Daylight breaks hard on a sacred ground
For centuries we’ve questioned them of His birth
But in this hour, on this day, The Elder knew
Years of madness must now subdue
Order must be enforced to hide the truth
Cause on this day, in this hour it’s coming true
Child of the wicked and ancient man
Baptized in black magic, their master planned
Born of the Watch, his prophecy, by their command
So, behold the birth, the wicked child
Born of the Beast, in eastern sands
He will arise, He will divide
He has the power to bring the end
It’s up to us now to seal his fate
Marked with the proper math the child’s none too late
Blessed by the Beast, our Chosen One was born this day
He’ll rise from the ashes of our dying race
Manipulate history, time and space
The Elder, Men of the Watch, professed this day
Iced Earth: Birth of the Wicked
„Every family is pathological. We become adults the moment we are able to forgive our parents.“
Marek Orko Vácha
Newcastle, New South Wales, Australia; 20 August 1998
Hermione woke up. That strange dream again. She had been walking across a dark plain lit by flames, and strange people had been gathering around her. Well, not people, but they looked almost human – their faces elongated, their hair long and smooth, bodies tall and slender. Their complexion was strange: they were pale, almost translucent. They were oddly beautiful. Coldly, dangerously beautiful.
Why did that dream keep coming back to her? She’d been having it ever since she’d moved in with her parents in New South Wales. Sometimes strange creatures appeared in it too — animals she’d never seen even in a picture, or indistinct figures that looked as though they were made of nothing but fire. Strangely, they never seemed to want to mean her harm. If anything, she had the feeling that they worshipped her. In the dream she was never afraid of them; she felt like a queen — it was only upon waking that changed.
She got out her diary and tried to recall any details from the dream; ever since that prophetic dream she’d had, she’d taken to writing all her dreams down. She remembered the strange beings whispering something like the chosen one, and order shall be restored… She didn’t understand it.
The chosen one — what chosen one? That was what people called Harry, and probably still did. Perhaps it was just her longing for Harry projecting itself into the dream. Or maybe it was some deep-seated psychological envy — that Harry was famous while she’d withdrawn into obscurity. But that didn’t seem likely to her; she knew Harry had always hated his fame, and she assumed that hadn’t changed. She herself had never longed for fame. On the contrary — she’d gone to her parents, changed her name, and started living as a Muggle precisely so that no one would find her. She’d even stopped using magic altogether, and not only to keep the Australian Ministry of Magic from discovering her. She wanted to cut herself off from everything; after all she’d been through this past year, the wizarding world felt more and more distant and dangerous to her. And Voldemort was destroyed — no one needed her for anything anymore; she could allow herself to live an ordinary life again.
In the end she told herself the dream was probably just down to the hormonal changes of pregnancy. She was certain, deep down, that she was pregnant. She hadn’t worked up the nerve to see a doctor, hadn’t even bought a pregnancy test, and on a rational level she still refused to admit it — but she had no doubt. She’d known it already, back when she’d decided to leave Britain and her friends and hide away with her parents. An unmarried witch’s pregnancy was far from ordinary, and pure-blood families in particular still looked on unmarried mothers and their children the way people had in the previous century — wizards, after all, had in many ways remained stuck even further back than the nineteenth century. She shuddered and tried to push the memory away. It was good that she was gone. She wouldn’t think about it. Not about the child, not about any of it. Nothing had happened, this was her home now, she was enrolled at university, and everything was as it should be. I don’t want to be pregnant, I mustn’t be pregnant, I don’t want you, I don’t want you… It isn’t true, none of it is true… she repeated to herself, until she fell asleep.
…
Prague; the same day
In the long-term paediatric intensive care unit at Motol Hospital, several children lay connected to mechanical ventilators. Ten-year-old Roman Heller had been unconscious there for several months now. He’d had the misfortune of falling under a weir while rafting down a river; after they pulled him out, he never woke. The doctors held out little hope for him now — they spoke of a persistent vegetative state, meaning he might remain unconscious permanently, most likely on artificial ventilation and feeding as well. But one could never predict how the body would respond; there were cases where a patient woke from a long unconsciousness, though rarely without after-effects. His mother, however, hadn’t given up hope. Unlike her husband, she was convinced that her son would be the exception — that one day he would open his eyes, recognise her, and be himself again.
