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Calliope and Thalia and Their Inspiration by lucilla_pauie

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Chapter Notes: Abject apologies for an update so long in coming. Been busy and blocked and blocked and busy. But now—well, I don’t want to jinx it, but I can safely say I seem to be on a roll because this chapter has two thousand more words I had to cut and place instead in the next update. Thank you for reading and reviewing!
~o0o~ Family knots ~o0o~




Draco woke that Friday with the desire to go back to sleep, or to yesterday, or to a decade before. It wasn’t a new feeling either. He’d only stopped having it since having Callie. And now that he didn’t have Callie, add to that his less-than-pretty encounter with Callie’s mother, well.

He got up from the divan. It was the only furniture in the entire cottage. He’d had to conjure it, too, along with a tub and a toilet bowl. Right. First on his agenda for the morning (already turning to afternoon) would be furniture. Buy some. Hermione was quite right that he didn’t want to flaunt his new property, because it wasn’t one to flaunt yet.

He wiped the condensation from one of the windowpanes and stared at his reflection, wondering what Hermione might have seen on his face yesterday. Did she also find any difference? Thought that he hadn’t aged much? Regretted not having his handsome self as hers? He grinned at his own humour. “You daft prick.”

No, first on his agenda would be Gringotts. The paper had been nothing but speculative about her resignation. One thing couldn’t be related to the other, but all the same, he’d breathe better if he was sure the fund hadn’t been busted. Or else she’d have his balls.

Actually, he’d like that.

“Will you shut it?”

She wouldn’t connect the fund to him, would she? And even if she did, he could always point at Lucius. It was the old loon’s idea. All the money earned from the investments made partly from that year’s harvest and partly from other real property scattered abroad went to that fund a decade ago. At first, Lucius had thought to name it after Calliope, who had just turned a year old, but then Callie was a half-blood, not a Muggleborn. Lucius had thought it real amusing to open that Hermione Granger Fund. Draco had nearly beheaded his own father then. Amusing, his foot.

Now that he was in Britain, Draco had to check.

He might even add several thousand, come to think of it. Damn Lucius for using her name. It was the closest Draco had to spending money on the stubborn witch.



~o0o~




“They should be at Potions right now.”

“I know. Thalia wrote me her schedule and, well, it’s not bad of me, is it? It just stuck in my mind, I didn’t purposefully memorize it.” Minerva smiled at that. “Who is this Professor Demouit? He sounds foreign. Italian? French? He must be very good--”

Minerva tried to cover her snort with a cough but Hermione still caught it. She paused, the biscuit halfway to her mouth. “What is it?” she asked her former teacher. “Isn’t he up to scratch?”

Minerva frowned reproachfully, as though Hermione had been rude to even ask that, as though she hadn’t been snorting earlier. “He is capable, only... er, peculiar in his methods.”

“For instance?”

“Oh, I’ll give you an instance. Poppy rather hates the man, because he labels his potions in the most absurd manner. You can imagine how disconcerting it is to ask for Pepper-up and receive a bottle with ‘Poxifier’ and the skull and crossbones marked all over it.”

Hermione laughed even while her expression grew bewildered. The Potions teacher was peculiar.

“You’ll meet him on Monday. There are no secrets in a house with children*, you know. And this is a school. So I’d rather not announce your appointment to anyone yet. Let us have a dull weekend.”

Hermione nodded and sipped her tea. It was final. She was going to teach at Hogwarts. She’d been tempted to walk in through the gates and perhaps see her daughter (just her daughter; that agreement had so many holes she’d have burned it if the holes weren’t accommodating her own desires so much) by accident, but steeled herself against that foolishness. She’d arrived that afternoon through the Floo. The Headmistress’s office had not changed: beautiful, regal, dignified, etched and humming with magic and tradition. Dumbledore had winked at her the moment she stepped past the grate.

“Now, then, perhaps you can tell me why you left your old job? What have they done now?”

Hermione couldn’t help smiling at that. Such was Minerva’s relationship with her that it never occurred to the dear elder witch that Hermione could even be with the least fault. “You know, they could have done me the favour of letting me resign rather than firing me.”

