I wrote this as a final project in a college class about Harry Potter. Because that actually exists. (And one of our options was to write a fanfiction-like I was going to pass up the chance to make a college professor read fanfiction...) Anyhow, I just wanted to feel like I wrote something that was complete. Maybe one day I won't have writer's block. Also I couldn't get the stupid line to cooperate with me on Doc Manager so apologies for the inconsistent spacing between sections.


Hermione


It begins with a name. It's not even your name, but that isn't the point. You've just been through the most excruciating pain you'll ever know, but now this little bundle of pink blankets is looking up at you with dark, cloudy blue eyes. You are so in love, you can hardly breathe. She is perfect, you think, and your heart is full.

Every mother believes their child to be special, but Hermione is different. As her blue eyes darken to a chocolate brown, as her patch of brown hair grows into a bushy, untamable mane, the proof is right before your eyes. Hermione takes to reading like a duck to water, and you couldn't be prouder of her emerging intellect. But it's the pictures that peel off the pages and dance around the room that lets you know: she is not normal—she is not like you.

It's almost a relief when a large tawny owl comes swooping into the living room one summer afternoon. It's an answer in and of itself. The bird drops a wax-sealed envelope into her tiny hands, and she looks up from her cereal at you.

"I got a letter," she informs you, as if it's perfectly natural for owls to deliver mail to children in the middle of the day.

The simple explanation is that Hermione's a witch. That's why she can move her stuffed animals around. That's why she can read beneath the covers at night without a flashlight. That's why you've had this feeling that she's not where she's supposed to be for the past ten years. Hogwarts is a truly awful name, but it feels so right that you can't help but feel affected by her excitement as you watch her waving figure slowly fade from the impossible platform 9 ¾. Her eyes are bright, her smile wide, and you couldn't ask for anything more. You can't wait for her to come home and tell you all about it.


Malfoy


She writes to you in her second year. It's not unusual to receive an owl-delivered letter crammed with Hermione's slanted scrawl and run-on sentences, but this particular one is marked with smudged ink and tear stains. You learn that even a place of magic is not perfect.

'Mudblood,' she says the Malfoy boy had called her. At the time, it had seemed to be merely two Muggle (she calls regular things that, now: Muggle) words strung together, nothing more than a schoolyard taunt. You and your husband don't know the term, but you get the feeling it isn't one Hermione's taken lightly.

It's difficult to understand. Hermione memorizes her bloody textbooks and outperforms all the other children, and yet she's seen as less simply due to the fact that her parents will never hold a wand. She might be the brightest witch of her age, but she will never be fully accepted by those people. It happens everyday in every corner of the world, you just weren't expecting it to happen to Hermione.

As her mother, you should be able to fix anything, but instead your child is a thousand miles away being taunted for the very things you cannot do. There's this whole other world Hermione belongs to now that you cannot follow her into. For the first time, you are struck by the unfairness of it all.


Ron


It's only natural she tells you of the wondrous Boy Who Lived. He's her best friend throughout her years at Hogwarts. He's strange, that Harry Potter. A bit broody and outspoken and always leading Hermione into trouble, but you remind yourself that he's just a child. If anything, Hermione is more his anchor to the world beyond the boy's famous reputation, and you like that he sometimes manages to close whatever book she's got her nose stuck into.

She talks about Harry a lot, and your husband has even taken to teasing her about him. From her letters, you would almost join in, but then she comes home to tell you about her year in person. Hermione has never had many friends; she will come to love the boy with the messy black hair hiding a lightning scar, but her face doesn't light up at the mention of him. Your husband likes to poke fun at this boy Hermione spends hours reading broom care kit catalogs over, but you just smile because you know better.

It's not Harry Potter's present she meticulously wraps on Christmas; it's not Cedric Diggory's name she mentions when she recounts her visit to the Quidditch World Cup; it's not Viktor Krum's owl she races to the window for. That honor goes to the gangly, ginger-haired boy who apparently can't do anything right. It's gone from "I'm constantly having to help him with his homework and spells, and he wouldn't even be that bad if he put half a thought into it!" to "He should have believed me that Crookshanks was innocent, I told him all along!", until, with no surprise: "He's got a girlfriend, you know. Great for him, honestly, I couldn't care less, but he's just so infuriating and Harry and I always have to clean up with his mess."

