Partial – 2/5

Surely anything is better than listening to ladies debate the best knitting colour, or how to make the best cake or jam or potato salad or sock or waffle or recount every single thing they did the day before. Hermione the Perfect is sitting still as a statue, cracking in subtle places as each agonizing minute ticks by, nodding and replying perfect words of, 'Wow!' and 'Really?' and 'Incredible!' and 'Yes, of course' as appropriate.

Her resolve is slipping. the minutes crawl by; another crack, a chip of the ear. Hermione the Memory Worker is taking a cat nap over her paper, parchment and ink pens and quills scattered along her wooden desk in the corner. Hermione the Reasonable is realising that she should never, ever end up this lonely, though, she reasons, the probability of the Hermiones living in a cottage alone with fifty cats for the rest of her long, wizarding life is rising by the second. Especially after the argument with Prospect Number One, that is, Oliver Wood, sent Hermione the Attracted wallowing in a sea of dark blue depression that only warmth from Prospect Number One can reverse.

Soon, Hermione the Perfect is cracked so much that her replies are sounding much less enthusiastic. Now the words have descended to 'yeah' and 'alright' and 'yes, that sounds lovely', mostly inappropriate.

The wrinkled, chattering woman seems to be a machine, built to torture granddaughters with lessons from ye old days and, even more horrific, recounts of each and every cake they have ever made, complete with detailed explanations of icing decorations and the exact colour of the wonderful cream filling. Surely it cannot just be white? No, it must be 'ivory mixed with egg white' or perhaps 'clean snow and the flesh of a pale, unripe peach.'

And all through it, the other Hermiones are becoming louder and louder. Hermione the Warrior fuels them dutifully, yelling inspirational messages to rile them up for a war. And all through this Hermione the Perfect is slowly losing her cool.

But, damn it, she had been through a war and had been colder than a frozen pond. Why now was the ice starting to crack? It had been months and months and months since the beginning of the end. She had been strong as stone, gone to numerous funerals for the nameless dead that seem a blur now, and for what? To be driven to insanity by an old woman's blasted gobbledygook?

In-between her robotic replies, she realises that all Hermione the Memory Worker allows her to remember is that she was in a war where Voldemort died and the Light was victorious. Any details on the venue or who died and who survived are buried in a restricted bookshelf, locked and sectioned off in a part of her brain that she dare not try to access. And she blames it on solely on Oliver Wood.

Bloody Wood.

Hermione the Reasonable tries to point out that it is not his fault at all. Hermione the Bothered tells her to stop being so bossy and bothersome.

'So I went to the shops with my friend Geraldine, lovely lady, and we saw the most marvellous woollen scarf that I thought would be just perfect for this weather. Don't you agree, Hermy?'

Hermione the Malicious is pulled back by Hermione the Reasonable and her long string of murderous threats and promises of extremely bad karma fall out of earshot. Hermione the Caring suppresses the resulting shudder and Hermione the Perfect saves the day, replying, 'Yes, that sounds lovely,' at just the right time. Grandmother Dorothy continues. Everyone groans.

Hermy. Oh, the horror. She distracts herself by staring at the pitying tree.

The minutes continue to idle at an agonizing crawl: yet another crack, yet another chip of the ear. After twenty minutes of pure agony, Mrs. Granger comes to the rescue. 'I'm sorry, Mum. Could I just steal my daughter for a moment, please?'

Hermione the Perfect is perfect, yet not so perfect after all, once more and she tries not to run or show even a scrap of relief. Grandmother Dorothy reaches forwards to pat her not so perfect arm and smiles a toothy smile that's supposed to be warm and motherly but comes across as a possessed leer. 'That's perfectly alright, darling,' she says, completely unfazed, 'you go like a good girl, Hermy. I'll be waiting for your return.'

Hermione the Perfect smiles as best she can and rises like she's wearing a skirt rather than jeans, like the good girl that she supposedly is. Hermione the Malicious rolls her eyes; what an act, what a lie. Complete fallacy; good girls are not murderers.

Hermione the Daughter enters the kitchen along with Hermione the Grateful. The household kitchen is small, but not too small, and the oven is large, but not too large. It is moderate in colour and utensils, traditional down to the tea towels and measuring spoons that makes it feel pleasantly homely. Hermione the Daughter inhales the scent of turkey and herbed and roasted potatoes and looks around at the pots and pans simmering on the stove top. She curiously raises a lid to steamed broccoli and carrot strips in a sauce that smells only of mixed, undefinable herbs to her untrained nose while her mother looks on. Hermione the Daughter does not like what she sees in her eyes.

