Chapter Text
Minerva McGonagall was a woman who prided herself on her sensibility and level-headedness. She knew herself to have a temper, but she’d like to think she had a good handle on it. Being the oldest and also the only girl out of her two siblings tested her patience as a child, and securing her position in the Ministry and later at Hogwarts cemented her level-headed temperament.
This was tested upon meeting Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.
When she’d been reviewing the admittedly short list of Muggle-born students she’d have to explain the wizarding world to, she’d been surprised to see two at the same address. It was exceedingly rare to have Wixen twins born to Muggles, but her surprise had morphed to full fledged incredulity upon reading the file. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, located at 3336 St. Lucy’s Christian Home for Orphans, Cokeworth, Birmingham, England.
Harry Potter, living in an orphanage in the same town where she’d told Lily Evans she was a wizard all those years ago, with another Wixen child? What were the chances?
When Harry Potter lived in an orphanage, rather than any of the number of suitable Wixen families who’d offered to take him in, on account of Albus insisting on placing him with Lily’s Muggle sister?
The very suggestion of it was hysterical. And it was reality.
Her discomfort only worsened when she’d gone to the Orphanage. She’d remembered, all those years ago, how dreadfully dull Cokeworth had been. Lily had been an unusual bright spot, a flower growing in the cracks of the pavement. St. Lucy’s was, by far, the worst part of Cokeworth she’d seen.
The building itself was old and decrepit, with rotting pale wood and rusting shingles on the roof. It looked as if it were originally a church that had been haphazardly expanded. Black, iron gates encased the premises, like a crude cage. From the front, the only thing visible through the low-hanging fog was a great, towering willow tree, and the large crucifix built upon the highest roof.
She had shuddered at the oppressive atmosphere.
The people were worse. When she’d given him the routine explanation of Harry and Hermione being gifted children invited to a school for their intelligence, the Father, Michael, had looked at her with barely concealed contempt at the prompting of the children’s names. Still, he had sent one of the nuns to collect the pair.
When she first saw the two children, she could hardly believe that the boy was Harry Potter—if not for the scar dashing his forehead— because of just how…rugged he looked. His hair was the same mess his father’s had been, but a darker shade, with a punk-looking streak of white at the front of his bangs, and it ran through his eyebrow. His face was pulled into a scowl, and he shifted his weight side-to-side restlessly. His green eyes, every bit the Killing-Curse-Green his mother’s had been, were filled with a dark, deep anger.
His knuckles were split open, with crusting dried blood. With the bruise on his brow, his split lip, rings on his fingers, leather bracelets, the silver cross hanging from his neck, his black stud earrings, and the fit of his clothes, he looked every picture of some common street thug. She reminded him, for just a painful moment, of Sirius Black. Of course, Sirius never wore such rung out clothes, but he had a similar look in his silver eyes. Anger and desperation, and a glint of something wild and percutient.
Next to him was the face of someone Minerva thought to be a ghost. Hermione Granger was the spitting image of Fleamont Potter. From her auburn curls, to her golden, hazel-brown eyes, to the slope of her nose, and to the faux-boredom and carefully concealed scrutiny. Similar to Harry Potter, she had this rugged air to her. She seemed to care a bit more for her appearance, as there was a distinct lack of stains on her jumper, but it was still worn, and her jeans had holes in them.
The pair of them looked like the kind of teenagers mothers used as examples to their small children as to why they should do well in school.
When Minerva spoke with them, they initially kept every emotion closely guarded to them. And then she started speaking of Harry’s parents, and the boy leaned in like he was starved.
She’d taken them to Gringotts and let them take care of inheritances and a very necessary bloodline test for Granger while she ran errands.
Now, she was here, choking on air as the pair walked towards her. Part of her brain was denying that they were even the same people, but it was hard to manage the exact way Harry Potter’s hair looked, and Hermione Granger's curls and freckles were so very distinct.
Still, if she had thought Harry looked like Sirius and Hermione like Fleamont before, now she was very well on her way to an aneurysm.
They also, remarkably, looked considerably more like siblings.
“Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger,” She greeted, trying her absolute damndest not to stutter.
