Chapter Text
It was black. Her mind felt fuzzy, her body heavy against the bed. Too tired to open her eyes, she let the weight of exhaustion pull her deeper. Around her, hushed voices murmured, their tones soft and indistinct. A pleasant scent lingered in the air, and she tried to focus on it, but the darkness swallowed her once more.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
His body had been tense since the moment he found her—small, fragile, and bleeding at the bottom of the hill. Cuts and bruises marred her skin, and the amount of blood she had lost should have been fatal. Yet, somehow, she clung to life. What infuriated him most wasn’t just her injuries, but the mystery of how she had ended up there in the first place. He knew all too well what humans were capable of, driven by their prejudices and fears. The thought burned in his chest, a quiet rage he couldn’t shake.
A warm presence interrupted his thoughts as soft arms wrapped around him from behind. Red hair cascaded over his shoulder, and forest-green eyes joined his gaze, fixed on the small figure lying in the bed.
“She will be okay, my love. It’s been a few days, and her wounds are mostly healed.” Her voice was gentle, like pouring milk, and her arms tightened around him, as if to anchor him to her words.
He sighed, lifting one of her hands to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to it. His eyes never left the girl.
“Her physical wounds don’t concern me as much as the mental ones. We can treat her body with our medicines, but we won’t know how deep the damage goes until she wakes.”
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
A warm hand brushed against her forehead, comforting and steady. She stirred, restless but too exhausted to fully wake. Deep down, she dreaded the idea of opening her eyes. Why? Where was she? What had happened? Where were her parents?
Another hand reached for hers, grounding her, as if sensing her inner turmoil. “Rest now, little cub. You’re safe.” The voice was a woman’s—soft, soothing. Was it her mother? A lullaby drifted through the air, gentle and familiar, carrying her into a dreamless sleep.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
It had been two weeks since the fallen girl arrived, and to say it had been hard to get her husband to eat or sleep properly since then was an understatement. She had only just managed to convince him to rest for a few more hours after promising to stay by the girl’s side in case she woke.
The girl’s body was nearly healed, with only a few lingering bruises here and there. Truthfully, she had recovered faster than they had expected—even for a fae.
Sunlight streamed through the window, its stray rays illuminating the girl’s brown curls as they fanned out across the pillow. With a soft smile, she stepped closer to the bed and noticed beads of sweat glistening on the girl’s temple. Gently, she reached out to touch her forehead. The girl was warm, but not feverish. As she tuned into the girl’s energy, she could feel the storm of emotions raging within her—fear, pain, rejection. Though her body lay still, her mind and soul were racing, trapped in a turmoil she couldn’t escape.
“Rest now, little cub. You’re safe,” she whispered, pouring soft, warm feelings into her words. She settled onto the edge of the bed and began to sing an ancient lullaby, one her family had passed down through generations. The language was long lost to the rest of the world, its melody carrying the weight of centuries. Her hand drifted to the girl’s soft brown curls, stroking them gently, coddling and comforting her as any mother would.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
She could feel warm beams of light on her face. The room smelled of jasmine, and the bed beneath her was soft. Her body felt stiff as she tried to move, every muscle protesting. Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinking several times to adjust to the light.
When her vision cleared, her heart began to race. She didn’t recognize the room. Was she traveling with her parents? Perhaps they were staying at a hotel?
The ceiling was wooden, giving the space a cozy, cabin-like feel. The walls were a light gray, and across from the bed stood a bookshelf filled with books and dotted with plants. An old painting of a waterfall adorned the wall. She tried to sit up, but it took more effort than she expected. Her body felt heavy, as if her muscles had been clenched for too long.
It was only when she began to look around for more clues that her heart rate spiked. Her hand instinctively went to her pocket, searching for her wand, but she wasn’t wearing her old jeans. Instead, she found herself in unfamiliar clothes.
Her eyes widened as she noticed a man sitting in a chair a few meters from the bed. He had sharp features, skin as dark as the night sky, and hair as white as snow—a striking contrast to his piercing yellow eyes. Worry lines creased his forehead as he watched her every move. Her mind raced, scrambling for a way to escape, but a soft sigh escaped his lips.
