Prompt 85 - Juggling - "Juggling Faith"- ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spikespetslayer - HP
Mar. 15th, 2008 10:54 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
dedra.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
tamingthemuseTitle: Juggling Faith
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: None-gen
Rating: G
Warnings: Mention of God
Summary: Hermione believed that she didn't walk into the final battle alone.
A/N: This came from two sources--one, listening to a song by Live called "Operation Spirit", and two, watching the movies time and again. In them, Hermione almost always touches her chest before a confrontation, situation, or battle right about the level of where a cross on a long chain would rest (or maybe I'm imagining it). I wondered about Hermione's 'upbringing' before she became a witch and how she would/could reconcile the two worlds. This is my take on it and does not reflect the views of JK Rowling, my flist, or the comm.
She closed her eyes and touched the crucifix underneath her shirt, whispering a silent prayer under her breath for their safety. They were walking into what could be the last battle for each of them; surely the last battle of the war that had been brewing for seventeen years. The least that she could do is pay homage to the God of her fathers that she had been so devoted and faithful to for the first eleven years of her life.
It was so hard for her sometimes, juggling her beliefs with her magic. When she had first found out that she was a witch, she had run all the way to the huge cathedral that stood on the other side of town where she and her parents attended mass every Sunday morning. The tears were dry on her face by the time that she crossed the threshold and dipped her fingers into the Holy Water next to the door, pausing to genuflect before she ran into the sanctuary.
She slowed to a walk by the time that she reached the cubicles that housed the priests. There was one that she had developed a special rapport with and it was his opinion that she sought, his comfort that would soothe her over all the others. “Father Peter? Are you there?”
“He’s in the kitchen, child.” The bass voice of Father John always startled her, although she was sure that he didn’t mean to. “It’s his turn to cook tonight.”
She walked down a less familiar hall to the sound of banging pots and pans and a pleasant baritone voice that calmed her nerves before she laid eyes on him. She took a deep breath and opened the kitchen door easily, slipping in through the crack and watching her favorite priest as he practiced his longtime hobby.
With rolled up sleeves, he kneaded dough before throwing it into a pan, setting it down on the stove to rise. He looked up and met her eyes across the room. His broad face widened in a genuine smile as he saw one of his favorite parishioners—a smile that quickly turned into a look of concern when he noticed the dried tearstains on her face.
“Hermione, sweetheart, what’s the matter?” He rinsed his hands quickly and dried them on the apron that was whiter than his hair. Without any hesitation, Hermione rushed forward and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.
Father Peter listened closely, but all he got from the child’s broken sobs were the words letter, owl, and witch. He led her to the table and dried her tears with one of the parish’s soft linen napkins before sitting down next to her, her hand enclosed in his larger one. “Now, Hermione, can we take it from the top with a little less waterworks?”
“I got a letter today—but it wasn’t delivered by a postal worker, it was delivered by an owl. It says that I’m a witch and I’m to go to a school called Hogwarts.” She scrubbed her cheeks with her fists and looked at her feet as they swung beneath her. “I’m not sure that I want to go. I don’t want to leave my parents and I don’t want to leave you.”
She fingered the cross at her neck and he looked at her a little more closely. “Is there something else, perhaps? A question that you have, little one?” he gently asked and watched the windblown hair nod in hesitation.
She looked up at him with her large brown eyes. “What would God think of it? I mean, the Bible says that you don’t let a witch live. What about that? How will I ever be able to go to church again knowing that I’m breaking one of God’s laws?”
She was so sincere, so heartfelt—Peter was reminded of his own sister at her age. Perhaps that was what drew him to her in the first place. She hadn’t been well treated at school—she was more likely to be teased and taunted than invited to play. With a little coaxing she had come out of her shell and began to show a little of the inquisitive spirit that he remembered her having from the first day of primary school. So much like Claire. So similar they could have been twins.
He patted her hand and reached out to raise her chin up. “Hermione, I know what the Good Book says. I also know that while God is infallible, the men that wrote the Bible were.”
She gasped and he raised his hand. “No, no, they wrote what God wanted them to, I’m sure. But a little history lesson for you—at that time, there were people who called themselves witches that pretended to divine the future and make predictions about different things. They used people and took money from the poor for medicines that did no good. They were charlatans of the highest ilk.”
He didn’t even hesitate—he knew that she knew what he was saying. “They were not a witch like you are. They had no power, no magic in them. They were just ordinary people, what the Wizarding world calls Muggles, pretending that they were special to make a profit.”
