A/N: At long last, Chapter One, and I should warn you: one, you're probably going to be very confused at the end of this if I've done my job correctly, and two, there is a non-Portkey ship mentioned here along with its subsequent product. Please do not flame me.
However, since some flames can be useful, I was told I had too many twists last time, will attempt to use less twists in story then. Ha! That'll happen.
Carlotta Pinkstone comes from the Wizard of the Month thingy on Ms Rowling's website.
Disclaimer: Still quite sure JKR won't write this, but don't even mildly entertain the thought that I own anything else.
~*~*~*~
12 years later…
~*~*~*~
To Die Young
"Miss Pinkstone, let me get this straight - are you saying that… that the Ministry is-is mishandling Muggle-Wizard relations… even now, eleven years after the war?"
"The Ministry has been going about this entire affair incorrectly for a very long time, long before the Second War began in the first place. There is simply no justifiable reason to keep ourselves from the Muggles. Are we afraid of them?"
"Well, no… but in the name of security…"
"Security…! I believe the Second and the First Wars… as a matter of fact, the many wars throughout our history have proven that the ones we should be afraid of are ourselves. The Dark Lord was a wizard hell-bent on Muggle eradication wasn't he?"
"Harry Potter was a wizard…"
"You know what I mean, but there is a prime example. Harry Potter was raised by Muggles, more than that, his mother was Muggle-born. His Muggle family knows about magic, and if we have the families of those like his mother knowledgeable of magic and our ways, why can't we allow the wider Muggle community knowledgeable of us too? It all comes back to the same question, are we afraid of them? And then, if not, what is the Ministry trying to do, to-to hide?"
"We also have, in our history, the Spanish Inquisition, the Salem Witch Trials in the United States… examples of what happens when Muggles find out about us…"
"Those things belong to history, and none of us were actually harmed. The Muggle world is vastly different now. I firmly believe they would be much more capable at handling this knowledge now than their predecessors."
"Are you familiar with the Daily Prophet exposé on the Muggles who raised Harry Potter…? The treatment meted out to him was… appalling."
"Not all Muggles are like them…"
With a "click", the programme of the Wizard Wireless Network fell into silence and with it the house. Despite the rainstorm barrelling without, the stillness that followed that one action resonated.
Of course, any mention of Harry nowadays would be greeted by a solemn quiet. Respect for the dead they called it, to her, the mark of failure, and shame.
Sinking into her armchair at the window again, Hermione drew aside the curtains and looked out at the darkened midday sky. If it were not for the clock on the mantel one would not be able to tell.
The wind howled horribly as it thrashed the trees and flower bushes round the house, forcing them to bow under the assault. Fat raindrops, already hammering the roof and windows, sent the water-logged earth into a dirty, frenzied dance. Ever so often, brilliant flashes of light tore through the darkened heavens to the cowering earth, to be followed by the roof-rattling drum calls of the weather at war. A late summer tempest it could be called, were it not that summer had long passed weeks before.
She let the curtain fall back into place and sighed, the guests would be arriving shortly. This was weather fit for neither man nor beast, but still the guests would be coming. After all, what was a little rain to wizards? And better still, on her birthday?
She sighed again as she thought of that, and looked around the living room to distract her thoughts.
Neat, pristine, pastel colours, portraits, lace curtains, a few balloons (Ron's idea) and a banner handmade by Caspar - now curled up asleep on the nearby sofa - it was ready for the party, and looked right out of a Muggle home-making magazine. Its simple extravagances though - the antique lighting, picture frames, ornaments - and oddities - strange, ancient tomes in the shelves, a bowl of "ash" above the fireplace, a grandfather clock in the corner that didn't tell the time - gave it an air of expensive taste, and witchcraft, that was very Hermione Granger-Krum.
Well, at least she liked to think it was every other day of the year.
On her birthday, like today, Hermione Granger did not really like it at all.
This was the home of the young widow of star Bulgarian Quidditch player Viktor Krum and their son, Caspar. A manor house in Wiltshire, it was a step down from the larger castle-like home they had in Bulgaria. This was where she had fashionably retreated after her husband's tragic death in a Quidditch match two years prior. This was where she intended to start over, already in training to become a Healer at St Mungo's, and raise her son, alone. This was where she greeted and entertained friends, reporters, and relations. This was where she mourned.