“Oh, tush. The only person there who might even cosider firing you is Dolores Umbridge, and I hear you are the one in the position to fire that hanger-on if you so desire.”

“Alright, I’ll tell you. But first, you tell me, how are your Muggleborns getting on?”

Minerva actually flushed. The blush was so out of place in that venerable, aged face. It was almost comical. “Oh, is that it, then? I thought it was only a matter of time. I also thought you’d be... stunned, staggered and stupefied--”

“Yes, and look stupid, too. Hence, I was furious. When I found out, we were in a trial, Minerva! Prosecuting several Purebloods for casting the Imperius on witches and wizards, who were all of them Muggleborns. These Muggleborns have been bespelled to do petty but still outrageous misdemeanours. One of the accused then admitted he and his cohorts were trying to dissolve the Hermione Granger Fund. Of course, you know about that fund, don’t you?”

Minerva looked apologetic as she tapped the teapot with her wand and then poured. “Drink your tea, Hermione, and breathe. You must forgive me for not ever informing you about it. It was the one proviso of the fund, that beneficiaries do not disclose it. And you know Gringotts contracts are much more stringently binding than, say, those written in haste.”

Hermione ignored that jibe. “How long?”

“Oh, for almost a decade now. You never had to worry about it, had you, because your parents were not only supportive but also quite well off, besides you being an only child, but there were many Muggleborns who were forced to attend Hogwarts with second-hand things because either their parents refuse to allocate funds they would rather use on a ‘real’ education, or the child has siblings whom the parents feel they should dote on because those children do not have magic, or, simply, the family is poor or nonexistent, in the case of orphans. We have our own funds, but not substantial enough. All this changed when the Herm-- well, when that endowment you discovered started benefitting Hogwarts. So really, you shouldn’t be so ireful.”

Hermione winced. “You’re right. It’s just... Did it have to be named after me? I’m barely thirty, and I’ve never even donated a cent to that fund, naturally as I never knew about it!”

“What does your being barely thirty have to do about it?” Minerva asked tersely.

“Oh, nothing, just that it seems more fitting for people with more seniority to have funds named after them. As tribute.”

“Well, I want to be dead before I see my name used for any funds, or for anything at all.” And Minerva glared as if Hermione had been getting ideas.

Hermione grinned. “My point exactly.”

“Hmpf. So you resigned just because, not dead and barely thirty, you’d been humiliated having a fund named after you?”

“No! Yes. I mean. Oh, Merlin, don’t be mad at me, Minerva. I suppose I acted rashly, but that was a bad day for me. I probably only wanted to be rid of Julius, too.”

“Julius? Who is that?”

“I thought we will only talk about my appointment, Minerva. Aren’t you ashamed of this? We’re gossiping.”

Minerva sent her a gimlet gaze. “Tell me everything and don’t you take that condescending tone with me, Miss Granger.”

Hermione giggled.



~o0o~




Goblins were an odd species. No, an infuriating species. This one was positively goading Draco.

“There was a hearing? Of Purebloods wanting to eradicate this fund?”

“No, Draco Malfoy, there was a hearing of Purebloods using spells on their own kind, well, Muggleborns, but your own kind, right?”

Draco imagined how far the goblin would fly if he kicked it. The image appeased him somewhat. “How did the Purebloods know of the fund? It is classified, is it not?”

“All funds are classified, I should think. But your kind loves to flaunt parting with your gold for a cause.” At that moment, the goblin finally caught sight of the nerve pulsing at Draco’s temple, and continued less abrasively, “When there is no charity specifically named in a will that endows monies to charities, all charities benefit. As such, these beneficiary charities are then revealed as beneficiaries, but only if the other heirs in the will wishes to know them, not that they can do anything with the knowledge. We at Gringotts adhere to the will of the dead, not the living.”

