Variance

Chapter Four: Growing and Shopping

Lucius remembered reading her letter. He remembered feeling infuriated and proud, confident and insecure. He remembered disliking the confusion that had raged inside of him, but also remembered the glow of warmth and pleasure that accompanied the assurance that his investment of time and energy would eventually pay off in the future.

Hermione had not responded as an angry lioness by protecting her cherished ideals with savage bluntness and by scornfully rejecting those that fell outside of her consideration, but rather had cajoled and pleaded with him to consider the other side. It was rather Slytherin-esque, he recalled with pride, for she had turned his connection with her against himself, gambling that he would not reject her viewpoint and thus herself out of hand. Although he did not want to admit it at that time, it had worked, at least enough that he had decided to not bring up the subject again.

Her response was remarkably grown up and mature for her age, and even as he now reread it, some many years past, Lucius had to resist agreeing with her calm claims even as he relished the sentences stroking his ego.

Smiling faintly, Lucius carefully replaced the letter in the compartment, feeling the ward rise as it softly clicked shut. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, resisting the childish urge to drum his fingers on the wood desk. Malfoys waited on no one, he remembered from his lessons in his childhood long ago, and lessons that he himself taught his son. Malfoys make others wait for them. Malfoys are always in charge and in command.

How ironic that now the scion of the centuries-old Malfoy line could only wait. His plans were gone, some failed and some accomplished, but all defenestrated, utterly impotent now. Only one last hope remained, and so he waited.

Lucius sighed again. He clasped his fingers together and leaned them on the desk, and his eye caught on the glimpse of silver peaking from his robe sleeve.

Eyes sad, he pulled back his right sleeve to reveal a silver bracelet, intricately designed, and linked with a hundred tiny links. He pulled back his other sleeve and revealed another, identical in every way. He thumbed that one softly, almost lovingly, certainly obsessively.

Malfoys do not feel. Malfoys are above emotion, removed from the morass of suffocating quicksand that drags one down to that of the basest denizen of society. Passion makes one lose one’s calm reason and logic, and losing control bequeaths power to the unworthy, for not one person is worthy of controlling a Malfoy.

Lucius Malfoy laughed bitterly, certain that his illustrious and stoic ancestors would be glaring down at him from their portraits had he not removed them from his office long ago.

+++

As the year moved on, the relationship between Hermione and Munin was repaired swiftly. The morning after her ardent plea, a letter from him arrived. It did not mention their terrible disagreement, but accompanying the letter was a small stack of books. Primers, the letter read, for her upcoming classes at Hogwarts, a mere year away. Hermione accepted them as his way of apologizing.
In them were basic topics such as wand safety and handling, which prompted Hermione to secrete away a small, straight stick found outside, using it to practice her grip and wrist movements. Also in the stack was a text on ingredients used in basic potions. Hermione devoured this one, for it was enough like cooking that she could visualize and understand it easily.

Hermione knew that when she arrived at Hogwarts, she would be at a significant disadvantage to her pureblood peers. They lived and breathed the magical world, while she lived for the small tastes and glimpses provided by Munin. His stern edict against travelling alone into Diagon Alley held against her cajoling and pleas that he personally escort her.

He adamantly refused, claiming that he was unable to conduct her about the Alley, and that it would be extremely dangerous for her to go alone without a wizard to protect her. There are many Dark places in the world, even in the Light, he wrote to her. I will not risk you there alone, and there shall be no quarrel out of you, my Hermione.

Reluctantly, Hermione agreed, but fervently awaited the letter that would signify her entrance into the world she hungered for, day and night.

Her Hogwarts acceptance letter.

+++

Eleven-year-old Hermione Granger sat on the edge of the couch in the Granger residence’s living room. She eagerly listened to the light Scottish brogue spoken by the thin, stern woman, whose no-nonsense approach was softened by the obvious excitement and joy of the young girl. Her parents sat close together, dumbfounded by the events of the past hour.

It was over two months before she would turn twelve. Hermione had awoken that July morning to her customary letter from Munin, though it was shorter than usual. It read simply that he expected great things from her and that she must continue to demonstrate her worthiness and improve her abilities. Confused, she had just placed it with the other letters from him in her clothes drawer, when she heard a panicked shout from downstairs.

“Mum! Are you alright?” she called down as she started to walk down for breakfast. She caught just a few words, including “owl” and “crazy,” and started to run, taking the steps two at a time, excitement building inside her chest like a rising tide.

Hermione skidded into the kitchen to see her father swatting at an owl with a rolled up newspaper, her mum cowering behind her father for protection. The owl screeched at the poor reception, and seeing Hermione, veered towards her. Surprised, she lifted her arm and the owl gently landed on it, taking care not to crush her with his strong talons. She blinked at the surprising weight and ignored her flabbergasted parents, but gently untied the letter on his leg.