But it was not hers, not the way she wanted it.
If she had her way, this house would be far smaller, cosier, and in a less high-profile neighbourhood. (Draco Malfoy lived just down the street in the renovated Malfoy Manor; the press couldn't believe their luck.) If she had her way, she would already be a Healer, have more control over who came and went, and Caspar would not be constantly talking of Quidditch. (Not that she would ever be able to control that, but he would spend a little more time with his books.) If she had her way she probably would not have even married Krum in the first place, and her son would not be as fluent in Bulgarian as he was in English. (Not that learning a foreign language was a bad thing.) If she had her way, those two on the WWN, the reporter and Ms Carlotta Pinkstone, would be speaking differently when it came to Harry.
If she had her way, Harry would be alive.
Well, not alive… okay, yes alive… but here, before her, visible, where she could see him. If she could have just one thing, just one little thing her way, she wanted that. She wanted him to be alive and here on her birthday waiting impatiently for Ron and the others to arrive for the party.
But she couldn't have that as much as she couldn't have those other things now.
Another crash of thunder, Caspar stirred uncomfortably in his sleep; she looked to him worriedly for a moment, and then turned to the clock on the mantel.
In less than an hour they would begin to arrive for the small gathering in honour of her becoming thirty-two. Of course, by definition "small" actually translated to "mildly large" when one knew the Weasleys. Coming through that fireplace would be Mr and Mrs Weasley; Bill and Fleur and their children, Louis, Françoise and Antoinette, (the eldest son, Philippe was off at Hogwarts); Charlie and his wife, Michelle; Percy was still an outcast so he didn't count; Fred and Angelina, and their son Christian; George and his daughter Victoria; Ron and Luna and their son Henry (called Harry), and finally, Ginny and her fiancée, Neville. With all nineteen of them she doubted there would be standing room, or that she would be able to find Caspar after a while.
That brought an unwilling smile to her face that swiftly fell away a moment later. She should be more grateful that they were coming at all.
When she was the wife of Viktor Krum birthdays were spent being thoroughly pampered in Bulgaria, which, though she loved, made her miss them even more. She wasn't a prisoner, she could have left the house anytime she wished, but she just… didn't. And then her in-laws and his publicists and the constant press for his fame and hers… they all combined, almost conspired against her movement. When he died she confined herself here, change of situation and environment, but same old imprisonment.
This was the first time since he died that she was seeing anyone outside of her little world of the house, Caspar's school and St Mungo's.
But then, more than that, Harry would never have been ungrateful for them. He, more than her, deserved to have them coming to a party today.
And this brought her back to before, with the silence: failure and shame.
She, they, all had failed to save him in the end. They could have, should have done more to help him than they did but they didn't. Mrs Weasley had told her that she had been sick for a very long time, a period Harry had spent alone searching for the Horcruxes and surviving Death Eater attacks. Not only that, but the Ministry continued to pursue him, slandering him when they couldn't get their way and more than once threatened his arrest for endangering them.
If she had been there, instead of recovering from the wounds of an attack she should have been more vigilant about after Ron got hurt, he would not have endured that alone. She might even have been able to stop them altogether, somehow.
But she hadn't.
So now, like them, she had to endure that sense of failure: no Harry to celebrate her birthday with, no hero for them to laud… and to feel that shame.
If only, if only, everyday she repeated the same phrase, if only… he would be here now.
She was pathetic, she mourned for Harry more than her own husband.
Just then a particularly sonorous crack of thunder echoed through the silent house, and Caspar woke suddenly, "Mummy…?"
Hermione turned her attention back to her son just as the small, dark-haired, dark-eyed boy left the sofa and climbed into her arms in the armchair. She secured him there, and absently stroked his hair a while, still staring listlessly into the fireplace.
He let her do it for a while, his fright ebbing slowly, and then spoke, "Mummy, smile, today is your birthday."
Her little champion, so very perceptive of her moods… she smiled immediately.
He was not convinced.
"Mum, are you thinking about Daddy or Harry again?" he asked.
She looked down at him and kissed his forehead, ignoring the question.
