Disclaimer: I do not own Hermione Granger. Of course.

A/N: This is the next to last chapter, finally. The next chapter is almost finished, so I'll get that up in about a week, follwed by a few outtakes. I have some bits of this, thought and threads that never made it in that I think I'd like to put up, in case anyone is feeling especially ansty.

Building Barriers: The bricks may be of misunderstanding, but the mortar is of love.

Chapter 6: Setting In

Hermione took a deep breath and closed her eyes. You called this family meeting, she reminded herself. You wanted this.

"Mum, Dad…" her parents sat opposite her in the sitting room. She had hoped that, by holding this meeting in the formal sitting room, she would be able to remain logical and completely tear-free. More than anything else, frustration tended to make her weepy.

"I have called this meeting to discuss something of the utmost importance." She shuddered. Those words sounded like they had been stolen right out of her father's mouth.

"I-there's something you need to know. About Harry."

"Who's Harry?" her father asked immediately.

"Her friend, dear. The one with the dark hair. What about him?"

"The one with the glasses?"

"Yes," Hermione nodded, trying very, very hard to keep the exasperation out of her voice. "The one with the glasses. When I mentioned Cedric-the boy who died-" it took quite a bit of effort for her to say his name to them. More so than she expected; she felt they shouldn't know-shouldn't know his name. But if she were to remember him properly, as Dumbledore had urged, she must do things like this.

"I didn't tell you-because I didn't want you to worry-" she threw in, "but Harry witnessed the whole thing." Her mother gasped, creating a good effect, she thought. She was a tad surprised though, at her shock. She could have sworn that she let hints drop in front of her mother-all unintentionally, but nevertheless, things were mentioned. And the woman still hadn't figured this out. Slightly frustrating.

"Harry not only witnessed it, but he was intended as the second victim."

Another gasp from her mother. "Oh my."

"I thought you said this was in another country?" Why was it, when she wanted her parents to pick up on things, they couldn't? But as soon as she'd like their memories to gloss over the finer points, they became particularly observant. Naturally, that's how things would work out.

"It did. The murderer used a special magical device called a portkey-"

And that was how it began. Hermione talked and talked, for what seemed like hours. Her parents, to their credit hardly interrupted-hardly.

"If this Voldemort is after Harry, as you say he is, won't he come after you, too?"

"No. Not at Hogwarts, at least. He is afraid of Professor Dumbledore, you see." He'd come after me anyway, because of you. As she thought it, she recognized it as unfair.

"Are you sure it's wise of you to stay friends with Harry?" Hermione gaped at her father. She felt the heat creeping up her neck and the water seep toward the corner of her eyes. He wants to protect me. He wants to protect me, she repeated silently.

"I am not going to stop being friends with Harry just because it's dangerous. That's the most-it's cowardly." She settled for that. Her chest rose and fell a little faster, and her teeth clamped down upon each other, as if they were glued together with one of those teeth molds.

"Of course not. No one's asking you to.

Hermione clamped down harder, forcing her teeth to stay together. Then whatever did you mean by-

"We're just concerned."

"I know," she pushed out of the now much smaller gap between her teeth. She inhaled and continued.

"And so that's everything," she finished. Everything I can tell you, which, she realized looking at the clock-only a half-hour had passed-really wasn't as much as she thought. But it was more than she was comfortable sharing initially.

She stared at the adults across from her, waiting for some kind of response.

"Thank you for telling us, Hermione." Her mother.

"It seems to me that your teachers are doing the right thing, organizing against this, this criminal." Her father. "But you're quite sure the school is safe?"

"Positive," she replied, without wavering. "Professor Dumbledore defeated the last dark wizard, Grindlewald, in 1945." She rattled off the fact like Professor Binns had asked it of her, feeling at home in her own personal encyclopedia. "There's no way that anyone is going to attempt anything against the headmaster. He's simply too powerful."

Her father sighed, then nodded. "Well that's good to know, at least."

"Hermione, you know you can tell us these things. We may not understand all of the aspects of your Wizarding World, but we are your parents. We've been around a long time-" Hermione nearly snorted. Not nearly as long as someone like Dumbledore. Or even McGonagall. "And having a daughter like you has opened us up to certain things. You can include us."

"I know, Mum." Her mother hugged her, and Hermione patted her on the back. It was odd, this hug, because it felt forced. But she know her mother needed to do it, so...