Mission discharged, the owl swiveled his head around to glare at the adults. He hissed at them, ruffled his feathers, and took off again through the open window.

“Hermione, are you alright? Did it scratch you?” her dad asked worriedly, grabbing her arm and checking it over for cuts.

“No, Dad, I’m fine, really,” Hermione said absently, snatching her arm from his grasp. She rubbed the strange paper, recognizing it as the same material used by Munin, and turned over the letter. She felt her breath catch in her chest, and her lungs refused to refill.

Ms. H. Granger
Smallest Second-Floor Bedroom
#14 Priory St.
Hertford, Hertfordshire

Dear Ms. Granger,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

Hermione lowered the letter, her hands shaking. Finally, her acceptance letter to Hogwarts! Even despite the protests of Munin, she had still held some reservations about her ability to be accepted into Hogwarts. It had not seemed like it could happen to her, that she could be so fortunate.

Her father gently extricated the letter from her hands and read it quickly, furrowing his brow. Her mum, recovered from the owl invasion, read it behind his shoulder.

“What tomfoolery is this?” he muttered, and Mrs. Granger could only shrug. “Must be those rotten Fenwick boys playing a prank. What nonsense.”

Hermione looked in the envelope that remained and pulled out another piece of parchment, this one detailing the necessary items. She swallowed nervously. Her parents, predictably, were reacting with skepticism and annoyance. She had to somehow convince them that it was real, not a prank.

She took a deep breath. “Mum, Dad,” she started slowly, “there’s something I have to tell you-”

All three jumped at the loud knocking at the door. Mr. Granger strode to it and peered quizzically through the peephole. A tall, thin woman in dark green robes stood on the doorstep, her old face lined with many wrinkles, yet when she knocked again on the door, it was with the vigor of a much younger woman. Mr. Granger opened the door mid-strike. “Excuse me, ma’am, but we do not want to buy anything.”

The woman arched a slender eyebrow. “Who asked you to, Mr. Granger?” she asked pointedly, lowering her hand gracefully. She glanced around, quickly taking in her surroundings. “Ah, Miss Granger, I see that I am a few minutes late. You already have your letter. May I come in?” she directed the last to Mr. Granger, who stood in the doorway, mouth agape. He stepped to one side, issuing a muttered apology.

Hermione glanced at the letter held in her mum’s hand. “Professor McGonagall?” she asked the oddly-dressed woman.

Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall’s stern eyes softened slightly. “That I am, Miss Granger. We need to have a talk; I am certain you have many questions for me.”

She swept out of the hallway and into the living room. Hermione followed dutifully in her wake, while her parents, still dumbfounded by the owl, parchment, and the strange, imposing woman, trailed behind.

McGonagall seated herself in the armchair. She took out her wand from her sleeve and flourished it, conjuring up a tea set. By the time that the Grangers arrived and seated themselves, she had an entire tea service on the low table between them as well as cups filled with steaming tea.

The adult Grangers stared. Hermione grinned and took a cup, sipping slightly as McGonagall began explaining to her parents about their daughter’s wonderful gift.

+++

The Grangers at first had rejected the idea of magic, being practical, upstanding and no-nonsense individuals, but were unable to deny that the levitation of their television set and subsequent transfiguration of it into a beautiful lioness who yawned and bared her sharp teeth. Hermione particularly loved that part, for she was able to stroke its thick fur before the Professor turned it back into the television set. “No harm done,” McGonagall assured them, “it still works perfectly fine.”

Doubts erased, the Grangers admitted that strange things indeed did happen around their daughter, and though thoroughly bemused, were proud that their child had a special gift.

“Though it’s not quite the same as an acceptance to Oxford, is it?” admitted the chagrined Mrs. Granger. “We can hardly tell Aunt Nelly about this, the poor dear would lose the last of her mind.”

“Well, Miss Granger,” the professor said as she stood and briskly brushed away crumbs fallen on her dark robes, “it is past time for us to be off.”

“Off? Where are you going?” Mr. Granger asked, standing up as well. “We have only just met you, Professor McGonagall, so you will forgive me if I am uneasy about your taking my daughter anywhere alone.”

“I do understand your concerns, Mr. Granger,” McGonagall replied as Hermione muttered, “Daaad” in annoyance. “The world is truly a dangerous place, but where we go, only she can follow at the moment. I cannot Side-Apparate with more than just one, and London is too far away to use muggle transportation and arrive there with enough time to buy everything.”
Hermione tugged at his shirt sleeve. “Really, Dad, I’ll be fine,” she pleaded, “just let me go with the professor. I know that she is genuine; I’ve talked with her already.”

