The Beaded Bag
Chapter 1
Hermione Granger sat on the bed in Wendell and Monica Wilkins' upstairs bedroom, staring down at the beaded bag lying on the duvet beside her. She hadn't bothered to turn on the lamp, but the door was ajar, and the facets of the bag's crystalline beads threw off dull gleams of light reflected from the hallway. It had been six weeks since Harry Potter had bested Voldemort in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. There had been parties and funerals, tears and kisses. With Ron and Harry, she'd been welcomed at the Burrow, praised at awards ceremonies, and featured in the Daily Prophet in a much more flattering way than usual. Now, she'd even been reunited with her parents, thanks to Professor Flitwick. Her former professor had agreed to travel with her to Australia two weeks ago to help her restore her parents' memories. It had been difficult for her to admit that she'd needed the help, but the fact was that Hermione's wand had ceased to work for her as it once had. The professor was long gone now, the Wilkins had been replaced by the Drs. Granger, and yet Hermione had still not unpacked her beaded bag.
She sat very still on the bed, her head bowed and her hair trailing wetly over the shoulder of the borrowed bathrobe as she stared at the bag and thought of her parents. She could hear them below, the clink and shuffle of their movements, their conversation as they arranged furniture and readied food for that night's cocktail party. The expressions on their faces when she'd offered to magically decorate the downstairs—surely her wand could handle an easy charm like that—had cut her to the core. They were afraid of her.
Hermione made a disgusted sound in her throat, then got up to shove the bedroom door closed. She knew she should have expected it, but it hurt nonetheless. This is not how it was supposed to be, she thought, balling up her fists in the darkness. The names of her fallen friends echoed relentlessly in her mind every night, robbing her of sleep. Kingsley had been unceremoniously shuffled out of the post of Minister of Magic in favor of a relatively unknown wizard who promised to root out corruption in the magical community. The Weasley family were all almost incapacitated by George's loss. Even the situation with her wand caused her grief. Not long after the final battle, she had noticed it growing clumsy, less powerful, until she could barely perform anything more complicated than an unlocking charm on the first try. Two weeks of subtle distrust and rejection from her parents on top of it all were proving to be almost more than she could bear.
Taking a shaky breath, Hermione turned on the lamp and opened her bag so that she could rummage through the rather disorganized contents until she found the dress she'd worn to Bill and Fleur's wedding. She held it up, frowning at it as she shook out the wrinkles.
Why am I doing this? she asked herself. This is wrong…everything's gone so wrong! She squeezed her eyes closed, remembering the blank looks her parents had exchanged when she'd mentioned returning to England and taking up their old lives. Her mother had simply laughed when Hermione suggested canceling tonight's party.
"They're our friends, sweetheart. We can't just tell them not to come, and on such short notice, too! Besides, it's Wend—your father's birthday."
"But how will you explain me?"
Her mother had waved a nonchalant hand. "We'll just say you've returned after a long estrangement. No one will ask questions about something like that."
Estrangement. Hermione's throat closed in a painful spasm. As though she had done a great wrong, as though she had failed them. It was strange how that one word could obliterate all the exhilaration of victory and make her feel completely alone.
Hermione let her dress fall on the bed and dipped back into the beaded bag. She had, by this point, memorized the two letters she'd received from the Burrow a week and a half ago, but the sensation of the parchment crinkling in her fingers and the sight of her name spelled over in beloved handwriting still served to soothe her. Ron's was short—I'm not much for this sort of thing, Hermione—but every line rang with a sincerity that made her eyes burn.
I know you need time with your parents, he'd written, but I wish you'd come home. Got used to being with you day in and day out, I reckon. Still wish I would have come with you, but you were right. Mum and Dad are barely keeping it together, and with Bill and Charlie out of the country there's really only me to make sure they're alright.
The last line was marked out by heavy strokes of ink, then hastily signed. Hermione ran her hand across the uneven scrawl with a tremulous smile.
The second letter was not, as she had initially thought, from Harry, but Ginny. The youngest Weasley had written that Harry was having a difficult time adjusting to life after their long months on the run. Maybe it would be easier on all of you if you were here, Ginny had suggested tactfully.
Hermione felt a stab of resentment at the sudden sound of her mother's voice raised in greeting the first guests downstairs. What am I doing here? The people that really need me are half a world away!
The anger died away almost instantly, washed away by a flood of guilt. She never should have expected her parents to just wake up and be alright. None of them were. Ron, buckling under the responsibility of carrying an entire family's grief. Harry, sunk in listlessness, coasting along without identity apart from the evil being he'd spent half a lifetime hating. And her…well, none of them had adjusted, had they? She was just the most adept at hiding it so far. No one had seen the panic attack that had nearly done her in the day before her departure for Australia when she could not find her beaded bag. Molly, in a spate of distracted housework, had collected it in a laundry hamper. Perhaps, like the rest of them, her parents just needed time.
A rattle at the window made her start out of her thoughts, but she almost immediately discerned the outline of an owl tapping at the pane. When she ran over to lift the sash, the big grey creature swooped inside, winging a wide arc around the room before lighting on the bedpost and proffering its leg. Hermione's breath quickened as she spied the narrow package secure there. My wand! It must be my new wand from Ollivander! Hands shaking, she untied both the package and the thin letter. It was with only the greatest self control that she was able to force herself to open the letter first.