She watched her son. He looked as though he were asleep. So innocent, so vulnerable. Suddenly she noticed his eyelids move. It had happened before, and every time it filled her with hope that now, right now, it would happen, right now he was coming back to her…, and every time she was disappointed. Not this time. His clear grey eyes opened. Mrs Heller leaned over the child. She was afraid even to breathe. Was she imagining it, or…? But the boy’s eyes stayed open, staring blankly at the woman. Can he see? Does he recognise anything? His mother took his hand.
„Romy,“ she whispered, „it’s me, Mummy…“
The boy didn’t seem to recognise his mother. But his eyes weren’t empty, the way the eyes of people with brain damage often are. He examined the woman curiously, then the machines around him, the nurse and doctor hurrying over. He shook his head and, with his free hand — the one without an IV line — tried to reach for the tube that was helping him breathe but at the same time preventing him from breathing on his own. He didn’t want it there.
„Easy, easy, everything’s going to be fine, Roman,“ the nurse tried to calm him.
„Can you hear me, Roman?“ the doctor on duty spoke to him.
He nodded.
„You’re on a ventilator. We can’t take you off it right away. But we’ll start weaning you off. If everything goes well, we’ll soon have you breathing on your own. Can you hold on with us a little longer?“
The boy nodded again.
„Roman, welcome back,“ Mrs Heller whispered, moved. „Do you recognize me?“
The boy looked at her with a searching gaze. So, this is his mother now. Rather a pleasant Muggle. He didn’t recognise her. Before he’d decided to claim this nearly vacant body for himself, he’d never paid the Muggles hovering around the children any attention. They hadn’t interested him. Now this woman would take care of him. For as long as it took. For as long as it took him to be ready to return.
…
Newcastle, New South Wales; November 1998
Hermione opened the door of the house. She still couldn’t get used to the idea that this was home now. It hadn’t been all that long since she’d moved into the house belonging to Wendell and Monica Wilkins, as her parents were now called. Lifting the memory charm had gone smoothly enough. But they’d kept their new names all the same — because of the network of contacts they’d since built up, because explaining to the authorities why they’d emigrated to Australia under false names would have been more trouble than it was worth, and not least because Hermione herself had asked them to. Hermione wanted to leave behind as few traces as possible, so she now went by the name Mia Wilkins. Her parents didn’t fully understand why she’d vanished from her friends, but they respected her decision, and likely neither of them much wanted to disturb the routine they’d settled into, either. They had no relatives left in Britain, and they were happy in their new home.
„Hi, I’m home!“ she called out to her parents.
She’d just got back from Sydney, where she’d started studying law at the university in early October. A Muggle university — her decision to live as a Muggle and not return to the magical world hadn’t changed. She wasn’t living with her parents now; the distance between Newcastle and Sydney was too far for a daily commute, and in truth she was glad not to be with them all the time. She still didn’t know how to talk to them. She wasn’t really in the mood to talk to anyone. Of course, she’d had to tell them about the war, about the Battle of Hogwarts. She’d tried to reveal as little as possible, but explaining why she didn’t want to go back and live without magic, without her friends — whom she’d never before wanted to be apart from for more than a few weeks — had been unavoidable. So, her parents knew that Hermione had lived through a deeply traumatic year, that a number of her friends had died. Hermione had told them she couldn’t come to terms with it, and that this was exactly why she’d decided on such a radical change of life.
After moving into her parents‘ new home, she’d tried to function as though nothing had happened. She wanted to be just like any other student. She tried to pick up the almost-lost life of an ordinary girl. Over summer she’d studied the final-year muggle secondary school curriculum, as she did every year, in fact. Although the admissions deadline had already passed, her parents arranged an exceptional interview for her with the admissions board, which decided on appeals from rejected students in early July. Fortunately, among their patients — and among their fellow players at the bridge club — were members of the university’s governing board. She wasn’t ashamed of that. She knew she’d done well at the interview; she’d earned her place. And missing the regular application deadline hadn’t really been her fault — at the time she’d had rather more pressing concerns. But she mustn’t think about that. It still hurt too much.
Her parents treated her with more than their usual care. They didn’t ask about anything she didn’t volunteer herself. They were trying to find their way back to each other; over the last eight years they’d drifted far too far apart — no, it wasn’t just the last few months, nor the fact that Hermione had wiped their memories; that much they understood. Perhaps. But actually, living with them again — that was, in truth, very strange.