“You have? You already knew?” He asked, shocked. “Why didn’t you tell us anything? “ He frowned as a thought occurred to him. “Do you mean to tell me that you had an extended conversation with a stranger? Have we taught you nothing?”

Hermione’s cheeks burned and she studiously attempted to not look at Professor McGonagall, who she was sure was quite surprised to hear of a meeting which had never taken place. Still, what had Munin said about making up lies? Never stray far from the truth, for the best lies have an element of truth to them. Not only are they more believable, but they are easier to remember. Most lies fail because of the deliverance of the tale or when probed deeply, the liar confuses his own facts, not because of the actual story itself.

She looked up innocently at her father. “It was a while ago, Dad, Professor McGonagall saw me fighting with some neighborhood bullies. I used accidental magic, and she noticed and made them leave and talked with me for a bit.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell us?”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Would you have believed me?” she asked as she grinned.

He grimaced. “Probably not,” he admitted.

“I am pleased that we have this settled,” McGonagall cut in. “It is time for us to take our leave. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, I shall return your daughter in a few hours.”

“Wait, how is she going to pay for everything?” Mrs. Granger asked. “We are well enough off to be able to afford school supplies.”

McGonagall shook her head. “There is no need to worry about that; I will pay for her expenses from a Hogwarts account and send the bill by owl. Now, come along, Miss Granger,” she continued with a touch of impatience.

Hermione gave each parent a long hug goodbye; her dad needed one last reassurance before he reluctantly let her go, albeit with a fifty pound note secured in her pocket, for “the extra books you will be unable to live without,” he teased. She grinned in delight, for her father knew her quite well indeed, then followed in the wake of her formidable professor, who was already out the door and waiting. McGonagall gave her a hard look as she led the way to the side alley by the house.

“How was our conversation, Miss Granger?” she asked pointedly.

Hermione reddened again, but met her eyes resolutely, “It was the only way to get out of there in any reasonable amount of time,” she replied. “Dad is… overprotective. I managed to stumble my way into Diagon Alley a few years ago. Once inside, I followed an old man through the brick wall and bought some books. I already knew about Hogwarts.”

“But you haven’t told your parents,” McGonagall pointed out. Hermione shook her head. “I can’t say that I approve of your methods, Miss Granger, because honesty is paramount to virtue, however,” she gave a sly wink as they reached the alley, “I must say that the meeting with your parents was the shortest I have ever conducted. Normally, I have a horrible time convincing parents to let their darlings go. Now, take my arm.”

Hermione gingerly grasped the offered arm as the professor took a deep breath. All of a sudden, she wished that she had as well, for all of the air squeezed out of her as her feet left the ground. Her insides hurt and she felt as if she were squished into a narrow tube, constricting her breathing.

As quickly as it started, it stopped, and she fell to the ground, bright lights dancing around the edges of her eyesight. Blinking, she stood up carefully, ignoring the impulse to clutch her ribs.

“Here we have it, Miss Granger,” McGonagall uttered in satisfaction, “the entrance to Diagon Alley.”

They stood in front of a nondescript brick wall. Hermione glanced behind her, and sure enough, the appa-whatsit or whatever the professor called that particular mode of transportation, had bypassed the Leaky Cauldron.

“The Leaky Cauldron is the muggle entrance,” McGonagall informed her, “Most witches and wizards apparate, as we did.” She withdrew her long wand from a billowing sleeve and tapped a pattern on the wall.

Hermione stared in wonder as the bricks rearranged themselves and seemingly melted together to form an arched entrance. It was just as neat the second time seeing it, for this time she was not mesmerized by the simple act of real magic, and was able to pick up on smaller details, such as the fact that the dustbins hopped over a few feet to make room, or that the wall seemed to shudder for a few seconds before transforming into the archway.

The brick wall’s transformation complete, Hermione peered into Diagon Alley and saw a mass of sights. Women in different color robes roamed, some stopped to congregate and gossip while others hurried by quickly singly or pulling a child along. Men were present as well, though they seemed to be more relaxed as they strode along, most conversing with friends.

Then there were the shops, which lined the sides of the Alley. While most were discreet and muted, such as the small, dingy storefront that had a simple sign reading, “Ollivanders,” other shops vied noisily for her attention. Quidditch Quality Supplies had a sign that scrolled letters to advertise something called a Nimbus, though her gaze caught a modest shop with piles of books visible through sparkling windows.

At the end of the street, a massive golden building stood, the largest in the street, and it glinted brilliantly in the sunlight. If she squinted her eyes, Hermione could just see the outlines of the darker letters which proudly proclaimed the name of the institution, though she could not for the life of her remember what it was, for in her excursion a few years back, she had not entered the place.