“I’m glad I discovered that now, it will save me effort and spleen later, if ever Lucius dies and I’m one of the heirs,” Draco muttered. More audibly, he said, “Thank you. I trust your... tenacity also applies to retainment of accounts--”

“--so long as the account holds a Galleon,” said the goblin staunchly.

“Yes, well, that’s excellent!” Draco rolled his eyes. He knew for a fact that there were accounts holding no more than two knuts, but these goblins kept them. “Here, I’d like to add gold to the fund we were discussing.”

Draco wrote down the amount and signed on the form the goblin handed him. The goblin’s eyes widened for a millisecond, and then the brusqueness returned and a nod was Draco’s dismissal from the counter.

“Merlin, that was brutal,” Draco muttered as he got out the bronze door to the weak autumn sunlight in Diagon Alley. “I love Muggle banks.”

He walked to the Leaky Cauldron pondering about what he’d discovered. Hermione knew of the fund now. But what could she do about it? He almost wished she’d do something about it. Maybe then she’d attack him in his house.

“Have to get furniture.”



~o0o~




“Don’t come near me! Where did you get that? What are you going to do with it?”

Dionelise was currently her devious alter-ego. In the little bowl hooked to her wrist were black round things, some gleaming, some pocked: doxy eggs. And in her hand was her accurate little catapult. Lia scooted as far away as she could without leaving their table. Lia was fatally allergic to doxy eggs. She could still remember that horrendous day when she and her family discovered the allergy. She didn’t want a repeat of the experience.

Professor Demouit was in front of the class reading aloud from a famous potioneer’s biography in a monotone rivalling Professor Binns’s. Most of the class were doodling notes and passing them back and forth, the rest were napping with their eyes glassy and half-open. Calliope Grace Malfoy, sitting two rows ahead, was reading something else behind her propped copy of the biography.

“Doxy eggs stick to fabric and hair, you know,” said Dionelise. Lia cringed and leaned away as Dionelise used tongs to put an egg in the catapult. “This is for the fifty points.”

And then she aimed the catapult at Callie.

Lia didn’t know why her stomach sort of went cold or why she shouted, “No!” But afterwards, she realised it was probably because some deep sister-knowledge in her somehow knew what would happen beforehand. And protested against it, because what happened was horrible.

Because of her shout, everyone in the class who was awake turned to Lia, including Callie. The upshot of it was, instead of getting a doxy egg in her hair, Callie got the egg full in the face, right on her upper lip, just below her nose.

Not five seconds passed before the hives broke out in Callie’s face even while she was still looking down at the floor at what hit her. And then she jumped up so violently her stool and table fell off their legs. “Ow, ow! It burns, it hurts!” Her hands shook around her face, but she couldn’t dare touch. Lia knew the feeling. She was already by Callie’s side. Callie was dancing away from her. “Don’t touch me!” Callie was sobbing now.

Ignoring the professor, who was ordering Lia back to her seat and dimwittedly yelling at Callie to shut up and tell him what was wrong, Lia grabbed Callie’s arm and hauled her out of the room.

“”I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know it hurts, but I’m taking you to the hospital wing. Hang in there. I have to drag you, or you’ll just keep dancing on the spot.”

“Leave me! Leave me! It hurts! Make it stop! Get your hand off my arm!”

Callie’s sobs gave Lia an idea.

Madam Pomfrey heard the sobbing long before they reached the hospital wing. She careened out of the ward and almost ran headlong into Callie’s shoes. Lia had been levitating her.

“Don’t touch her, ma’am. It hurts.”

“What happened? Was she cursed?” Madam Pomfrey waved her wand and relieved Lia of Callie’s levitation. Lia sagged against the wall and stayed there for a second before following the nurse and Callie inside the ward. Madam Pomfrey made several complicated swishes and flicks and though Callie was placed on a bed, she hovered several inches above the sheets. At a mutter from Madam Pomfrey, she glowed orange. That probably meant something.

“It was a doxy egg, ma’am. She’s allergic,” Lia said in passing; she was already running toward what seemed to be the storeroom.

“What are you doing? Come back here, child!” called Madam Pomfrey.

