Hermione would have a reccuring dream about two strangers that were definitely not her parents.
Hermione was here again. She watched as the woman screamed, face scrunching up in pain, giving one last push. The mediwitch (Hermione assumed, from the green robe the woman was wearing) gently held the baby in her arms, as it whimpers before bursting out crying. A man with golden hair, tan skin and golden eyes bursts in the room, panic written on his face.
"-- -- -- ? " She heard the man say, yet she couldn't figure out what exactly he's saying. The woman turns to him, a tired smile on her lips, she motions the mediwitch for her child, and beckons the man to her.
"---- ----- ---, " the woman says, and Hermione strains her ear in an effort to make sense of it. The language seems familiar, it feels like she should know it.
The man runs a hand through his hair, golden eyes watching the his wife and child adoringly. He reaches out and gently pats the baby's brown hair, the baby, seemingly sensing her father, opens her eyes to reveal golden eyes, identical to her father.
He gasps softly, eyes widening a fraction, before he smiled. The baby babbles, reaching out her tiny to wrap around her father's much bigger finger. "Hermione, that is your name."
That would be the first time Hermione understood the language they were talking in, and she was confused. He had called the baby Hermione, but it's definitely not her, she doesn't have golden eyes, and the baby's hair was lighter than hers and she surely doesn't remember her parents being a golden haired man and a brunette woman with wavy hair.
I LOVE that!! Omg Apollo Anonnnn 🥺
I imagine there's a scene where Fleur brings the golden trio to her home, to the Veela clans to have dinner with her family. Hermione wanted to go because she's searching for answers, and she knows that the closest way she can get to getting those answers is through the Veela. Fleur agrees, and tries to tell her everything, slowly. She doesn't want to overwhelm Hermione. But during dinner, Fleur's mother brings up the topic of marriage, and something about how the veela used to sire powerful children with the gods, an ancient tradition dating back to the dawn of humankind.
"Mamon, please," Fleur hisses at her mother, once she's sure they're both out of sight, safe in the pantry, and away from the motley group that is The Golden Trio. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are sitting awkwardly at their lavishly decorated dining room, with her father making a poor attempt at offering entertainment. Fleur's eyes are wild, barely able to conceal the panic and worry beating wildly against her chest. "It is out of the question. Do not bring it up again."
But her mother remains nonchalant, gracefully unfazed and thoroughly prepared for her daughter's reaction. She waves a lazy hand, as though she were merely swatting a fly out of the way. She shoos one of the cooks out of the kitchen with another wave, and takes on the menial task of chopping parsley.
Her silence only lights the fury simmering underneath Fleur's ribcage. Fleur has to lean the back of her hip against the counter, running a shaky hand through her hair. A hopeless attempt to soothe her own nerves.
Her mother doesn't even look up as she continues to finely chop fresh ingredients. The fact that it was an excessive task didn't seem to faze her at all. She merely continues adding it to the pile. "You know it would come to this eventually. Forgive me for being pragmatic."
"Pragmatic?! Mamon, nothing about this is right," Fleur whispers angrily. "Hermione does not even want to believe what she is. She has no idea what she is capable of. What she can do. What will happen when, or if, the world finds out."
Apolline scoffs. "You speak of her as though she is a child."
"She is," Fleur almost growls.
Apolline waves her off again. The rhythmic beat of the knife tapping against the chopping board feels like a thundering staccato underneath Fleur's chest. Hermione can't know. Hermione doesn't need to know. Not now. Not when so many things are still at stake.
"The woman I spoke with earlier is no child," Apolline responds.
"She is of age," Apolline shrugs delicately. Then, she places the knife down, quietly meeting Fleur's eyes with a ferocity that betrays the calmness of her voice. "And in this world, that is enough. Time waits for no one, Fleur. And we have waited long enough. This story is not about a girl losing the final threads of her childhood. This is about a god, reaching for her destiny. And with it, ours."
There's also like a kind of parallel to that, like there's a parallel between the Veela and the Purebloods, light vs dark, upholding ancient traditions, and all that. It's pretty obvious that in a situation like this, they both believe that they're in the right. I imagine there's probably a scene like this, where Hermione struggles even more to see where that line of right and wrong ends. Just when she was starting to embrace her heritage, Bellatrix gets in her head and messes things up.
The cell is cold, damp, and dark. Hermione is hunched in the far corner of the cell, wandless, dirty, bruised, and frighteningly alone. She closes her eyes, exhales a shaky breath, and feels a quiet thrum of something rush through her veins. It feels as though her body is patching itself up, stitching every open wound, mending every fractured bone. She is aware that not every person can do what she can, a realization that sunk in quickly as an anchor against the thrashing sea, the moment she was flung from the girls' bathroom in first year, when the nurse assumed she had healed her more serious injuries on her own. She didn't. In fact, she barely needed to lift a finger.
And now, Hermione was sure of it. It would do no good to deny it even further. The blood coursing through her veins were not her own, but that of a god. The blood of Apollo. Healing and disease. Order and harmony. Truth and prophecy.
The door to the basement opens forcefully with a metallic groan. Harsh footsteps echo inside the prison cell, the sounds of heels clacking against solid, wet concrete. Thud. The door closes with equal force.