She started a bit as she realized that the professor was waiting patiently for her to move, and Hermione sent her a sheepish smile, but the formidable woman forestalled any apologies.

“It is no matter. I still remember my first time truly seeing the Alley. Come along, now. There is much we must pick up.”

With that, the pair entered the Alley. The professor strode purposefully, while Hermione hurried to keep up while trying to take in all of the fascinating sights. A woman rushed by, and Hermione could hear her muttering something about exorbitant prices for bicorn horns. Her eyes, however, kept returning to the great golden building at the end of the street. Gringotts, that was it, and if she remembered correctly, it was a bank.

Keeping on eye on the professor and the other on the bright fixture, out of the corner of her eye she caught a figure in all black with brilliant blond hair exit from a side street near Gringotts. He looked oddly familiar, she pondered as she watched the crowd before him part itself as he swept through and up the stairs to the building.

Could that be Lord Malfoy, the aristocrat whom she met at the Leaky Cauldron all those years ago? Hermione felt an irrational connection to him, for it was their meeting that had spurred Munin to contact and mentor her. She wanted to find out if it was he, if for no other reason than to satisfy her insatiable curiosity, but she needed an excuse. A crinkle in her pocket decided her.

“Professor? I have some muggle money to use to buy extra books. Is there a bank where I can exchange it?”

“That would be Gringotts, the wizarding bank. Let us stop there first, and you can open your own vault.”

They made their way towards the bank, occasionally slowed down by old students of Professor McGonagall’s, but their progress was steady and they soon entered the building. It was unusually cool inside, and staffed by the oddest green people who were measuring jewels and talking with customers. They looked like goblins with their long, pointed noses and sharp teeth.

McGonagall led Hermione over to a desk, whispering in her ear that indeed they were goblins, and not to stare at them. Hermione ducked her head shyly as she answered the questions emanating from the rough voice of the goblin teller, covertly peeking around for the blond man.

“Miss Granger, the muggle money, please,” McGonagall reminded her, and Hermione dug it out of her pocket. She did not see the figure some distance behind her pause and nonchalantly turn to look at her.

By the time they were finished with the exchange and setting up of the vault, Hermione had finally found the blond man. He was standing over a desk, speaking in a low voice to a goblin, one who looked frankly intimidated.

McGonagall must have noticed him as well, for she put a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and led her towards the entrance.

“Deputy Headmistress,” drawled a cultured voice, which drew the pair to a stop.

“Lord Malfoy,” McGonagall acknowledged stiffly, though politely. “Do you have Hogwarts business? If so, I suggest you take it up with Headmaster Dumbledore. I have urgent business, myself.”

Malfoy glanced at the small girl by her side. “So I see. I merely wised to remind you that my son will be entering Hogwarts this year. I desired that he attend Durmstrang, but his mother,” he gestured elegantly, “she could not abide that he be so distant from home.”

“My sympathies,” McGonagall replied frostilty, “though I fail to see how that concerns me. I somehow doubt that the Malfoy heir would be Sorted into my House.”

“Of course,” his eyes slid again to the small girl, and Hermione gave a brief nod of respect, as her books had recommended. Malfoy’s lips quirked into a slight smirk, as if amused by an inner thought. “I would be most disappointed if he did not enter my former House, though I do not foresee it as a foreseeable issue.”

“I look forward to teaching him,” McGonagall said, “especially if he inherited his attitude as well as his appearance from his father.”

“Give my regards to Severus,” Malfoy said with an imperious tone, one that implied he was through wasting his time. “Merlin knows how he manages to stay at that institution and keep his sanity.”

With those parting words, he majestically strode out of the building, his snake-head cane tapping softly on the tile floor.

“Let us go shop, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said after she visibly restrained her temper.

“Professor?” Hermione asked innocently. “I thought you said that honesty is very important.”

The professor stared at the girl, and then chuckled a bit. “Even the best of us slip at times, especially when provoked. Come on, let’s get your wand from Ollivanders, first.”

Hermione followed, lost in thought. It was obvious that the Lord Malfoy was disliked by some, and that he intimidated most people. She remembered the way the crowd of people in the Alley parted for him, and how the goblin teller obviously wished he had been approached by anyone else.

Lord Malfoy had power, and plenty of it.

McGonagall led her into the dark and dingy shop, where hundreds of boxes sat piled on top of each other wherever she turned. After suffering through incountable seemingly pointless measurements – did she really need the distance between her nostrils measured? – the creepy old man’s ramblings and mutterings, and many failed wavings of wands, he finally paused before a box.

“Could it be? No, how odd… yet perhaps…” He slowly drew out the box, careful to leave the other boxes around it undisturbed, and handed it to the girl.

