A/N — written for the Mother's Day challenge over at TGS for Durmstrang. I had Hermione and her mother (as well as [word] dentist, [creature] owl, [location] Granger's house)
It's a mess, but Raven yelled at me until I stuck with it :P An unbeta'd mess, I feel the need to add.
[1430 words]
"Hermione!" Monica called after her daughter, watching carefully as the little girl ran back over. "Who were you talking to?"
"Mum, her name's Hermione, too!"
"That's nice, dear," Monica said, "but we really shouldn't talk to strangers."
"But you do all the time." Hermione frowned up at her mother, folding her arms across her chest. "How's that different?"
"Because I have to, and you don't," Monica said, taking Hermione's hand and leading her from the park. "You have the luxury of avoiding strangers."
"What's luck-sorry?" Hermione asked, forgetting all about the woman who shared her name. Her mother, however, did not.
.oOo.
"I'm telling you Wendell," Monica said, after Hermione had gone to bed, "I've seen her before."
"Maybe she just has one of those faces?" he asked, shrugging. "It's probably nothing, Monica. Hermione's fine — she didn't seem upset at all, did she?"
No, no. She was just excited. They have the same name."
"Well, it isn't exactly common —"
Wendell!"
"That's probably all there was to it, Monica," he said softly, taking their drained glasses and heading into the kitchen.
"I know," she whispered to the empty room. "I just feel like I'm going to lose my daughter."
.oOo.
"I think we should move back to England," Monica said over breakfast, not taking her eyes off her buttered toast.
"You want to … why?" Wendell asked, leaning against the kitchen counter. Monica shrugged. "Can you at least look at me?" His voice was gentle, but the slight hint of defeat that coloured his tone made her look up all the same.
"I'm sorry, I just …" She shook her head, eyes dropping briefly to the table before returning to his once more. "I think we should move back."
"Is this because of that woman? The one who talked to Hermione the other day?" He pushed off the counter and took a seat in the chair opposite her, the table forming a barrier between them. "It seem really sudden, Monica, can't we think —"
"I've made up my mind," she snapped, slapping a palm against the table, though she quickly balled her hand into a fist and drew it to her chest, visibly regretting the action. "I just … I think I miss it," she said softly, her tone almost childlike.
.oOo.
It was easier than they thought to get all the paperwork sorted and Monica even had a new job lined up at a dentists practice back in England; everything just seemed to go their way for that brief period of time, and they soon found themselves standing outside a reasonably sized detached house in Hampstead.
"It's cold," Hermione said, folding her arms across her chest and scowling up at their new house.
"It's not that cold," Monica admonished, gently nudging her daughter forward. "Why don't we take a look around?"
"I don't want to." She looked to her father for help. "When are we going home."
"This is our home, Hermione," Wendell said, tone slightly more apologetic than Monica would have liked.
"But it's so … dark and … I don't like it." Hermione said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "It's ugly."
Monica took a deep breath, pressing her hand to her temple. "Hermione —"
"Don't you want to see your new room?" Wendell interrupted, turning a slightly forced smile to their daughter.
She paused for a moment at this, frowning in thought. "Is it blue?"
.oOo.
Monica lay on the sofa, a cold flannel covering her eyes. She couldn't see them, but she could hear her husband and daughter carrying boxes into the house containing some of the things they'd left in storage the first time they'd moved. She couldn't remember why they hadn't sold everything.
"Mum?" Small fingers peeled the towel from her face, and she opened one eye to see her daughter starting down at her intently. "Daddy's making tea."
"Okay."
"Did you want tea?" Hermione asked.
She gave her daughter a tired smile. "Yes, please. Decaf." Hermione nodded and dropped the flannel back onto her mothers face with a wet splat and ran back into the kitchen.
She'd almost dozed off when their was a gentle tapping at the window — presumably one of the neighbours already come 'round to welcome them to the street. After waiting a moment on the off-chance that her husband had heard, she pushed herself off the sofa and … stopped.
There was a bird sitting on the windowsill, head cocked slightly as if it were waiting for something. It stepped through the open window — they'd wanted to air the place out — ruffling its feathers and holding out a leg as if this was an every day occurrence.
She reached out tentatively and grabbed the roll of paper attached to its leg, withdrawing her hand quickly in the fear that she'd get bitten. The owl took off almost instantly, and if it hadn't been for the letter she still clutched in one hand she'd have thought it had all been in her imagination.
"What's that, Mum?" Hermione asked, carrying a cup of tea carefully over to the coffee table and setting it down beside a coaster. At Monica's frown, she moved the cup onto an old magazine.
With a sigh, she looked down, unfolding the yellowed paper. "Nothing," she said. "Just a letter."
She closed her eyes, crumpling the sheet in her palm, but she could still see her daughters name printed clearly in a strangers handwriting.
.oOo.
"Do you think this was a mistake?"
Wendell slowly marked his page and set the book to the side before saying carefully: "Do I think what was a mistake, Monica?"
"Coming here. Moving back," she said. "Maybe we rushed into it? It was very sudden, and I —"
"You can't be serious."
"Well, it's just — Hermione — and I —" she stuttered. "There was a letter, today. For Hermione …"
"O-kay," he said slowly, watching her with a measured expression that matched his tone of voice.
"Who writes a letter to a child?" she asked. "What could they possible —"
"Did you read it?"
"Did I … what?"
"Did you read the letter?" he repeated.
"Well … no. But —"
"Then how could you know there was anything strange about it?"
"She's a child, Wendell," Monica stressed. "It's not from anyone we know. It wasn't even addressed! And — and an owl —"
"An owl?"
"Yes! It was delivered by an owl!"
Wendell sat for a moment, eyes wide, staring at his wife in disbelief. "Monica?"
"Yes?"
"I'm going to sleep." She opened her mouth as if to say something more, but he continued: "We can talk about this in the morning."
.oOo.
She slipped out of bed before her husband woke up and made her way downstairs, flicking on the living room light as she passed.
The letter was still at the top of the wastepaper basket in the corner of the room, so she pulled it out and flattened it on the coffee table. She half thought — half hoped — that she'd imagined it, but the name was still there, clear as day: Hermione. No address or stamp, not even a surname, and yet somehow …
Her head throbbed, and she pressed the heels of her palms into her eye sockets until she saw stars.
There was something she was missing. It was just out of reach, but maybe …
"Monica?" The voice was distant, almost as if someone were speaking through water. "Are you —"
…oOo…
"Did you find your parents?" Ron called as soon as he heard her come in, turning to look at her and noticing the expression on her face. "What happened?"
"They — I — I couldn't," she stuttered. "I couldn't restore their memories."
He pulled her into his arms, pressing a kiss into her hair: "Why not?" he whispered, unsure if he wanted to know the answer; unsure if she wanted to give it.
"They —" she sniffed loudly "—they won't remember. The fake memories, or anything to do with them."
He thought for a moment, but couldn't see how that was worse than the alternative. "And that's stopping you because … "
She sobbed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but her words were surprisingly clear when she said: "There's a baby, Ron."
He paused, letting the information sink in. "What'll happen if you don't restore their memories?" he asked slowly. "Will they remember? What happens then?"
Hermione shook her head and sniffed loudly, the sound uncomfortably wet, and he would have grimaced if he hadn't caught himself just in time. Her voice did crack this time, sounding thick in her throat, as if the words physically pained her when she said: "I don't know."