Hermione prided herself on being a remarkably intelligent person. So her parents couldn't quite understand how she always got herself into these messes.
She'd returned home at the end of her fifth year at Hogwarts weeping and mourning some "Sirius" person, who apparently represented the idea behind his names in more ways than one. Flinging herself into her father's surprised arms, she'd cried as she detailed a long event to them, something to do with Harry and a prophecy and a curtain of Doom. A big confusing mess really. All they actually understood was that Harry had lost someone very important to him and that Hermione had somehow known him too.
So they'd held her. For hours. Literally. She seemed inconsolable. They'd exchanged concerned glances over her head, frightened at this enemy that had crept up upon their daughter. This enemy, this… monster under the bed that they couldn't quite understand.
It didn't help when Hermione finally wrenched herself away with a cry of "oooh you could never understand!" before racing off to her bedroom.
She had a point.
And that was a terrifying notion.
Hermione's mother had clasped tightly onto Hermione's father's hand, leaning her head into his neck. He kissed the bushy hair he loved, then turned his cheek into it. They both stared silently at nothing.
They both remembered the first time Hermione had broken a bone, falling off the park climbing frame. How utterly terrified they were as they raced over from their position barely feet away. They'd held her in their arms as they waited for the ambulance to arrive, soothing her screams and touching her skin to reassure both her and themselves. Agony had torn through them as they realised there was nothing they could do.
Except be there.
And now, for most of the year, they were reduced to that emotion. Reduced past it in fact. After all, Hermione barely even wrote them anymore. Just the occasional letter to let them know how she was doing.
And they never once got informed of the troubles and adventures before or during their occurrence. They woke up each day with an unnameable fear in their hearts and worry deepening the wrinkles in their faces. Each year something happened. And each year they found out only when Albus Dumbledore (such a strange man) or the Weasley parents chose to inform them.
Second year would forever be the darkest moment in their lives. A letter from Albus Dumbledore, bound in an envelope that had been flown in by an owl, had brought the terrible news to them. It stated that there was a possibility, remote, but there, that Hermione could lose body parts if they were accidentally broken off at any point.
They couldn't sleep. Couldn't work, couldn't eat, couldn't do anything. At all. Not even see her.
After all, Hogwarts was inaccessible to muggles.
Third year Albus Dumbledore had sent them a cheery letter, this time travelling by the slower postal service, informing them joyfully that Hermione had not only assisted in helping a known criminal to escape, but had faced down a werewolf and Dementors to do so.
Werewolf? And what the hell were Dementors? The name itself was instinctively frightening.
And… werewolf? Weren't they the horror movie beasts who could turn other people into a similar cruel monster simply by biting them?
Hermione had faced one down!?!
It was reluctantly that they allowed her to return the next year, her calm reasoning pointing out that if not then she would be without the full control of her powers and may become a danger to not only herself, but to everyone around her too. It had seemed a relatively calm year, a few letters in reply to the packages of sugar-free sweets they sent her. A note about a falling out between Ron and Harry and something brief about a contest she was not a part of but Harry was. It wasn't until the Weasleys took them aside at the train station and Arthur informed them of Voldemort's return that they finally heard the full story.
And it horrified them. They had noticed Harry walking past after having said his goodbyes to their daughter and the Weasley's youngest son. He had been quiet and drawn, looking exhausted and sad. Their hearts had gone out to him and they feared greatly for him when they found out his parent's murderer had been resurrected.
Which was a whole new concept in itself. After all, didn't dead people normally stay… well… dead?
Then Molly Weasley had gone on to gently explain Voldemort's ideals to them.
They'd gone home that night with Hermione and sat her down on the sofa. Even before she'd unpacked. She'd stared up at them, bewildered, as they fought not to cling to her in terror.
They'd told her she wasn't going back. Ever. There was no way that they were going to risk losing her by sending her out to learn at the main target of this… this… normal-people hater.