Hermione frowned slightly at his odd words, exasperated by the long search. She took the box and lifted off the lid, revealing a brown wand the same color as her eyes. Something about it drew her, and she could not look away as her eyes sought to memorize the vein of the wood itself. With a slightly trembling hand, she lifted the wand from its cushion and felt an immediate warmth emanating from it.

She was complete for the first time in her life, as if she had been missing an essential part of her but had never known it.

Hermione threw her arm into the air, and from the tip of the wand flew two turtledoves, one white and the other black, which perched on her shoulders, singing softly.

“Curious, very curious indeed,” mumbled Ollivander. “That wand is 27 and nearly a third centimeters, springy and flexible, made from vine wood. But the core, that is the curious thing.”

“How so?” asked McGonagall sharply as Hermione giggled and pet the two birds.

“I remember every wand in this store, for I made most of them and collected most of the ingredients for them. This particular core is from the heartstring of a rather spectacular female Hungarian Ridgeback, part of a nesting pair that was causing a spot of trouble for a local village there. I remember this in particular, for the dragon handlers managed to surprise the male and put him down, but his mate found his body before long. She was incredibly vicious and put up a great deal of a fight. She managed to chase away all of the handlers, then stood vigil by her dead mate, never sleeping and never eating. The wizards tried once to chase her off or subdue her, but she fought them off.”

“How did you manage to get the heartstring, Mr. Ollivander?” Hermione asked seriously. Even the two birds seemed to follow his every word.

“That is the sad part,” he replied quietly. “The female Ridgeback stood over her dead mate until she starved to death.” He did not tell them how the dragon would nudge her mate in a vain attempt to wake him up, or how she would cry mournfully when he failed to move. Nor did he tell them how no wizard who listened to the great sorrow of the magnificent animal could help but shed tears.

“I took the main artery from the heart of each dragon.”

“What about the other? Was it sold as well?” asked McGonagall.

“Well, ah, I actually do not remember that,” stammered Ollivander. “It has completely slipped my mind. That will be eight Galleons Miss Granger, thank you for coming, and it has been nice to see you again, Minerva. I must return to my work, thank you again.”

With that, he nearly pushed them out of his shop, leaving professor and student slightly stunned.

“Is Mr. Ollivander always that odd?” Hermione asked.

“Mr. Ollivander is quite… eccentric, to be sure, but never have I known him to forget any detail about any wand,” McGonagall answered with a frown. “No matter, we still have much to do. In the spirit of efficiency, we will split up. I will pick up your potion equipment and drop you off at Madam Malkins for your robes. I have to run a quick errand for Hogwarts, so stay at the shop until I return.”

Hermione agreed and was quickly spirited off to the store, where a thin witch with a kind smile directed her onto a small raised platform and began to pin voluminous robes to her frame. At least, they felt voluminous to Hermione, who was used to tight muggle clothes.

In what felt like just a few minutes, Madam Malkin finished the fitting and provided Hermione with her entire Hogwarts kit, shrunk to fit easily into a pocket as a courtesy.

Finished, Hermione went to the window and watched the people go by as she waited for Professor McGonagall. She felt through the outside of her pocket for her wand and stroked it slowly, thoughtfully. Ollivander’s story truly was beautiful, she thought, though she very much wanted to know who possessed the other wand, the partner heartstring. She didn’t know what it meant, if it meant anything, but it was…

“Curious,” Hermione said aloud, echoing Ollivander. Her wand was still slightly warm to the touch even through her pocket, though it was not uncomfortable. She slipped her hand into the pocket to touch it, and when she did, she could almost feel it straining against the denim of her jeans.

Hermione frowned. It actually was straining, pressing against her jeans as if wanting to escape its confines. She turned around to ask the witch if this was common behavior for wands, but it abruptly changed direction, now pressing against her. Experimenting, Hermione turned different directions, and each time her wand continued to press towards a single direction.

She pulled it out and whispered to it, “Where do you want to go? Do you want to find your mate again? I don’t know where he is, wand.” It continued to press insistently. “Alright, we can go look very quickly, but Professor McGonagall will be back soon.”

Hermione did not put her wand back in her pocket, but kept it out low at her side. She waved a cheery thank you and goodbye to the employee in the store, and left the store, following the pull of her wand.

She slowed when she realized that it was pointing insistently towards a side street, a very dark and narrow alley with a shadowed entrance. As if sensing her reticence, the wand pulled harder. Hermione hesitated a touch longer, then sighed. “Just hurry,” she told her wand, and she could almost fool herself into believing that it sighed as well, in exasperation.

