Author’s Note: I’m so sorry this story gets updated once every few months. To be honest I’m losing inspiration with it, but I’m doing my best. Thank you all for your encouraging reviews! Hope you all like chapter seven!

Caged
Chapter Seven

He called me Miss Granger.

My mind has been reeling all day, but this just adds to my confusion. After Professor Snape left this afternoon I spent the remainder of the day lying down in my room, feigning a bout of nausea. I haven’t eaten, haven’t left the room, only stared at the ceiling, thrown into a strange sort of state.

I’m filled with confusion and excitement, but at the same time, guilt. I’m clearly a witch, or I’ve clearly gone mad, and I feel bad about it all. Papa doesn’t know, and neither does Mrs. Jacobs, and I don’t think I can tell them. They’d lock me in my bedroom, strapped to the wall with a live-in nurse if I told them what was happening.... And if Professor Snape was going to erase my memory for my knowing, I’m sure if anyone found out they’d try to erase Papa’s memory as well as Mrs. Jacobs. Besides, I sort of like having this secret to myself, even if I feel guilty about lying to everyone.

But why did Professor Snape call me Miss Granger? It could have been a simple slip, the name of another student he knows, but I feel like there is more to it. The fact that he called me Miss Granger makes me feel uneasy. And ever since he said it I feel as if Greene doesn’t fit with the name Hermione anymore.

What is happening to me?

To my surprise I fall asleep quickly, but my sleep is not restful, it is interrupted by a dream that sets my mind a frenzy, even more so than before.

Papa is lying in a bed, ghostly white, his forehead glistening with perspiration, a pained expression on his face. He’s dying. Without anyone having to tell me I know he’s dying. I feel sick and heavy with dread.

“Papa!” I shout, clutching his hand in my own, tears streaming down my face, hot and salty. “Papa, don’t die!”

His eyes open slowly, only a little, and he frowns at me, “Hermione, your father needs medication.”

“I’ll get you some.”

“No,” he says. “Get your father some.”

I hurry across the room to a side table where a bottle of tonic is sitting. I stare at it for some time, allowing the dark brown bottle to etch itself into my mind. But I don’t pick it up. I know it will save Papa’s life, but I don’t even reach for it. I turn back and walk over to him, kneeling by his bedside.

He looks at me, “Is there medication for your father?” he asks.

I shake my head, “No, Papa, there’s no medication for you.”

“Not for me!” he screams, and I jump, hiding my face in the side of the mattress. “It isn’t for me, damnit! It’s for your father!”

I look up, “But you are my father.”

“Tell your father that.”

“You’re my father!”

“Am I?”

“Yes!”

“Oh. Well then, where’s my medication?” he asks.

I shake my head, “There is none.”

But there is medication. Why am I lying to Papa? Why won’t I give him the medication? Why won’t I save him?! What is wrong with me? I’m killing him, but I don’t want to!

I wake up and roll over, looking toward my window where I can see the sky outside is the color of early morning light. Why has everything gotten so complicated? Why do I feel like my whole life has been wrong, like everyone I know and everything I’ve learned isn’t fitting the way it should? It makes me feel all too anxious and a little ill.
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Because of my punishment and curiosity, and because of my restlessness, I creep into Papa’s office before anyone in the house has woken up. Maybe herein lies a clue as to why I’m not allowed to speak to anyone my age, why any peculiar things that happen bother him, and why he always blames me. Is it something my late mother wished? for me to be isolated from the world? Is it an idea he learned from his own parents? Maybe a note on a scrap of paper, or a will of some kind will quiet my mind for now.

I feel a little guilty snooping like this, but I feel like I could find something in this room that will help me make sense of everything, so I carefully search Papa’s things.

On his bookshelf are all the usual books about law and foreign affairs. On his desk is the newspaper from yesterday, some pamphlets from the bank he goes to, and a bill of some kind. In the unlocked drawers are files, some about my schooling records, some about the countries we’ve visited and where we’ve lived. There are addresses of people we’ve met all over the world, and letters from Uncle Charles about simple military business.

