Summer, Part Two
By Locke
Author's note: Thanks to everyone who read Part One, which I recommend you look at before reading this, if you want to know what's going on! Not much seems to happen in this part, at least at first, but it's essential as a transition bit before the real plot kicks into gear. Which it will in Part Three :)
Many, many thanks to the people who reviewed Part One, and to Abi especially, whose fanaticism and imagination make her a constant source of inspiration! If only I were half as quick :)
Anyway, enjoy, and please review!
In the City:
Paris.
Even during the short walk from the airport to the hotel, Hermione saw enough to convince her that her dream to visit this city had not been unfounded.
The Rue des Epées cut through the Western quarter of the capital, a long gash through the city with other streets and roads branching off every few metres. Cars and bikes beeped their horns in a cacophony of noise as they sped onwards, rolling down the road in a blur of activity.
Hermione winced as she felt the light streaming from the edges of the brick buildings catch on her face. The long rows of shops and houses ran parallel to the road, far grander in design than anything she had seen outside Diagon Alley in London, the architecture more deliberate, more refined. The buildings loomed above her, groping for the bright, blue sky that stretched endlessly over the rows of slating roofs, the sun a fierce crest of gold spraying tendrils of fire over the brickwork.
She turned out onto the pavement, her parents beside her. Her father had told her in his usual voice, calm but very stern, to cast a quick spell over their luggage, making the bulging bags and cases light enough to be slung casually over one shoulder. As they confirmed the direction of the hotel and started to move slowly down the street, Hermione wheeled around in a fit of paranoia, fearing to spot a representative from the Ministry at every corner. Her father congratulated her on making their lives so much easier as he handed her a suitcase.
The hotel was a massive building, the white granite blazing heat. An imposing frontage, marked with a gilded display of the battles that had taken place in Paris over the centuries, swords and lances proud in their arrangement, cast them under its shadow as they marched up the black, marble steps. Then they pushed their way through the swivelling glass doors and staggered across the plush carpets to the reception desk.
A rare childish impulse made Hermione step forward and slam her palm down onto the brass bell, which rang shrilly. As they waited, their luggage on the floor beside them, she glanced furtively around the hotel.
An ornate staircase swept up before them, its wooden banisters curving gently around as it rose to meet the landing. Sun filtered in through the rectangular windows each side of the entrance, thin beams flickering over the elaborate patterns on the carpet. A murmur of conversation hit Hermione, drifting over from the seats near the furthest window, where two men sat sipping from their wine glasses, the morning newspaper laid out in front of them and a sleek mobile phone poking over the top of the nearest's breast-pocket. One of them was old and grey, his skin wrinkled like decaying parchment, aging flesh clinging to a thin skeleton, the exact opposite of the dark, handsome man sitting next to him. As one, their heads swivelled to face Hermione and her parents – they smiled slightly before resuming their hushed conversation.
Hermione looked away, not wanting them to think she was spying. She traced a finger over the leaves dragging over the edge of the pots on top of the reception desk, even the bold greens and yellows of the plants looking rich and foreign.
Her father tapped her arm and pointed over the desk, where a portly, middle-aged man was shuffling towards them. 'If you wouldn't mind, sweet,' he muttered softy.
Mrs. Granger sighed. 'Why not just use your phrase book, dear?' she hissed. 'It's a lot safer for - '
'I shouldn't need to if my daughter is capable of translating for us!' He paused to take a deep breath. 'Look, I'm sorry. But Hermione doesn't exactly mind making life easier for her father. Do you, sweet?'
'No,' she said, looking to the floor as she mumbled a faint incantation.
The receptionist arrived, swaggering over the desk as he straightened his striped tie. 'Can I be of assistance?' he said in perfect English, despite his lips moving in a manner that suggested he was launching a frenzied attack on a choice piece of steak.
Mr. Granger took a step back, surprised by the effectiveness of the spell. He opened his mouth hesitantly; but his words became faster and more fluent as he realised the receptionist understood him as though he were speaking French.
'We're the Grangers. We've got a room booked for the next five days.'
'Excuse me for one moment, sir…' The receptionist stooped low as his gaze swooped over the list of bookings. 'Ah ha, I have it. You're in room 201, first down the left-hand corridor when you arrive on the second floor.' A smile showed polished white teeth as the key was handed over. 'And your daughter, I presume? She's booked for 205. I do hope that's all right.'
'That's fine, thanks.'
'Will you be dining in our restaurant tonight?'