“You don’t need to worry, child. I mean you no harm.” His voice was deep, resonant, and oddly calming, like Dumbledore’s but stronger. “You were hurt, and we brought you here to heal. My name is Elric Darveraux. Can you tell me your name?”
She tried to speak, but her throat was dry, and only a hoarse sound came out. Seeing her struggle, Elric stood and walked to the nightstand, filling a glass with water. He handed it to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she accepted it, gulping the water down in seconds. He chuckled softly, refilling the glass before returning to his chair.
“Hermione Granger,” she said after drinking more water. “Nice to meet you.” She didn’t know where she was or what was happening, but she refused to let her manners falter. “Thank you for the water. But could you tell me where my parents are?”
“That’s something we both want to know,” Elric replied. She noticed the hesitation in his eyes, his voice softening further. “You were in an accident, Hermione. I found you at the bottom of a hill a few miles from here. Do you remember what happened?”
An accident? What had happened? She tried to recall her memories. She remembered the train ride back from Hogwarts, the jokes between Harry and Ron, arriving at King’s Cross, and waving goodbye to them. Her father had been waiting for her at the station, a small smile on his face. He had mentioned a trip—a father-daughter outing, just like they used to have when she was younger.
“My… my parents,” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth as the memories flooded back. Tears streamed down her face, her body trembling as the weight of it all crashed over her. She barely registered strong arms wrapping around her or the voice urging her to breathe, to calm down. She didn’t notice the woman who entered the room, her expression startled. Hermione was too lost in her memories to feel anything else.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
It was cold.
An odd sensation for the height of summer. The sun dipped below the horizon, staining the sky in deep oranges and purples, yet a shiver crept down Hermione’s spine. She rubbed her arms, seeking warmth, seeking comfort.
Since her Hogwarts letter arrived three years ago, her parents had changed. The warmth in their voices had faded, replaced by something distant, hollow. Conversations turned to silence. Interest in her achievements—her perfect marks, her love of learning—had dwindled into indifference.
Growing up in the Granger household had never been easy. Excellence wasn’t encouraged—it was expected. Books and knowledge had become her refuge. At first, as a way to win their approval. Then, as a genuine passion. But now, even perfection wasn’t enough.
She told herself it was their work. Teaching and research at the university had to be exhausting. Maybe they just missed her while she was away. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding.
So when her father suggested a trip—a father-daughter getaway to a rented cottage—she had allowed herself to hope.
The drive stretched for hours, the hum of the tires filling the silence between them. They stopped only once at a gas station, where her father barely spoke a word. An old rock song played faintly on the radio, but it did nothing to lift the heaviness in the air.
“Is everything okay, Dad?” she asked hesitantly.
His gaze flicked to hers in the rearview mirror, his smile thin, brittle. “Of course, darling. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Something was wrong. His voice was… off. A note out of tune.
She tightened her grip on her wand, fingers pressing into the polished wood.
She must have dozed off, because the car slowing roused her. Blinking, she sat up and frowned. There was no cabin. No warm lights waiting to greet them. Just an empty stretch of road, trees lining one side, a steep hill descending into darkness on the other.
Her father put the car in park and stepped out. “Come help me for a moment, darling.”
Still groggy, she hesitated before opening her door. The moment she stepped outside, the cold bit through her thin cardigan. Wrapping her arms around herself, she followed him to the trunk.
He was holding her bag.
Confusion knotted her stomach. “Is the cabin close? Do we need to walk?”
Then she saw his face.
Gone was the practiced smile. The love she once knew in his hazel eyes had been replaced with something dark. Empty.
“You’re walking away from the car—and out of our lives,” he said, voice devoid of warmth.
The words didn’t make sense.
“…What?” Her voice barely came out.
“Did your time at that school damage your hearing?” He threw her bag toward the edge of the cliff. It landed with a dull thud. “We should never have adopted you. Damn Monica and her ridiculous desire for a daughter.”
Adopted.
The word slammed into her like a physical blow. “What do you mean?” Her breath came in short gasps, her chest tightening. “I’m still your daughter!”