She looked up at him with awe in her eyes. “How do you know so much about all this, Father Peter?”
He looked out of the window and his eyes grew misty. “My sister received her Hogwarts letter the year that I started secondary school. My parents were—well, they were scared of what they didn’t know, to say the least. There had never been any witches or wizards in our family.”
He looked back down at Hermione and there were tears brimming in his eyes although they did not fall. “My parents had her exorcised, then they confined her to her room to pray about it until the time had passed for her to start at school. She tried—she really did—but the magic was too strong in her and she—well, she ended up dying, to make a long story short.”
Hermione's hand flew up to her mouth. “What did she die of, Father?” she asked, although she dreaded the answer.
“Unchanneled and untutored magic can easily turn on the person who has it and becomes wild magic. Claire—she was too powerful to hold all that magic in her young body and it basically burned her up from the inside. It could well do that to you as well, Hermione.”
He looked down at her and smiled. “I don’t believe that anything so wonderful as that can be less than a gift from God. Take the training and use it to the betterment of society and man, Hermione. Perhaps that was your mission on this earth. We do all have one, you know.”
She smiled as radiant as the sun after a long shower and Father Peter nodded. “Now run along home, child. I’m sure that your parents are wondering where you got off to.”
She jumped off the chair and left him to cook the evening meal.
She tried to visit with him each time that she returned from Hogwarts for holiday, until one day she was met at the door by a fresh-faced priest in new robes. “Father Peter? He died last week, miss. We’ll miss him terribly now.”
Once again she ran, this time to home where she sobbed inconsolably for the priest who had allowed her to glimpse a whole new world.
She touched the cross above her heart once again and added a prayer for Father Peter as well. Protect us all as we face our death. She wasn’t afraid any longer. She didn’t walk alone.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: None-gen
Rating: G
Warnings: Mention of God
Summary: Hermione believed that she didn't walk into the final battle alone.
A/N: This came from two sources--one, listening to a song by Live called "Operation Spirit", and two, watching the movies time and again. In them, Hermione almost always touches her chest before a confrontation, situation, or battle right about the level of where a cross on a long chain would rest (or maybe I'm imagining it). I wondered about Hermione's 'upbringing' before she became a witch and how she would/could reconcile the two worlds. This is my take on it and does not reflect the views of JK Rowling, my flist, or the comm.
She closed her eyes and touched the crucifix underneath her shirt, whispering a silent prayer under her breath for their safety. They were walking into what could be the last battle for each of them; surely the last battle of the war that had been brewing for seventeen years. The least that she could do is pay homage to the God of her fathers that she had been so devoted and faithful to for the first eleven years of her life.
It was so hard for her sometimes, juggling her beliefs with her magic. When she had first found out that she was a witch, she had run all the way to the huge cathedral that stood on the other side of town where she and her parents attended mass every Sunday morning. The tears were dry on her face by the time that she crossed the threshold and dipped her fingers into the Holy Water next to the door, pausing to genuflect before she ran into the sanctuary.
She slowed to a walk by the time that she reached the cubicles that housed the priests. There was one that she had developed a special rapport with and it was his opinion that she sought, his comfort that would soothe her over all the others. “Father Peter? Are you there?”
“He’s in the kitchen, child.” The bass voice of Father John always startled her, although she was sure that he didn’t mean to. “It’s his turn to cook tonight.”
She walked down a less familiar hall to the sound of banging pots and pans and a pleasant baritone voice that calmed her nerves before she laid eyes on him. She took a deep breath and opened the kitchen door easily, slipping in through the crack and watching her favorite priest as he practiced his longtime hobby.
With rolled up sleeves, he kneaded dough before throwing it into a pan, setting it down on the stove to rise. He looked up and met her eyes across the room. His broad face widened in a genuine smile as he saw one of his favorite parishioners—a smile that quickly turned into a look of concern when he noticed the dried tearstains on her face.
“Hermione, sweetheart, what’s the matter?” He rinsed his hands quickly and dried them on the apron that was whiter than his hair. Without any hesitation, Hermione rushed forward and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.
Father Peter listened closely, but all he got from the child’s broken sobs were the words letter, owl, and witch. He led her to the table and dried her tears with one of the parish’s soft linen napkins before sitting down next to her, her hand enclosed in his larger one. “Now, Hermione, can we take it from the top with a little less waterworks?”
