I know. And I'm sorry. Life happened, and this chapter was being extremely difficult. But here it is, and it's dedicated to all my wonderful Facebook co-sprinters.

A whole lot more was supposed to happen here but it got out of hand. So unfortunately, the second part of this chapter will be a while longer. I hope this isn't too disappointing after such a long wait. And I want to assure the reviewers who were wondering when things will lighten up that the healing process is definitely on.
In the meanwhile, I've written two completely NOT-heavy oneshots: 'Loony Caper' (crackfic) and 'The Beach Bum' (fluff).

And now.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this twisted so-called "plot".
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"Welcome to the British Ministry Of Magic consulate, Victoria," said the robotic voice of a female announcer the moment Hermione and Theo appeared inside a small stone chamber. While Hermione was still reeling from the tumultuous after-effects of portkey-travel, a tall man with the most abundant head of sandy hair greeted them with a pleasant, "Good morning!"

His name, he revealed, was Timothy Preston, and would they please feel free to let him know what he could do for them...?
"Minister Shacklebolt told me to ensure that everything you need is taken care of."
"Right, thank you," Hermione mumbled, blinking at the early morning sky visible through the high windows in the room; it had been night just seconds ago. "Could you tell us a cheap hotel or hostel we could stay at? Muggle preferably – I'd like to have access to a telepho –"
"What she means," Theo cut in, grabbing Hermione's elbow, "Is that we'd like to know an expensive, luxurious hotel to stay at. The best the city has to offer."
"Theo –"
"Hush."
"Er, of course," Preston replied, "I'll look right into it."

Hermione stood in the living room of the Residence Suite of The Langham, thunderstruck, overwhelmed, and more than a little appalled. The opulence was otherworldly: Lavish carpets on hardwood floors, heavy drapes over enormous windows looking over the sprawling city outside, impossibly expensive looking furniture and fittings, vases full of orchids... and not to mention the fact that it had two giant bedrooms, two glorious bathrooms, a dining room, a kitchen...

"I can't let you pay for this," Hermione squeaked.
"Pshaw," Theo scoffed, throwing himself onto a fluffy looking sofa, "I just sold a mansion, got custody of my ancestral vault... Hermione, I'm loaded. I'm so rich, it's disgusting. This is nothing, especially if you consider the Galleon to Australian Dollar exchange rate."
"Hmph." Hermione squirmed. She clasped her hands together. She shuffled her feet.
"Oh, sit down, would you?" Theo groaned, and when she scuffled over to a brocade armchair and perched on its edge, he rolled his eyes. "I'm going to explore the kitchen. You hungry?"
Hermione shook her head.

She stared out the window, at the Yarra River shimmering a placid blue, and sighed. Fragmen recreo, she thought over the buzzing white noise in her head. Fragmen recreo, Fragmen recreo, Fragmen recreo.

Theo had fallen asleep not long after he'd discovered the wonders of refrigeration, sliced meat, and Coke, (he'd kept his palm against the warm, humming side of the fridge, while staring at its cold interior like a worn traveller who'd just discovered Shangri-La,) and Hermione had slipped into one of the bedrooms and apparated away from the city centre to the beachside suburb of Mentone... specifically, to the alley next to a tidy, whitewashed building...

CHIPPER CHOPPERS: THE WILKINS' DENTAL PRACTICE.

A sob was swaddled in a laugh and placed on the sigh that rushed out through her teeth – that had to have been dad's idea. She could imagine mum's exasperation as she agreed to the name, hating it, but helpless against dad's gleeful enthusiasm. Chipper Choppers?! Are you insane, Robert?

No... Not Robert. Wendell.

Hermione disillusioned herself and waited outside the tinted glass doors, pressed against the side of the wall. When a youngish man opened the door to go in, Hermione seized the chance to slip inside with him. Her hand brushed against the man's jacket and she started – they both froze – but then he shook his head and moved on.
Hermione found herself in a neat little waiting room, with a floor of polished white marble and cool, mint green walls. A frosted glass door that undoubtedly led to her parents' offices graced one of those walls. There were potted palms at every corner, and rows of dark green chairs. There was a shelf stocked with all kinds of books, the customary magazine rack, a coffee table that held small bottles of water and a bowl of sugar-free mints. The reception was in one corner: a sturdy desk behind which sat a girl, (she looked no older than Hermione,) with bleached blond hair tied up in a high ponytail.
"Good morning, Mr. Yang!" she greeted the man whom Hermione had entered with, "Lady Doc will be with ya in a moment. Have a seat!"