It is not love. In her mother and father's eyes she sees something that she has always been afraid she will see, ever since she was eleven years old and wondered if they liked her anymore. It's you, darling, her mother had said, and we love you. That does not seem to be valid anymore.

For in their eyes is fear.

Hermione the Reasonable tries to explain it whenever this becomes a conscious thought: she reminds her, mostly Hermione the Regretful, that she turned her wand on her parents, and that is something that they had thought she would never do. Now they are afraid she will do it again, and not just to their memories. It is a matter of trust; the absence of trust can promote fear. That is what has happened.

Now, though, Hermione the Grateful has dragged herself back out, meeting malicious laughs and pitying, impassive stares, and only Hermione the Daughter, who simply feels betrayed, is left to deal with the Look.

Mrs. Granger does not beat around the bush. 'I'd like you to make the tree healthy again and increase the brightness of the lights reflecting off the bells. You can use… that.' She points dismissively to Hermione's hidden pocket in her sleeve where she hides that.

Hermione the Reasonable determines that equals wand and Hermione the Bothered orders her silence skilfully for stating the obvious. Hermione the Prefect and Hermione the Witch shake their head. 'In the presence of them it's illegal and immoral. So, I can't.'

'You can and will,' Mrs. Granger reprimands sharply, 'I will not have you ruining my Christmas Lunch because of reckless disobedience.'

No Hermione has a retort for this better than Hermione the Daughter. 'It seems we've switched places,' she says coolly. 'Now I'm teaching you life's lessons and you're the ten-year-old backing your entirely insubstantial argument with irrational excuses.'

'Watch your tongue, Hermione,' Mrs. Granger warns dangerously.

She clamps her mouth shut, then opens it again. She feels like she is back in the war, buttering up the enemy with banter before one goes in for the kill. 'I'm eighteen, Mum. I don't have any reckless disobedience left. And it's a wand that will spruce up your tree and chime your bells because you can't do it yourself.'

Mrs. Granger stares, confused, her eyebrows knitted together and she drives the stake home.

'You should take away your own memory. I don't know who I'm talking to.'

Her words wound the Hermiones, as if it were a real stake driving into her recently frozen heart. She becomes breathless. She is dying a metaphorical death, but it hurts just the same, and a whisper of her own voice in her mind tells her that the middle aged woman in front of her, with bushy hair and chocolate eyes like her own, is an absolute stranger, more so than what she sees when she looks in the mirror. And so, she responds with a deadened, 'Neither do I,' waves her hand with wandless magic, power fuelled by emotion flowing out of them and into the tree and bells. Never leaving the stranger's sharp gaze, she repeats, 'neither do I' and leaves.

-x-x-x-

Hermione the Tired ignores Grandmother Dorothy for as long as she can before she must don the cracked Hermione the Perfect mask, a fallacy like Hermione the Malicious so rightly said, and sit back down. She tries not to give herself away, tries not to let them know she's wishing so very hard that she could flee by the blessed immediacy of appirition. Suddenly, she wishes for a Time Stopper. Hell, she is wishing for both Fred and George right now, in a complete misery-based, platonic way. She swishes the water around in her wine glass absently. Hermione the Logical realises she wants magic back, the freedom to practice it, no restrictions on her gift, she wants Hermione the Witch to grow and thrive. Her eyes flick to Oliver who appears to be scrutinizing the Christmas tree. Let him look.

Grandmother Dorothy has been joined by Mr. Granger's mother, Grandmother Joyce. Hermione the Perfect wonders when she will finally shatter. And when she finally does sit down, the first thing they say causes Hermione the Perfect to choke on the water.

'Have you got a beau, dear?'

Hermione the Frazzled almost overpowers Hermione the Bouncer. 'Er…' her eyes flick again unbidden to Oliver. He is staring blatantly at her, as if she is a fish in a tank. Hermione the Attracted leaps up in her stomach in a back flip and she has to tear her eyes away for fear of appearing too interested. She coughs, 'Pardon?'

Two toothy grins beam a hundred watts each at Hermione the Perfect, who is not so perfect after all, that blinds her eyes with dread. They seem scarily similar to the Cheshire cat out of Alice in Wonderland; knowing, scheming, plotting. Hermione Observational realises too late that they have seen her involuntary glance, and then much too late Hermione the Observational realises that they are in matchmaker mode. The two lean forwards. Their many pieces of jewellery clink and twinkle ominously in the light.

Hermione the Frazzled finally skeeters through an open gap and runs around the control room, screaming hysterically. 'We were just wondering if you've managed to catch a fish from the sea, in a manner of speaking. Boyfriends, as they're called these days, can be very useful you know.'

