Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, and various other publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Chapter 1
Pathetic fallacy, Hermione thought as she stared out of her bedroom window. Over her many summer holidays spent at home, she had found an old copy of her mother's college English Literature book with notes scribbled hastily in the margins, and one of the things she had found was the technical term for when the weather mirrors feelings. Hermione thought it to be strange how the weather always mirrored her feelings, especially around the area she lived, but she didn't think too much of the matter. For this past week, the weather forecaster had predicted thunder and lightning - which had yet to come - and heavy rain, and so far, baring the thunder and lighting, they had been right. Every day had brought yet more rain, not that Hermione minded. She had always liked the rain; it gave her a feeling of peace, and serenity. Few things did nowadays, so she took pleasure in what she could.
A voice from downstairs brought her out of her musings, "Hermione Granger, get your ass downstairs now!"
The voice was her mother, and she wasn't in a good mood. "One minute," she replied, while finding a place to hide her copy of 'Hogwarts: A History'. Her mother had a no-magic policy; as soon as Hermione came home, anything remotely magical was kept under lock and key, never to see the light of day until the day she left for Hogwarts. Over the years, Hermione had learned how to pick a lock thanks to her mother, and the need to finish her school assignments before September.
"Don't you dare 'one minute' me, get your fucking ass downstairs, now!" Sighing to herself, Hermione stashed the book under her quilt cover and made her way downstairs. As soon as her mother came into view, she felt her stomach drop; her mother was standing next to a pile of dirty dishes, the same dishes Hermione should have done hours ago.
"What are these?"
The question wasn't rhetorical.
"Dishes," she said, her voice betraying the panic she felt.
"And tell me, Hermione. Are the clean dishes?"
Hermione gulped. This wasn't good.
"N-no."
"Should they be dirty, Hermione? Should they still have food stains on them, after I specifically asked you to clean them, three hours ago?" As Olivia yelled, the volume of her voice increased. Half of the time, Hermione wondered how the neighbours didn't hear anything, then, she remembered that they were deaf.
"No," she repeated, wary of her mother's sudden closeness.
A hand rose. A sound was heard.