Hermione nestled herself beside the largest plant in the room. She watched the girl at the reception stare listlessly at her computer. She looked at the large Japanese landscape painting hung on the opposite wall. She was both rigid and jittery. She was both trembling and frozen. She was –

...The telephone at the reception rang.
"Yeah?" The girl answered, "Yeah. Alright. Sure, Doc." She hung up and tilted her head at Mr. Yang, "Room number two, sir."

Over the next few hours – three, according to the clock above the reception – a steady stream of patients walked in and out of the clinic. Her parents had done well for themselves... which really wasn't a surprise. The sheer number of loyal patrons they had gathered over the years back home had been unrivalled by any other clinic in the near vicinity.

By twelve-thirty PM, the waiting area had emptied. It was time to break for lunch, Hermione supposed. The receptionist leapt off her chair, picked up her bag and shot out. Five minutes of silence followed, and Hermione used the time to bite all the skin off her lower lip.
Then she heard a door open; a knot formed in her chest. She heard it shut with a soft snap... heard the gentle clicking of heels on marble...
She felt her before she saw her. Mum. Something in the air maybe... or maybe the exact tenor of the footfalls... something instinctive, intuitive... Oh, heavens.

Mum had chopped her hair off and was sporting a charming, Mia Farrow-esque cut. Her freckles had come out, dotting her nose and upper arms. She was humming to herself as she paused in front of the reception to drop a file on the desk and put on the light coat that had previously been draped over her arm. It was such a familiar move, the way she tilted her head as she pushed her arms through the sleeves, and then shrugged her shoulders to set it in place.
Hermione was so enraptured by the scene that she nearly toppled into the plant beside her when dad walked into her line of vision. He hadn't cut his hair... he never would. Was she imagining it, or were the unruly curls truly a little more salt than pepper than before? His skin had a light tan, the crow's feet and laugh lines on his face were deeper; he'd obviously been spending a lot of time outdoors. He sauntered over to mum and chucked a file onto the reception desk as well, saying, "Has she ever lingered a moment longer than necessary?"
(On hearing his voice, Hermione felt a wave of terrible, splintering affection that doubled when her mum said–)
"Olivia? Of course not. Never."
Dad grinned widely... beautifully... and placed a hand on the small of mum's back as they walked out of the building.

Theo was mashing his fist across the buttons of the remote control as he sat before the telly with big, round eyes.
"Hermione!" he cried, "This thing's bloody mad!"

First the headlines. In Brisbane today, a –

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Hermione asked, walking over to sit beside him on the sofa.
"Nope."

Sautee the finely chopped shallots till golden-brown in colour... yes... like this... then add a tablespoon of –

"You're going to break the remote, Theo."

"Theo!"
"What?"

Don't want to close my eyes
I don't want to fall asleep
'Cause I'd miss you baby

Hermione snatched the remote from his hand.
"Oi! Hey! What?"
"You were going to break it."
"No I wasn't!"

I'd still miss you baby
And I don't want to miss a –

With a click of a button, Hermione wiped the screen clear off an emotional Steven Tyler, and Theo shot a petulant glare at her.
"Where've you been anyway?" he grumbled.
She looked away from him and peered at the remote in her hand. "I went to my parents' clinic."

He was quiet for a while. She ran her thumb nail along the grooves between the channel number buttons.

"Oh."
"Hm."
"Did you see them?"
"Yes."
"And... Um..."
"They're fine. Happy."

He fell silent again. Hermione's thumb nail travelled over to the volume control buttons. It left a temporary dent on the rubbery material.

"You're wondering if restoring their memories is a good idea after all," Theo stated matter-of-factly. It would never not surprise her that he could read her so well.
"I – I'm," Hermione stuttered, "They're happy, Theo. The moment I bring them back... they'll be crushed. And – and angry and devastated –"
"And they'll deal with it. If one thing's clear from what you've told me about them it's that they're very strong."
"Not where I'm concerned," Hermione muttered, "I'm their weakness and I... I did this to them. They won't... they won't recover! They'll –"
"They will –"
"They'll never forgive me! They'll HATE me."

