’d transfigure it!” and “I’m glad for the knowledge of this computer, in case I
ever forget the Dictation charm!”

Coming from a person who had always shown her patience and kindness, the person she
relied on most, Hermione was struck to her core.

They never had any disagreements, and the thought of being estranged from her mentor
made her sick to her stomach. She checked the clock; it was nearly time for her mother to
come in to wake her up, so she quickly made up her mind.

When Mrs. Granger entered, Hermione played sick. Distraught, her appearance was
awful, pale and sweaty, and she easily fooled her mother into letting her stay home from
school.

Her parents gone, Hermione worked out a plan of action.

She could hardly refute that muggles were frequently quite horrid to each other, she
admitted that to herself freely. The recent wars in the past century alone were
irrefutable, but weren’t wizards just as prone to evil? In all of the texts Munin had given
her about wizard history, there were plenty of wars where a single charismatic leader
wreaked chaos and havoc.

Thankful for her thorough notes on the interesting bits of the texts, Hermione skimmed
through them. Wizards were just like muggles, she decided, when it came to character.
Both had their bad eggs and their good sorts. She heaved a sigh of satisfaction. She
enjoyed research; it was fascinating to know that the needed facts were within reach if
only she knew what and where to look for them.

Notes and a dictionary by her arm for easy reference and stuffed Munin in her lap for
reassurance, Hermione sat at her desk and began to write.

Munin,

Never have you been so harsh to me, my friend. You have never been less than thoughtful
and kind and patient with me, and the anger and scorn in your last letter was horrid.
I could just ignore your words and forget that they were written, but I can’t. I can’t let this
fester between us. You have been my constant and loyal friend for over two years. I trust
you completely and have told you everything about me, but I hardly know you. I only know
your penname, not your real name.

None of that matters, so long as you trust our friendship and give me enough respect that
you read my response to your dreadful claims.

You say that muggles are vile and that nothing of theirs can ever be or accomplish anything
worthwhile.

Munin, what am I, if not a product of muggles? Does that mean all of your patience and
tutoring of me and my hard work is for nothing? That because of my heritage, I am doomed
to a life of mediocrity and brutishness? I can’t believe that.

You say that muggles are vile, that they have done horrible things.

What about the numerous Dark Lords in the wizarding past, or did you conveniently forget
them? Or the muggle-baiting that is still popular, or the persecution of all non-humans?
Wizards kill and steal just like muggles do, except that it is easier. It’s easier to lie and cheat,
and more devastating because we have magic.

You say that muggles are worthless?

Muggles are the same as wizards, but without the very useful tool of magic. Any muggle
accomplishment is twice as impressive because it is done without magic.

Munin, please do not think that I am ungrateful for my magic or for you. That is very
untrue. I couldn’t be happier that I am a witch and will go to Hogwarts next year, and I
wouldn’t give you up for anything in the world. But you just have to remember that muggles
have to do more with less.

Just think about it, dear Munin. Open your eyes and your generous heart; I know you have
one because of how you have helped and taught me. Please do not just discard the muggles,
or at least do not think such evil things of them. They are just people, trying to live their lives
as are wizards.

Hermione

Finished, she folded up the long letter and laid it on her desk. She crawled into bed, tired
but hopeful that she could heal the rift between her and Munin, clutched her stuffed snake
tightly to her chest.

In the morning, she awoke with a start and jumped to her desk, only to find only her
original letter, unmoved. Hermione sank into her chair, hugging Munin to her and crying
into his soft fabric, terrified that her best friend had left her forever.

+++

Somehow, Hermione had dragged herself to school, which was more tedious than usual.
The world seemed dull and grey, and the schoolwork boring and unimportant. All she
wanted to do was to go back home, crawl into bed, and pretend that the past few days had
never happened.

The letter was still there when she arrived home, untouched. Although Munin had never
arrived during school hours, she still had held a slight hope that he would come. Her
hopes crushed, Hermione begged off dinner with her parents and went to bed early.
Sniffing back her tears, she hugged Munin to herself and turned away from the glaring
letter still resting on her desk.

Several hours later, a soft pop echoed in the small room. A dark figure appeared from
nowhere and a pale hand reached out from folds of cloth to grasp the letter and place it in
a deep pocket.

Turning on his heel, the figure sent a fleeting look towards the girl on the bed, sprawled
out and shifting uneasily. The same hand extended cautiously, hovering over the dry tear
tracks on the girl’s cheeks. It stopped and clenched into a fist as the figure froze in
hesitation and indecision. With a barely audible growl, the hand retracted and the man
gathered himself hastily. This time the crack was louder, waking up the girl on the bed
from her troubled slumber.

Hermione gasped and sat up quickly as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She glanced
around the room to find what had awoken her when she caught a familiar scent in the air.
It was slightly musky, like old seasoned wood combined with a touch of expensive alcohol,
like the brandy her father sometimes drank. It was the same scent that was on the letters!

Hermione leapt from her bed and saw that the letter was gone. She laughed in joy,
hugging her snake to her and dancing wildly in elation. She went to sleep with a lighter
heart.

Munin had not left her, after all, but had returned to her. Now it remained to be seen
whether he was offended by her letter, but at least he gave her a chance.

The world, even in the darkness of her room, seemed to glow and come alive.