Hermione hurried into the dark alley and tried to stay in the shadows, out of sight of the various skulking figures. She felt horribly out of place and was certain that young girls were not supposed to be here, wherever here actually was called. The street was largely deserted, though a few individuals walked quickly to their various destinations, generally one of the few shops that lined the street, though most buildings were dark and looked uninhabited.

All of the people wore robes of muted colors, and many hid their faces in deep cowls. Hermione shuddered when she saw one wild-looking woman selling what seemed to be human fingernails, though she did not want to look very close.

Her wand kept pressing onwards through the twists and turns of the alley, and Hermione felt panic rising. She tried to reason that she would be able to find her way back out, that none of the shady denizens would do anything, that her wand would find what it wanted and let her just go back to Diagon Alley…

“Hello, dearie, need help?” came a hushed voice in her ear. Hermione spun around with a shriek and came face to face with a man in all black and a sharp smile glinting in the dim light.

She backed up against the nearest wall, horror rising up inside of her, as the sinister looking man looked terrifyingly like a vampire. “G-g-get away from me,” Hermione stammered as she raised her wand.

He laughed mockingly, causing another cold spike of fear to run down Hermione’s spine and clutch her gut in an icy grip. What could she do? She knew no magic, no one in the area was even watching the altercation, and she had no way to bargain. Desperate, she lashed out with a fist towards the smirking face.

The man moved in a blink to catch her hand with ease. He shot out his other hand and lowered her wand hand, then moved in even closer. He breathed deeply, his eyes half-lidded, “I do love the scent of an innocent. The terror will make this all the sweeter.”

Hermione closed her eyes, unwilling to meet certain death with eyes open. Help me, Munin! Anyone, please!

She shot them open a second later when she felt the presence gone and heard the heavy thump of a body hitting the ground. The air sizzled with power, and a large blonde man stood threateningly over the fallen body of her attacker, wand pointed at his chest.

“Leave,” uttered her savior, who still had his back to Hermione. “Leave, and you had better hope you never cross my path again if you want to save your worthless hide.” His words cracked like whips in the suddenly cold street.

The man on the ground nodded fervently and scrambled to his hands and knees, then stumbled to his feet and ran off deeper into the alley.

Hermione, able to breathe for the first time in the past few minutes, took a shuddering breath and realized that silent tears ran down her face. She scrubbed them away with a shirtsleeve and was reminded of her wand still in her hand. It was more active than ever, but she shoved it back in her pocket with a whispered, “Shut it, you.”

She took a small step away from the wall towards the man who saved her. “I don’t know what to say, sir,” she said in a small voice, “thank you so much.”

The man swiftly turned on his heel and rounded on the girl. It was Lord Malfoy.

“What were you thinking, you stupid girl?” he spoke low, dangerously, fury evident in every line of his body and every nuance of his words. “How arrogant of you to waltz into Knockturn Alley, without a care in that empty head of yours.” He stalked towards her, driving her back into the wall. “You think that just because you possess a wand, you are accepted? That you are safe?”

Hermione shook her head frantically, unable to speak, even to defend herself.

“What were you thinking?” he asked again, fiery wrath calming into simmering anger. “Where is McGonagall? Why is she not with you now? Answer me, girl!”

It had no effect on Hermione, still paralyzed with shock after the attack, the miraculous appearance of Lord Malfoy, and his subsequent barrage of demanding questions. Tears again ran down her face.

Malfoy sighed harshly, visibly calming himself. He reached out with a hand and grasped her shoulder gently. “Hermione Granger,” he spoke in a low but stern tone, “why did you enter Knockturn Alley?”

Hearing her name brought Hermione back to herself. “I, I didn’t realize, I didn’t know where it was. I was just following my wand; it wanted to go here and I had to follow.”

Malfoy held out his hand. She fumbled in her pocket and took out her wand. It was warmer than ever, and vibrated in her hand, still straining towards the dark shadows of the alley, through Lord Malfoy. She placed it securely in his well-manicured hand and wrapped her arms around herself.

Malfoy turned it over in his hands, studying it. His eyes narrowed in thought and widened in surprise. He tapped it admonishingly a few times, then held it back out for Hermione.

“You shouldn’t let it push you around like that,” he said quietly. “Most wands are quiet, but yours has personality. She will make her opinion heard at times, and if you do not master her, she will control you.”

Hermione nodded her head and took back her wand, for once subdued. “Yes, Lord Malfoy, thank you again,” she said, nearly inaudible. “How do you know that?”

“It is a bit of wand lore, nothing more than that,” he answered brusquely, reverting back to his normal aristocratic attitude now that the girl was answering. “Now answer my earlier question. Where is McGonagall, and where are you supposed to be?”

“She left me at Madam Malkins to get my Hogwarts robes. I was supposed to stay there but my wand,” she shrugged helplessly.