But, to my surprise, the drawer that Papa usually keeps locked was jammed closed and didn’t lock properly. After a few tugs I manage to open it, and I feel like Pandora. Peering into the drawer I see there’s only a tin box inside, I pick it up and set it on the desk, pulling the top off and setting it beside it’s partner on the desk. Inside this strange box are envelopes. They’re all different kinds, some white, some tan, some creamier than others, some coarse, some small, some long, some ripped, some yellowed and old, some stained and wrinkled.

I pick one up and look at the writing on the front of it. It’s addressed to Papa, when we were living in Vienna. And it’s from a Mrs. C. Granger. Granger?

I open the unsealed envelope and read the letter carefully:

August 13, 1806

Mr. Greene,

It does not surprise me that little Hermione is reading on the level of someone twice her age. She’s a very bright child. And Vienna seems to be agreeing with her. It warms my heart to hear of all her adventures, especially ones in which she learns and laughs. I love to hear of your good times and wonderful excursions.

I skim the rest of the letter, as it only talks about me learning Latin and French when I’m older and about how she enjoyed reading about our trip to the Palace at Hamburg.

Who is this woman?

I read another letter, one that is closer to the bottom, a very old one, yellowed and thin.

February 2, 1800

Mr. Greene,

I am very deeply sorry to hear that Mrs. Greene passed on last month. My sympathies are with you and your loved ones at this time.

Still, I don’t think your sadness justifies your attitude toward me. I know she’s no longer mine. I am very much aware that I gave her to your wife for full guardianship. That doesn’t change the fact that she is my daughter! I’m not asking for her back, as much as I would love to be able to care for her myself. I’m only begging of you sir, just tell me how she is doing! Is she well? Is she happy with you in your home?

This makes my stomach drop and my throat close up a little. Who are they talking about? They’re not- They can’t be talking about me! Am I this woman’s daughter? Is she my real mother?

The next letter is addressed to Mrs. Greene- Mother.

January 23, 1799

My dear Mrs. Greene,

I thank you deeply for your kindness. You are a saint, truly.

To answer your question, my health has improved tenfold and I am able to leave the convent, I only have to find some way of living first. Unfortunately, Mr. Granger has not yet returned, I have long past fearing the worst. What has happened, has happened. I still miss him and pray that he will return, but our house is empty now and I’m sure he’d think both of us were dead upon returning. I hate to talk of such depressing things, so please, don’t bother to respond with niceties concerning my misfortune. Please, just tell me more about little Hermione.

All of the letters are written this way, and they’re all from Mrs. Granger. They discuss my education, my life, who I’ve met and what I’ve experienced. The letters are even written to Papa when we were across the world, she didn’t one of our moves. But who is this woman? And why, if she’s not important to me, is she so deeply interested in me and my life?

The most recent letter is dated two months ago.

April 21, 1814

Mr. Greene,

I am pleased to hear you are back in England. Perhaps now Hermione can settle in and learn a little about the place she was born. It seems her sixteen years have been eventful and adventurous, but perhaps she needs a dose of our common home of England.

I am currently working in a large seamstress shop, between Putnam and Finely. If you wish for Hermione and I to remain strangers than I suggest you keep her away from this area, and the area of my home, which you know the address of thanks to these letters. Though I doubt we’d recognize each other if we did meet.

Feeling heavy and sick, I put the letters away and close the box up, setting it back in the drawer, which I close firmly and make sure it locks. I leave Papa’s office and hide in the empty kitchen, allowing the cold dark early morning to surround me and swallow my body whole. Tears come quickly and I allow them to fall. I sob and I shake and I press my eyes shut. I’m not sad, and I’m not angry, I’m just so confused, anxious, scared, and lost that I don’t know what else I should do.

I rock back and forth by the hearth until I hear the servants stirring. Before anyone enters the kitchen I leave and hide away in my bedroom.

Who is Mrs. C. Granger? Why is she so concerned about my well-being? And why did Professor Snape call me Miss Granger? Has Papa been lying to me for sixteen years? Who is my father really? Who am I really?