Whatever it is that poor Ron Weasley's done, it's amusing and familiar to have her talking your ear off. Some years are worse than others, like when she gets herself petrified by some terrifying monster, or is nearly attacked by a werewolf, or forms a secret army beneath the nose of the new Headmistress. You're a little relieved that sometimes, the strangest thing in Hermione's trunk is a jar with a bug she inexplicably refuses to release.

Come September, when the three of you step into Flourish and Blotts for Hermione's school supplies, you are greeted with a familiar clan of red hair. Hermione worships her textbooks, but she doesn't give them a second glance as she joins the company of Ron and Harry. You notice your husband smiling at them for longer than usual, and you grasp his hand in solidarity.

Hermione likes to explain everything, even though you are often at a loss. Bad things happen at Hogwarts, some that your daughter's right in the middle of. The brightness in her smile dims as the years go by. She tells you of the horrible things that happen to her friends, things that could have happened to her. But the moment you suggest pulling her from the school, she stands her ground. She wants to stay with her friends, her fierce loyalty and desire to learn keep her bound to magic, and so, it binds you, too.

Your daughter is growing up so far from your line of sight in a world that just keeps getting darker. You wish it were possible to slow down time, but alas, you are not the one with magic.


Dumbledore


Hermione comes home one summer—not from school, but from a funeral. She doesn't speak about her year at Hogwarts at all. Instead, she tells you that his name was Albus Dumbledore, and you just know that she has aged years since the last time you saw her.


Voldemort


She tries to hide it, but she cries at night. Hermione's always had too much of a bleeding heart, and her time at Hogwarts is more often on your mind than not. There are more and more accidents happening every day, and it's hard to turn a blind eye and pretend that's all they are.

You miss the old days when she was young and full of idealistic notions of saving house elves, or whatever else she set her mind to. Now, it seems like she's just counting down the days. She doesn't tell you as much as she used to, either. Maybe she doesn't want to acknowledge whatever it is that's going on out there, but you suspect she's finding there's less magic to be found in the Wizarding world than there was before.

Despite the summer weather, the two of you are bundled up with blankets on the couch. It's dark enough that it doesn't matter, and she has attempted to recreate a magical beverage she calls 'butterbeer.' Hermione isn't really watching the movie you popped in. Instead, she stares down blankly at her cloyingly sweet drink. You think back to the morning news, about the explosion that killed one of your colleagues.

"They call him Lord Voldemort," Hermione says randomly, emptily.

Your approach is careful. "Who?"

"The wizard doing all of this. Well, him and his Death Eaters. They hate Muggles. And Muggleborns. We're not supposed to talk about it, I just wanted you to know," she frowns and pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her eyes still fixed on the mug grasped tightly in her lap.

She's never told you his name before. You always assumed no one knew.

"Is everything… I mean, are you sure it's safe for you to go to the Weasley's for the rest of your break? And to school, for that matter?"

"Of course," she responds quickly. You sigh, knowing that the last thing she wants is to miss her final year at Hogwarts.

"We really wouldn't mind if you wanted to stay here, I just worry," you admit. "There's a lot of innocent people getting hurt, and I know that, well, your status doesn't make it easier for you."

Hermione's quiet for a long time, and it takes a moment to realize that she's started crying again. You take the mug from her hands and set it down on the table before pulling her into your arms.

"First thing tomorrow, you'll go have fun with your friends. Everything will be okay, I promise," you whisper into her hair, and she clings to you beneath the blankets. You wonder what's gone so wrong in her world that she doesn't even want to tell you.

"I love you," she mumbles into your hair. It's not that you don't remind each other of this often. In fact, it's a rather customary thing to say in the Granger household. Each time, though, there's a warmth behind the statement that you'll never grow tired of. You smile to yourself.

"Not to worry, dear. She'll be back before we know it. She always is," your husband assures you later that night, kissing your cheek before turning out the lights. You sigh. There's a funny feeling in your gut, but you're always nervous the night before saying goodbye. No matter, you think as you settle into the covers. Tomorrow you'll see your daughter off to her friends' house for the remainder of the summer. Hermione will have a wonderful year at that strange school she loves so much. Then, she will come home and tell you all about it.

The next morning, you place a cup of tea in front of your husband and ask what he thinks about Australia.