He nodded sharply, and then grabbed her wrist. “You should get back before she notices your absence.”

Malfoy hurried her back towards the entrance to Diagon Alley, taking a different route than Hermione used to come in, but they soon saw the light of the brighter alley.

“Lord Malfoy?” she stopped before they exited. “Why did you save me? I am incredibly grateful, of course, but you had no obligation to do so.”

He stopped as well, staring down his nose at her. “Miss Granger. I have been accused of many things, some of them actually true, but not even I would let an innocent girl be accosted in such a manner as you were, especially as I have a son your age. Though,” he said with a conspiratorial smirk, “I would appreciate it if you would not spread that fact around. I still have a reputation to uphold.”

Hermione smiled slightly and opened her mouth to respond when a loud voice rang out and echoed in the narrow street.

“Lucius Malfoy! How dare you!” McGonagall furiously rushed towards the pair, eyes focused on Malfoy’s hand still firmly gripping Hermione’s wrist. Hermione watched her approach with shock, a small awake part of her brain likening it to a pouncing lioness with hackles raised.

He dropped it and turned to face the encroaching Professor, meeting her vitriol with thinly veiled barbs. He was the hissing cobra to the Professor’s lion, both symbols of their Houses, Hermione realized.

“How dare I what, Deputy Headmistress?” he answered smoothly, dangerously. “For all you know, I was returning the girl to you. Or perhaps not.”

McGonagall snatched Hermione away from Malfoy’s grasp and thrust her towards Diagon Alley, away from Knockturn and the aristocrat.

“I don’t know what dark intentions you have with the girl, Malfoy-”

“Madam, I had no dark intentions with the chit, except to take her where she belongs.” Ignoring the woman sputtering with rage, he elegantly turned on his heel and with a loud crack, he disapparated.

McGonagall turned on Hermione. “How did you end up in the company of that odious man?” she shook with fury.

Hermione was now rather annoyed at the entire situation, and that she kept being yelled at like everything was her fault. Of course, much of it was, but she didn’t need to be told that so many times, and in such loud and demanding voices.

She answered truthfully, “I am not quite sure, Professor. Everything happened so fast. I’m just glad that you’re here now so we can finish our shopping.” It wasn’t technically a lie, Hermione reasoned to herself. She did not see Lord Malfoy actually save her; she had her eyes closed until the very end. And he had told her not to reveal that he helped her.

McGonagall looked at her hard, but seemed to accept her response. “I’m sure that he had something to do with that. Miss Granger, you must be aware of who that man is, and who he represents.” She guided Hermione back into the bustle of Diagon Alley, where she secluded them in a niche in a wall for a private conversation.

“Now, you must not repeat this to anyone, not even to any friends you make in the wizarding world. I would not tell you this if it were not for this incident. If Lucius Malfoy takes an interest in you, you must know his background and what he has done. He is not to be trusted. There are rumors that he is a Death Eater. Do you know what that is?”

Hermione nodded. She had read enough history books to know exactly what they were and who they followed.

“The rumors are absolutely correct, and not only that, but he was the right-hand man of You-Know-Who.” Hermione’s eyes went wide. “I see that you do know and at least somewhat understand the significance of this. He can put on a charming and charismatic face, and he has more than enough wealth to line the pockets of every corrupt politician, which is what kept him out of Azkaban, but he is the most dangerous man alive and out of prison, the moreso because of his political power. He is the de facto leader of all conservative purebloods. Lucius Malfoy controls, Miss Granger. He takes, and he only gives when it suits him and his plans.

“Now, can I trust you to keep this secret? Can I trust you to stay away from him and his son? Draco Malfoy will be a classmate of yours, but like father, like son.”

Hermione nodded fervently, and McGonagall was appeased. “Now, let us finish our shopping quickly and get you back home.”

Hermione’s head was in a spin as she was quickly ushered in and out of the remaining stores. It had been such a stressful day full of emotional highs and lows, from the arrival of her Hogwarts letter and entrance to Diagon Alley, the choosing of her wand and the evil man in Knockturn Alley, and then being saved by Lord Malfoy himself, whom she then was strictly warned off in no uncertain terms.

It did not make sense to her, that he would save her. Why would he plot anything around her? He did not know her, just a lowly muggleborn. No, while she was sure that McGonagall meant well, and that much of the information was correct, Hermione had to believe that Lucius Malfoy was not all bad.

Later in the day, she bid farewell to the professor and told a – highly edited – version of her exploits in Diagon Alley to her parents. They exclaimed over her wand and her tale of golden Gringotts, and of the bookstore packed from floor to ceiling with books on fascinating and alien topics.

