A/N AU was harder to write than I had originally anticipated...ugh. Hermione as Gellert Grindelwald's daughter, additionally, was not my idea either. I suggest all the readers to check out the work Grindelwald's Daughter in the archive by Mariico.

The idea opened up to endless possibilities and so I thought, why not give it a try? It won't be as good as the original one. OH WELL.

I do not own Harry Potter.

Chapter Playlist: "Nero" — Two Steps From Hell

I. ÄNDERUNG

"It is said that power corrupts, but actually it's more true that power attracts the corruptible.

The sane are usually attracted by other things than power."

—David Brin

2 January 1943

Mount Hohenzollern, Baden-Württemberg, Germany

The biting German winter wind swept across the quiet landscape. It was a day after the New Year's Celebration in the nearby Muggle town of Hechingen, located just on the foothold of the majestic Mount Hohenzollern ever since the Middle Ages. Just by the merry colorful lights emitted from the village, it was clear that the air of festivity still lingered. There was not a hint of menace and threat.

The Hohenzollern Castle, named aptly after the mountain it was situated upon, had became a ghost of history after the fall of the Prussian imperial family. The German government was still too lazy — and fearful of Hitler — to tamper with the property that sprawled itself across Berg Hohenzollern, which was currently covered in the purest shade of white, courtesy of the signature Germanic winter. The quiet snowflakes fell freely onto the stony exteriors of the castle, creating a rather fluffy blanket over the aged building. The appeal of the castle laid not in its magical, surreal nature (though there are plenty of fairy-tale-like mystique around it), but its unmatched grandeur that evoked various emotions from its visitors.

It wasn't until about a month ago when the castle was purchased at a lavish price by a mysterious yet charming man of foreign blood, accompanied by a much younger, and quite beautiful girl. As rumor has it, they arrived in the shade of the night, their faces veiled and their bodies heavily clothed. The carriage was almost as extravagant as the Queen's own. But what the people thought was the strangest was that the two new arrivals did not carry anything with them, save for the two standard leather bags. It almost seemed as if they were simply stopping by.

For the past few weeks or so, the couple had became the top topic of gossip among the ever-inquisitive residents of Hechingen Village. The curious eyes and wandering mouths of talebearing women described the man to be around his late forties, and had hair of gold and a face of an Apollonian deity. And, for the sake of enhancing their stories, the townspeople also noted that his manners were one of the finest Hechingen had encountered (not that he interacted with the villagers much), and was always immaculately dressed whenever he was seen in public (not that he ventured out of the castle much). The gentleman was no doubt born of high society.

The girl was a less popular subject of conversation, though still a common acknowledgement. She was hypothesized to be the man's girlfriend of some sort, a mistress, perhaps. And then there were a few argued against such scandalous theory, stating that she had bore great resemblance to the man and was in fact, his daughter.

Nevertheless, the two strangers was now Hohenzollern's own overnight sensation.

21 February 1943

Burg Hohenzollern, Baden-Württemberg, Germany

A clatter of porcelain teacups echoed throughout the hallway styled after the Baroque tradition, overflowing with superfluous decor and gaudy details. The Ballroom-turned-Dining Room in the East Tower was perfect for a secluded conversation, away from the prickling ears of eavesdroppers. The flamboyant setting of the room, however, was nothing when compared to its even more ostentatious owners. Both were clothed in the finest Turkish silk and Japanese cotton, hand sewn by Parisian tailors to accentuate their svelt figures.

"Those Muggles are still blabbering about us," the blonde man snickered. He raised the cup of jasmine tea to his perfectly shaped bow lips, but his penetrating blue eyes were focused on every miniscule action of the girl sitting in front of him. "Don't slouch, dear. It's such a classless nuisance." He commented softly.

The girl shifted uncomfortably in her seat, "Of course, father," she complied immediately, but always avoiding making eye contact with the man. She straightened her spine, and continued to stare out of the window into the cloudy, misty sky that seemed to be the only type of weather Germany offered. Since she had arrived, the ambiance was nothing like the sunny Greek Decembers or the breezy Norwegian Augusts.

Here, it was cold, aloof, and the sunlight had never dared to penetrate through the winter clouds. Germany was a constant reminder of her father.

Clearing her throat, she willed herself to shift her gaze to the figure in front of her — just for a millisecond, before her eyes flickered themselves involuntarily to somewhere else in the lonely room. She made sure her attention was fixed on a sixteenth century Vermeer portrait before she finally said, "The curiosity of Muggles are hard to repress. They're like uncivilized primates, never able to control their primal urges."

The man made no more comments after that. The only sound that could be heard was from the clicking of gilded plates and elaborate silverware.

Dining had always been a silent business in the Grindelwald Family.