Monica Wilkins


It's exactly what you dreamed it'd be. It's been over a year since the two of you moved to a small seaside cottage, one year of happiness and simplicity. You can't possibly imagine why you didn't move here years ago. You couldn't sell the house fast enough, so instead it was rented out, and ever since the two of you have been living blissfully in the sunny days of another continent far from the violent one you left behind. Your shared practice is flourishing, and you couldn't be happier.

It's a beautiful evening to be taking a walk, and for once, you're glad that Wendell convinced you to take the long way home.

"Um, excuse me," a quiet voice startles you. You turn with a friendly smile to face a young girl, somewhere in her late teens. She is pretty with her messy brown hair pulled out of her dark eyes, but that's not what you take note of. Despite the sun beating down on them, her face is white as a sheet.

Your smile fades. "Miss, are you alright?"

There's a lanky ginger boy by her side, his face sunburnt and adorned with freckles. He takes the girl's hand in his and quickly steps in. Neither of them have native accents, you note. "Sorry to bother you folks, but our mate's gotten himself injured and we were wondering if you could help."

"Oh, I'm not sure if—"

"Of course," Wendell interrupts. You try to catch his eye, but he ignores you. The two of you are dentists, not nurses, but of course he would try to do whatever he could. Nothing ever happens around here, so very different from the streets London became, but you have a funny feeling about this. You're not about to let your husband go off with two strangers, though.

"Thank you," the boy nods, and the girl still looks like she's seen a ghost. "Right this way."

"Fortunately we were out, eh?" your husband converses as they speed walk behind the young couple. "Not many people wander through these back areas. I'm Wendell Wilkins, this is my wife, Monica."

The girl whimpers, and the boy puts his arm around her. You suddenly feel guilty.

"I'm Neville," he says in a jolting manner."Neville… Dursley. This is, ah, Luna."

"Lovely to meet the two of you," you add, sending a particularly comforting smile to Luna. She only responds with a grimace, darting her gaze away the moment you make eye contact. Two minutes later, their friend turns out to be a dark haired boy sitting against the wall of an alley, clutching a pair of broken glasses.

"What's wrong?" you ask earnestly, quickly moving to bend down next to him.

"Er…" he shoots a confused glance at his two friends. You think just how stupid of an idea this is before the telltale sound of one of the teens pulling something from their pocket comes from behind you.

"Monica!" your husband shouts, but that's not your name. The next thing you know, years of memories come flooding back all at once, and you stumble with the force of it. When you turn back, the girl's knuckles are white around a piece of wood clutched to her side, and she looks so, so small.

You were wrong, you realize. Childbirth had been nothing; you could not have predicted the pain that comes with forgetting your daughter—with forgetting yourself.

"Oh, Hermione," you gasp. "What have you done?"


Harry


Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but with Hermione, Ron, and Harry sitting in your tea room, you can't help but feel bloody and raw all over again. You know that this is torture for everyone, but Hermione's tentatively explaining how the Dark Lord had been defeated and the war is over. She's trying to justify erasing your memories and planting false ones, and now she's asking you to come home. It shouldn't be a difficult decision, but your head is split between two lives and right now, you can barely make sense of which one's real. You had thought that you were home.

"Hermione," you begin slowly, because heaven knows someone has to. She falls silent, and it seems wrong to see her so timid. "It's almost too much to take in. I feel… Frustrated that we weren't enough to protect you, I'm sad that you had to face everything alone, I'm disappointed that you sent us away, and I'm angry that you took that choice away from us, but mostly…"

Hermione sits with her hands clasped delicately in her lap, staring intently at her shoes. The red-haired boy stands behind Hermione's chair, his hand unwavering on your daughter's shoulder. His expression is grim, but his eyes are defiant and protective. This is not the same boy you watched grow up through Hermione's letters and the shops in Diagon Alley. Ron Weasley is very much not a child anymore, and you marvel at how he can be so strong in spite of the shadows haunting his face.

"Mostly," there's a heavy weighted lump clamping down on your windpipe when you speak again. You take a deep, unsteady breath. "I'm terrified you're going to do it again."

"Oh, Mum," Hermione sobs. The sound breaks your heart, but your mind is still shattered in a million pieces and the part of you that looked into your baby's eyes seventeen years ago, the part of you that you never thought you'd lose, is silent. It's not gone, you don't think, but you can't summon the energy to find it.