Lia was daunted by the vast and tall shelves. In her panic, she might just cause more trouble. She had a vision of all these medicines shattering and flooding the floor. She ran back to Madam Pomfrey.

“She needs murtlap, please, not the essence, but the murtlap growth, chopped and boiled in lobalug venom diluted with milk.”

Madam Pomfrey gaped at her. “And here I thought I would have to consult the Healing Tome before I could do a thing. I’ve never encountered a doxy allergy before. Not at Hogwarts, where there are no dox--”

“Ma’am, stop talking and make the antidote! She’ll have a fever soon, and she’ll be vomiting! The antidote will be useless then if we wait much longer!”

Madam Pomfrey ran. Lia wrung her hands and cringed and cowered at every whimper and sob coming from Callie. Callie’s allergy seemed to be worse than hers. When she’d triggered her allergy, Lia had only itched at first. The hives and burning hadn’t come until hours afterward. But then, Lia had only touched the egg that time she was five. Callie had probably inhaled the egg dander or dust or pollen or whatever it was on the egg that annoyed their bodies so much.

Lia stared as Madam Pomfrey used magic to tip the vial of antidote toward Callie’s lips. Callie grimaced at the taste, but gulped it down, eager to end her torture. Lia wanted to say, ‘There you go, you’ll be fine in a minute,’ but her throat was closed up. Callie had the allergy, too. Somehow, it linked them both better than having the same father.

Lia chewed on that. She’d known ever since the Sorting. She’d known even while she raged and plotted. But only now was it making her shaky, making her regret having been jealous and petty. This was her sister.

“I’m sorry.”

Lia jumped at hearing her own words. Callie turned to her languidly, eyes wet. She was no longer in pain, but the fever seemed to have come already. Her hand was scorching when Lia took hold of it.

Madam Pomfrey bustled off to get a fever-reducing potion next.

“How-- how come you know what to g-give me?” Callie rasped. “S-so well, you know i-it so well.”

“I’m allergic to doxy eggs, too.” And here Lia tenderly and gently squeezed the hand she held. She wondered what else she had in common with this sister of hers. “My mum made me memorise the antidote.”

Callie wrenched her hand away from Lia’s. “At least your mum came in useful this time,” she muttered audibly, no longer weak, and with venom.

Before Lia could demand what Callie meant by that, the doors opened, Professor Demouit entered and Dionelise was sobbing over to them. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Calliope. I don’t know what came over me.” And then she got a good look at Callie and she screamed. “What happened to you? What did I do to you?”

Madam Pomfrey finished administering the fever-reducing potion to Callie and made for Dionelise. “You need a Calming Draught, child. And you, what is the matter with you now?” Madam Pomfrey said, looking at Lia. “You look like a bowtruckle cheated out of its tree. Sit down. Your friend will be fine. She won’t even be bilious; I added something in her last potion--”

“Oh, I wish you didn’t do that. I was hoping she’d puke her intestines out.”

Callie glared. Lia glared back.



~o0o~




Callie spent most of the weekend in the hospital wing. She was afraid her father and grandparents had already been informed, but when she asked Madam Pomfrey about it, the kind nurse snorted and smiled and said she only tattled to parents in life-threatening situations. Otherwise, she preferred to suffer alone.

It was Sunday evening, and Madam Pomfrey had been noshing on chocolate gateau. Callie was already finished with hers. She was discharged from the ward and charged to commit her allergy antidote to memory. Callie nodded mutely and set off for the library.

“She’s probably some blonde brainless bimbo and making her child memorise that antidote is her one bright moment,” she mumbled. She mentally chided herself. But she couldn’t help it. It galled her that not only did Lia have claim on her--their-- dad, she had a mother, too. Whereas Callie... Even a blonde brainless bimbo was better than nothing, wasn’t it?

“No, it isn’t,” she ground out through clenched teeth.

“I don’t want you handling my books if you’re in a bad temper,” hissed Madam Pince. Callie jumped, shook her head and smiled sheepishly.

The librarian peered at her closely for several moments and then went on in her prowl.