She knew she would regret telling him about Harry, and how he had disappeared - twenty years old, rushing off into the forest to fight Voldemort, scared, alone… - the day she did it. Whenever she went off into her thoughts he would always mention him or his father, and the latter with a tinge of sadness. He somehow got the idea into his head that she must have cared for this Harry as much as she did his father.
He was a very precocious little boy.
But then too, it must have had something to do with little Henry Weasley. When she heard Ron call him "Harry" in the background for the first time, the other day, while she was talking to Luna in the fireplace, her breath had caught in her throat. Luna, ever perceptive as well, noticed this and called her son - a red-haired, turquoise-blue eyed and freckled boy of Caspar's age - to meet her. The difference in physical appearance was a relief but she would never get used to his nickname.
And all the while Caspar had been sitting nearby, appearing to read, and had not missed a thing. What was she going to do with him?
He asked again, moving his head away from her and turning so that he looked straight into her eyes, "Mummy, were you thinking about Harry or Daddy? You shouldn't do that if it makes you sad."
She gave him a weak smile and said, "I'm a very stupid woman, Caspar, I can't help it sometimes."
"No, you're not. You're a very smart person, that's what everyone says, that you're a very, very smart person and you're my Mum. And if thinking about them makes you sad then you should stop," he declared.
Why was it that he at times acted more like Harry while strongly resembling - with the exception of the nose and feet - Viktor?
A brilliant flash of lightening darted across the sky outside the window and Caspar became an ordinary child again and dove into her embrace for safety, wrapping his arms tightly round her body. She put hers around him as well, and said, "Why don't we listen to the radio again so we won't hear the storm?"
Caspar nodded at once; she reached over to the small radio on the end table and switched it on.
And immediately she regretted it.
"Today was the first day of trial for Nicolas King, the fifth young man to date to claim to be Harry Potter. Using Polyjuice Potion brewed with strands of hair, illegally obtained from so-called associates of the Chosen One; he practically fooled his way to the doorstep of the Weasleys. A slip then was when he was finally caught."
"Ronald Weasley, best friend of Harry Potter, was quoted as saying, `When will you lot just give it a rest? Hermione and my family and I really don't need this.'
He was of course, referring to Hermione Granger, widow of Bulgarian Quidditch star, Viktor Krum, and also the friend of Mr Potter. Mrs Krum has been living in virtual seclusion since her husband died in an accident at a Quidditch match in Bulgaria's qualifying game two years ago. Prior to this, she was even more elusive for interviews about a rumoured relationship with Mr Potter. On a lighter note for her, today is her thirty-second birthday and we here, at the news centre of the WWN, would like to wish her a very Happy Birthday!"
Caspar freed himself from her and said, in his usual grown-up manner - adopted since his father's death - "See Mum, they want you to smile too, so are we going to enjoy ourselves when everyone comes?"
He conveniently ignored everything else mentioned in the broadcast. She gave him another smile, forcing herself to make it convincing.
"Okay, that's better," he told her, then continued, "Now can they come already, I want to give you my present."
This made her smile genuine, and she teasingly asked, "What is it? Why don't you give it to me now?"
He firmly shook his head, "No, I want everyone to see it too."
"But isn't it for me?" she asked, curious.
"Yes, but they helped me, I met Mrs Weasley (he pronounced it `mistress') at school last week. She told me to call her `Grandma', and then I told her about your birthday and she said she had an idea and wanted my help, so I helped her," he said.
"You met Mrs Weasley at school, and she asked you to call her `Grandma'? My, aren't you a lucky little boy, you get another grandmother… but you still have to tell me what it was or I'll tickle you," she warned with a grin.
He returned it, "My lips are sealed."
"Are you sure?" she asked mischievously, then wrapped her arms round his little body and proceeded to rapidly run her fingers around his waist and under his arms.
He began to laugh and shriek, twisting in her arms under the assault, and declared, "I'll - never - tell! Stop that Mummy!"
She plainly refused.
~*~*~*~
Stepping out of the billowing emerald flames of the Floo Network in the fireplace, still tightly holding onto his son's arm, Ron declared, "Oy there! Is this the house of one Mrs Viktor Krum?"
There was some shuffling in the direction of the kitchen, voices whispering, though one said loudly, "They're here!" Then there was the clatter of cutlery, a door swung open and out into the living room stepped, for the first time in two years, Hermione, and her son.
