A/N: Written for the Mother's Day Competition (easy level) by SiriusMarauderFan on the HPFC Forum. Prompt: Mrs Granger & Hermione

Monica Wilkins checked the thermometer hanging next to the living-room window, groaned, and threw herself into a puffy armchair, on top of a starry throw. 'Turn on the heater, would you, love?' she called to her husband, who was in the kitchen. 'It's getting chilly.'

'It is on,' said Wendell Wilkins, appearing in the doorway – tall, dark-skinned and full of a kindly humour. He crossed the room in two strides and kissed his wife on the cheek. 'Spoilt after a terrific summer, are you?'

'Maybe.' She smiled ruefully. 'It's so easy to get used to things. We haven't even lived in this house a year, and yet I can hardly imagine being back in England, with … with …'

'—its bad weather?' Wendell gazed out the west window at the cloudless sky, streaked with purple, red and gold hues that radiated out from the horizon, bathing the suburban houses and trees of southeast Melbourne in a delicate, dusky glow.

'Oh, and queueing,' added Monica, making a wry face.

'And queueing in the bad weather!' they said together, and Monica knew that her husband was thinking the same thoughts as she. They had first met on a drab, drizzly day in Manchester, both waiting in line – for what, neither of them remembered. It was one of those details that had mysteriously faded away with time.

'I don't mean to complain,' she said somberly, after a moment, withdrawing from the memory. 'We've been extremely blessed – some people never budge a step outside their hometown in their whole lives, and we've moved halfway around the world!'

'So you don't regret it?' His voice was gentle.

'No. Well … no, I don't. You know, it's funny. I miss the little things – familiar accents, flashes of a whole different colour scheme, pebbly beaches … But there are things to miss, no matter where you are.'

'Waxing philosophical again, are we?'

'Of course.' She laughed. 'You know me.'

'I should hope so.' Wendell settled into the armchair beside her; her eyes were unfocused, reminiscing, but the look of love on his face as he watched her was clear to see. 'Is there anything you'd change?'

Monica thought.

'No, she said finally. 'There isn't.'

Wendell was out by the time Monica woke on Sunday, and though he did not give a reason, she was sure it had something to do with the fact that it was Mother's Day in Australia. They had never had children – though Monica had briefly entertained dreams of having two, long ago – and she was used to Mother's Day being in March, the way it had been back home. No, not back home. This was their home now.

'It's so silly,' she had tried saying to him, because she knew his opinion of it, and didn't want him to feel obliged to get her a gift. 'I'm not a mother. I never will be. Over-commercialised rubbish … the day, I mean, not children …'

'It's not really about the children, though.' He knew what she was thinking. He always did. You didn't need some sort of trick to read people's minds – simply spending time around each other, fitting neatly together, hand and glove, was enough. 'It's about caring for each other, about family and love and appreciation …'

'Who's philosophical now?'

'You're rubbing off on me,' he said, by way of an excuse, but they both knew the truth. 'OK, you're right; I couldn't care less about the day. I just don't want you to feel left out.'

His own mother was on the other side of the world, retired in the south of France with his father. Her mother had died before she was ten years old, and time and tension had widened the gap between Monica and her father.

'I'll be all right,' she said. 'I'm not a kid. I know how to cope with things. Let's stick with Valentine's Day, shall we?'

'Now, that's what I call over-commercialised …'

Monica was so lost in her thoughts that it took her a minute to register the ringing doorbell. Acting on a whim, she put an eye to the peephole before she touched the handle.

The nature of the fishbowl lens, combined with the presence of the screen door, made for difficult viewing, but Monica was sure that she made out a young woman with bushy brown hair, clutching a white blur of paper in one hand.

A door-to-door salesperson, she thought drearily, before remembering that they weren't allowed to call on Sundays. She opened the door.

The blur of paper turned out be a crumpled map of southeast Melbourne. The young woman turned out to be about eighteen or nineteen, with brown skin the same shade as Monica and Wendell's.