My dear Miss Granger, Ollivander had written in tiny script. I apologize for the delay in filling your order. I must admit that the difficulties we encountered in our initial meeting did not quite prepare me for the task of finding a wand to suit you. Perhaps it is not every day that an already talented witch is pushed beyond what she should have to endure, not once, but again and again. Should it surprise us that you would have outgrown your old wand as a child does shoes? Perhaps, though, the difficulty lay with me. At any rate, I was, at length, able to procure a wand compatible with your magical signature. It is a unique instrument, I think you'll find, though I know little of its composition or past. I did not make it myself, you see. All my attempts being inadequate, I resorted to putting the case before an old colleague who was able to oblige us. Please accept this wand with my compliments. I hope it serves you well.
Hermione's natural curiosity was raging by the time she finished reading the letter, and, forgetting the bustle of the party below, she grabbed up the package and attacked the twine and paper wrappings. Finally, she tore the box open and there it was, her new wand, lying on a pillow of silvery cloth. Longing swept over her at the sight of it. She had missed having a proper wand more than she wanted to admit. As she lifted it from the box, she was struck by its strange beauty. The wood was light, its surface dull and yet satiny smooth, almost like driftwood. It was longer and slimmer than her previous wand, and when she rolled it between her fingers, her skin broke out in goose bumps.
"There is no way," she said aloud, staring at the slender instrument in her hand, "that I'm going to be able to wait till after the party to try you out."
Zipping herself into her dress and knotting her damp hair back into a tight chignon took only moments, and soon she was scooping up both wands and the beaded bag before heading downstairs. She avoided the growing throng of guests with an adroitness that would have done Harry and Ron proud, and was able to slip out of the kitchen door without anyone seeing her. The Australian night was warm. A newborn crescent moon afforded her enough light to navigate past the patio furniture and away from the house to where the shrubbery was thicker. Conscious of the Muggle houses stretching out all around her, glanced back at the lighted windows behind her before raising her new wand. She gave no thought to what spell she would try; the word and gesture that summoned her bluebell flames were so familiar to her that they had become almost a reflex. She was, therefore, completely unprepared when an enormous gout of fire erupted from the wand tip and knocked her off her feet. She shrieked and dropped the wand to hide her face from the bone-searing heat and glare, then scrabbled backwards. The belt of trees and shrubs that separated her parents' lot from the neighboring one had caught fire, she realized in terror, the green wood popping as the treetops writhed like tongues of fire.
"No, no…" she moaned.
"Hermione!"
Her father's strangled shout brought her to her feet, and her stomach swooped as she saw guests spilling from the back door, their shocked faces stained crimson from the firelight. They clutched each other and pointed, open-mouthed at the spectacle, and one or two were already on their mobile phones, no doubt calling emergency services. Hermione tottered forward to meet her parents in the middle of the yard, her hands outstretched as through to ward off the angry words she saw ready to spill from their lips.
"Dad," she choked out. "I don't know what happened, but I can fix it. I just have to find my wand, and I can—"
Her father cut her off by grabbing her upper arms and shaking her. "What do you think you're doing? Are you crazy? Do something, get rid of it!"
She nodded and ran forward a few steps into the smoke and heat to where she'd dropped her precious belongings. Her hand closed almost immediately on her wands and bag, but her mother's scream stopped her just as she was about to raise her arms to try another spell.
"No! Wendell, no, stop her! God knows what else she'll do!"
Hermione turned, and cringed to see her parents wince away when the wand pointed toward them. She lowered it hastily. "Mum, I can fix it. I swear I can! It's easy, I can do it."
Her mother, standing rigidly beside her father, shook her head. "Don't let her, Wendell."
Wendell raised a placating hand, glancing back at the guests, who were beginning to turn their attention away from the line of burning trees and toward the family drama unfolding in the yard. "Maybe she's right, Hermione. The fire department will come…they can handle it. Maybe you'd better just go inside."
"No!" Monica almost shouted the word, making Hermione gasp. "Hear that?" her mother continued, jerking her head to indicate the wail of sirens in the distance. "They're coming. They'll want to know what happened."
A terrible fear was beginning to bloom inside Hermione's chest, and she made a helpless gesture. "I know. Mum, please, it wasn't my fault. There must be something wrong with my new wand."
"Don't! Don't even talk about it," her mother spat. "Wands, magic, owls, I wish I had never heard of any of it, Hermione Granger!"
"But that's all a part of who I am. Remember how happy we all were when I got my Hogwart's letter? Nothing's changed. You know I would never do anything to hurt you."
Hermione broke off when her mother's expression went stiff with what could only be characterized as hatred. It was clear now. They had not forgiven her for Obliviating them, even when Professor Flitwick had explained over and over how it had been necessary, how it had probably saved their lives. They would not forgive her for disrupting their lives. It was obvious what they wanted of her.
Hermione bowed her head and walked away, stumbling toward the yard's side gate. She let it bang behind her, then walked on until she could no longer hear the sirens or smell the smoke. Sobbing now, she pressed ahead several blocks more until she came to a small park. It was, she knew, foolish to risk Apparating when she could hardly concentrate through the trembling and tears. For once, though, Hermione Granger did not stop to think through her options. She just shut her eyes and spun herself away, not much caring where she ended up.