“We’re both Potters, actually.” Hermione (Potter?) corrected with a lazy grin on her face. “Turns out we’re twins.”
…What?
The notion seemed impossible—Surely, someone would have known that the Potters had twins— until Minerva considered further. Who would they would actually tell, in such terrible times? Remus, not heard of since the war? Sirius, who betrayed them and was imprisoned in Azkaban? Peter, killed by Sirius? Marlene, Mary, Dorcas, or Pandora, who were all dead? Frank and Alice, who have lost their minds to the Cruciatus Curse?
The only person who could have possibly known was…Albus Dumbledore, who sent Harry to live in that orphanage in the first place.
A chill went down her spine.
She took a deep breath and set about getting the impossible twins to Ollivanders. She made a decision in that moment, resolution curling through her bloodstream and settling in her magic; whatever came of the Potter twins, she would take their side of Albus’.
“Well, I’m delighted to know the two of you found each other,” She said diplomatically, a serene smile on her face, “Now, let’s get the two of you your wands, shall we?”
“No need, professor,” Harry started with an almost manic grin, “We got ours from our Vault.”
Merlin and Morgana, give her strength.
— — —
After Gringotts, the Twins' trip through Diagon Alley was mundane in comparison, if not a bit overwhelming for Hadrian, who was finding he was extremely sensitive to magic after the cleansing.
To an outside perspective, he seemed perfectly stoic, but if you looked closely, you could see his hands trembling, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, pinpricks of tears in his eyes, and the way he chewed on the inner part of his cheek.
Hermione, his blessed sister, just held onto his wrist, not hard enough to bruise but right on that precipice.
Professor McGonagall was a bit taken aback to discover they had gotten their wands from their family vaults, but was soon distracted by their properties.
“Are they really that odd, Professor?” Hermione asked, feigning innocence with a curious tilt of her head.
“Not odd, per se,” McGonagall acquiesced, “But very powerful, and most certainly a marker of the great things the two of you shall accomplish.”
Hermione and Hadrian smirked at each other at that. They had every intention of fulfilling those expectations.
McGonagall took them to Madame Malkin's first, where their fittings for uniforms were a quick affair, if not a shock to Madame Malkin herself that the Boy-Who-Lived had a twin sister that none of the Wixen World knew about. Hadrian and Hermione had decided then and there that Hermione’s existence was the top of their agenda for the summer, right after leaving St. Lucy’s.
Hadrian had big plans, you see, and he knew Hermione did too.
Before knowing he had magic, Hadrian thought he’d b1e dead by the time he was sixteen.
He’d be beaten too hard by the nuns. One of Father Michael’s attempts at exorcising him would go too far for too long. He’d get in a fight he couldn’t win.
Hermione always told him he could do more, but what was the point in hope? Hope and pray, the saying goes. He’d hoped before, he’d certainly prayed. It didn’t get you anywhere. It just left you waiting, and no one was coming to save him. He had to save himself.
Now? He had the one thing he knew no one could take from him. It wasn’t hope or prayer, it was physical. It was something he could hear and see and feel all around him, something he’d always known but was too scared to acknowledge.
They stopped at an Apothecary next, where Hermione and Hadrian picked out potion material of sound quality but not overly gauche. And then to a stationary store. And finally, blessedly, McGonagall took the twins to Flourish and Blotts.
“Quite the pair of Ravenclaws, aren’t you?” The clerk chuckled. She was ignored in favor of the books on Metamorphmagus magics.
By the time they felt satisfied with their haul of books— On top of their required textbooks, Hadrian had picked up twelve books of his choosing and Hermione fifteen; if either of them were the Ravenclaw, it was most certainly her—they were increasingly grateful for Ironblood’s expandable and feather-light satchels, and the sun was descending behind the building of the Alley.
“I’d best get the pair of you home, now,” McGonagall told them. Hermione bristled slightly, and Hadrian bit the inside of his cheek.
They’d nearly forgotten about the Orphanage in favor of the excitement of the day. McGonagall didn’t notice, or rather didn’t care for their sudden drop in excited attitudes, and took their arms. The twins flinched, but it didn’t stop them from popping in front of the dark iron gates, dizzy and blood rushing in their ears.