For the fact that they hadn't seen each other in so long, Ron couldn't help but be surprised that he recognised her immediately. Then again, this was her house, Hermione hadn't changed much - same mass of bushy brown hair, same bright brown eyes - and she practically ran into his arms, exclaiming, "Oh Ron, do you know how long Caspar and I have been waiting for you, why do you have to drag your feet everywhere?"
"Can't help it, residual condition called `Drive-Hermione-Starkers' from school, not likely to go away soon," he replied cheekily, and grinning. She rolled her eyes and he continued, "Anyway, why does your birthday have to be on a Monday? I practically had to beg McGonagall to let me go, the French transfer students are coming on Friday."
"French transfer students?" asked Hermione, arching an eyebrow and finally releasing him.
"Yep, from Beauxbatons like Fleur, and with my luck they'll probably end up in Ravenclaw too. Remember when they came in Fourth Year and sat at their table? Anyway, I hope they're not swots like you, one in a generation is good enough for me!" he said in mock exasperation.
She aimed a kick at his shin, and then spotted the boy beside him, his son Harry.
Henry Weasley was going to be as tall as his father someday, that she hadn't noticed from the fireplace, but she could see it now. He resembled Ron strongly, but had his mother's influence here and there, including the slightly dreamy look in his eyes. But unlike his father, or his mother for that matter, he was dressed practically normal. No hand-me-downs, no butterbeer cap necklaces… just jeans and a Weasley jumper and clutching a paper bag tightly behind his back.
Ron re-introduced them, "Hermione, meet Henry Arthur Weasley, or just Harry for short, in the flesh. Harry, meet Mrs Hermione Krum."
She extended a hand, the boy took it and gave a firm handshake, "It's nice to meet you again, Mrs Krum."
"Its Hermione Granger now and it's very nice to meet you again too… Harry…" she said, smiling down at him.
A slight coughing in the background alerted her attention to her son - not at all wanting to be left out and at the same time pretending to be all grown-up. She released Harry's hand, and walked back to where Caspar stood. Drawing him forward timidly, she introduced him to Harry.
"Harry Weasley, this is my son Caspar Anton Krum. Caspar, I know you saw him before, but in the flesh, this is Harry Weasley."
The boys met each other in the middle ground between their parents and shook hands. Harry then released his package to Caspar, who opened it at once, drawing out two jumpers: a larger periwinkle-blue one (like her Yule Ball dress robes) for his mother, and a smaller, blood-red one for himself. Caspar said a muted, "Thanks," and then turned to look at his mother, as if asking permission to wear it.
She had a feeling he wasn't too keen on the colour. The Durmstrang Institute, no matter how much they and his paternal grandparents discussed his entrance, would definitely never see the face of her son.
She nodded; he handed hers over and then said to Harry, "Do you like Quidditch?"
The boy's eyes widened as if incredulous at this question, "Of course I do, everyone in my does!"
"Want to see my collection?" asked Caspar, suddenly exuberant at the prospect of a playmate. She had forgotten to mention what a Quidditch-loving family the Weasleys were, she had also forgotten that he must be rather lonely here with her alone too. She stifled her envy.
"You have a collection on Quidditch?" asked Harry, and then his excitement faded slightly, "Oh yeah…"
He just remembered that he was talking to the son of Viktor Krum; of course he would have some sort of Quidditch collection.
Caspar ignored this, pulled the blood-red jumper with a large "C" on the chest, over his head, and said, "Come on, I'll show you!"
Both boys took off out of the room without waiting for parental permission. A second later though, they were back and Harry quickly told his father, "When Louis and Christian come, can you tell them where I am?"
Ron highly amused at his excitement, asked, "What about the girls, don't you want them to come to?"
The lack of jubilance at this question plainly told him that he didn't and the boys took off again. Ron laughed, "Some things will never change, I used to do that to Ginny, and trouble is there are more girls this time."
"Oh yes, I heard from Luna, Françoise, Antoinette and Victoria, your mother must be happy… um, where's Luna?" asked Hermione, looking back at the fireplace where the flames were dying to a small fire.
Left alone with him for the first time since the funeral, she found herself strangely uncomfortable. This was the same Ron, gangly, blue-eyed, red-haired and freckled, but somehow… well, she hadn't seen him in so long she couldn't expect them to be like they were back in Hogwarts.