“I got a letter today—but it wasn’t delivered by a postal worker, it was delivered by an owl. It says that I’m a witch and I’m to go to a school called Hogwarts.” She scrubbed her cheeks with her fists and looked at her feet as they swung beneath her. “I’m not sure that I want to go. I don’t want to leave my parents and I don’t want to leave you.”
She fingered the cross at her neck and he looked at her a little more closely. “Is there something else, perhaps? A question that you have, little one?” he gently asked and watched the windblown hair nod in hesitation.
She looked up at him with her large brown eyes. “What would God think of it? I mean, the Bible says that you don’t let a witch live. What about that? How will I ever be able to go to church again knowing that I’m breaking one of God’s laws?”
She was so sincere, so heartfelt—Peter was reminded of his own sister at her age. Perhaps that was what drew him to her in the first place. She hadn’t been well treated at school—she was more likely to be teased and taunted than invited to play. With a little coaxing she had come out of her shell and began to show a little of the inquisitive spirit that he remembered her having from the first day of primary school. So much like Claire. So similar they could have been twins.
He patted her hand and reached out to raise her chin up. “Hermione, I know what the Good Book says. I also know that while God is infallible, the men that wrote the Bible were.”
She gasped and he raised his hand. “No, no, they wrote what God wanted them to, I’m sure. But a little history lesson for you—at that time, there were people who called themselves witches that pretended to divine the future and make predictions about different things. They used people and took money from the poor for medicines that did no good. They were charlatans of the highest ilk.”
He didn’t even hesitate—he knew that she knew what he was saying. “They were not a witch like you are. They had no power, no magic in them. They were just ordinary people, what the Wizarding world calls Muggles, pretending that they were special to make a profit.”
She looked up at him with awe in her eyes. “How do you know so much about all this, Father Peter?”
He looked out of the window and his eyes grew misty. “My sister received her Hogwarts letter the year that I started secondary school. My parents were—well, they were scared of what they didn’t know, to say the least. There had never been any witches or wizards in our family.”
He looked back down at Hermione and there were tears brimming in his eyes although they did not fall. “My parents had her exorcised, then they confined her to her room to pray about it until the time had passed for her to start at school. She tried—she really did—but the magic was too strong in her and she—well, she ended up dying, to make a long story short.”
Hermione's hand flew up to her mouth. “What did she die of, Father?” she asked, although she dreaded the answer.
“Unchanneled and untutored magic can easily turn on the person who has it and becomes wild magic. Claire—she was too powerful to hold all that magic in her young body and it basically burned her up from the inside. It could well do that to you as well, Hermione.”
He looked down at her and smiled. “I don’t believe that anything so wonderful as that can be less than a gift from God. Take the training and use it to the betterment of society and man, Hermione. Perhaps that was your mission on this earth. We do all have one, you know.”
She smiled as radiant as the sun after a long shower and Father Peter nodded. “Now run along home, child. I’m sure that your parents are wondering where you got off to.”
She jumped off the chair and left him to cook the evening meal.
She tried to visit with him each time that she returned from Hogwarts for holiday, until one day she was met at the door by a fresh-faced priest in new robes. “Father Peter? He died last week, miss. We’ll miss him terribly now.”
Once again she ran, this time to home where she sobbed inconsolably for the priest who had allowed her to glimpse a whole new world.
She touched the cross above her heart once again and added a prayer for Father Peter as well. Protect us all as we face our death. She wasn’t afraid any longer. She didn’t walk alone.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-16 09:08 pm (UTC)I've often wondered how Hermione reconciled her life before her letter and afterwards. We know our Hermione is a passionate thing.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-16 11:26 pm (UTC)Thank you! Glad that you enjoyed it!
no subject
Date: 2008-03-16 10:53 pm (UTC)And I'm so glad it's something you've addressed.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-16 11:29 pm (UTC)Thank you, Bunney! I thought that it was something that was ignored for way too long--and have thought about turning it into a fic, but that's WAY down the road...
Glad that you enjoyed it! :D
no subject
Date: 2008-03-17 12:57 pm (UTC)They books don't address it at all (fair enough, they don't have to if JKR didn't want to) - but an interesting premise you've taken.
There are so many cultures/potential religions represented among the children it would surely be an issue somewhere!
I do believe you're right about her touching her chest, I can picture it. I wonder if it's the actress's own anxiety/comfort twitch that she's carried to the part.