"Get up," a voice snarls. There is a figure that stands just outside of the light coming from the cracks against the stonewall, face cloaked in total darkness. Hermione doesn't need to see the woman's face to know who it is. Bellatrix Lestrange. The dark witch responsible for her capture and torture. She and Hermione are separated by the rusty metal bars of the prison cell. Bellatrix stands outside. Hermione remains hunched in the corner.
"I said, get up." Bellatrix kicks one of the bars, rust coming off in tiny flecks of dust. "I know you can hear me, you filthy mudblood."
Hermione locks her jaw, her clenched palms trembling with barely repressed fury. "Don't call me that," she mutters lowly.
Bellatrix raises an eyebrow, standing at her full height. She regards Hermione's pitiful figure with measured scorn, only the barest hint of satisfaction from getting a desired reaction. "Is that not what you are? A disgusting mudblood, a pitiful excuse of a witch. You deserve to burn just for breathing the same air as I do."
At this, Bellatrix growls and starts shaking the prison bars. "ANSWER ME!"
Bellatrix lets go of the bars and collects herself, her face a measured picture of calm. But it is her voice that betrays her. "I see," she says mockingly. "You already know what you are, don't you?" She slowly starts to pace in front of the cell, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. "You already know what you're capable of," Bellatrix whispers, the condescending tone of her voice never faltering. "But you refuse to believe it. You hate yourself for it. You hate that a part of you already believes—already knows with frightening clarity. You hate everything that you stand for because you think you're better than that. Think you're nobler than that—that everything you have, is everything you've earned," Bellatrix flashes her a menacing grin. "But you can't run from it, no. Because everyone already knows what you are."
Hermione represses a shiver, but she doesn't grant the other woman the satisfaction of a reaction any more than that.
But Bellatrix isn't done, far from it. She hums, low and throaty before baring her teeth. "You know what you are, pet. But do you know what they are?"
Hermione stills, imperceptibly so. Somehow, it's something that the other witch catches, and she zones in on it like a crack in a wall of glass.
Bellatrix whispers, "Do you know what the Veela are?" Her eyes are wild, pupils mirroring the darkness of the prison cell. "They're just like you before you found your prophecy. Just like you. They think they're better than everyone, fooling themselves and everyone around them, shielding the rest of the world of a grotesque heritage,” Bellatrix pauses. “Have you ever thought to just ask? Have you ever wondered why they’re suddenly so keenly aware of your existence? Lavishing you with unspeakable gifts and unwavering adoration? Worshipping the filthy soil your feet touches?”
Hermione speaks through a clenched jaw. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She thinks of Fleur’s kindness, her enduring patience, and her endless compassion for Hermione’s struggles. She thinks of the wisdom behind Fleur’s eyes, and her fierce determination to remind Hermione that the things she had achieved isn’t just because of the blood flowing in her veins–it was the culmination of who she is and what she strives to be.
Bellatrix’s smile only stretches wider. “Don’t I? Do you want me to tell you, girl, what they really are? Why they were left here by those so-called gods?” She spits the word with every ounce of hatred she can muster.
Hermione finally looks at the dark witch, a storm swirling in her pupils. “Stop,” she grits out.
Bellatrix ignores her, stepping closer to the prison cell. There’s a manic look of satisfaction in her eyes, and an eager readiness to capture a brewing storm. “They are whores, pet. Playthings of the gods. They were left here a reminder of the gods’ vanity, a relic of their narcissism and adulterous conquests–their sins. Proof that the gods were just as volatile, just as flawed, and just as human as we are.”
Hermione is on her feet in an instant, grabbing the bars of her prison cell with a grip so tight that the jagged edges start poking through her own flesh. “I said STOP!” she growls. “You have no idea what they are!” A tremor shakes the prison cell, Malfoy Manor along with it, and a few stones tumble from the walls.
Bellatrix pauses only a fraction to awe at the display of raw power. And she continues, ferociously speaking over the way the manor shivers. “They think they are better than us, better than The Cause, that everything they are stands against everything we seek to accomplish,” the words tumble out of Bellatrix's lips in a manic frenzy. “They’re wrong. Because you, pet–they believe you are the key to their supposed salvation.”
“I SAID STOP IT!” Manor Malfoy shakes uncontrollably, like a trembling volcano simmering to the fury stirring inside Hermione’s chest.
Bellatrix cackles, a gyrating sound to Hermione’s ringing ears, and takes a step back, pulling out her crooked wand, her dark eyes locked on the shaking ceiling with unbridled glee. She got what she wanted.
Suddenly, the door opens, and inside storms Narcissa Malfoy with panicked strides. “Bellatrix!” she hisses.
Hermione releases the bars so quickly, as though she were gripping molten metal. She turns her back towards the two dark witches, hugging herself, and breathing in quick gasps. She wills her body to stop trembling, but it is a futile attempt. She looks at her hands. Her own blood seeps through her palms from the viselike grip, but the torn flesh mends itself just as quickly. Hermione swallows bitterly. It was even more evidence, she knew–more flames that fanned the dark witch's demented postulations.
Narcissa pauses at the center of the room, eyes never leaving the prisoner, with brows drawn together in a way that almost looks like fear. Her voice is a quiet whisper when she speaks to her sister without looking away from the girl in the cell. “What did you tell her?”
Bellatrix responds with a sinister hum, “The truth.”