He failed to notice a thing.
"She's coming with the rest of them - Mum insisted on bringing food - I told her you would have but she said that you shouldn't be cooking on your birthday… of course, I know you don't like sugar so I'm glad she is actually…" he told her grinning widely.
"Funny, very funny," she replied, and then noticed that he had an arm behind his back, "What's that you got there?"
Ignoring her, he asked, "So, how are you and Caspar doing here in Wiltshire, nobody's bothering you right, like that git Malfoy, Witch Weekly said something about him sniffing around your house?"
"We're doing fine, I haven't seen Malfoy, and why are you reading Witch Weekly? But what's that?" she asked, now coming over and trying to look behind him.
As he was several inches taller than her, and a bit larger, he managed to keep the contents of his hand hidden, while reaching the other to cup and look over her face and then declare, "Hey, no wrinkles yet, what kind of son are you raising? No worries, we'll cure him of that, one minute with Fred and George and he'll be a normal boy again."
"Stop it, I want to know what you've got in your hand," she protested and then began to reach behind him.
"Don't you want to know how I'm doing as a teacher in the `cursed seat' at Hogwarts?" he asked, referring to his position as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
"How's your career Ron? Fine? Wonderful, now what's that?" she asked shortly, and pushed him aside so that he raised his hands in the air… Just as Luna, Ginny, Fleur and Mrs Weasley emerged from the fireplace, followed by a gaggle of loud children and the Weasley men, including Neville.
Ginny took the object from his grasp and handed it to Hermione, "Here, ignore the git… nice to see you again, finally, Hermione! How have you been? Happy Birthday!"
And she was swallowed by a red, and blonde, tide, but not before catching the look of disappointment on Ron's face. She smirked at him, and then turned to her visitors, each greeting, hugging, kissing and introducing various children.
It took her more than ten minutes to finally greet all of them, and their children - the reddish-blonde, blue-grey eyed Louis, and mulatto Christian took off the second they had met her and Ron managed to shout over the others that Harry was upstairs with Caspar - and receive their various gifts. She barely noticed the absence of Angelina, Michelle and George's wife Alicia, formerly Spinnet. She was forced into her Weasley jumper by Ron, and once her hands were free of gifts, had to lead Mrs Weasley to the kitchen to set out the food. When she came back, she was made to open Ron's present before they could properly settle into their seats, and laughed at the sight of it.
It was Gilderoy Lockhart's comeback novel, having finally miraculously recovered from the effects of the Memory Charm and informed of his former fame (much to Ron's chagrin), Memories in Magic.
She looked up at Ron and said in her best fan-girl voice, "Memories in Magic by Gilderoy Lockhart, however did you get a copy?"
"Mock it all you want," said Ron seriously, though his eyes betrayed internal delight, "but you better read it. I paid good money on that git, I remember you liked him."
"That was Second Year, Ron, if it wasn't for you and H…" she stopped at once and the strange, awkward silence descended.
It only lasted a second though, for Ron quickly said, "Don't worry about it, just read it, okay? Now to the more important questions, everyone here wants an answer, are you dating Draco Malfoy?"
"Ron!" scolded his mother, Hermione laughed and the others took turns shaking their heads, sighing or laughing too.
Feeling playful then, she replied, "Actually I am, we've been going out for quite some time now as a matter of fact…"
"What?" Ron practically roared, and this time she laughed so hard tears came to her eyes. It was an almost perfect replica of his reaction when she naively announced her engagement to Krum in the Three Broomsticks years before.
With this happy company then, it didn't take long for Hermione to forget her earlier musings. She really hadn't seen them in so long that she barely waited for a question to be answered before asking another, and vice versa. Everyone wanted to know how she was doing, what was her relationship with Krum's family, where was Caspar going to go to school; Mrs Weasley focused on her health, dreams and such… she felt as if it were another interview, but this time she got answers too.
Bill was now head of the Curse-Breakers Department in Gringotts bank; Fleur was working elsewhere in the Accounts and Customer Relations with much improved English still heavily accented by her French, their children were fine.
Charlie had married relatively recently and had a home in Romania and was only visiting now. Mrs Weasley looked less than pleased at this but refrained from comment. Ron beside barely contained his amusement.
