Red Rope of Love
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or plot of the Harry Potter books. I am making no money from this.
Summary: Mrs Granger struggles to deal with her fears for Hermione and her sadness at the passing of Hermione's childhood.
It's stupid and pathetic, but here I am. I am a grown woman, a mother, yet I lie sobbing on my bed like a child scared of the dark. I am scared of the dark, but not the physical absence of light type of dark. I'm scared of the dark that pursues my daughter, the dark that threatens to rip her away from us.
Why am I crying? I found a picture under the bed. I was looking for some Christmas presents that I'd hidden there, and my hand closed around a slippery scrap of paper. I pulled it out to see a picture of you and me, forever suspended in time.
In the photo, I'm propped up in my hospital bed, looking pale and dishevelled in the morning sun. I clutch you to me, a tiny, red-faced baby suckling at my breast. I can remember when it was taken; it was the first moment I'd succeeded in getting you to breastfeed. There is a look of triumph and contentment on my face as I look up at the camera. The picture is stationary of course, not like the wizard pictures you have shown me. If it was a wizard picture, you would see me glance back down at you, my newborn baby daughter, with a look of adoration on my face.
I felt so blissful that day. Nothing could ruin my mood, not even the aching muscles and residual pain from a long, arduous labour. I knew only that I loved you and would do anything to protect you.
Of course, I never assumed that our life would be a bed of roses. I realised that we would struggle to redefine our relationship as you grew up. I knew you would crave independence from us and we always tried to give that to you. I knew we would struggle through the teenage years, with you wanting to stay out later and meet with boys that we didn't approve of. But it didn't turn out like that, did it?
When your letter came, accompanied by a stern looking witch in a slightly-ridiculous pointed hat and flowing robes, we were proud. Overwhelmed and a little shocked, but proud. We always knew there was something special about you.
You were a precocious child, with your head always stuck in a book, but you never lost sight of the world around you. You were always so quick to stand up for those you saw as the under-dog, and we soon learned that you had inherited my temper. It was when you struggled with your temper that the odd things started to happen. Jeremy Greenwood's mother never talked to me again after you caused his hands to stay fisted for two days. I was just as puzzled as she was, but she blamed it all on me. He probably deserved it, but it was difficult to watch the poor child trying to drink his juice like that.
We thought our hearts would break when we packed you off to Hogwarts, but when you topped your year in exam after exam, your father and I were so proud. We hated being so separated from you, but we would have done anything to help you succeed. You've always been the perfect daughter, but now maybe I'd much rather you were a distinctly average girl than risk losing you to this... Lord Voldemort.
That is why I'm curled on my bed, sobbing away. It kills your father and I to know that you're in such danger and there's nothing we can do to protect you. I hear my friends moan about the problems they have with their daughters and I want to scream at them. What wouldn't I give to have you safe under this roof, arguing about why Darren or Steve isn't a suitable boyfriend?
Here you are, staring at my sobbing form with alarm in your eyes. No child likes to see their parents so vulnerable; it reminds them that no one is infallible. Still, you tentatively wrap me in your arms as I cry, in a strange reversal of our roles. As I explain why I am crying, your sobs join with mine.
You have had to grow up so quickly, child. It seems only yesterday that I was comforting you as you cried at the taunts of Bethany Goodchild. I remember how hurt you were that someone you thought your friend could be so cruel. It was one of the rare occasions that you let me in, and told me why you were crying.
My brave little princess, you always kept things to yourself, not letting anyone see how you felt. You seemed to think that if you kept the pain locked away it wouldn't hurt you. I wish I could lock this pain away, but every night as I close my eyes, images of you run through my mind. I see you hurt and scared, in pain, or sometimes just dead. I see these fears and I know how easily they could come to be. After the tragedy at the end of last year, I am under no illusions of the danger you are in.
My courageous little lion, I know you would follow your friends to hell and back, and I cannot fault you for that. Would I really change you? If you were not the brave, loyal little girl I have cherished, you would not be my Hermione.
Still, I wish you could have chosen safer friends. Much as I like Harry and Ron, and even though I see how happy you are with them, couldn't you have found that elsewhere, without the danger? Perhaps not. The situations that you have been forced into have created a sense of camaraderie between the three of you that is clear to see.
I can only hope that they will protect you when we cannot. I know how you would frown at that, baby. You hate the implication that there is anything you can't do. I don't mean that you can't look out for yourself, but it is a little shred of comfort to me that you have two dear friends to watch your back.
Lying here with you, I realise how proud I am of the young woman you have become. I know we could never ask you to turn your back on your magic, no matter how much it distances us from you. I know you will never abandon us completely and though we may have to settle for less regular visits than I might have hoped for, it is a small price to pay for your happiness.
It seems we will never make a dentist out of you, but I know that whatever path you choose in life you will excel as you have always done. I trust you to make your own decisions.
Humour has never been a strength of yours, but you make me laugh now with your suggestion that you could go out and get drunk if it would help. It would at least give me something normal to talk to my friends about; I doubt they would take well to a tale of how you have once again evaded the most evil wizard to have ever lived. I might well soon find myself talking to a psychiatrist if I opened my mouth about that one.
Perhaps you should go out and forget about everything for one night, child. You have had to grow up far too quickly. You are no longer my little baby. You are my beautiful, strong, grown-up daughter. I only hope you are strong enough for whatever lies ahead.
A/N:
The title comes from Gillian Clarke's poem, 'Catrin'. It tells of her relationship with her daughter and their struggle with love and conflict as she remembers her birth. It's a beautiful poem; Google it and read.
This scene was originally envisioned as part of a much longer fic, which deals with how Hermione's life changes after that night out. I am still writing that fic, but I couldn't treat this scene in the way I wanted to from a third-person, Hermione focussed viewpoint, so I wrote it separately as Mrs Granger's monologue. It's set in the Christmas holidays of Hermione's 6th year, in case you're wondering.
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