Heya, peeps.
Sorry for the three million year update time. . .
But this is the end. Yipee! First multi-chapter fic that I've finished. W00t W00t! *does insane victory dance*.
I have to make some responses:
GuestFromChap2: Hey, guest. Sorry I forgot you. :( But just so you know, I litterally read your review and it made me day. I'm so touched that you chose to review my little brain-spew, of all things. :) I wanted to write you a PM, but then I couldn't. . . so anyway, thanks! I'm so supermegahappyelated that you liked! And even more that you reviewed! I hope that you like this next chapter!
A note in general: There are, I know for sure, people following this story that do not review. Really, guys? Not to be too pushy, but if you like this enough to follow, could you please just review?
Thanks, Y'all.
You guys're the . (Just heard someone say that, I thought it was weird but oddly cool. Idk.)
Oh, yeah. In case none of you realized, I ain't JKR, never will be, and I don't own anything. *brushes tear aside*
A nervous sort of silence pressed down on the Granger's as they made their way down the winding British roads to St. Adelaide's. Their car was by no means fancy- they'd bought the old gray thing used when Hermione had been born, but it usually bore a cozy air of familiarity and comfort. Not today.
In the driver's seat, Mr. Granger stared stonily ahead, dressed in the dress pants and jacket he wore at their office, his lips pulled into a narrow frown.
Beside him, Mrs. Granger fussed with her hair, tweaked the collar of her tidy beige cashmere sweater, and twiddled with the dial of the radio.
But while neither of the two spoke, the same thoughts were coursing through their respective heads: Their sweet, slightly bossy, smart daughter was in grave trouble for . . . pushing another child?
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Granger wanted to be the parent that always thinks that their little angel is perfect, even when they are dead wrong, but there was something fishy about the whole story.
Hermione wasn't exactly a terribly strong little girl (Although she did do football at the recreation club . . .) and could barely open a jam jar on her own. It seemed, well, implausible that she would push another child down so hard that the other girl would get a nasty bruise.
"I suppose we'll just see what happened when we get there." Mr. Granger spoke finally, in a tight voice.
"Yes." Mrs. Granger nodded, tapped her nails against the dashboard, turned off the static-y radio. "We'll see what happens when we get there."
The silence felt too heavy, so she carefully turned the radio program back on.
"Darling, for godssakes don't keep turning the goddamn radio on and off. Make a damn choice!"
Mrs. Granger sighed. She knew that her husband wasn't really annoyed, just worried about what was happening. With a twist of her wrist, the radio was once again off, and silence washed over the couple.
Anne Parker sipped her daily cup of tea, enjoying the staff room at St. Adelaide's. It had been one of her favorite things about the school when she decided to take the job, and it remained her favorite off-hours place to be. It was a large room on the second floor of the old mansion-turned school, with large windows overlooking the moors. Light came in, cold didn't. All in all, it was a lovely combination, thought Anne as she inhaled the warm scent of her usual Earl Gray.
"Tough day, Annie?"
Anne looked up to see her closest friend among fellow teachers, the young, redheaded arts teacher, Matilda Morton, or Mattie to her friends.
"Hallo, Mattie. More than you'd imagine."
"Oh-ho, tell me tell me. I don't have the Year 5's until half past, we've got the time." Mattie plopped down onto the battered-yet-comfy tweed armchair next to Anne.
"Well, this little girl pushed another one over in the powder room today. Downright nasty, the girl who was pushed was distraught, bless her little soul, and the push-er - well, I'm not a fan. She's been dreadfully jealous this whole year yet, and I- I can't say I'm happy that she'll be asked to leave, but I can't say I want that kind of energy around the school, y'know?" Anne had heard her mother's friend's cousin's tarot-reader allegedly mentioning kinds of energy, and she had thought it was a wonderfully interesting thing to say.
"She'll be asked to leave?" Mattie tugged on a strand or copper colored hair that was not quite fastened into her bun.
"Well, you know about the zero-tolerance policy here, right?"
"Hmmm . . . " Mattie thought, nodded, sighed. "It's nasty business, all right, when anyone has to leave. Gets all the children asking questions and delving in and spreading tales."
"Don't I know it? Honestly, Mattie . . . " Anne sighed. "I know the St. Adelaide is the patron saint of friendship, hence the name, but I really feel like at this point, it's the patron saint of discord that we're honoring here."
Hermione fidgeted in her chair. Madame Linden was sitting ramrod straight in her chair, reading something or other, and frowning as she read pages and pages of what looked like, small, black text.
Hermione's chair was stiff and hard, and she felt as if she would go mad sitting there. She longed to have a distraction of some sort- she didn't really care as to what it was, but something, anything, to spare her from the way waves of panic washed over her, clenching her stomach and making beads of sweat glisten on her pale face and hands. She wanted to sob, to loosen the awful lump in her throat, but there didn't seem to be anything that she could do. She didn't want to cry in front of Madame Linden, that was for sure. So all she could do was wait, nibbling her nails and trying to calm her pounding heart.
"Mr. Granger, Mrs. Granger. You've arrived." Madame Linden set aside her papers, and smiled icily at the Grangers, before beckoning Hermione from her chair.
Hermione walked forward on shaky legs, feeling as if she was going to choke on the boulder-like lump in her throat.
"Sweetheart," whispered Mrs. Granger, giving her daughter's shoulder a squeeze, "It's all going to be ok. If you say you didn't hurt Lavender, we believe you."
"Ahem." Madame Linden cleared her throat, and the three Grangers immedietly glanced at her.
"As you know, Hermione pushed down another little girl, Lavender Brown, earlier today. As you know, here at St. Adelaide's, we have an absolute zero-tolerance violence policy. Because Hermione here violates those rules, it is my duty to tell you that she will no longer be welcomed here."
Hermione let a little choked sound escape her, and her eyes filled up with tears. "I didn't do anything!"
Madame Linden lowered her gaze to the eight-year-old. "You mean to tell me that it was not you that caused Miss Brown to fall and hit her head?"
"Well . . . " Hermione couldn't very well say that a strange magical power surged out of her and blasted Lavender across the room. "No-"
"Exactly." Madame Linden's lips thinned to a nearly invisibly line.
"So- you're expelling our daughter?" That was Mr. Granger, a fierce look on his face.
"Well, I try to put it in more . . . dignified terms, but yes."
"George, I don't think we want Hermione at a place like this," said Mrs. Granger, frowning angrily.
"I couldn't agree more, Ellen, dear," said Mr. Granger, before turning to glare at Madame Linden. "Consider us leaving the school."
With that, Mr. Granger took his wife by the hand, and steered her out the door, Hermione in tow.
"Don't bother sending the porter, we can collect Hermione's stuff on our own, now."
"Daddy? Mummy?"
Mr. and Mrs. Granger both swiveled to look at their daughter. (Mr. Granger less than his wife, as he was driving.)
"I'm glad you took me away. I didn't like St. Adelaide's, and I hate Lavender Brown."
"Well, dear, we're not saying we're happy that things didn't work out, but it's nice to have you back. Perhaps we'll give the grammer school a go, eh?"
Mrs. Granger squeezed Hermione's hand. "We love you, daddy and I. Always remember that."
Ahh, Tragic, non?
(My sad attempt at french.)
Well, I liked it, but that means absolutly nada.
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