Grandmother Dorothy nudges Grandmother Joyce with a flabby arm in glee. 'Oh yes,' she agrees, 'entertaining too. And, dare I say, wonderfully enticing.' They giggle like love sick schoolchildren. Hermione the Frazzled, wondering if she looks a bit green, almost apparates away in her blind panic before both Hermione the Prefect and Hermione the Witch stop her.

Hermione the Observational points out that she is talking to two wrinkled skin bags about sex. All Hermiones, even Hermione the Attracted, try not to gag.

they stop, suddenly, realising she hasn't answered. 'Er… no, I don't.'

The busy, bloody head of Hermione the Regretful rolls pitifully across the floor, cut off by a guillotine controlled by two old crones that cackle manically in the background. their gleaming eyes are frightening. They rub their hands together.

'That's too bad.'

'Not good at all.'

Oh, Merlin, help me.

-x-x-x-

'Right, let's eat.' Mr. Granger rubs his hands together and Hermione the Memory Worker strikes up the sense of déjà vu. At least she has been saved from the Grandmothers' vast and enthusiastic wedding planning and the Grandfathers' sympathetic glances as she sits on her father's left, who stands momentarily at the head seat, and opposite her mother on his right at the dining table. The family avoid each other's gazes.

The dining table stretches across the room to hold twelve people to each side and one at each head, a total of twenty-three guests and three hosts, the lights shine brightly and the emerald green tablecloth marries well with the red napkins and gold decorations placed at regular intervals down its length. Hermione the Attracted fixes her eyes on Oliver as he talks to his father and sister, laughing and nodding his head, seated at the other end of the table. He looks up, catches her eye and narrows his own eyes immediately, and Hermione the Observational clenches her fist as he pointedly ignores her. How dare him; they are feuding, and Moody says you never walk away from a fight, you never take your eyes off your opponent and you never, ever, tolerate feigned ignorance. Hermione the Warrior shouts the words in a battle cry; Constant vigilance!

Five minutes into eating, the battle rears its ugly head and their war becomes public.

'So, Hermione,' Oliver calls unexpectedly, 'what's your favourite sport?'

'Oh, Hermione doesn't play sport.'

Hermione the Observational notes the set trap, so she smiles and interrupts her mother. 'Soccer,' she says, 'I especially like the goal keepers; they are to die for.'

He understood her message. 'I'm sure they enjoy hearing comments like that very much,' Oliver responds dryly and a subtle anger mars his eyes.

Hermione the Malicious smiles sickly sweet, taking a leaf out of Umbridge's book. 'Any other questions?'

'Yes, actually,' he counters. She knows he can see right through her innocent act. 'Why did you become such a mind-wasted bitch?'

Sharp clatters sound throughout the room as many guests drop their cutlery. then it falls silent, save for a shocked 'Oliver!' from his appalled mother and Hermione the Witch is itching to take her wand from her sleeve and hex him directly down to the floor.

Instead, Hermione the Malicious bares her teeth savagely and snarls, 'I was born gifted, unlike yourself, idiotic jock! You're a bloody coward!'

Simultaneous gasps erupt from every side of the table, reprimands of 'Hermione!' from various Granger family members and an awed 'cool!' from Jean reach her ears. And then it calm abruptly into a silent confusion.

'I told you, I'm not a coward.' Oliver retorts angrily in the quiet. He points his fork at her menacingly. Both ignore the staring; they only have eyes for each other.

'Then why did you,' she stops, checks her words and begins again, ever more vicious. 'Why did you play sport instead? Tell me that!'

Oliver doesn't respond, can't or won't. If it is his own Oliver the Stubborn, she doesn't know because Hermione the Malicious allows no room for pondering.

Silence. Inside and out. Shock. Both sides know it's a misunderstanding and make no move to comprehend it. Partial grasps at shreds of reason that elude them so spectacularly arises Hermione the Frazzled like a gloomy astral moon so she screams and screams and screams. Even though her heart beats fast and her eyes are filling up for the irrational reason that it's all just too hard, she wants things to be okay between them and she doesn't know why. Sleet falls quietly outside, as if a plea for them to surrender. But they won't speak or look or hear the other or notice that the frivolity the Christmas Lunch initially has resumed. Hermione the Reasonable pushes a dirty rag into Hermione the Malicious's mouth when she deems the situation much too appalling to continue unheeded. She breathes back in her hurtful insults; Hermione the Daughter's saving grace from her furious mother's wrath.

She does not cry.

-x-x-x-

Mrs. Granger huffs angrily. Grandmother Dorothy places a wizened, arthritic hand on her arm and her daughter sighs quietly. She looks down the table at the slight blushes and stubborn ignorance of the two featured young adults and she grins smugly because she knows before they do that, before the day is out, they will know what she knows. Stubbornness can only get one so far.

-x-x-x-

-AA-