Sang Sacré

Chapter 1

November 7 was circled on a calendar situated neatly in the center of a mahogany desk. At the top in black print read the year 1981. Various appointments were scattered in the boxes, all written in French.

"Darling, it's time," a man's voice called, startling the woman at her spot gazing out the window. One hand raised, fingertips ghosting over the cold glass as she glanced at the grounds of their estate for the last time. It had already started to fog.

"I am going to miss our home," she responded softly, her eyes glued to the treeline that separated the house from the lake that lay beyond. Long grass swayed in the cool breeze, ruffling the rows of lavender and peonies that filled the gardens off the veranda. Tended to with magic, they bloomed year-round. The flora near the house was well lit and clearly visible from her spot at the window. The flowers and long grass were now bathed in the warm glow that could only come from fire.

A pause, then a slow sigh. Footsteps came to a stop directly behind her, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The man placed his hand at her lower back.

"Camille, we don't have much time. We've been planning for months, the time has come. You know that I wish it didn't come to this."

The heat inside the house was reaching its peak. It would overcome the estate soon. Support beams on the other side of the first level were losing their battles with the flames, crashing to the floors as walls caved in around them. The floor beneath them shook with each fallen beam. Camille wiped some sweat off her forehead with her sleeve and took a deep breath.

The ceiling above them creaked and groaned, beginning to succumb to the flames overtaking it. Camille turned, forcing herself to face her husband, cradling a small bundle in her arms. She met his eyes before they both looked downwards.

"She deserves better. No matter what happens, Richard, we protect her and keep her safe. She will be spared from this life."

In her arms, a small child was bundled and sleeping peacefully, somehow completely oblivious to the destruction falling around them. Chestnut curls framed her face. Almost as if she had sensed the arrival of her father, a small hand moved from the blankets and reached for his finger.

"Amelia Hermione Grenier Nott, you will now be known as Hermione Granger," Richard stated, smiling softly at the smaller hand wrapped completely around his pointer finger. His eyes returned to his wife, who was staring, resigned, back at him.

The man looked once more around his study and grabbed the book laying out on the desk to the left. Returning to the woman, he pulled a cloth out of his pocket and pulled back the fabric to expose a small thimble.
"Together," he whispered, all too aware that the flames were now licking up the door to the study.

"Together," she responded.

The couple both touched the thimble at the same time and spun away from their estate as the ceiling caved in.

Hermione Granger wrenched her head upwards, gasping for air like she had re-emerged from a dive underwater. Her hands were clutching a stone bowl on the table in front of her so hard that her knuckles appeared white.

Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest she feared her ribcage would break open. This can't be happening, oh Merlin, this is NOT happening.

"Miss Granger," a soft voice called. Soothing hands on her shoulders. She jerked them off of her and pushed the chair underneath her back with such a force the wooden legs squeaked against the tile flooring underneath. She paced to the other side of the room until she nearly ran face-first into the wall. She paused, scrunching her eyes shut.

"Where are my parents?" Hermione demanded, hands now gripping firmly on her waist as she tried to force air into her lungs. "Take me to my parents at once."

She spun back around, schooling her features into a look that she hoped conveyed less panic than she felt. She met the eyes of each of the four healers sitting around the long conference table, daring them to defy her.

"Miss Granger, you know their condition is delicate-" a frail-looking woman in dark brown robes began tentatively.

Hermione felt anger bubbling to the surface so fast she bit her tongue to keep from lashing out at her parent's team of memory- recovery healers. They had been the same team since they started a year before, a full year after the termination of the war. Hermione had been painstakingly attentive to who she would select for her parents and had allowed herself some time after the war to come to terms with what had happened and set up arrangements.

"I don't give a damn. Someone will take me to them right now or I will find them myself! I need to at least try to speak to them and hope one of them is lucid right now. They need to provide more explanation than this one damn memory you just threw on me!" She gasped more air into her lungs, desperately trying to calm the fluttering of her racing heart.

The road to recovery had been a long and complicated process following their obliviation. The strength of Hermione's spell, due to her level of love and fear for her parents, had taken a very long time to break through. On top of that, the years that had dragged on during the war made reversal harder and harder. Her parents were remembering, but it was not a consistent process. Some days she walked into the Center for Mind Healing at Sydney, her parents had no recollection of her at all. Other days, they thought she should be much younger, ranging from a toddler to around eleven years old. The days in which her parents appeared lucid were so few and far between that Hermione barely allowed herself to hope for them anymore.

Rarely did they recognize her to be around the age she was when she obliviated them, considering she didn't look much different at twenty than she did at seventeen. The differences that did exist were welcome to her. She had grown more into her body, with soft curves and more feminine features. Her wild mane had tamed into looser curls that reached her waist.

The healers all shared a glance with one another until an older man sat up straighter in his seat. He turned to Hermione, who had resumed pacing in front of the table again.

"Miss Granger, if you calm down I will bring you to your family. Your father has been more lucid than your mother recently, and I will be willing to help you get the answers you're looking for but only if you calm down." His voice commanded authority, and to everyone's surprise, Hermione did stop moving around.

"Thank you, Healer Daniels," Hermione almost whispered. She shut her eyes again, counted to three, and exhaled deeply. "I'm sure you can understand this is a... delicate situation."

Healer Daniels nodded, stood from his seat, and took a few steps towards her. "As soon as he remembered this, your father made us assure him that we would show you this memory. He wants you to know just as much as you do. Let's just hope he still remembers this conversation."

Hermione followed the healer down the long, obnoxiously bright hallway to her parent's room, adamantly shoving down any emotion and existential crisis that threatened to cross over her face. If she wanted to get anything out of her parents, she surely couldn't turn into a blubbering mess in front of them.

She took one final, deep breath outside the door and exhaled slowly as Healer Daniels swung it open, coming eye-to-eye with her parents who appeared to have been waiting for them to arrive.

"Hermione, honey, please let us explain," her mother called, gripping her father's forearm so tight he was sure to have bruises.

"Don't you mean 'Amelia'?" Hermione replied, as she stormed past Daniels into the room and slammed the door behind her.