She went to bed that night with a full heart, clutching her wand to her chest and feeling the comfortable warmth of it soothe her to sleep.

Hermione awoke in the middle of the night to a quiet pop. The light scent of wood and brandy was present, just barely enough to recognize. She smiled in delight, for it was rare that she was awoken from sleep by her dear mentor.

Sure enough, on her nightstand lay a letter. Hermione grabbed it carefully, eager to read it, but when she opened it, a silver chain fell out of the folds. She picked it up off the floor and studied it in the dim moonlight. It was made with a hundred tiny silver links and sparkled as she twisted it one way and then another. Before she put it in, she picked up the letter to read it.

My dear Hermione,

I heard a most interesting story this evening from an associate of mine who saw a fascinating altercation in Knockturn Alley.

Hermione, I did tell you not to wander about by yourself, did I not? At the first available opportunity, what do you do, but just that. Diagon Alley is safe in the presence of another witch or wizard, but I would not trust your safety in that nefarious place even with Minerva McGonagall.

While I am infuriated at your egregious breach of my trust, for I thought I knew you better than to go gallivanting alone in one of the most dangerous places in London, I will give you a chance to explain yourself.

It had better be very good indeed.

On a somewhat more pleasant note, this escapade of yours gave yours truly a brilliant idea – as they all are, though this one is more brilliant than most. I have taken two identical silver bracelets and charmed them with a modified Protean Charm, along with several others. I have the matching bracelet, of course, and it will warm when you are in danger. I will come to your aid, or if I am somehow detained, I will send a trusted associate. At the moment it sends an alert to my bracelet, it will also send me a brief picture of what you see so that I might be able to find you efficiently.

This bracelet cannot be removed except by yourself. Not even I can remove yours, and you are also unable to be coerced into unclasping it, by anything short of an Imperius. Of course, that qualifies as danger, so I would be alerted regardless.

I urge you to keep it on at all times, even when you sleep. This silver will not weaken with age, nor will it tarnish.

I await your expedient reply – and your comprehensive explanation – with patience, and I remain,

Your Munin


Finished with the letter, Hermione immediately put on the bracelet on her left wrist and watched as the clasp shrunk down until it was the size of a tiny link. She touched it again, and it grew back into its normal size. She grinned as she shrunk it again. Hermione truly loved magic!

Reading through the letter again, the girl resolved to answer the letter the first thing in the morning, and to tell Munin everything about the entire day. He wanted comprehensive? Well, he would definitely get comprehensive.

Hermione smiled, content as she snuggled back into bed, the letter within reach on her stand, her stuffed raven in the crook of an elbow, her wand clutched in her left hand, and her right hand gently caressing the bracelet.

+++

Lucius Malfoy lay in his bed as well that night, though sleep came less easily to him than it did to his communicant. He tossed and turned in his luxurious silk sheets, alone as usual. Narcissa insisted on living in a separate wing from him, and he was only too glad to grant her request, though on nights like these, he almost missed the human contact.

Almost. He was not fond of Narcissa, nor she him.

Perhaps that was why he reached out to the little, babbling, and defiant girl nearly four years prior. The chit was a breath of innocence, untouched by darkness, a clean slate. Even his own son was molded by Narcissa and the demands of pureblood society, even for a child, especially for a scion of the noble House of Malfoy.

Regardless, the step he took tonight, Lucius was not entirely convinced was proper, was essential to the original plan. It was his hope that it would further gain her trust, and it also freed him to approach her in the guise of Munin or even as himself, to establish Lucius Malfoy as a trusted friend of Munin and therefore of Hermione herself.

Still, he had niggling doubts, mostly about his own ability to remain impartial and unbiased when dealing with the girl. Upon seeing her terror-stricken eyes in Knockturn Alley when accosted by that filth, he was out of control and only barely restrained his baser instincts that screamed at him to kill the man. It would have been so easy to do so.

That was nothing, however, compared to when he was initially questioning her, when he looked into her eyes and saw that she was just as afraid of himself as the unknown assailant.

He had wanted nothing more in that moment than to comfort her, to reveal himself as her dear Munin so that she would cease crying, so that his heart, he thought remained reserved for his son alone, would stop clenching with every tear that rushed down her tiny face.

Lucius only hoped that meddling Minerva had not poisoned Hermione too much against himself, against Malfoys in general.

Tomorrow would show. He trusted that the girl would live up to his demands for a “comprehensive” report of the day, including whatever the Hogwarts professor had told her, and hopefully she would include something that would explain the strange connection he felt to her wand, or the fact that his own began vibrating when he held hers.

Lucius Malfoy sighed and turned on his back once more, the new silver bracelet clasped on his right wrist, his left hand gently caressing it as he slid slowly into sweet oblivion.