“You’re not my daughter,” he spat. “You’re a freak. A mistake. I’d rather have a dead child than a witch like you.”
She flinched as though he had struck her.
“No, no, you don’t mean that.” Her voice cracked. “I’m still me! Please, just—”
The slap came out of nowhere. Her head snapped to the side, skin burning where his hand had struck. Tears welled in her eyes.
“You evil little whore,” he snarled. “Don’t ever come near us again, or God help me, I’ll do what should have been done years ago.”
Panic clawed at her throat. “Please! I’ll do better, I promise—just don’t leave me here!” She reached for him, desperate, but he yanked his arm free with a violent shake.
Too violent.
Her feet slid over loose gravel. The world tilted. She tried to regain her balance, but the ground beneath her gave way.
She was falling.
Branches tore at her skin as she tumbled down the steep hill, her body slamming into rocks, roots, the unrelenting earth. Her screams were lost to the night, drowned in the deafening roar of her own heartbeat.
Pain. Blinding, searing pain.
Then—
Darkness.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Esther was at the library when she felt it—a shift in the air, heavy and suffocating, like a storm rolling in. Magic vibrated through the house, thick with distress, and her thoughts immediately leaped to the small girl sleeping in their guest bedroom. That was all it took to make her run.
She wasn’t wrong.
Tears streamed down the girl's face, her small frame trembling under the weight of something unseen. The energy pouring off her was raw, an overwhelming storm of fear, pain, rejection—too much for someone so young to bear. Across the room, Esther’s husband, Elric, stood frozen, his usual calm shattered. In all their decades together, she had never seen him so unmoored. That alone was enough to spur her into action.
Within seconds, Esther was on the bed, gathering the girl in her arms. One hand threaded through her wild curls, the other grounding her against reality, offering an anchor. She started to hum—a low, soothing melody laced with magic, woven with warmth and protection. Her gift had always been to soothe, to mend what was fraying. Slowly, she sent gentle waves of calm through the child’s trembling form, wrapping her in a cocoon of safety.
And then, through hiccupped sobs, words escaped Hermione’s lips.
Words that made Esther’s blood run cold.
Across the room, Elric inhaled sharply, his expression darkening as realization dawned. For a long moment, their eyes met, unspoken words passing between them. They knew now. They understood how she had ended up collapsed at the border of their protections, barely breathing. And with that knowledge came the certainty that there was only one path forward.
They would not let this stand.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
It took time for Hermione to fully return to herself.
The weight in her chest was unbearable, as though something inside her had cracked open, raw and bleeding. Her parents were gone. They had left her. And no matter how much she replayed it, she couldn’t understand why.
She had done everything right.
She had been the best student. The perfect daughter. Always ahead in her classes, never causing trouble, never failing them. And still, it had not been enough.
She had not been enough.
That thought struck her like a blow, hollowing her out further.
A voice—gentle and melodic—cut through the storm of self-loathing in her mind. The soft, foreign lullaby curled around her senses, quieting the chaos. The pressure on her chest eased just enough for her to notice the world again.
Wooden walls. Birds singing outside. And the same man as before—Elric, that was his name—watching her with quiet concern.
But something was different this time.
She wasn’t alone.
A new presence was pressed against her side, warm and steady. Her body tensed, panic bubbling up, and she jerked away instinctively, breath hitching.
Sensing her distress, the woman beside her loosened her hold, shifting carefully into view. Hermione’s wide, tear-bright eyes met a pair of piercing green ones, sharp yet achingly kind.
“I’m sorry if I startled you, little one,” the woman said, her voice smooth as silk, laced with a gentleness Hermione wasn’t sure how to process. “My name is Esther Darveraux. And I believe you’ve already met my husband.”
She tilted her head toward Elric, and Hermione followed the motion. His expression hadn’t changed—calm, steady, but undeniably watchful.
Hermione swallowed hard, her throat aching.
“I—I should be the one apologizing,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to be a burden. Thank you for your hospitality… and I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused.”
Something flickered in Esther’s eyes. Something Hermione couldn’t name.
“Nonsense, little one,” she said firmly, as though the idea of Hermione being a burden was laughable. “But for now, I think a hot shower will do you some good. What do you say?”