Theo sucked in a long breath and pried the remote gently from her hands. "Now who's going to break it?" he murmured kindly. Then he put an arm around her and said, "They could never hate you. You know that. You know them. They're your parents."
"Not anymore. They're successful, happy people... what right do I have to fuck with that? How can I... how can I... do that to them?! It made sense the first time, yes. It kept them alive. But now? Now? I can't! I just... I cannot."
"Hermione," he rested his chin on the top of her head, "You deserve to have your parents back, after everything you've –"
"So I selfishly just go and ruin their lives?"
"They deserve to have you back."
"They can't miss what they'll never know they had. Oh god."

She buried her face into his shoulder, brimming with the need for a cathartic cry, but controlling herself for she knew that it would be nothing more than a fleeting fix.
"I'm so tired of feeling guilty," she burbled, "I'm so tired of feeling wretched. I'm so tired of being tired."
"I know," he said as he twined one of her curls around his finger, "I know. You don't have to decide right now, Hermione. Take your time... think it over."
"Okay," she agreed in a weary whisper.

So she thought it over. For three days she vacillated, lost in her tormenting dilemma, making and unmaking decisions as she draped herself on various bits of furniture in their fancy suite. It was torture – and she did not use that word lightly.

The pain she felt then was no less searing than that she had felt at the end of Bellatrix's wand. The wand that she was, on the forth morning, spinning artlessly between her fingers has she lay across the foot of her bed, staring at the high ceiling of her room. It was the position she had been in all night.

"Did you sleep at all?"
Hermione turned her head to look at Theo leaning against the frame of the door. He had a can of coke in his hand.
"A little." She hadn't.
He raised his brows sceptically but didn't comment, choosing instead to watch her fiddle with the wand in her hand.
"You know Ollivander has reopened his shop, right? There's no need for you to be using her wand."
"It isn't hers anymore."
"But... I mean..."
"I killed her."
"Yeah."
"It works fine for me now."
"Okay."
"It's just a wand."
"I know."

Hermione turned back to stare at the ceiling and she heard Theo sigh. "You really should eat something, Hermione."
"Maybe later."
She knew she was frustrating him, and she knew she was being unbearably difficult. She knew these things but still she persisted, hoping that he'll get sick of her and go back home.
Oh, how she didn't want him to go back home. But... she did want him to go, because then her misery would be whole and complete.

These were her thoughts and she hated herself.

"Let's go out for a bit."
"Why?"
"Just..." Theo shrugged, trying for lightness but chewing his tongue frantically, "It's nice out. This is what they call winter around here, can you believe it?"
"Where will we go?"
"Anywhere. What do they call it here... walkabout?"

He took her down to Southgate Avenue, where there were pubs, cafes, and restaurants galore, and they strolled among the tall structures of steel, glass, and concrete for hours. The wind was nippy in the best way – a light sting against her skin. She took in a deep gulp of cool and clean air and looked up at the heavens: Home of the almighty, apparently. The Lord, God, Allah, Vishnu, Zeus, Odin... She was playing their game now, wasn't she?

She revisited the Wilkins' clinic again, a week after her first visit. It was just as packed, and she didn't bother going inside. She stood – disillusioned – outside, just minutes before closing time.
Sure enough, not too long later, the blond receptionist skipped out. And then, five... seven... ten minutes after that...

"...Sullivan brat is a damned menace I tell you," dad grumbled as he held the door open for mum, "He tried to bite my finger off SIX TIMES!"
Mum grinned, her face rosy in the light of the setting sun, "Why do you think I conveniently had an urgent phone call to attend to the moment I saw him in the waiting room?"
"You cow!"

They kept walking down the pavement, rather than going towards the row of cars parked across the street. Hermione followed. She was so focused on tailing them that she knocked into at least a dozen people – there would probably be a news report tomorrow about how this area was suddenly haunted.

At a T-junction they turned left, and suddenly they were on a road running alongside a beach. Mum pulled her jacket tighter against her body as the cold sea breeze rushed to greet them. They walked on ahead for another ten minutes or so.

The house they entered was a pretty, stucco-finished thing with large glass windows. The patio was enormous, complete with a grill and deckchairs. The gentle sound of moving water tied the whole scene together beautifully.
Hermione followed them down their smooth concrete path, (so unlike the rocky pathway back home). Mum ran her fingers over the straight top of the tidy hedge that ran along it, (so unlike the unruly hedgegrow back home.)
"I've been dreaming of wine all evening," she murmured.
"And as the man of your dreams who makes all your dreams come true, I will ensure that you –"

She cut him off with a kiss and they both walked into their home, and their daughter-who-wasn't... finally knew.