Callie didn’t know how long she stayed there, engrossed in Great Wizarding Events of the 21st Century but when she lifted her head from the pages and looked about, the library was dark except for her lamp, and Madam Pince was once again nose to nose with her.

“I’ve warded off three prefects already. The seventh years have all dispersed as well. We really do have to go to bed, don’t you think?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” Callie stood up with the book, intent to return it to its shelf, but Madam Pince took it from her and waved it away with her wand. Callie thanked her again.

“Brown hair is very ordinary, even trite,” Madam Pince murmured.

Callie didn’t answer. What would she say? At the moment, she was too puzzled and too tired to even feel insulted.

“I’ve been here so long your faces all look the same. I only remember few. And of those few, one had brown hair. You remind me of her. You are so like, not only in appearance, but in your regard for the written volumes. I saw how you treated that book just now. You know how to turn the pages properly. You don’t scrunch it up like most of the Neanderthals here. Now, get along with you. Bed. If you meet a prefect, tell them you’ve been with me. If Peeves accosts you, tell him the Bloody Baron is coming along right behind you. I will send him.”

Callie didn’t like that last bit, but she thanked the librarian yet again and scurried off to Gryffindor Tower. When she got there, she found Kia waiting curled up in one of the couches in the common room. She jumped up when she heard Callie enter.

“About time! Another hour and I was going to the Headmistress and tell her you’ve been eaten by Madam Pince.”

“You knew I was in the library? Why didn’t you get me?”

“I tried to. But Madam Pince waved me away. I thought you’d hacked her off and she was making you stay as punishment. But she was looking at you like you’re her beloved cat or something, not to be disturbed from your sunning.”

Callie laughed. Yes, it was definitely better than a blonde brainless bimbo, indeed.



~o0o~




Monday morning found Lia listless and lethargic, as if she’d been tailed by a pogrebin all night. She got dressed and went to the Great Hall with Dionelise with her head down and her thoughts in a muddle. But unlike someone who had been tailed by a pogrebin, she wasn’t inclined to curl up on the floor under the Slytherin table. No, she was listless and lethargic and livid. She wanted to kick something. What did Callie have against her mum when it was her mum who was the reason Lia didn’t have a dad? Why did they have to blame each other’s mums in the first place anyway? Why couldn’t they just be sisters and eat s’mores together?

She was tired of all this, Lia decided. She’d gotten her uncles’ reply to her confession last night. Short of sending a Howler, they still conveyed they were brassed off at her behaviour to her sister and had admonished her that it was not her business, nor Callie’s fault, what happened in the past and that Hermione had not raised her to be like this. And they were right.

She would make friends with Callie today. The mere thought made Lia smile.

Before she could look over at the Gryffindor table, however, Dionelise grabbed her cheeks between her hands and steered her face toward the staff table, where Lia saw Hagrid waving at her. She waved back, and then gasped when Hagrid pointed to his right. There, seated beside the Headmistress, was her mum!

She must have felt Lia looking at her, because Hermione turned to her at that moment. She smiled and mouthed, ‘Good morning, love.’ And then she slackened her jaws open only to snap it back shut with a hand. Lia took the hint and closed her mouth. Hermione nodded approvingly and turned to converse with Professor Morfosa.

“That’s my mum.”

“Yes, that’s your mum, isn’t it? The great Hermione Granger. She’s going to be teaching us!” said Priscilla, leaning over from where she sat five places away.

“She is?” Lia was gobsmacked.

“Sure. Flitwick’s been ordered to retire for his health. What is she like, Lia? I’ve always admired her,” said Priscilla.

Quillian, who was sitting at their table beside Priscilla, joined in, saying, “And wow, she’s quite pretty, isn’t she? There are no photos of her anywhere. I read somewhere it was a stipulation from Harry Potter, that his and his friends’ publicity hold no photo of Hermione Granger.”

“Why on earth?” Priscilla asked.

Quillian shrugged. They all looked at Lia. But she could only shrug, too. She looked back at the staff table. Her mum was really there. What happened? What about her job at the Ministry?