Hermione had to keep reminding herself that her real home was this modern, luxurious house in the suburbs, not the Burrow. In truth, though, she missed everyone — Ron and Harry — and she’d rather have had Mrs Weasley standing in her mother’s place. She scolded herself inwardly for the thought — except Mrs Weasley, in her loving and utterly relentless way, would have wormed the truth about her pregnancy out of her long ago, and would no doubt have hugged her when she needed it. Or rather — because she needed it. Hermione’s eyes stung with tears against her will. Why was she so oversensitive lately!
Mrs Granger was an intelligent, elegant woman, always beautifully turned out, with a perfectly tidy, spotlessly clean home she was justly proud of. Hermione never doubted that her mother loved her, but… home was elsewhere. It wasn’t only that her mother wasn’t especially tactile — Hermione wasn’t much either, for that matter. But Hermione couldn’t even remember her mother ever touching her, not once, in the last five years. Mrs Weasley would never have let her get away with pretending everything was normal. And Hermione missed Mrs Weasley’s warmth; and she felt the same reserve toward her mother that her mother showed toward her. She couldn’t overcome it, couldn’t have confided in her even half of what had happened. And she had no one else to tell it to, either. She was tired of playing at being normal.
Mrs Granger opened the kitchen door and looked steadily at her daughter. Her pregnancy could no longer go unnoticed, however successfully she’d managed to hide it before Hermione left for university.
„Hermione, welcome home.“
She paused. „I’d like… Hermione… we should talk.“
Mr Granger joined his wife. He cleared his throat.
„Darling, go and rest. But we’d very much like it if you joined us for tea at five. We really should talk, before you disappear on us again for two months,“ he reminded his daughter gently — that despite her promises, she hadn’t been home once since the start of the semester.
Hermione sighed. She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to think about it. For so long she’d been trying to pretend to everyone — and especially to herself — that everything was fine!
…
At five o’clock, Hermione came down to the dining room. Her parents were already waiting for her. Her father studied her thoughtfully. His little girl. So different, so withdrawn. That she was always buried in books had always been normal for his daughter. But she’d always come to them afterwards, eager to tell them what she’d discovered, what she’d learned. Now she was different. More grown-up, certainly, but not only that… He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d seen her smile. Someone had hurt her; he was sure of that. He just didn’t know who, or how. It felt to him like only a moment ago that she’d got her first letter to Hogwarts, that they’d gone to buy her first wand, her robes, her books. How proud she’d been to be a witch. His wife had been proud too, and he had, in truth, as well — though even then he’d been afraid for his daughter. Ever since, she’d been drifting further away from them — each of them living in a different world.
At first, she’d told them everything that was happening. Later, he’d had the impression she was withholding more and more; about that evil dark wizard she’d talked about in the first few years, she never spoke of her own accord again. She played down every problem, even though, as it later turned out, she’d been fully aware of the danger threatening not only her but them as well. He admired her for having faced it all alone. What daughter, with such adult resolve, chooses to protect her parents by wiping their memories and moving them to another continent? He couldn’t bring himself to be angry with her for it; he understood her reasons In doing so, she’d stripped them of any ability to protect her — or rather, stripped them of their role as parents altogether. Only now did it occur to him that she’d really done this long before; from the age of fifteen she’d spent most of her holidays among wizards, too. It was hard for him to accept that, against the evil she’d faced, he had never actually been able to offer his daughter any protection at all.
Now he had the feeling that was changing. His little girl had decided to come back — not just for a while, it seemed, but for good. It was a relief to him that she’d decided to stop using magic. He was a rational man, and though he knew about magic, he preferred not to acknowledge it. Magic was the reason he didn’t understand his daughter, the reason she’d ended up beyond his reach, beyond his understanding, his protection, his care. Now he could protect her — and he had to. Her, and her child. He would certainly have preferred the child to come later, once Hermione had finished her studies, set up her own practice, and found a husband… after the wedding, of course. But deep down, he actually felt relief that the child apparently had no father — that his daughter clearly had no intention of bringing home a husband from that world of hers, so foreign to him. Better that than some immature wizard boy, who by all accounts had abandoned her and over whom she’d surely only suffer — and who might carry her off again, somewhere he could never follow. Yes, surely it would be better if they were the ones to give Hermione a home.
