Needing him

A father is always making his baby into a little woman.

And when she is a woman he turns her back again.

Enid Bagnold

He's trying to be happy, he really is trying; he's smiled at Ron instead of giving the glare that he wanted to, he's laughed with Ginny and Harry and politely questioned them on their lives, he's complimented the food and not once let a moody morose look fall into his eyes…he's trying, for her sake, to be happy, to be accepting but it's hard, it's oh so hard to pretend to smile when really, the only thing he wants to do is grab her hand and pull her out of that damn house.

Now it's not because he doesn't like Ron because he does, only a fool wouldn't be able to see that boys feelings and it's not because he thinks she's too young because he knows she's more mature than he was at her age, no, the problem he realises is he doesn't even know his daughter anymore; he doesn't know this grown woman standing in front of him, handing him a cup of tea and laughing about wedding preparations with her mother…

She's different.

That, he realises, is the big problem; his baby girl has turned into somebody new.

It's more than just the fact that he doesn't understand when she talks about Charms and Goblin Rights (though he tries). It's the small things like the way she's grown so much that he's scared to ruffle her hair, which in itself has changed; gone is the thick uncontrollable curls and in their place are locks tamed and sleek, sitting just right.

She's grown up and he hates it.

He wants to grab her and take her home and the only thing stopping him is the smile on her face. She looks...happy; her eyes are gleaming, her cheeks a rosy red, her mouth turned up in a wide smile...

His baby girl is a woman, a woman who is proudly making a difference in the world, fighting for those who are oppressed and telling him she is ready to be married…

And that is something he can't comprehend; little Hermione getting married?

Where did the time go? Where did the years speed by? How did she turn from the short eleven year old, with bushy hair and non-stop questions into this twenty year old professional woman with more grace and intelligence than he could ever have dreamt for her?

It's hard when thinking about that not to feel an itch of bitterness creep on him; they took her away; Harry and Ron and Hogwarts…magic took his baby girl away and he can't help but feel he's been robbed of her childhood, of moments he should have had.

They had always been close the two of them; Hermione and her daddy changing the world. He would put on her on his shoulders so she could see everything, point out landmarks; always teaching her, always making sure every one of her many questions were answered. He would read to her late into the night, past her bed time, ignoring his wife's disapproving looks.

And then there had been the crosswords. He would sit at the kitchen table Hermione on his knee, a newspaper in his hand trying to solve the puzzle; by eleven she could help him and he couldn't help but feel a burst of pride every time she got another word right. It had been their thing, the crossword, even when she was too old sit on his knee he would recite the clues, watch as her eyebrows furrowed in concentration before her eyes lit up at an idea.

"She's going to great things, my girl" he remembered telling his wife and he had been right, hadn't he? Hermione had done great things, greater things than he could have ever imagined; she had fought in a war, overcome challenges every school year and was now, more than anything, making a difference to the lives of the less fortunate.

He could not have been prouder.

He had always known his Hermione was special, from the way she questioned everything, willing him to teach her everything he knew about the world, to the way she seemed to be wiser than anyone her age and then, what he loved most about her; her heart.

She cared, his baby girl, she cared about everyone and everything...she had wanted him to tell her about the slave trade and he had watched as her eyes widened in outrage and small tears formed at an injustice that had happened way before she was born. She was special that way, special in every way he knew but he had never dreamt that she would be witch. He was a man of science, of logic and the idea of magic was frankly absurd and yet his daughter was magic, she was a witch. He could still remember the day Professor McGonagall had come home- every detail of that day was imprinted on his mind; her stern bun, transforming into a cat, the letter that changed everything…

The idea that magic existed had questioned everything he had believed in, he had always wanted to believe that it existed, had relished fantasy novels and plays and yet the idea that magic was well and truly real had been bewildering, to say the least.

It was however, surprisingly easy to accept; his baby was special in more ways than he had ever thought. What was harder to accept was the idea that she would spend months on end away from home, she was his only child, his Hermione and he was expected to not see her till Christmas?

That first goodbye had been the hardest; he had had to drive not five minutes away to the local grammar school (that had already accepted her) but half an hour away to Kings Cross. Perhaps if he had not been so preoccupied with not seeing his daughter for months he would have been more astonished at the sights around him, as it was that day the owls, the witches and wizards dressed in robes, the scarlet train…none of it could capture his attention; the only, the most important thing in the world at that moment had been his baby girl and saying goodbye; she had been rambling the whole car ride, a sign he recognised as nervousness and he had done his best to comfort her and he thought, to comfort himself.

When he thought back to that year now, he realised it was one of the best out of all of her years at school; that had been the year with the most worry but also the year with the most letters home, the year when she came home for Christmas and actually wanted to be with them… he had most probably seen her more that year than any of the following years.