1 April 1943

Rhine River, Düsseldorf, North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany

A thin stream of human blood trickled evenly into the murky waters of Rhine. The crimson liquid was immediately engulfed by the blue abyss once it had touched the surface of the river. Unless one had looked carefully at the imprints of red left on the rocky path, there were no trace of blood remaining in plain sight.

"See, my dear girl? This is what happens to the ones who betray my trust,"

Hermione Grindelwald stood impassively next to the towering wizard that was her father. She had inherited the sharp, yet eerily angelic appearances of the man, but her eyes were in the shade of hazel — a clash of green and amber, ice and fire, hatred and passion. It is too much like your mother, he would sneer on occasion, a constant reminder of what she will always represent: weaknesses, flaw, deficiency, fragility. The list could go on forever.

And her hair. Her ludicrous, utterly stupid hair. Hermione despised its dull brown coloring. It was so...so generic, so common, so like her mother. A woman. A part of a forgotten piece to history. Useless. Powerless. Dead. That was all the maternal role has ever been to Hermione: subservient to paternal branch of power and control.

The way unadulterated disgust flowed into his father's mesmerizing azure irises when he looks at her used to be agonizing; she had embodied her mother so much that it almost drove Hermione to the brink of insanity. She hated herself more than she could ever hate anyone else. She used to hated her existence.

The way her father's followers watched her when they thought she wasn't looking, almost as if in pity.

The way whispers echoed throughout the hallway when she passed by the servants, their murmurs and little sob stories about her past that she found to be absurd.

The way her own portrait in the Family Room gazed back at her, unabashedly, at her own self, mocking her, taunting her.

That was the young, naïve girl she used to be, indulged in childhood fantasies and unrealistic expectations. Soon, she had learned the ways of fehlt der Herzen: the complete lacking of humanity. Deceit. The only method to survive in the world her father had raised her in. The neighboring children (or "inferior scums", as her father would refer to them as) would look to her in admiration and reverence, like she was the master of them all, that she was something that they could never be. Parents alike marveled at the young girl's intelligence and charm. "You are the luckiest father I have ever met," they would proclaim to the man that was seemingly humbled by their appraisals. The world was a pleasant place for those who did not feel.

The sixteen-year-old witch still stood firmly by her father's side, for he was the personification of absolute fame, wisdom, power, and beyond. Two lone figures in black cloaks stood, pride gleaming in their eyes as they watched the world at their feet, the elation of finally reaching the top, where there was no one else.

"The man deserved no less, father."

10 April 1943

Inveraray Castle, Inveraray, Argyll, Scotland

They had relocated once again. This time, they were closer to It.

After weeks — months? — of negotiations, briberies, and a few underhanded spellwork thrown in, the comfort of the Inverary Castle, sat on the Scottish shore of Loch Fyne, was finally passed from the lines of the Duke of Argyll to the hands of the Grindelwalds.

It was not as expanse and architecturally complex as Grindelwald's previous residential choices, and its English Rococo pastels were not as ostentatious as central Europe's Baroque brilliance, but the Celtic sceneries compensated. The vast land was also proven useful when she had wanted to practice spells, specifically preparing for her latest assigned task.

"Stay out of that old fool's nose, but always keep a close track of him. I trust your abilities, so much that placing additional spies within the parameters will not heed as necessary. So don't fail my expectations."

Her father's calm voice echoed in the drawing room. He occasionally checked his encrusted pocket-watch as if he has got an important appointment to make in the upcoming hour — which Hermione was sure he does not. Rubbing his hands together thoughtfully, he added, "We shall need to keep in close contact. I need weekly reports on your progress."

"Yes, father,"

"And what do you have on the Stone of Resurrection now?" The sitting wizard asked in a rather nonchalant fashion, though his intense expression betrayed what he was feeling underneath. Hermione praised her father's expertise to hide himself behind carefully woven masks; but she knew exactly where to look for any signs of emotions from him. All those years of living with a sociopath relative has not gone into waste.

She noted rather humorously as Grindelwald grazed his prized wand — the Elder Wand — possessively as if it was his thread of life. The carved patterns on the wood was hypnotizing.

"It is in the castle," Hermione promptly replied, the changes in the pitches of her voice did not match the cold, lifeless monotone of her father. "I had placed a tracking charm on it before it was stolen," she paused, gauging her father's reaction, before proceeding, "My guess that it is in the hand of...of a—"

Gellert Grindelwald's eyes flashed dangerously in frustration and anger. He cut her off abruptly, "You know how I hate stuttering," he spoke, barely in a whisper that could be passed as the Scottish Spring wind. "In the hand of what, Hermione?"

"—a student." She finished. "It's unbelievable, I know. But that was my best guess. The stone's movements are volatile, and there could only be one logical conclusion: it cannot move on its own, so it must be carried. I detected no powerful magic around it, so it's also safe to say that the Stone's not near any professors. A student must have it with him or her."