His daughter would be simply his daughter again. He had to show her that she needn’t be afraid to tell them anything, that they were capable of listening without a word of reproach.
His wife interrupted his thoughts, and not in the happiest way.
„Hermione, have you at least seen a doctor, to make sure everything’s all right?“ It came out sharper than Mrs Granger had probably intended.
„I don’t know what you mean, Mum,“ Hermione answered in a hollow voice.
„Mia,“ her father tried to soften it, „you don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to. We’re not forcing anything on you; we respect your privacy. We’re not blaming you for anything. But you have to understand, we’re worried about you. As doctors, too, not just as parents. So, try to understand your mother. We want you both to be healthy — you, and your little one.“
„I don’t know what you mean, Dad,“ Hermione insisted. „Wouldn’t you rather talk about school? There’s a wonderful library, and I’ve already found a few professors I can actually talk to. Of course, I’d be—“
„Hermione, don’t dodge it!“ Mrs Granger, usually so composed, cut her off sharply. „This is serious! I’ve been waiting all this time for you to come and confide in us yourself. I’ve respected your privacy for a long time, and I’ll go on respecting it, if you can convince me you’re capable of handling this situation on your own. But if you’re not even going to your antenatal check-ups, then clearly, you’re not! And that’s not even to mention how you plan to manage your studies, your housing… Do you have any idea how demanding it is to look after a baby? How do you intend to care for it? You barely even talk to us! Something is troubling you; this isn’t you. And a child needs a stable emotional environment. I’m afraid that in your current state, you won’t be able to provide one. Of course we intend to give you all the help we can, but we need to prepare for that too. What were you even thinking? That you’d turn up in three, or by now maybe two months, with the baby for the weekend, leave it here, and go off again? Or that you wouldn’t tell us at all, and leave the child with strangers, or give it up for adoption? You wouldn’t do that, Mia, would you…“ Mrs Granger’s voice broke, and what had begun as a loud speech ended almost in tears. Hermione hardly recognised her usually so composed mother.
„Don’t worry,“ she mumbled, „don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong.“
„Sweetheart,“ her father began slowly, „something is wrong. There’s a new life growing inside you. And it’s time to think about what you’re going to do next. You could tell us, perhaps, what the child’s father thinks about all this. That is, how… whether… he’ll be… whether he is… whether you intend to…“
„If you mean whether I intend to get married, then definitely not,“ Hermione answered.
She was angry at her parents for forcing her to open her eyes and face reality. For so long, and so successfully, she’d tried not to remember, not to acknowledge what had happened. But she was too much of a realist not to know it couldn’t go on forever. She knew her parents were right; in truth, she’d been waiting for their questions, and in some measure, it was a relief.
„All right, you’re right. I should have told you. But please, don’t ask me about anything I don’t bring up myself. Don’t ask me anything. I don’t want to talk about who the child’s father is, or how it happened. I understand you’re curious, but please, respect that.“ She fell silent. She no longer felt like crying. She could feel some of her old energy returning, at least a little. It was better to live in reality.
„Mum, you’re right, I’m not sure I can look after a baby. Not just because of my studies, but… it’s hard, and I can’t think about it right now, and I can’t talk about it… I… I’d be grateful if you helped me, if both of you helped me… at least at first, I’m sure I’ll manage everything in time…“ Her eyes filled with tears again. Maybe she wasn’t so strong after all. Maybe… well, certainly, she needed them.
Mrs Granger crossed to her and took her hands.
„My little girl,“ she whispered, „I’ll help you with everything, I’ll be so glad to help you…“ she stroked her hands. „A child is hope — don’t cry over it. Don’t worry about a thing. We’ve saved up enough; I’d be happy to stay home for a while. You focus on your studies and try to pull yourself together. Your father and I have already talked about it. We’ll move to Sydney, we’ll start working on it right away. That is — if you want us to, Mia?“ she added, suddenly uncertain.
Hermione nodded silently, unable to speak. Her mother had surprised her; she hadn’t expected this from her.
„I promise we won’t pry into anything you don’t want to tell us yourself. But I’ll be glad if you can trust us. We love you, Hermione,“ her father added.
Hermione burst into full tears now. The child would be hope. And what if it wasn’t? A cursed child…
Continue to: So This Is Christmas (War Is Over)
22 Celkem zhlédnutí, 10 Dnešní zhlédnutí
Buď první v napsání komentáře...