Coercion of Skies

Coercion of Skies: A Harry Potter Fan Fiction

Chapter One: Photographs and Letters

A/N: This will be a harsher look at the romantic tensions between the main characters of the Harry Potter novels and how those tensions are affected by a displaced setting and an ambiguous threat. Please note that the focus of this story will revolve mostly around the character relationships and how the plot affects them. Thank you!

The photograph had been torn down the middle. Not neatly cut by scissors or a knife, nor magically separated with a simple spell; the edges were jagged, meeting unevenly where they had been spliced together by Spellotape. The picture had been hastily ripped, maybe even in anger, then deftly repaired by a careful hand. The two boys in the picture had their arms around each other's shoulders, reaching awkwardly around the tear. Smiling broadly, wands tucked haphazardly into their cloak pockets, they waved at their visitor. To her, the black and white of the photo did little to diminish either the brilliant red hair of the boy on the left or the vivid emerald eyes of the boy on the right.

Hermione sighed at the picture, as if it represented an incantation she couldn't quite make out clearly. It was tacked to the carefully organized bulletin board hanging over her bed, surrounded by neatly-written notes and reminders and framed by a huge calendar covered with engagements and study schedules. The picture, hanging roughly on the board's edge, was the only personal item there.

Well, Hermione thought, no one has ever accused me of sentimentality, have they?

She reached out, carefully adjusting the picture, making sure the Spellotape was holding it together properly. Then, after a last glance at it, she walked across the room and sat down at her vanity table, gently flicking on the light. The white glow of the lightbulbs revealed a spare, dusty area; the only items on the table were a brush, a hand mirror, and a practically empty-bottle of Sleek-Eazy's hair potion. Looking at the bottle, Hermione smiled, then picked up the brush and attacked her unruly hair.

How many months since the Yule Ball, and I still have that bottle? She gritted her teeth, brushing her hair more vigorously. That had been a particularly . . .memorable experience. It was the first (and last, she swore) time she had gotten dressed up for anything; really, it had been her first date, though she wouldn't call Viktor Krum much of a date. More like a well-muscled conversation piece. But the dancing had been all right, and seeing Professor Dumbledore shed dignity and whirl Professor McGonagall across the floor had been worth the effort in and of itself. Then, of course, she had that awful fight with Ron . . .

Ron. Harry.

She was suddenly very aware of the picture tacked up over her bed, its subjects waving ceaselessly at her like idiots.

When her mother called for her, she jumped up, startled.

"Hermione, love! We've just got a letter . . .er, owl, I should say . . .I think you should come take a look, it's from your school!"

Hermione placed the brush carefully back on the bare vanity, frowning as she peered at herself in the mirror one last time. A letter from Hogwarts at this time of year, when everyone was supposed to be enjoying their vacation, was a surprise indeed. She hoped nothing unfortunate had happened to any of her teachers. Except, perhaps, for Snape.

"I'm coming!" she yelled back. She pulled on a pair of slippers before rushing downstairs.

After she'd gone, the two boys in the picture continued waving for a moment. Then, after looking carefully around the room to make sure she'd left, they withdrew to opposite sides of the picture, staring sullenly out at the room. They didn't look at each other.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Where's the letter?" Hermione asked as she came through the kitchen, pulling a boiling pot off of the stove as she did so.

Her father looked up absently from his copy of Bicuspids Biweekly. "What's that? Oh, the letter . . .yes, your mother has it. Fool owl nearly took my head off buzzing through here this morning. It's still here, you know; I thought they were supposed to shove off after you paid them."

"They are," Hermione said, her nose wrinkling as she threw away two blackened pieces of toast and popped two fresh slices in the toaster. "Where is it?"

"In the living room," her father answered, gesturing with the magazine. Hermione smiled slightly. When she went past him on her way to the living room, she kissed him quickly on the cheek. He grumbled something vaguely affectionate after her.

The owl, large and with great feathered tufts on his head, was perched precariously on the living room ceiling fan. Hermione's mother was flailing about, trying to get the bird down before the fan blade broke under his weight. When the owl saw Hermione, he hooted derisively, as if to say It's about time, then sailed down to drop something in her hands. Without so much as a backward glance, the creature sailed back through the house to the open window in the kitchen. Hermione could hear her father spluttering in consternation.

Her mother was less than amused. "Well, he was most rude," she said as she handed Hermione another letter. "If he had two letters to give you, he could have given both of them to me, I do say." Then, quick as lightning, her mood lightened, and she started humming her way back to the kitchen. "Do you want some breakfast, dear one? I'm making some toast . . ."

"No thanks, Mum," Hermione answered, clutching the letters. "I'll get a bagel later." Both were embossed with the official Hogwarts seal, but one, the one the owl had personally dropped into her hands, was marked boldly in large green letters: DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU ARE HERMIONE GRANGER. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Hermione shuddered. Considering it was Hogwarts, that was no idle threat. She opened the unmarked letter first. It read: Dear Ms. Hermione Granger: It is my pleasure to inform you that you have been selected as one of an elite group of Hogwarts students who will have the opportunity this summer to attend a week-long summer session at Beauxbatons Academy in Aquitaine, France. This session will consist of several intensive seminars on focused and advanced educational magic technique, taught by some of the finest professors of magic in the world. Because of the challenging and complex concepts you will be exposed to during these seminars, the directors of the program request permission to attend from a parent or guardian. It is our hope that you will see fit to represent your school and your country in this remarkable program and strive as always to achieve the highest level of excellence possible in your activities. If you wish to attend, please send a reply by owl before June 3. Thank you once again for your hard work and dedication to Hogwarts. Signed, Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress.

Blinking in disbelief, Hermione read the letter again. A summer vacation in France at Beauxbatons, learning advanced magic from prestigious teachers that might never come to Hogwarts? It sounded too good to be true. She finished the letter a second time, and wondered who else from Hogwarts had been asked to attend. She pointedly did not think of Ron or Harry.

Setting aside that letter, she opened the strangely marked second envelope. Despite the severity of the warning, the letter was extremely brief. Nonetheless, it made Hermione's jaw drop. It said simply: Ms. Granger: I will not pretend that there is no greater purpose behind the convening of this summer program at Beauxbatons. There are things which must be seen to; the younger generations of Hogwarts must be prepared for what is to come. Unless there is an extremely pressing engagement from which you cannot escape, I must insist with all authority that you attend the session. Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley will be joining you. Signed, Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Hermione could only stare. A personal letter from Professor Dumbledore insisting that she attend? And Harry and Ron were going, too?

Her brain was working furiously as she took the letters upstairs to pore over them more carefully. Maybe it was just her imagination; maybe it was just the sad events of the last month at school. But to her mind, putting Harry and Ron and her in southern France for a week to learn complicated magic that it was likely none of them would master for a long time didn't sound like a positive thing.

All it sounded like was a recipe for trouble.