Fred and George had expanded their business internationally, and were willing to offer Caspar discounts on their products, (Hermione politely refused) while Angelina played Quidditch with Puddlemere United, and Alicia, worked at their company headquarters.
She knew of Ron's position, and Luna was editor of The Quibbler while her father managed from home. She would never admit to Luna that the only paper she and Caspar read nowadays was The Quibbler; the others were at times to difficult to get through.
Ginny worked in the Auror Department at the Ministry, Neville operated a business that supplied St Mungo's with various magical plants for their medical and potions work, and they were going to marry on New Year's Day.
At this Ginny flashed her ring, Hermione beamed at her, and took care to twist hers inwards. Krum had been less than modest about it, Ginny's paled in comparison.
The one thing she could be glad for though was that Ginny appeared so happy. Hermione couldn't remember much in those first foggy days after Harry disappeared - she had been delirious, gone rushing in after him and was later found lying on the forest floor almost catatonic - but she did remember Ginny's somewhat lost expression.
It had mirrored hers perfectly.
She was better now, moved on, that was good for her… Hermione doubted she ever could again.
Mr and Mrs Weasley were in happy retirement, missed her dearly and demanded (Mrs Weasley that is) that she let them watch Caspar while she worked instead of the nanny who came over during the week.
Hermione reluctantly agreed, but she was only pretending. She couldn't let them know how thrilled she was at the prospects for him… or for her.
She began to tell them about her move to England, raising Caspar alone and the press… when Caspar suddenly came bounding down the stairs followed by the three Weasley boys.
The girls, who had been sitting nearby listening to the adults talk, looked up at them as if surprised they were there. Fleur's elder daughter, Françoise, narrowed her eyes at them; they pretended not to see her.
Caspar then, didn't even bother to ask permission before dropping into her lap a carefully wrapped box. She looked to him confused a moment, then remembered his earlier mention of a present, and smiled. She carried this on to Mrs Weasley, who was quietly beaming at her as well, and tore off the wrapping.
A few tense moments later, and Hermione was holding a plain, white photo album. Her confusion returned, she opened it carefully and nearly shut it again at once.
As in many Wizard photographs, this one was filled with moving pictures. The people within were looking up at her, smiling, grinning, talking amongst themselves or even sleeping. This did not startle her, Hermione was a witch, and she knew these things. What did startle her was the fact that in each and every one of those photographs, and on every page, was Harry Potter.
She was not sure that she recognised these pictures, though they were all from the war, apparently taken at the Burrow and Grimmauld Place. She was there, or Ron sometimes, but mostly Harry, everywhere, messy black hair, vivid green eyes, lightening bolt scar, tall, skinny young man… Harry, Harry, Harry. And all at once she felt that old shame and failure again.
They'd failed to save him; they should have done more… if only, if only, if only.
She concealed this from the others though, as she carefully closed it and smiled up at Mrs Weasley and her son, saying, "Thank you very much, it's lovely."
Mrs Weasley had a strange look on her face though, and absently replied, "Happy Birthday, dear."
Caspar, for once, missed her discomfort, "Happy Birthday Mum, I'm glad you like it."
He enveloped her in an embrace, and Hermione was thankful for it. The tender mother-child moment was the perfect excuse to cry.
~*~*~*~
In another room of the house, while the others now began to comfort Hermione, curious at her tears - Ron glared at his mother's back, and Caspar looked lost - a delivery was being made.
Coming through the storm, dripping wet, carried on the wind and exhausted at the weight of its delivery, the small, brown barn owl flew through a half-opened window in the study and landed on the table of gifts already there. But there wasn't a human present to free it of its load or supply a treat, and the absence of a cage indicated that no one in the house owned an owl.
The owl shook off the water in its feathers, slightly miffed.
It waited for a few moments, hooted twice and then realised that no one was coming. It shook its feathers dry again and then began to peck at the binds holding the package to its leg. The twine immediately snapped under the sharp beak, and the owl hooted once more for good measure.
Still no response, it hopped off the table and flew out of the window into the stormy afternoon.
The package, upset by its sudden departure, toppled off the table to the floor with the address facing up.
"To: Hermione Granger-Krum
Northbridge Manor,
Wiltshire, England"
"From: Amaranthe Montgomery,
Courtenay House,
Nice, France"
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