(A/N) A drabble from the point of view of Hermione's parents. I believe that the reason Hermione never talked about her parents or her life in the Muggle world is because they weren't very close. So... here.
Mrs Sarah Granger was at a loss.
For years she'd dealt with Hermione's... peculiarities. Even the first time didn't catch her too horribly off guard. Hadn't she read enough novels to take it somewhat in stride? Unfortunately, she'd also learned from the real world. It was bad enough that her daughter was too smart, too observant, too reserved. But to add her... her kinesis was just too much.
They tried public school, but that only lasted a year. When Hermione came home with ruffled feathers and tear streaks on her face every day- every single day, can you believe it? It was halfway through term in kindergarten when Hermione lashed back. The police had no idea what caused the whole class to lose consciousness at once, and it was quickly swept under the rug.
Sarah and her husband decided to homeschool Hermione.
When she was seven they made her meditate every night before bed and in the morning when she woke up. Their fiery little girl closed her eyes and something in the atmosphere slowed, relaxed. It was the same change she experienced whenever she left the house without Hermione. Normal air. Bartholomew told her, only half-joking, that he wished she could be that way all the time.
Were they proud of her? Heavens, yes. She was so well-mannered and intelligent, mastering anything she put her mind to and never ever embarrassing them in public. Would they have preferred a normal child? Sarah couldn't help but think so.
She turned eleven and a strange woman turned up on her doorstep, all pantsuits and grey hair pulled away from her face. She gave them good news: Hermione was magic, and there was a whole community of people waiting for her.
Hermione was ecstatic. The atmosphere was charged, but no longer tense. Pure, unbridled joy poured from their little girl in waves. She didn't even care that she would have to wait a whole year before she could join them; she left with that woman one afternoon to go supplies shopping, and she came back with armfuls of books. She would have to make a separate trip to get her wand, the woman explained, because the temptation to practice may just be too much.
September came again, bringing with it cloudy skies and a joyful daughter. She left, waving out the window of the train.
When she came back- home- for Christmas, Hermione was no longer a pleasant campfire. She was an inferno, threatening to burn down their house. They went skiing. The snow didn't help.
They sent her to that school again. Sarah had to hope that things would get better for Hermione there. This world didn't want her anymore.
0o-o0
Mr Bartholomew Granger was at a loss.
His beautiful, perfect baby girl, named for him and the love of his life, was supposed to be a composite of the two. She wasn't supposed to gain something extra.
Hermione Jean. A Shakespearean first name and a plain middle name. His wildly curly hair and her warm, open features. Their love for knowledge. She was perfect. That is, until she turned two years old and burned her dinner. Not just the food, but the plate and very nearly the whole table.
Sarah told him later that night, sobbing, that she'd seen her mobile spin until the baubles flew off. Months ago. Bartholomew held his wife in his arms until she exhausted herself and fell asleep.
In the middle of the night he went to Hermione's room and stood in the doorway, watching her breathe. The urge- the very, very brief, shameful urge- came over him to take her little pillow and smother her with it.
He went back to bed, dread a solid pit in his gut.
Jesus, he was scared of her. Scared of his two-year-old daughter.
Sarah wasn't scared. She handled Hermione with finesse, and Bartholomew surrendered to her judgement. Those filicidal impulses- plural, yes- left him not trusting himself to even be around her without his wife present.
He worked on building up their dental practice so Sarah could finish her degree. Sarah took Hermione with her, and as far as he knew no one objected. Hermione never fussed or made any distracting sounds. By that time she was learning how to read, and that occupied her for hours.
When Hermione turned seven they finally felt they wouldn't be bad parents if they left her home alone during the day. They would have her meditate until they left for work and would sometimes find her still meditating when they came back. Those were Bartholomew's favorite days. He couldn't explain why, but when Hermione retreated into her mind his nerves calmed. The molecules stopped moving quite so fast. It was normal.
He shouldn't have been glad to send her off to a boarding school. He told himself that he just wanted her to be with people like her, that that was where she would be happiest. It was a lie.
The days without her were so peaceful, so productive, that he mourned when Christmas came. Hermione stepped off the train and that stone of dread came back. She stepped off the train and her aura bludgeoned him. She was angry, a furious little girl who always, always watched her back. They took her to the mountains in the hopes that the serenity and fun would cool her down. It didn't. He didn't think she noticed, but the snow melted around her. The cabin they were staying in was boiling whenever she was in it.
He was glad to send her back, even knowing that it probably wasn't the best environment for her.
Without a word to Sarah, he shut Hermione's bedroom door.