Chapter Text
1975
The Paradise Inn
Griffin Cove, St. Albus
Hermione cherished the moments when her daughter returned from school each day, her face alight with joy and her words spilling out in a cascade of stories. Whether she was recounting the amusing antics of her classmates or delving into the details of a fascinating assignment, young Lia always seemed eager to share her world with her mother. Even at fourteen, much to Hermione's delight, the girl remained deeply connected to her, trusting her with every secret and thought. Hermione understood the rarity of such a bond between mother and teenage daughter—it was a stark contrast to the formal, restrained relationship she shared with her own mother, which had been defined by clear boundaries and decorum, even to this day.
Hermione had been privy to every fleeting schoolgirl crush and awkward phase of adolescence that Lia had navigated so far. She attributed their closeness to the fact that she became a mother so young and had consciously chosen to treat Lia as an equal—not a subordinate or a reflection of herself. Her honesty in most matters and her appreciation for Lia’s keen intelligence nurtured a bond of mutual respect. Lia, in turn, confided in her without hesitation, often declaring that her mother was her closest friend.
Their world felt small, as if it were built just for the two of them. So when Lia stomped through the iron gates of their imposing white guesthouse, her face darkened by a scowl, Hermione's heart sank, her brow creasing with worry. Something was wrong, and she could feel it immediately.
Lia’s navy blue school skirt hung neatly, paired with a short-sleeve white blouse and her striped navy tie. Her dark curls spilled onto her face, her headband unable to hold them back. She raised her hand briefly to her cheek, seemingly wiping away tears.
Lia broke the usual decorum. She passed her mother and grandmother without offering the polite greeting that was customarily expected. The two women, seated comfortably on the top veranda with glasses of cool limeade in hand, watched her from above as she moved along the gravel road, her demeanor noticeably different. It was clear to them she had no intention of adhering to routine niceties.
Helen clicked her tongue, clearly disapproving of Lia’s behavior. “I know she saw us sitting here,” she said with indignation, her voice sharp and unwavering in its criticism.
“She’s upset, Mother,” Hermione murmured, more to herself than to Helen. Rising from her patio chair, she prepared to seek out her daughter, her concern far outweighing any irritation. “Something happened today,” she added softly, her focus already shifting.
Helen took another sip of her limeade and muttered something about knowing a child’s place. Hermione, determined to address the more pressing matter, ignored her mother’s commentary. One problem at a time, she thought to herself as she descended the stairs.
Hermione found Lia in the guesthouse’s back bedroom, a space that was dimly lit and tucked away from the bustle of their home. The front rooms, with their stunning sea views, were reserved for the travelers who came from far and wide to experience the island’s beauty during their holidays. The air in the back of the house seemed heavier, matching the weight of whatever had upset Lia.
Lia sat on her bed, her tie hanging loosely as she pulled it down with a tired motion. Hermione pushed the wooden door open gently and peeked her head inside.
“Are you alright, darling?” she asked softly.
Lia muttered, “No.”
“What happened?” Hermione asked, her tone warm and steady. “You’re crying.”
Her daughter’s face was streaked with tears, her expression downcast. Hermione’s heart ached as she wondered what could have upset Lia at school. Most of the children in their small island town liked her, and she had never experienced any serious issues.
Hermione moved closer, her motherly concern intensifying. She gently brushed Lia’s curls from her face and asked again, “Huh, Lia?”
Leaning into her mother, Lia whispered, “My teacher got cross with me and scolded me in front of everyone.”
“Why?” her mother asked.
“She thought I was talking during the lesson. She made me stay after class and…” Lia trailed off, her voice wavering.
“And?” her mother prompted gently.
“She said I was talking to the boys at the back, but I wasn’t, Mummy. I swear I wasn’t.” Tears brimmed in Lia’s eyes. “Then she said something about you. I don’t know, I just ran home.”
“What did she say?” her mother pressed, her voice sharpening.
Lia hesitated, the words tumbling out in a rush. “She said you chase men, and I’m just like you. She said: It’s no wonder I don’t have my father’s name. She said…you probably don’t even know it.”
“Who was this?” her mother demanded, her tone laced with a simmering fury. “Mrs. Umbridge?”
Lia sniffled, nodding as she wiped at her face.
“Why?” Lia asked, her voice quivering as she looked up, her eyes full of equal parts fear and confusion. The intensity in her mother’s gaze was unfamiliar—Hermione was never one for anger, but for her child, she would summon it.
“You’re not going to say anything to her, right?” Lia asked, her voice tinged with worry.
“Not to her,” Hermione replied. “I’ll be speaking with the headmaster about this.”
“That’ll only make it worse!” Lia protested, a tremor in her voice. “She’ll say I’m lying. No one else heard her, Mummy. Please. She’s going to be my teacher for three more years. Just let it go. I’ll sit far away from the boys—she won’t have any reason to say anything like that again.”
Hermione remained silent, guilt washing over her as she listened to her daughter. She had always known that her decisions—the life she had chosen—would affect Lia in ways she couldn’t fully anticipate. Unmarried and raising a child in a small, devout community, Hermione had been a target for scorn since the day Lia was born.
She remembered the night at the village hospital vividly. Alone, without a partner pacing the waiting room, she had faced judgment alongside the agonizing pain of labor. The night nurse had ignored Hermione’s cries for help, muttering that she deserved her suffering for lying with a man before marriage. It wasn’t until the morning, when a midwife examined her, that they discovered an infection. Time had been critical. Without urgent treatment, she could have lost her life—and Lia would have been left with neither a mother nor a father.