"Maybe we should go over the plan one more time?"
Hermione bit her lip and glanced at Theo. He was immersed in some ludicrous show called Who Dares Wins.
"Morgan's dried up tits – he's not really going to jump! Oh fuck me, he is! He's going to jump! He's – HEY! Why do you keep doing that?!"
Hermione had switched the telly off. She glared at him. "I said," she gritted out, "We should go over the plan one more time."
"I know it backwards. And I also have a good handle on what I have to do: Nod along and smile. I'm good at nodding, and my smile is a wonder of the world. I have it covered. Don't you worry about it, darling. I'm solid. I'm ready and rearing to go. I'm –"
"Jesus."
"Erm, no. His dad, actually."

She couldn't stop the exasperated smile and eye-roll that that quip inspired, and Theo, delighted at the reaction, nudged her shoulder with his. "It'll be fine, Hermione."
In a flash, the smile slipped of her face. "Until it won't."
He shook his head, "I didn't say it'll be easy, or pleasant, or quick... but it will be fine. It will be."
"When did you become such an optimist?" she asked, keeping her voice low to ensure that it wouldn't tremble.
"I'm not an optimist. But where you're concerned, Hermione... I always hope for nothing short of the best."

Here's what had happened: Time had frozen for a spell, with her mum and dad framed in their doorway, looking at each other and smiling. Time had frozen and they had turned into a picture: A picture nearly identical to one in Hermione's beaded bag... with but one difference. The one in Hermione's bag included her.
And at that precise moment, she knew. She belonged in the picture before her too. She belonged with them, and to them. They belonged to her.

It was that simple. Nothing in the world would be right until they'd found each other again.

She held onto Theo's wrist like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground. The innocuous wooden door in front of her seemed to get larger and larger with every passing second...

"Er... planning to knock?" Theo asked with the kind of mild curiosity generally reserved for asking your local grocer about his wife's health while he bagged your goods.
"Yes," Hermione whispered.

The door was enormous really and definitely burning hot to touch and it probably secretly had teeth.

"Hermione?"
"What?"
"Knock."
"Yes."

...

"Hermione!"

She lifted her hand and pounded on the door like a maniac: Loud, with machine-gun-like persistence. ("Bloody hell, you – !")

The door was yanked open and dad blinked down at them in alarm.
"Hul...lo?" he said, eyes darting from her to Theo, and back.
"Hello," Hermione gasped, and then he looked straight at her.

It wasn't the right look; it wasn't the way he was supposed to look at her – the way he'd always looked at her – with immeasurable warmth and uncontainable delight. She wasn't being nostalgic or emotional; dad always used to look at her like she was a miracle he was blessed to behold. So badly did she ache to see that look on him, so badly did she want him to pull her into his arms that it stunned her speechless.
"Yes?" he prompted, cocking his brow.
Theo smiled. Widely.
"We're sorry to bother you, uh, sir," Hermione pulled herself together and began awkwardly, (more than a little distracted by the way Theo was ardently nodding,) "My name is Hermione, and this is Theodore." (- Cue for Theodore to offer another devastating smile -) "We're students... from the department of Anthropology in LSE... here on an exchange program. We're doing a survey on British expats and integration and..." Hermione waved her hand about desperately, "such things, and, um, if you don't mind, we'd like to ask you... and your wife... a few questions."
Looking highly sceptical, dad eyed the two of them for a moment before asking, "How did you find out about us?"
"Well, you're quite famous around here, sir," Hermione gushed. She grinned her most charming grin – "Everybody's favourite dentist couple."

It worked. It always used to work, and the fact that it did once more, when dad wasn't really dad gave her a glimmer of hope.
"Come on in," he said cheerfully, it was almost, nearly right.

He led them down a short hallway, with eggshell walls covered with an impressive collection of prints and paintings –
Hermione didn't look at them; she knew them all. Her focus was on the back of her father's head. Those curls, his curls, her curls... she clasped her hands together to stop herself from running up to him and hugging him from behind.

"Who was it?" said a voice from the room they were just about to enter.
"Couple of kids from back home. They've got some questions for us."