'Err… no, thanks,' Hermione's father replied. 'We'll be going into the City and finding a restaurant ourselves, if that's not too much trouble.'
'No, sir, that's quite all right.' He handed Mr. Granger a long sheet of paper, crumpled around the edges. 'If you could just sign here to confirm your details.'
Mr. Granger scooped a ballpoint pen from his pocket and scribbled his signature over the dotted line, before passing the form back to the receptionist, who quickly ran his gaze down it.
'Everything appears to be in order sir. Please enjoy your stay.'
Hermione's father nodded in thanks as they picked up their magically lightened luggage and walked towards the stairs, turning right to head towards a corridor that branched off the hallway and led deeper into the building, hoping to find the lifts.
'Bel endroit, ne pensez-vous pas si chéri?'
Mrs. Granger stared at him quizzically, and then looked back to Hermione. 'I'd… deactivate the spell now.'
She nodded and clicked her fingers.
'I said, "Nice place, don't you think so darling?"'
'Yes, I suppose it is.'
'I can't wait to look around outside,' said Hermione as they reached the lifts and pressed to ascend.
'You're thinking of the museums, aren't you?' replied her mother with a grin.
'Of course. And certain other things…'
'The art galleries?'
'Not necessarily!'
The lift chimed, the doors sliding open with a hiss of escaping air. The family took their luggage and made their way into the small chamber, Hermione pressing for the second floor.
The doors shut with a gentle thud as the carriage slid upwards.
After leaving their cases outside the two rooms, the Grangers marched back down the long, lightly furnished corridor and hiked down the sweeping central staircase. They eventually found the bar, a small corner-room with pale wreaths of smoke hanging in the still air, with a long, low counter strung across the far wall. Upon discovering that it was far too late for a full lunch, Mr. Granger ordered sandwiches for the three of them, which they ate at a table spaced some distance from the others, after Hermione had, with a faint, half-hearted protest, removed the smell of cigarettes from the air.
They made their way back up to the second floor and stood outside Hermione's room.
'I suppose you can unpack your own things, right, dear?' her father inquired.
She nodded slowly. It wouldn't have done any good to do otherwise.
'Right,' said her mother. 'We'd best get on with ours. Okay? We'll give your room a ring when we're ready; then we can think about taking a look around outside.'
With that, her parents walked a little further down the corridor before disappearing into their own room. Hermione pulled open her door, letting it shut with a soft click as she pulled her bag into the chamber beyond.
A short corridor, with cupboards lining one wall and a small door that Hermione guessed led to the bathroom set into the other, opened out onto the room proper, which was spacey and square. A large bed, draped in patterned sheets, sat in the centre, with drawers and a desk opposite, an arched mirror above the television. A rectangular window afforded a brilliant view over the terraced rooftops around the hotel, the nearby districts of Paris spread out before her like tinker-toys, the Eiffel Tower looming over the horizon, plunging up from the ground like a giant icicle, the ant-like figures trapped in its shadow milling through the maze of streets. She smiled slightly as she stepped across towards the bed, the homely atmosphere of the room slowly dissolving her pent up angst.
Once inside, she sighed and threw herself down onto the bed, feeling the weariness seep from her bones as the mattress sunk to accommodate her weight. She laced her fingers together behind her head, staring up the ceiling and feeling sleep gnaw at her, beckoning temptingly. She doubted she had felt this relaxed before, outside the calmer, non-fatal periods at Hogwarts…
Her thoughts carried her away as a slight breeze drifted over the room, playing with the tails of the curtains, gently tickling the sheets…
When she opened her eyes again, an hour had passed. She could hear voices mix and echo at the edge of her consciousness, ring back and forth and clang about inside her head, but her mind was too blurred by fatigue to give further details.
With a half-stifled yawn, Hermione rolled over to one side, her hair spilling out around her. Her ears pricked as she detected the source of the voices, which she could now tell were brash and angry. She slowly turned, her eyes widening in alarm as she realised that the argument was coming through the wall opposite her, from her parents' bedroom.
'You shouldn't be doing this to her!'
'For the hundredth time, dear, doing what?'
'You know very well!'
'Just answer the question!'
'Do you have any idea about the rules that she lives with. With the rules all of them are governed by? Do you? Do you?'
'For goodness sake, dear – she's my daughter!'
'That doesn't mean you can use her like some… like some object!'
'Are you saying – '
'It doesn't really matter what I say, does it? Words won't change what's going on. It happens so often - you do it in so many ways - that it's just blatant.'