They knew instantly that they'd said the wrong thing. Hermione had stiffened, her face growing cold as she glared up at them.
And then she said something that tore through the pair of them, as they realised what they'd just done.
"So. You think I'm a freak then?"
The question had left them dumbfounded, staring down at her with mouths agape. It was all Hermione needed and she rose stiffly from the sofa, smoothing the creases from the front of her skirt. She announced her need to unpack, then left the room.
It was guilt they felt, when they realised they really didn't think of their daughter as normal. They couldn't claim to understand or even accept what she was. It simply went against all the laws of the world. All the time, all this long, long time, it hadn't been Hermione moving away from them.
They had been withdrawing from her.
Of course they still loved her. That was a given. She would always, always be their daughter. But other than the Weasleys and buying her supplies once a year, they'd never really even tried to interact with her world. The sight of an owl at their window still horrified them, even as they sent it back with sweets (normal ones, of course). Their brief encounters with the wizarding world went unspoken afterwards; they never displayed any of the excitement Hermione obviously expected them to feel.
They'd found themselves unable to sleep again. In dread, they wondered how many more times they'd have to experience one of these hellishly dark moments.
The next day, when Hermione had curtly told them her plans to go to Grimmauld Place and spend the summer there, they hadn't argued. Hermione's mother had simply held her, distraught at the anguished feel of Hermione's own arms only gently holding her back.
Hermione had forgiven them. But she wouldn't (couldn't) forget. She understood. But couldn't accept.
When Albus Dumbledore himself had stopped round to pick her up, Hermione's father had looked at him with solemn eyes and requested quietly-
"Look after her."
Albus Dumbledore had gazed at him, sadness dulling his brilliant blue eyes and nodded a vow, clasping his forearm briefly in comfort.
They'd spent the summer in a daze, unable to come to terms with the full consequence of what had occurred.
No. The full consequences of what they'd done.
When news of Albus Dumbledore's death finally reached them, they felt almost betrayed. They'd entrusted their daughters care to him in the aftermath, believed that he would and could look after her.
Only to find out that one of his own members of staff had turned against him and killed him. Only to find out that death eaters (the name was almost comedic in it's bluntness) had found their way into his school. Only to find out children had died fighting to protect themselves. Hermione had been strong, protecting herself and others. Their pride in her was immense; they were so awe-filled at this heroine that returned to them, this saviour who had come from them, to comprehend what she was telling them at first.
"I have to go away."
Fear flooded them. They questioned her long into the night. Argued their point, pleaded with her to understand and to not go.
But Hermione had sat quietly before them, watching them pace back and forth, not saying a word.
The fact that they had already lost was slow to dawn on them. Finally they had sat down beside her, reaching to encase her in their arms, as she reached out to hold them close. She wept quietly; a moment of weakness that they thanked her for as she allowed them to see her own terror. They'd fallen asleep like that, all three of them, curled together on the sofa, their brilliant daughter once more held between them.
By the time they awoke the next morning, she was gone. They woke slowly, feeling like they were fighting their way up from swamps that threatened to pull them under again. Lying between them was a single sheet of parchment; a note.
She had written her apology for spelling them to sleep until she was gone. Beneath that was a long explanation of what she was going to do and an even longer history of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived's life. They read it in silence, horror in their hearts as they read what he had to do; what he had done and what he had been through. She wrote about her fears, her terror at what she would have to do and what might happen. And she finally wrote their forgiveness and her understanding, blotched by tear-stains.
There were only three words at the very end of the note. Three words that made them both joyful, and distraught.
Thank you. Goodbye.
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I've always wondered how Hermione's parents felt about it all. They don't really seem to be mentioned much, even though it'd be such an interesting subject; their introduction to the wizarding world. Adults are considered less adaptable than children, so I decided I'd look at it from that viewpoint.
Harry Potter and the characters mentioned are copyright to J.K.Rowling. I own nothing //sad//.
Reviews always welcome!