'Mu—Mrs Wilkins?' She spoke in a nervous, strangely high-pitched tone. 'I'm a relative of yours. From England. Do … do you mind if I come in?'

If she's faking, she's certainly doing an impressive job at the correct accent, thought Monica. And before I've even opened my mouth, too!

'Suppose you tell me your name first, and how you found this place,' said Monica, not moving aside. 'I don't believe we're in the telephone book.'

'Er … yes, of course.' The woman stuffed the map into an impossibly small beaded bag and extended her hand. 'Hermione Granger. And it's a rather long story …'

Despite herself, Monica smiled. 'How long?'

'Very,' said Hermione Granger, with a small grimace. 'So, if you don't mind …'

Five minutes later, Hermione was seated at the Wilkins' small kitchen table, fiddling with something in her bag as Monica put the kettle on.

'So, are you in Australia on business, or …'

'A hobby,' said Hermione. 'I was in the middle of investigating my family tree, and I found out that I had several branches out here that I knew next to nothing about.'

Monica raised her eyebrows. 'So, how are we related, exactly?'

'Second cousins, once removed,' said Hermione, but she frowned, appearing restless. 'Do you know when your husband will be back?'

Monica shook her head, glancing involuntarily at the clock. 'Any time from half an hour's time to just before dinner.' Glancing about for something to do, she remembered the kettle and said hastily, 'Would you like a cup of tea?'

'Yes please – one sugar. With … no, I'll have it black. There's no need to get out the milk just for me.'

'I won't be a moment.' Then something odd struck Monica, and she spun around. 'How did you know I don't have milk in my tea?'

'I just guessed,' said Hermione feebly. 'Well, er, if you don't know when he will be back, I think we can get started without him.'

'Get started on what?' Monica asked, sitting down opposite Hermione, who took a deep, shuddering breath.

'I need you to look at me.'

Puzzled, Monica raised her eyes to Hermione's own brown ones. 'And?'

From her pocket, Hermione pulled out a thin, straight stick of wood, less than a foot long, and pointed it at Monica, who couldn't help following it with her gaze. 'Just … just keep looking at me, please …'

Then Hermione said several strange words … not English, not quite … and Monica's world disappeared. The kitchen had turned into a blur of images, which her mind assimilated faster than she could consciously process them. Memories were flooding into her mind, memories that she hadn't known she'd possessed – brief glimpses of another life, another world, a daughter … As she struggled to comprehend what was going on, she realised she could hear her own voice:

'Hermione, if you think we're just going to sit by and let you take all this responsibility on your own shoulders, you've got another think coming.'

Startled and frightened, Monica shook her head to try and break free. The visions slowed, and the now-familiar image of Hermione Granger floated in front of her. She was almost crying, her eyes threatening to overflow as she repeated the odd words again, pointing the stick at Monica.

'Please … M—Mrs Wilkins, just a little bit longer …'

'You know I love you; that's why I have to do this.'

'I know. I understand. I trust you implicitly. But promise us one thing.'

'What?'

'Promise that you'll return.'

'I …'

'I see. You can't promise anything.'

'Yes, I can. I can promise that you'll be safe and well and away from all the fighting, and I can promise that I'll do my very best to survive this war and bring you home.'

'And what if you don't survive?'

'You'll be safe and happy, and that's what matters. I – I couldn't live with myself if I knew that I had the means to protect you and didn't use them …'

Monica – Monica no longer – opened her eyes. Clarity overwhelmed her, crashed upon her like a wave, and she could only stare with growing joy and pride at the face of the daughter she hadn't seen or thought about for almost a year. Why, she was wonderful and clever and beautiful, and so very, very brave …

'Hermione?'

Hermione's cheeks were wet with tears as she nodded fiercely, her face threatening to split from the force of her smile.

'Mum, I've come to take you home.'