Hermione hesitated.
Her mind screamed at her to refuse, to disappear, to fade away before she could impose further. But her body—tired, aching, and weak—had other ideas. She gave a small nod, unable to trust her voice anymore.
A quiet sigh came from Elric’s direction. “I suppose I’ll handle dinner, then,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “Are you vegetarian, Hermione?”
She blinked at the mundane question before shaking her head. “No, sir.”
“Good,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips. “Then I’ll see what I can prepare to warm us all up.”
With that, he strode out of the room, leaving Hermione alone with Esther.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The shower helped. At least, physically.
She had tried to insist she could manage alone, but her legs betrayed her almost instantly. Esther had simply steadied her without a word, as though she had expected it. Hermione was grateful. She was too tired for pride.
Her body bore the evidence of her ordeal—small, healing scars dotting her skin, a map of pain she refused to look too closely at. She should just be grateful to be alive.
Shouldn’t she?
By the time they were finished, the scent of roasted meat filled the house, rich and inviting. Her stomach growled embarrassingly loud, and Esther chuckled.
“Smells like Elric outdid himself,” she mused, leading Hermione toward the dining room.
The house was stunning.
Wooden walls, large windows letting in golden light, bookshelves lining entire walls. Magic thrummed softly in the air, subtle yet ever-present. There was warmth here. A presence, a pulse, much like Hogwarts.
The kitchen was just as inviting, filled with the scent of warm spices. A large table sat at the center, already adorned with fruits and vegetables. At the stove, Elric plated steaming cuts of meat, the juices glistening under the light.
Hermione’s stomach rumbled again.
Elric smirked. “I wasn’t sure of your preferences, so I kept things simple. I hope it’s to your liking.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“No titles in this house,” Esther interjected gently. “Not between family.”
Family.
Hermione’s breath hitched slightly, but she nodded. She couldn’t argue. Not now.
As they ate, the couple spoke in soft tones about people she didn’t know, and Hermione let their voices wash over her, grounding her.
A sudden flutter of wings startled her.
A sleek hawk swooped through the open window, landing gracefully on the back of a chair.
“Minna,” Elric greeted, reaching for the letter tied to its leg. As he read, his expression darkened. Esther, sensing it, silently reached for some meat, offering it to the bird, who eyed Hermione with unsettling intelligence before accepting the food.
Elric exhaled, fingers tightening around the parchment. “You don’t seem too surprised by a messenger bird, Hermione.”
She stiffened.
Before she could respond, the dishes lifted into the air, drifting to the sink. Leftover food packed itself away, and juice poured itself into glasses.
Hermione’s breath caught.
“How did you—? You’re not using a wand. Or incantations. How do you control it without both?”
Elric’s smile was knowing. “Ah. Now that is a conversation worth having.”
“I suppose that by your questions, you must have gone to a wizarding school?”
Elric’s voice was measured, almost amused. A small smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment, Hermione forgot everything—the accident, her parents, the weight of grief pressing down on her chest. All that remained was her curiosity.
“Hogwarts,” she answered simply.
“Oh, I see… It is a good school, though I do think their House system and teaching methods could use an upgrade, don’t you? A thousand years have passed since its founding, yet they cling to the same rigid notions.” He shook his head with a sad smile. “Magic is like a river, Hermione—it is not an inanimate force. It is much more alive than most wizards realize.”
As he spoke, his fingers moved through the air, and Hermione gasped as delicate streams of light flickered to life. They took form—tiny fairies and animals made of crackling energy, dancing around them in a mesmerizing display.
“In Britain, and many other places in the world, wizards have lost the essence of their magic. They rely too heavily on their wands.”
His words sent a jolt through Hermione. That reliance had never been questioned before—not at Hogwarts, not in any of her textbooks. Magic was done with a wand. That was just how it worked… wasn’t it?
When Elric saw the way she hung onto his every word, he couldn’t contain his excitement. With a flick of his hand, another shimmer of light appeared—this time, taking the shape of a wand.
“The wand acts as a conduit between you and your magical core. That’s why you need to be accepted by a wand, but in truth, it is your magical core that must accept the wand’s core.” His hand twisted, and the shimmering wand dissolved. “Without a wand, you must connect directly with your core.”