Hadrian clenched his fists. She’d seen him, hadn’t she? She’d seen the cuts on his face and bruises. She’d healed them, after all. Or maybe it didn’t matter that they were magic. Maybe, McGonagall took in their tattered clothes and guarded behavior and came to the same conclusion every adult around them did: Delinquents. No-good, rotten kids. Sinners who have lost their way.
Hadrian’s fists shook. McGonagall was saying…something. Something about owls and letters and some other rubbish. She was leaving them; leaving them in this place when a whole world waited for them.
In a snap, McGonagall was gone as quickly as she had arrived. The gates were the same, the fog around the willow tree, low on the ground was the same. The lights were on still, but dinner had long passed, which meant that everyone was finishing the last of their chores before Lights Out.
Hermione grabbed his wrist with a grip just shy of bruising and tremblings hands and guided him through the gates and along the stone path.
As they approached the door, they spotted Marcus—a brutish boy with stringy blonde hair and freckles that looked far more like acne— laughing at a boy picking weeds from the front garden with his two little henchmen, each more pathetic than the other. Hadrian had to fight to keep a sharp grin off his face. This, this is exactly what he needs. A fight, split skin beneath his knuckles.
Marcus looked up from where he was making fun of the small boy and his grin widened into something far more excited, “Well, if it isn’t St. Lucy’s biggest freaks!”
“Practice that one in the mirror, did you?” Hermione taunted.
Marcus’ face pulled in, “You know everyone heard of the two of you getting pulled aside by that crazy teacher-lady, guess you’re not as special as she thought if you’re back here.”
CrACK.
Marcus’ head whipped to the side as Hadrian’s fist connected with his jaw. His new rings left an imprinting scratch, not overtly deep, but stinging. His Black Family ring burned white-hot, soothing and cheering him on.
Marcus reared back up, eyebrows furrowed. He went to throw a punch back at Hadrian, but he stepped back to the side and threw himself forwards and on top of the boy. His knees dug into the dirt on either side of Marcus’ skinny sides, and Hadrian landed punch after punch, unrelenting in his assault. He wasn’t particularly focused on just any area, just the sickening feeling of his own bloody knuckles against Marcus’ rapidly splitting and bruising face.
“Hadrian!” Was that Hermione who yelled his name?
One of Marcus’ buddies finally gained some confidence and pulled at the arm he was hitting his friend with, while the other scrambled to grab the other and they dragged him off of the blonde boy. Hadrian lurched and kicked out, nailing him in the stomach with the end of his heel.
One of the friends, a ginger boy with wild curls threw him to the ground. He was larger than Hadrian, taller and a bit beefy. He went to kick Hadrian’s stomach, but the smaller boy had been pushing himself off the ground and the Ginger’s dirty boot hit underside of his jaw. His teeth clacked together, the feeling reverberating in his skull. He’s pretty sure he bit something, because he can taste the distinct, coppery flavor of blood as it pools thick in his mouth. He spits it out with a glare and he knees the ginger in the groin.
“Harrison Potter!” Father Michael screams. Hadrian freezes. The words take a second to connect, because he’s not Harrison anymore, he’s Hadrian; but he is Harrison, because he never actually left St. Lucy’s. A grotesque sense of dread builds between his ribs and his heart, pounding a sickeningly increasing rhythm.
Harry barely registers Father Michael grabbing his wrist and pulling, dragging him into his office for the second time that day. He’s thrown to the rough, stone floor, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall.
His head is pounding as he clutches his shoulder. It was definitely bruised. Father Michael is panting angrily above him.
“I’ve grown quite tired of this game, Mr. Potter.”
“And what,” Harry gritted his teeth, “Would that be, Father?”
A kick landed firmly to his gut. “Don’t give me your insolence, boy!” Father Michael ran a trembling hand through his disheveled, graying hair, his lips pursed into a firm line. “I had hoped that we’d rid the Devil from you last month when— oh confound it!”
Harry stayed deathly still on his position on the floor, clutching his shoulder and backed against the shelves of bibles and journals, the stone rough beneath him. His hands feel stingingly numb, prickling and sharp.