"Do you have anything else to share with us?"

Hermione shook her head. "This family meeting is adjourned." She gave to add to her answer.

"Then Caught Yours is on in five minutes. Let's watch it. Make a family night of it."

Her mother left to put on a night gown, and Hermione left to get a book. Her father turned on the tele and found the channel for the sitcom. She wasn't really supposed to read when they watched television together, but that's what it devolved into for the three of them, as often as not. If he wanted family time, they should have played a board game. Plus, Hermione really didn't like this show. It wasn't all that funny.

When they all returned to the television room, her mom held a book nearby, her father was paging through a collection of crosswords. It all seemed so normal. Had she really told them all about Harry and Voldemort just a little time ago? What had they taken from it?

What kind of strange world did she live in? It felt like two Legos that wouldn't fit together anymore. It was like that time that somehow, a plastic bead became wedged inside one of her Lego pieces. Try as she might, she couldn't get the bead out, and the piece no longer would clip onto the others. She could put it on the very end of something, but it stuck out at an odd angle, and was unstable. Her hospital was never the same, until her mother bought her a booster pack with extra pieces.

But it was worse than her Lego buildings, because there were no booster pieces for this. How could she make herself feel more at home in a place that she had called home for most of her life. In fact, it still was her true home in the summer-technically, at least; she only stayed with Ron and his family. Owl Post erased the Muggle need for a permanent address, but only in the Wizarding World. She still had a Muggle address and residence at this home. How could she make the two pieces of her life fit together?

Her parents weren't any help. They couldn't be, not really, when they couldn't understand the witch part of her life. It wasn't their fault. She supposed it wasn't their fault for being born in a different time, either. Such was the nature of parents. It just made reconciling all of the pieces of her all the more difficult. She supposed she was doomed, because there didn't seem to be a way. Just like, try as she might, she couldn't extricate the bead out from the Lego piece. Nor could her mother or father take it out with a pair of forceps. So this incongruous piece of hers, it would just have to stay.
The problems was, that piece was the Muggle part, and she wanted to build more in the Wizarding world—her world. So where, how did a relationship with her parents fit into that?

Hermione, in one of the rare moments in her life, had no idea. She only knew that after being 'home' for such a short time, she longed to be home where she belonged-with Ron and Harry, among magic. At least she would be with the Weasleys soon.

Hermione peered over the top of her book. Telling her parents was like telling children something—only worse. She didn't tell them because one day, it would all make sense to them. No, she told them to include them. To keep that little bead of her that identified with their world because she had been born into it. She wasn't really telling them for their sake. She was telling them for hers.

The realization sent her book falling into her lap and caused an odd sort of laughter to pass through her lips. It wasn't necessarily ironic, but it wasn't joyful-certainly not. Maybe sarcastic. Or maybe it just happened because it was the only thing to do to keep from feeling suffocated from the inside out.

"I know," her dad chuckled, "Isn't Dave witty?"

The question floated through her processors. "Yes," she answered as best she could, staring with unseeing eyes at the television. She needed some acting lessons if she would have to keep this up for the next few days.

"What's 'the fortress of the third little pig? To the wolf?"

"Brick?" answered her mother.

"Too short."

"Brickhouse, then?"

"That's what I thought, but it's two letters too short."

Oh, he was talking about his crossword. Hermione counted the letters in her head. "What was that last part, again?"

"It's twelve letters, and has an e, an r, and an l."

"No, I meant the last part of the clue," she clarified, realizing that she would be doing a lot of that for them, for the rest of her life.

"Oh, it says, 'to the wolf.'"

Hermione thought for a moment. "Try impenetrable."

"What made you think of that?" Her mother asked.

"No matter what the wolf did to get in, he couldn't. The house was like a fortress, so I started going through adjectives and-"

"It fits!" her father exclaimed, delighted as he penciled in the remaining letters. I don't believe it. Our Hermione does it again!" He beamed. This then-perhaps this encyclopedia in her head would be the connection to them. "Although if that isn't the most obscure crossword I've ever—I've half a mind to write to the paper and tell them just want I think of their clues."

"Impenetrable, of all things. Huh. How about 'solitary one?'"

Me, right now, she wanted to say, but instead she set her book carefully on the endtable and moved to peer over her father's shoulder.

"Try... loner."