"I can't go through that again," you tell her. "You were gone, and we didn't even know it. We lost you, we lost each other, and we lost ourselves… Hermione, how can we ever trust you again?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry," Hermione rises abruptly as she bursts into a new wave of tears. She bolts out of the room, through the front door and out into the evening. Ron 's at her heels in an instant, frantically calling after her.

Your heart weeps as you stand at war with your mind. You want to follow her, too, to clutch her tightly and tell her that it will all be okay, but the truth is, you don't know how it can be. The bone-deep feeling of betrayal that Hermione would cast you away as nothing more than two faceless Muggles (you suddenly hate that word, that helplessness your own daughter has labeled you with) stings more than you care to admit.

"We wouldn't have made it without Hermione." Harry hasn't moved from his place on the couch. He hasn't said a single word this entire time; you had almost forgotten he was there. "She saved my life too many times to count. She also almost lost her own. I didn't want to put her in danger, and for that I'm really sorry, but she knew what she was signing up for."

"I think it's best you leave, Harry," your husband says, but he can't look the boy in the eye.

"Ron's family are wizards," he continues calmly. "He tuned into the radio as often as he could, listened to every name among the casualties in the hopes that he wouldn't hear one he knew. He ended up losing a brother in the battle."

"I'm sorry for his loss," you say, but it is brittle and hollow even to your own ears. You want to be sorry, but you haven't known how to feel since your daughter walked up to you in the streets of Melbourne and you didn't even know that you didn't recognize her.

Harry is silent for a beat. "I never knew my parents. They were killed by Voldemort when I was a baby. That wasn't the worst thing he ever did, but it always felt like it. I think if I had the chance to do something that meant I would get to see my parents again, to know that they were alive, and safe, and happy… I know bloody well I'd take it."

The boy sets the now-cold cup on the table, gathering the coats Ron and Hermione had left behind in their haste. "Thank you for the tea, Mr. and Mrs. Granger."

With the click of their front door, the Boy Who Lived is gone, and you collapse into your husband's arms.


Hermione


There are things Hermione has gone through that you will never understand. She flinches when the fire makes a particularly loud pop, she sometimes wakes in the night crying or screaming, and there's a faint horizontal scar beneath her jawline she thinks you haven't noticed, but you have. You've been collecting these bits of information and storing them since the moment your husband asked if she wanted to stay with them in your old house again.

Here's what you know: Hermione Jean Granger is your daughter. You picked that name out of hundreds because it felt sophisticated, special, and right. You have always had a part of you that knew her better than she knew herself.

Hermione also erased that part of you. Not because she didn't love you, but because she loved you enough to keep you safe. That should have been your job.

There are certain things that you will never be able to do. You will not be able to keep her as a child forever. You will not be able to shield her from the cruel realities of society, whether they are of the Muggle or Wizarding sort. You will not be able to protect her. It hurts to know that your fundamental job as a mother is something beyond your power, but you can't hold onto that hurt forever.

You think that is what the worst part had been. Not Hermione's spell, but the fact that you hadn't known. You should have felt something missing, should have known that something wasn't right that night she cried when she told you she loved you. What kind of mother doesn't sense these things? You always have before, but then you didn't, and after all this time, you're not angry with Hermione for that—you are angry with yourself.

Something tells you to get out of bed. It's well past midnight, but all the same, you pull back the covers and make your way downstairs. There is every indication that Hermione is fast asleep inside her room, but part of you knows to open that door. You greet that part with open arms, and it rushes to the surface like an old friend.

When you climb into bed next to your daughter, she is trembling.

"Mum?" Her voice is soft as it echoes in the darkness. You can't erase her own memories of what she has lived through, and you can't stop her from choosing to protect you instead of herself. All you can do is pull her close and hope she understands. You are still confused and hurt by everything she has done, but you are also immeasurably proud.

"I'm here," you say, and she buries her face in your chest.

You are not magical or extraordinary or special, but your daughter is. Hermione is a witch, a fighter, a survivor, and so much more than you will ever know. You hold her close, and promise to never let go. It's all you can do, and though it's never felt like enough, she intertwines her arms with yours and the two of you are home.