Father Michael pulled him up by his wrist, and Harry limply followed. “You’ll serve your punishment in front of God,” He sneered, dragging him into their chappel. Something burned in his chest, scorching and purging, as he was dragged along the aisle in between the pews.
He’s shoved down by his shoulders and onto his knees, his heels digging into his butt as Father Michael takes his listless wrists and ties them with Holy Water soaked ropes and ties them to a post in the ground, directly in front the seven-foot crucifix, complete with Jesus, head hung low and wrists stabbed through with nails and a crown full of thorns. And all Harry can do as Father Michael rips off his shirt and begins to whip his back is keep his head hung low as tears prick in his eyes and the rings pressed against his sweating forehead because his wrists are bound and Jesus’ are stabbed through— If Jesus, God’s own son didn’t get his mercy, then what made Harry, a sinner, deserving?
—
Maya and Luca share a room with Hermione and Harry, despite being a year younger. Sometimes Hermione has a habit of forgetting just how young they are. Hermione and Harry aren’t even twelve yet. Luca has barely turned ten, and Maya still has a week to go.
She forgets because moments like these—where Maya is braiding her curls with nimble fingers as Luca is sorting through the meager first aid kit that the boy who taught Harry to fight built before he aged out— she felt far older.
The fear in between her ribs, the sense of helplessness, is far older than the stupid age of eleven. She bites her lip to overpower the sting of tears in her eyes. She can’t do anything but wait. It’s been this way since she’s known Harry but today had been good.
The day had been right out of the books she reads to distract herself and for one selfish moment she’d dared to hope that they’d be free of St. Lucy’s and Cokeworth and the need to wait and fight.
A quiet sob tears itself through her, tears falling from her eyes. Maya doesn’t say anything, just keep twisting tiny braids into her hair.
She can’t do this anymore. She won’t.
They’re magic, aren’t they? They’re special, they’re strong, and they’re eleven and scared.
Sister Suzanne shoves the door to their room open with a grimace, Harry held out by her wrist like vermin she doesn’t want to touch, standing limply and shirt gone, leaving an open view of the array of bruises decorating his skin. They don’t have to see his back to know that the whip has cut it open because they can smell the copper scent of blood.
Luca takes him from Sister Suzanne who walks away without a word, and Hermione takes him from Luca and lays him face down on his bed.
Hermione swallows bile at the sight of his back, bruised and raw and lightly cut open. She clenches her eyes shut before looking towards Maya and Luca who both look appropriately green.
“You can go sleep with Amira and Cordell tonight,” Hermione says softly, already rubbing Arnica into the bruises that aren’t cut open and raw as softly as she can (even if she can most definitely hear Harry hissing in pain) “I’ll take care of him.”
Maya and Luca just nod and shut the door behind them.
“I’m going to clean the cuts now,” Hermione whispers to her brother. She gets a barely-conscious nod and wipes the cuts clean through her brother’s low, guttural breathing.
Eventually, he lifts himself up. Hermione’s almost surprised to see dried tears down his cheeks. Harry doesn’t like crying, doesn’t like letting anyone see him weak. She wipes a dried tear and Harry leans into the touch with a trembling sigh.
“We can’t keep doing this,” Hermione says, throat tight.
Harry looks at her through wet, spiky lashes with his terribly green eyes, red rimmed and puffy, “What are we meant to do?”
Hermione purses her lips and, gently, tugs on the key-shaped portkey strung on a silver chain on his neck. Her warm eyes burn into him, “We leave.”
“Just like that?”
“What’s seriously stopping us? We leave for Hogwarts in two months, Hadrian.”
Hadrian stops and considers, really considers. Brows furrowed and split lips pursed. He looks at her with a twin glint in his eyes.
“So, what? We pull a Dorothy, click our heels together three times saying there’s no place like home and we’re out of here?”
Hermione gives her twin a dry look. “Ironblood said all we had to do was hold onto the keys, each other, and think about letting the magic take us.”
The decision settles around them, air thick.
They’re leaving.
It feels so right.
The two of them look around the room and take it in. They— There’s nothing they even need to take, aside from their new satchels that hold everything they need.
Hadrian looks at his sister, one hand in hers and the other on the key. No place like home, huh?