The mistreatment followed Hermione home. Throughout her pregnancy and the first three years of Lia’s life, Hermione's father barely spoke to her, despite sharing the same roof. A proud and stubborn man, the retired dentist had been moments away from throwing Hermione and her baby out on the street more than once. It was only Helen Granger’s fierce insistence that kept them under the family’s care. To Helen, enduring the world’s judgment for the family’s strained dynamic was far more bearable than being branded as utterly heartless for abandoning a helpless child.
“She had no right to say any of that to you, Lia,” Hermione said firmly. “I made my choices, and I take responsibility for them. I’m not perfect—no one is. But I’m so sorry that you’re being punished for my mistakes. I won’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with, but that woman has crossed the line.”
“Leave it alone, Mum,” Lia pleaded, her voice tinged with desperation. “I’ll be okay, I promise.”
She forced a smile, trying to look brave, though her trembling hands betrayed her. Taking a steadying breath, she changed the subject. “Where are the new guests? They were supposed to arrive today, weren’t they?”
Hermione glanced at her watch. “They should be on their way. Their flight landed this morning, according to the letter they sent.”
“How long are they staying?” Lia asked, her tone lighter now.
“Just three days and two nights,” Hermione replied.
“Short trip,” Lia mused. “Any kids?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s just a couple,” Hermione said, rising to her feet. She reached out a hand to her daughter. “Will you help me with dinner?”
Dr. Mark Granger passed away just after Lia’s third birthday, leaving behind a sprawling seven-bedroom home but little else. He and his wife had devoted their resources to the property, envisioning a bustling household filled with family. After his death, the home’s transformation into a guesthouse seemed the only logical path forward for those familiar with their story.
Eleven years later, The Paradise Inn had become a well-kept secret among global travelers. The inn was quieter this time of year, with the busy summer season still weeks away. Hermione and Lia relied heavily on the influx of tourists between May and September, their earnings enough to see them through the year.
Yet, for Hermione, the off-season brought a nagging sense of restlessness. There had been a time when she was destined for bigger things—a university abroad and dreams beyond the confines of this island. But life had taken its turn, and now, with Lia by her side, she knew that nothing mattered more than being a mother to her remarkable child.
From the second-floor veranda, the small family gathered for dinner, savoring the slow, steady descent of the setting sun. Lia had regained her usual cheerful demeanor, animatedly sharing a funny story she’d heard from a friend at school.
Despite her reputation as a strict disciplinarian, Helen could laugh heartily at her granddaughter’s playful schoolgirl antics, which she often referred to as “nonsense.” Lia was an easy child, much like Hermione had been in her youth. Yet, perhaps out of fear of history repeating itself, Helen was even stricter with Lia, determined to avoid the consequences of what she saw as her own past leniency. Moments like these, when laughter bridged the generations, were rare and cherished.
In quieter times, Lia confided in her mother that Grandma often made her feel like she couldn’t do anything right. Hermione, keenly aware of the damage such criticism could cause, tried to be the counterbalance. She made an effort to appreciate her daughter openly and frequently, hoping to undo what harm had been done. But the truth lingered in the back of Hermione’s mind—it was a toxic environment, and there was no escaping it.
The house belonged to her mother, and Hermione’s limited skills left her with few employment options that could sustain the quality of life Lia was accustomed to. Everything Lia needed, she received without question. And yet, there was a price to staying. Over the years, both local and foreign men had offered Hermione the world in exchange for her last name. She never entertained the thought—not since that very first offer from Lia’s father. It was safe to say she might never say “yes” again.
As dusk fell, a white van pulled into the long driveway, its headlights cutting through the growing darkness. Helen, ever practical, instructed Lia to take their dinner plates and glasses into the kitchen. Hermione offered her daughter a reassuring smile before heading downstairs to greet their new guests.
Emerging from the van was their cheerful and larger-than-life neighbor, Mr. Hagrid. “Sorry we’re so late!” he called out, his booming voice filled with good-natured energy.
Hermione waved and replied warmly, “As long as you made it here safely, that’s all that matters.”
The two families had long enjoyed a mutually beneficial relationship. Mr. Hagrid handled all the guest transportation for a share of the profits, while he and his wife Olympe were like extended family, serving as unofficial godparents to Lia and beloved friends to Hermione.
As the van doors swung open, the passengers began to step out, and Mr. Hagrid busied himself unloading their luggage from the back. The first person Hermione greeted was a young woman who couldn’t have been older than twenty—if that. Her long black French braids framed her cherubic face, and the glow of the porch light made her look even younger. Hermione briefly wondered if there had been a mistake with the booking; perhaps Lia might have a new friend to keep her company over the next few days.
“Welcome to Paradise!” Hermione said brightly, extending her hand in greeting. “How was your journey?”
The young woman grinned, her laughter light and musical. “Brilliant!”
“Brilliant?” came a gruff, tired voice from the shadows of the van. Hermione could just make out the figure of a man who had yet to step fully into the light. “The flight was delayed, and there was traffic the entire way here.”
“Ignore my dad,” the young woman said with a knowing smile. “I’m Ivy. This island is beautiful, and I absolutely loved the scenic route.”
Instantly charmed by Ivy’s cheerful demeanor, Hermione offered a warm smile in return. “Well, I hope you’ll both have a wonderful stay. My name is—”
“Hermione?” The voice, astonished yet familiar, interrupted her. Recognition hung heavy in the air.
The man who had been grumbling behind Ivy stepped into the light, his features now unmistakable. Dark hair, piercing dark eyes, and a prominent nose—traits that Hermione saw reflected in her daughter’s face every single day. Time had softened them both in ways neither could ignore, but she would have known him anywhere.
Hermione had spent years imagining this moment, rehearsing words she might say if they ever crossed paths again. But now, standing before him, all those imagined conversations dissolved into silence. All she could manage was his name, spoken barely above a whisper:
“Severus.”