Locating the Stone of Resurrection was not the most enjoyable task she had been assigned: it had took her a year of sweat and blood and countless hours in the Dark Arts research before her wand finally lit up in recognition, only to realize that the little piece of rock was miles away, in a building protected by ancient magic and impenetrable barriers. Apparently, the barriers were rather powerful, and not even a tracking charm could place it without heaving in a little bit of illegitimate spells.

Staring tentatively at the man in front of her, Hermione had finally realized just how aged he was. In her memories, Grindelwald was always the man with the streak of arrogance and mischievousness and recklessness that was not found in anyone else she had encountered. The Gellert Grindelwald she knew was forever young, indestructible in the face of old age and Death.

Her father was pensive, no longer meddling with his wand nor the pocket-watch. Time seemed to have been frozen as he sat, aloof and majestic, in the only simple wooden chair among the other lush furnishings.

The silence that had passed between the father and the daughter dragged to the point of eternity, and after what seemed like a million years, Grindelwald spoke again.

He seemed to be thinking over every syllable that he uttered. "I had a chat with the ever-so-lovely Miss Joanna Granger last week,"

Hermione blinked. The statement was rather out of the blue. She had no idea where this conversation was heading, and thus had no control over her possible reactions. All she knew was that the "chat" between her father and the woman certainly involved more than just a verbal conversation. But just the thought of her father getting intimate with anyone was repulsive and utterly disgusting; the Grindelwalds could—would—never stoop as low as retorting to the means of seduction. She quickly shook that thought away.

"And...?" Hermione gestured for him to continue.

"Her grandfather was the Potioneer Hector Dagworth-Granger, founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

Dagworth-Granger...it sounded familiar, even though she couldn't place her finger on when exactly she had came across the surname. Perhaps, it was an insignificant name from an old textbook that was tossed into the back of the Family Library. Whoever this Hector person was, he had picked a rather strange name for his little potion gatherings, Hermione suppressed a smile.

"I believe I had heard of him before, yes," she nodded. Now was the time to tread the waters carefully. "What purpose do they hold in our current situation?" Surely, with the status and power of Grindelwald, her father could easily scout for some much more affluent and old-money Wizarding families? Unless—

—there is an ulterior motive, her thoughts finished for itself.

Chapter Playlist: "Schindler's List Main Theme" — Janine Jensen & The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra

31 August 1943

Room 398, The Leaky Cauldron, London, England

Hermione Grindelwald sat down the squeaky, makeshift bed in the corner of the tiny room. After years of palatial luxury with the Grindelwald family's wealth, this sort of ghastly treatment was not something she was used to.

Regardless, her current level of comfort was not an appropriate topic she should put her mind to.

In less than twenty-four hours, she would board the Express to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, an academy of magic that was often quoted upon by various research articles, or praised in great aptitude by The Daily Prophet, but never had been seen before by her own eyes.

Her father had simply informed her, before leaving Inveraray, that academia in Hogwarts was a whole lot weaker than Durmstrang. That, and the school is tainted with filth: "Shameful, undeserving mudbloods tainting our purity." he had said.

She was never the one for extremism views on one's magical abilities. Albeit her father's effort to discriminate and dominate the Muggles, Hermione tried her best to remain neutral; a single gray area in a world of black and white. She had seen what hubris had caused to history's great men. Excessive pride, Hermione knew, was prone in absolute monarchs. Her father's mentality of Wizarding superiority had driven him to almost-fatal ends, and she knew very well that it was only a matter of time when his culmination comes.

Reasonably, this was also why she was here: to prevent the coming of the end for Gellert Grindelwald. To act as a the spy against her father's greatest enemy, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. To retrieve artifacts of the Deathly Hallows, the ultimate champions against Death.

Hermione prided herself in her logical, methodical ways of thinking and acting. She wasn't the one to spend times in popular superstitions of the day nor to dwell too much on useless emotions. Hermione had never been much of a fatalist, but the fact that Dumbledore and Death, the two most important components of her life, are merging into one single mission in one single location was too good to be a coincidence. It almost seemed that a unseen, outside force was meddling with her life—that it almost seemed like she was predetermined to be here to face an inescapable destiny.

It had almost led to her to believe in Fate. Almost.

In less than twenty-four hours, the mystery will finally be unraveled. She would not fail. She would finish her job flawlessly and in absolute perfection, just like countless times before.

The childhood that was barely in existence, the twisted sensations in her heart as she cast her first Avada Kedavra on a deer, the cold glance of her father's cerulean eyes, the strangled memories, and the Unforgivable Curses flown out of her wand so many times that she had finally lost count — they would not matter anymore. They would be forgotten for as long as she was taking on a new self.

With her expression unreadable, Hermione Grindelwald glanced down at the parchment lying lifelessly on her lap. The graceful calligraphy danced in front of her, but only two words held her undivided attention.

Hermione Granger