Hermione’s brows furrowed. “Like we’re… two separate entities? My magic and me?”
“Almost.”
He glanced toward Esther, who sat nearby, quietly sipping her tea. She smiled at him and gave the smallest nod, as if to say, Go on. Teach her.
Elric turned back to Hermione, his expression alight with knowledge. “Magic is a continuous flow all around us—that is what we call natural magic. But within you, there is another kind of magic. Your own. That is what makes you a witch rather than just a common person.”
Hermione nodded slowly, absorbing every word.
“If you do not use a wand, you must learn to contact your core—to feel it, to let your magic run free through your body. That’s what happens when we are young, before we are forced into the rigid structures of formal magical education.”
He paused, watching her closely.
“The sin of knowledge,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “In taking away the simplicity of everything.”
His eyes gleamed. “Exactly.”
His fingers traced another glowing image in the air—this time, small children running about, their magic sparking uncontrolled and wild.
“When we are young, we don’t know how magic is supposed to work. So we let it run free. When our emotions overwhelm us—fear, joy, anger—our magic bursts forth. That is the feeling you must search for when attempting wandless magic. Once you learn to connect with your core without relying on a wand, it will become easier. Some spells will feel as natural as breathing.”
Hermione’s mind was a whirlwind of thought.
She had never tried wandless magic before. She had always assumed it was beyond her reach, something only the most powerful wizards could achieve. But what if that wasn’t true? What if she had never succeeded simply because no one had ever taught her how?
The thought was exhilarating.
For the first time since the accident, she had something to focus on other than pain.
Lost in thought, Hermione barely noticed as Esther turned to Elric. Her expression had softened, but there was something unreadable in her eyes.
Then, she glanced down at the letter in Elric’s hands.
A silent question.
His expression darkened as he met her gaze. A silent answer.
Another one. Caught before they could intervene.
Esther inhaled deeply, then let it go. There was nothing more to say. Instead, she rose from her seat and stepped toward Hermione, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
The touch startled Hermione from her thoughts. She blinked up at the woman, searching her face.
“What do you think about enjoying the last few hours of sunlight and getting to know the property?” Esther’s smile was warm, inviting, but there was something behind it—something Hermione couldn’t quite place.
Still, she nodded.
Esther offered her arm, and after a brief hesitation, Hermione took it.
The walk to the front doors was slow, deliberate, but Esther didn’t seem to mind. They stepped through the great oak doors—
And Hermione froze.
The world before her was nothing like she had imagined.
She had expected a grand estate, perhaps rolling fields or dense woods. But instead…
A village stretched out before her, alive with movement.
Stone and wooden houses were nestled amongst the hills, each one uniquely built, as though shaped by the land itself. Cobblestone paths twisted between them, winding through gardens bursting with color and life. The scent of blooming flowers filled the air, carried by a soft, warm breeze.
Magic was everywhere.
Tiny fairies flitted through the gardens, their wings catching the light like shards of crystal. Children ran laughing through the streets, their games filled with small bursts of accidental magic. Gnomes waddled about, some tending to plants, others arguing in loud, exaggerated gestures.
And then—
A shadow passed overhead.
Hermione looked up just in time to see something—or someone—soaring through the sky.
It was a boy.
At least… he looked like a boy.
But no broom held him aloft. Instead, large, dark wings sprouted from his back, catching the wind effortlessly. Where his skin was exposed, iridescent scales shimmered, glinting in the sunlight.
“Hello, Mrs. Esther! You look radiant as ever!” he called, grinning as he flew by.
“Watch where you’re going, Orin!” Esther called back, laughing as the boy barely avoided colliding with a tree.
Hermione could do nothing but gape.
That wasn’t possible.
And yet… it was happening right in front of her.
Esther turned to her, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“Welcome to Elyasea, Hermione.”
The name lingered in the air, heavy with meaning.
And as Hermione took a slow breath, something shifted deep within her.
This place was different.
This place was alive.
And for the first time in what felt like forever—
She wasn’t sure she wanted to leave.