Rubbing at her eyes, waiting for the spots of colour wavering in front of her to fade into clarity, Hermione pushed herself to the edge of the bed and hopped onto the floor, subconsciously smoothing back the sheets over which she had clambered.
'How dare you - '
'You're using her!'
'Are you saying I don't care about her?'
'No! Of course you care. She does all your chores for you. She makes every part of your life a thousand times easier. She says "yes", whenever you need someone to agree with your wild ideas. She can get you anywhere in the world, no trouble, no hassle - save for what would happen to her if she got caught. Why wouldn't you care about her?'
The silence ringing back through the walls was almost as intimidating as the shouting.
Hermione crept forward, her heart pounding.
'Don't you dare talk to me like that.'
'It's about time someone did. The problem's only getting worse.'
'Problem? For the last time, what problem?'
'Don't tell me you can't see what you're putting her through.'
'No, I can't! And why should I? I've heard nothing from Hermione!'
Her stomach lurched. She felt physically sick, her surroundings rippling out of perspective as she felt her legs give way beneath her. The reality of what she was hearing had been battered into her skull by one, simple word. It was no longer snatches of an argument, heard through a wall, a barrier. It was the only solidarity her life had ever had breaking into jagged, knife-like fragments as she listened.
'Of course not. She's scared of you, can't you see that? She doesn't say, she can't, but inside she's terrified. The demands you're placing on her - '
'I'd love to know where all this rubbish is coming from.'
'A mother knows - '
'Barely an hour into France, and already the heaviest alcoholic would be proud of what you're spouting.'
More silence. Hermione could hear each heartbeat, each footstep tapping along the corridor outside, a whirl of confusion banging around inside her. She collapsed onto the carpet, a rising dampness meeting her fall, tears flowing in a sea around her cheeks.
'Say what you like. I'm not going to let my daughter be taken advantage of.'
'I'm not taking advantage of her! I've raised her for the last thirteen years, nurtured her, fed her, clothed her. Bought her everything she needs to go to that place of hers! Don't you think I deserve a little back?'
'If you think you deserve anything, I don't really imagine you've grasped the concept of parenting.'
'She can do things no other child can! Why shouldn't I make the most of it?'
'Will you never stop talking about her as though she's some tool of yours, some relic?'
'You just don't understand how well off we could be, do you?'
'Don't you dare talk about my daughter like that! She must mean so little to you… She must be almost worthless if continue to force her to take such risks…'
'That's the point! I've given her everything. Everything. It shouldn't be a question of forcing! She should be begging me to let her help, begging me to let her take the risks - and to go on taking them until I'm satisfied!'
As she struggled to rise, wailing in her own tears, Hermione could hear hoarse, ragged breathing as one of the speakers fought to calm themselves.
'You just don't understand what she should mean to you, do you?'
'Dear - '
'Get out. Please… just go…'
Again, silence. Only there was nothing blissful about this pause. Each second dragged on, twisting in Hermione's gut.
A door banged shut. Heavy footsteps crashed against the floorboards, growing louder each second.
Hermione jumped to her feet, panic urging her on. She didn't know what exactly she was panicking about; she just knew with a mounting sense of dread that she couldn't face her father, not now. Her stomach looped and twirled as she boosted off towards the door, ripping it open and screaming as she ran.
'Hermione! You weren't meant to hear that…. Wait! Hermione!'
Her father's cries softened to a background moan as she leapt down the stairway.
Out of the hotel she fled, down the darkened streets, rain pounding into the pavement around her as she sprinted blindly on.
A dark tinge had approached from the South, black clouds roiling and jostling for space in the brooding sky as evening crept it.
Her hair whipped back and forth, spraying into her eyes as she charged onwards, unseeing. Winds clawed around her, her thin form charging down the roadways, her feet banging against the wet concrete, a hundred terrors sprouting from every shadow as she flung herself round each corner.
Fear left her senseless. She didn't know where she was going; and in some deep, primal way, she didn't care. All she could feel was the dampness through her clothes as she clouds spat at her, her chest seizing as her breath seeped from her body.
Roadways turned to thin, elongated alleys, the buildings capped with shadow and the blackness tightening like a noose around her desperate figure.
But still she ran, the shops and houses passing in a blur as her legs cartwheeled behind her.
Then, she hit something, invisible against the blackness, the breath knocked out from her in an instant.
She collapsed to the floor, landing in a thick puddle, the rain continuing to drum down against her skin, slapping against the concrete.
A thin, feminine body slipped out of the shadows.
'You're safe now, my dear. You're safe. We've been expecting you.'
To be continued…