Author's note: Here be dragons of things we don't like to think about,
namely childhood abuse. If you will be bothered, stop reading now and move
on to the next story. I didn't know this had happened either until I wrote
it, so don't write and complain. It is, however, backstory that explains a
lot about why Hermione's mother isn't taking this any better than she is.
Margaret came in and locked the door behind her. She set her purse on the hall table, and walked into the bedroom to kick off her shoes. Her dinner, which she had not tasted, roiled in her stomach, making her feel sick.
She looked at television, but there was nothing on, settled with a book, but found she read the same page three times without seeing it. Finally, with a soft sound of frustration, she turned the light off and went into the bathroom.
Bath salts and hot water, and the sheer pleasure of a tub long enough for her to stretch out in, the folded towel pillowing her head. Tension ebbed, and memories returned, razor edged.
The recent memories, of John's face draining of color as he clawed at his shoulder and fell, and the set faces of the ambulance men as they worked over him, feeling helpless to do anything...and of the two girls twining around each other, vine and tree, there in the middle of the platform at King's Crossing, and the entire miasma of fear and hatred and revulsion and an emotion she would not admit washed over her again, and it awakened older memories... Memories of her father, just drunk enough...he was never really sober, just varying degrees of drunk, and only a little drunk was dangerous. And standing between her sister and her father, and smiling at him, the way he liked, knowing what he wanted. "Oh, yes, you're Daddy's girl, aren't you," he had said, and that was when she had begun to cut.
The scars were there, on thighs and breasts. Not that she had ever cut deep, but six years of cutting leaves its mark. Her hair was tickling her ears. She had to have it cut again. Oh, it had been praised, her bone structure fine enough for the severity of the style, but the truth was that long hair made her think of a time when a man who should never have touched her twined his hands in it and forced her to her knees before him. She shivered, hating herself, remembering Julie, her best friend. They had looked at each other, and Julie had reached out, traced the curve of her face with a more than friendly touch, and she had scrambled away and run. But she couldn't outrun the desire, the perversion that festered in her, and had borne fruit in her lovely daughter.
No pleasure in her duty, but she had sworn from the moment that her daughter was placed in her arms that she would have nothing to fear, nothing to hide, lack for nothing. John hadn't known what to do with a newborn...it was easy to edge him out and over to the side. And if he was at work, well, then the fears rested easy, because they knew Hermione was studying at her desk, sleeping in her room, the sleep of the innocent, and they did not impel her to the restlessness that had broken her sleep until Hermione had gone off to school.
But now it all crashed in. No grandchildren, no wedding at which she could know that she had managed to bring wholeness out of broken shards, no daughter...And Margaret Granger lowered her head to her knees, and wept, and the water was long cold when the tears finally stopped.
Margaret came in and locked the door behind her. She set her purse on the hall table, and walked into the bedroom to kick off her shoes. Her dinner, which she had not tasted, roiled in her stomach, making her feel sick.
She looked at television, but there was nothing on, settled with a book, but found she read the same page three times without seeing it. Finally, with a soft sound of frustration, she turned the light off and went into the bathroom.
Bath salts and hot water, and the sheer pleasure of a tub long enough for her to stretch out in, the folded towel pillowing her head. Tension ebbed, and memories returned, razor edged.
The recent memories, of John's face draining of color as he clawed at his shoulder and fell, and the set faces of the ambulance men as they worked over him, feeling helpless to do anything...and of the two girls twining around each other, vine and tree, there in the middle of the platform at King's Crossing, and the entire miasma of fear and hatred and revulsion and an emotion she would not admit washed over her again, and it awakened older memories... Memories of her father, just drunk enough...he was never really sober, just varying degrees of drunk, and only a little drunk was dangerous. And standing between her sister and her father, and smiling at him, the way he liked, knowing what he wanted. "Oh, yes, you're Daddy's girl, aren't you," he had said, and that was when she had begun to cut.
The scars were there, on thighs and breasts. Not that she had ever cut deep, but six years of cutting leaves its mark. Her hair was tickling her ears. She had to have it cut again. Oh, it had been praised, her bone structure fine enough for the severity of the style, but the truth was that long hair made her think of a time when a man who should never have touched her twined his hands in it and forced her to her knees before him. She shivered, hating herself, remembering Julie, her best friend. They had looked at each other, and Julie had reached out, traced the curve of her face with a more than friendly touch, and she had scrambled away and run. But she couldn't outrun the desire, the perversion that festered in her, and had borne fruit in her lovely daughter.
No pleasure in her duty, but she had sworn from the moment that her daughter was placed in her arms that she would have nothing to fear, nothing to hide, lack for nothing. John hadn't known what to do with a newborn...it was easy to edge him out and over to the side. And if he was at work, well, then the fears rested easy, because they knew Hermione was studying at her desk, sleeping in her room, the sleep of the innocent, and they did not impel her to the restlessness that had broken her sleep until Hermione had gone off to school.
But now it all crashed in. No grandchildren, no wedding at which she could know that she had managed to bring wholeness out of broken shards, no daughter...And Margaret Granger lowered her head to her knees, and wept, and the water was long cold when the tears finally stopped.