Her second year she had opted to stay in school and he had, albeit reluctantly, let her; they had her for the summer after all. But then her third year came and once again she wrote saying she would be staying at Hogwarts, this time he had noted it had been less of a request; she wanted to stay with her friends. She's happy, he had told himself, with Ron and Harry; there's no other kids around here, no wonder she prefers school but then, like now, he had felt that unmistakable sense of bitterness at Ron and Harry; they were slowly but surely stealing his daughter away from him, so much so that their friendship and adventures were deemed more important to Hermione than him, her father. That year he had hardly seen her, no sooner had she come home had an invitation come for her to go to the World Cup; a once in the lifetime opportunity, she said- how could he say no?

And then she had stayed another Christmas; there's a ball, she had wrote and he had instantly tensed at the idea of a boy dancing with his baby girl and yet when the picture of her and some Bulgarian star came by owl he could not help but smile; she had looked beautiful, stunning and yet…he had felt for the first time, that his daughter was growing up; his wife had laughed as she wiped away a tear; "doesn't she look beautiful?" she had asked, he hadn't answered- it wasn't even a question.

He had hoped she would spend the next summer with them, he had tried to entice her with the names of various countries but her interest held all of two weeks before she had rushed off; he had been worried then, he knew his daughter see, and he could tell that something, something really just wasn't right so he tried to coax her worries out of her, make her burdens his but it didn't matter how much he asked, all she did was sigh and mutter about things he didn't understand before shaking her head and smiling- an attempt to make him forget.

But he didn't forget- how could he? He was a father and his daughter was worried and perhaps, scared so how could he be expected to not worry? He watched her carefully after that and he noticed that though she talked of Ron and Harry, her eyes would always show a sadness and concern he couldn't comprehend and on the rare occasion they did do the crossword, she had seem perpetually preoccupied.

He had insisted she came skiing with them that Christmas; maybe she just didn't like spending it at home had been the logic behind the idea but it wouldn't take a genius to realise she didn't enjoy it. She forced smiles and said it had been a great idea but when she had come with a half formed excuse of studying for exams at school he had seen right through it. Nevertheless he had humoured her; telling she better leave soon then, any extra revision was good; she cared after all, to not tell him she would rather be elsewhere and he cared not to want to make her burdened with guilt.

He hadn't held hope after that about her staying for whole summers and Christmas; his baby was living her life- he remembered what it was like to be young after all but even as he had told himself that, the feeling of unease would not leave; youth was supposed to be a time of laughter and fun, of freedom and mistakes but though Hermione laughed and smiled and though her letters did include parts that sounded as though they could be written by any teenager (mainly, the moaning's about Ron) there was still too many lines under her eyes that could be considered healthy. She was worried and scared and, he had realised not just for herself or her friends but for him and her mother; her concern was clear in every goodbye, in every letters "keep safe" and "let me know if anything strange happens". It had kept him awake, many a night.

Like he had expected she didn't stay with them long the summer after her fifth year and his heart once again ached at the goodbye but then, then the Christmas of her sixth year came and his sixteen year old daughter suddenly looked like a little girl again who just needed her parents. She was upset and hurt and when she, one evening, released a torrent of tears and words cursing Ronald Weasley and a Lavender Brown, he had wanted nothing more than to break the boys' bones. No father likes seeing his daughter cry and Mr Granger was no exception but it had been…reassuring that she still in a way felt she could gain comfort from him, she leaned her head on his shoulder every night as they sat on the sofa and begged him to read parts out of her favourite childhood books- that nights had made him realise that maybe he wasn't the only one who wanted to turn back the clocks and it also taught him that no matter how old Hermione got, she would perhaps always need him and he vowed he would always be there for her.

But those nights were years and years ago and the firm resolution and belief Mr Granger had had that his daughter would always need him and want him in her life was gradually fading. It wasn't that she didn't come to visit because she did, at least twice a week, if not more and it wasn't like she didn't invite them over or go out with them because the twenty year old Hermione did but he supposed it was the fact that no matter how desperately hard he tried to forget, he couldn't.

He couldn't forget the fact that with one wave of her wand she had been erased from his memory. Even if it was magic, how, how could he, as a father, forget his daughter? How had he survived those months without searching frantically for her, how had he not noticed that out of every picture there was something, someone so important missing? How had he sat to do the crossword and not felt an ounce of nostalgia or yearning?

He could not forget that year and he could not forgive himself for forgetting her.

He knew, of course, that she didn't even remotely blame him for his failure as a father- her magic did what it was supposed to after all but Mr Granger was a man who, despite his affinity for logic, believed love, the love of a parent for his child was all powerful and yet…he hadn't felt anything was missing from his life and yes, it had been years ago but the pain was still raw.

He had been angry when she had first lifted the charm, or whatever it was, he had been angry at so many things. Angry that she had never told them of the state of her world, of the prejudice she faced or anything of the war. Angry that she had decided it was her duty to fight in the war and make herself thin and bruised and scarred. Angry that she had taken the decision to make them forget her and go away.

Eventually the anger faded and forgiveness came and with it gratefulness that his daughter had made it, survived the war. He had made her take a subscription out with the Daily Prophet for him then so that no matter happened, he would always be in touch with her world and from the black and white print he learned his daughter had been branded a war hero.