But she noticed she wasn’t the only one staring at the staff table and most of them were, like Priscilla, impressed and seemed to be more than looking forward to having the newcomer as a teacher. Lia dismissed her puzzlement and began to grin. She might not have her father, but her mum was so cool.



~o0o~




“Is it just me, or is the Hall buzzing more than usual?”

“The Hall is buzzing more than usual, as a matter of fact,” answered Sir Nicholas, popping between Callie and Kia. “And because one of Gryffindor’s own has returned, this time to teach. I’m so proud of her.”

Nick theatrically wiped a tear with a lace handkerchief no less pearly and see-through than the rest of him. That was when he caught sight of Callie and Kia. “Oh, begging pardon, my dears.” He nodded at them and the rest of the new faces around him. “Welcome to Hogwarts and to Gryffindor. I hope you’ll forgive me for my absence in your first week. Patrick’s been very accomodating since the war and now he can’t seem to hold a hunt without me, although he fondly disdains my attached head as much as ever. You must have already heard of me, of course, or I’ll bludgeon your prefects.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sir Nicholas,” said Callie.

Sir Nicholas blinked. Callie was getting used to this reaction by now. “And you are...?” Sir Nicholas had a delighted expression on his face, as though he already knew who she was and couldn’t wait to say, ‘I knew it!’

“I’m Calliope Malfoy. They call me Callie.”

The delight was replaced with bewilderment. “Malfoy? You don’t say!”

“Who did you expect her to be?” asked Kia.

“I thought a Weasley, perhaps or--”

“All the Weasleys are redheads,” said Maximillian.

“But she’s the spitting image of--”

At that moment, there was a hush in the Hall. The Headmistress had risen from her seat and was sweeping the tables with a sharp look that always silenced them when she wanted to speak.

She cleared her throat and began without preamble. “As you all know, Professor Flitwick, despite his protests, and by edict of Healers, had to cease teaching and enjoy a well-deserved rest and relaxation. We will miss him even as we wish him the best in his retirement. Your new Charms professor has the heartiest approval of your former teacher. His favourite student, I would even go so far as to say, because it is true, and she is someone any mentor would be proud to call ‘an old pupil of mine’. Let us welcome Professor Hermione Granger.”

Professor McGonagall’s speech seemed so sedate in comparison to the applause and cheers that erupted after it. From the Headmistress’s wide smile, it seemed she was expecting just that much reaction, and had only tried not to gush in proportion to it. With spots of pink in her cheeks, Professor Hermione Granger stood up and acknowledged her warm welcome with a nod and a grin. “It’s good to be back at Hogwarts,” was all she said before sitting back down. She seemed really embarrassed when the Hall only cheered louder instead of quieting down. Callie stared at her hungrily. She couldn’t get enough of this new professor.

“Now this is getting ridiculous!” shouted the Headmistress. ”Settle down! Finish your breakfasts!”

There were some chuckles and then the hubbub fell back to its usual decibel.

“Well, there you go,” said Sir Nicholas as though he was continuing a conversation with them. Those who heard him turned to him questioningly.

He looked affronted that they didn’t catch on. “I said, there you go!” he ground out to Maximillian, motioning toward the staff table. “You said all the Weasleys are redheads. I know that, boy, and I’ve known it for decades before your grandfather’s grandparents were born. It’s just that this Malfoy girl happens to be the spitting image of the new Professor Hermione Granger. And in their day, Miss Granger and Mr Ronald Weasley were quite the thing, if you catch my meaning. So naturally, I assumed a child of theirs would bear the name Weasley. And only a child of Miss Granger’s could resemble her so disarmingly...” Sir Nicholas turned to smile apologetically at Callie. “Except for the eyes. They are very Malfoy. Forgive me, dear. Of course your mother must have married your father instead, no? Who would have thought! You turned out quite well. And how is your father and paternal grandparents taking your being in Gryffindor?” The ghost positively chortled at that, only to stop upon seeing the look on Callie’s face.