She went back to school, despite his aversions to the idea and after kissing him on the cheek and telling him not to worry she was off again to the world that had already stolen her from him. She wrote more often (he had suspected she still felt guilty over her actions) and she invited them to the Burrow for Christmas which showed him she had a whole other family, he had seen her graduate and they had gone a long holiday, just the three of them and…well, time had gone on, hadn't it?

Time had sped by.

He had read article after article of her in the Prophet; "War heroes Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley have squashed rumours that they are no longer dating…" "All Outstandings- War Hero branded "brightest witch of her age"", "Hermione Granger has recently joined the Ministry of magic in a position many say is…" "Granger rallies for House Elf rights" "Ministry seeks reform over the treatment of house elves after Hermione Granger, former war hero, campaigns…"

And with each article and each year that had gone, the feeling that he was completely unneeded by his daughter, had grown. The feeling he had felt stroking her hair and muttering insults at Ron Weasley that Christmas had all but evaporated and here he was now, sitting in her living room, sipping tea and listening to wedding preparations all the while, silently willing her to turn into a child again…

"Dad?"

But she would never be a child again…

"Dad?"

She would get married, become Mrs Weasley…

"Dad?"

Have children of her own…

"Dad?!"

"Huh?" he looked up startled to see Hermione standing in front of him; "Are you ok? You've been staring at the table for past ten minutes" she was frowning, concerned probably for his mental health.

He cleared his throat and smiled; "Sorry dear, I'm just a bit tired"

She smiled uncertainly before nodding; "Oh right, well, can I talk to you for a minute?"

She was fidgeting with her hands, biting on the end of her lip- she was nervous he realised and fear suddenly overcame him; she wasn't about to tell him she was pregnant was she? He hadn't even got used to idea of her becoming Mrs Weasley and now grandchildren?

He gulped before standing up to follow her upstairs. When they reached her room he couldn't help but smile; just as her childhood room had been this room was immaculate, a book shelf filled with what looked like hundreds of books covered one wall, he walked over to it examining the titles. Most were magical but he spotted a collection of Shakespeare's plays and a few of his favourite Charles Dickens books amongst them.

"Great collection" he smiled and she nodded walking over and reaching for Oliver Twist; "You used to read to me, do you remember?"

He rolled his eyes; "Of course I remember; you loved it, wouldn't go to sleep until I read a few pages and then when I finally did put it away…"

"I would make it come flying down" she laughed and he nodded; "Yes, and I was stupid enough to make myself believe they all just…fell"

She laughed before putting the book back and sighing, he suddenly realised how tired she looked; "I miss them days" she said with a small smile and his eyes widened in shock; "You do?"

"Of course I do. Things were…easy then. If I had a problem I would curl up, listen to you read and everything would disappear"

He frowned; "growing up is never easy and you and Harry and Ron, you all had to grow up faster than you should have but…but you're happy right? You have a brilliant job, you're making a difference, you have Ron…you don't need my stories Hermione; you're doing amazing by yourself"

"You're right. I am happy" she beamed up at him; "but I still wish I could be a little girl again…" she shook her head, laughing lightly; "It's stupid"

"You'll always be my little girl, Hermione" he ruffled her hair, messing the perfectly sitting curls; "always and I'll always be there, you know that right? No matter what, or how old you are…you can always come to me" he looked at her sternly and she nodded small tears in her eyes before she hugged him in a way she hadn't since she was sixteen.

"I love you Dad" she said, her voice muffled against his shirt.

"I love you too, sweetie"

His daughter was grown up, soon to be married and fighting for equality- he couldn't have been prouder but he realised, it didn't matter that she was successful or that she was in a few months going to be a "Mrs" she was still his little girl and she needed him, she always needed him he just hadn't been able to see it.

She needed him on the days before her wedding when the stress all became too much and he was the only one who could sit her down and make her breath. She needed him when, an hour before her wedding, she was hyperventilating. She needed him to walk her down the aisle, to give her, his beautiful, intelligent, graceful daughter away to the man she loved.

She needed him on the day's work became too much, on the days when the Prophet was being particularly troublesome, she even needed him when she became a parent herself but still felt like a little girl.

It may have taken Mr Granger years to realise it but when he did he couldn't believe he hadn't understood it earlier; it didn't matter how old a daughter got, it didn't matter how successful they became or how grown up they were they would always need their daddy's to be there, to hug and protect, to laugh with, to moan about their problems to, they would need them to be there to pick up the pieces when they fell apart and fathers would do it all for their baby girls without a second thought, because when it was their baby girls, how could they not?

Hello! I wrote this ages ago, it was originally supposed to be part of my other one-shot The Wedding Breakfast before I rewrote the whole thing; it's not my best work but I figured I might as well post it. Sorry for any grammatical errors- my punctuation is terrible! Please review and let me know what you thought of it :D