She was comfortably coiled on an armchair with a book in her lap, wearing an ugly, misshapen muffler that Hermione had knitted for her during the height of her SPEW days. Why on earth had she kept that when all its sentimental value had been erased from her mind?
"Um... come again?" mum enquired, smiling gently at the two strange young people in her home. (They must've looked very strange: Hermione knew her cheeks had to be scarlet and Theo... Hadn't. Stopped. Beaming. For a second.)
Hermione barely looked at the pretty sitting room – at the large windows and the many bookshelves and the rustic furniture – once again, she found herself unable to formulate a sentence.
Dad shrugged, "Students from... LSE, yes?" (Theo nodded. ) "Right-oh. Tell the lady why you're here then," dad said pointing towards a sofa for them to sit on, "I'll get us something to drink. Fresh lemonade alright? I make the most fantastic lemonade you'll ever taste. Tell them, Monica."
Mum rolled her eyes and deadpanned, "He makes the most fantastic lemonade you'll ever taste."

"Well," mum said once dad had gone, still with her lovely, good-natured smile.
Hermione swallowed all her emotions and gave her the same flimsy excuse she had given dad. Mum squinted, watching her closely as she explained. "I see," she stated after Hermione's voice had petered out, "What exactly are you hoping to prove?"
"The... the ease of social integration in first world countries post-globalisation."
"Hmm. Fascinating."
They were rescued from mum's penetrating stare (and the intensity of her Academic Persona,) by the arrival of dad, carrying a tray with four tall glasses of pale yellow liquid. Dad's famous lemonade – it had been a summer staple her entire life.

The moment the tray was set on the coffee table, Hermione launched into action.
"Excuse me, sir, madam," she said politely, "Would you mind if I took a closer look at your bookshelf? I've been unable to stop staring at it..."
As she'd hoped, both her parents brightened, and accompanied her to their vast collection of books.
"How have you organised these," she breathed with believable awe, running her fingers along the books' spines. She quizzed them relentlessly about things she already knew: Why was Spinoza next to Wittgenstein? Were the fiction novels categorised by style... oh, and geography!
She froze when, on the small bit of wall between the second and third bookshelf, she encountered a framed photograph: The ex-Grangers standing in front of a fountain in Hyde park, with a gap between them where a tiny girl of about three could easily have fit.
"That's a lovely photograph," she croaked.
Mum and dad came to stand on either side of her, unconsciously mimicking the picture as it used to be.
"Thank you," mum murmured, "This was what... 81? 82?"
"82," dad said, turning to smile at mum. Then he looked down at Hermione and – – his eyes widened. He stared back up at mum.
"Blimey," he breathed, "Damned if you both don't loo–"

"You were right, Mr. Wilkins," Theo broke in loudly, "Best lemonade I've ever had."
"I – er – yes – thank you," dad muttered.
They went back to sit and Theo gave Hermione the subtlest of nods. "You've got to try this," he urged, pushing the only remaining unspiked glass towards her.

xxx

The last of her parents' memories – the last night they'd known her – had been restored. The final silvery thread had seeped through their skulls and back into their minds.
Hermione dropped her hand and took a step back. "I'm done."
"Shall we wake them?" Tentatively, Theo placed a hand on her shoulder.
"In a minute."

A minute passed. Then three more. Mum and Dad were slumped against each other breathing erratically, and their eyes were darting around behind their closed eyelids.

"I can't do it, Theo."
The room was so silent, such a pretty little cocoon of peace. Hermione thought she was going to die.
"Shall I?" he whispered, ducking his head to look at her face.
"Okay," she tried to say, but couldn't quite manage it.
With a reassuring squeeze of her shoulder, he placed himself before the sleeping couple, and without fanfare or ceremony, uttered, "Renervate."
He stepped back when mum let out a soft hum, and dad sucked in a sharp breath. Hermione watched them slowly come to, on dread-anticipation-burgeoning-wonder shaped tenterhooks: A slow build-up of O Fortuna in her head...

"Ugh," dad groaned, and pressed his palms against his eyes. Mum's eyelashes fluttered as she sluggishly blinked into a state of wakefulness.
"What," she croaked, "What happened?"
"Mum?" Hermione whispered, "Dad?"
They both jerked like they'd been electrocuted. Their heads snapped towards her with violent celerity.
"Hermione?" dad gasped, "What – Hermione?" He was on his feet a moment later, eyes wide with an untethered terror.
"Dad – calm down – I can explain –"
"Explain? What? Explain what? What happened – you... I didn't know you... I..."
He reached towards her and shrank back in one fluid move. Still on the sofa, mum whimpered. Both her hands were pressed against her mouth as she fixed a look of utter dismay on her daughter.
"It's okay," Hermione begged, and she took a step toward them... only to see them flinch. "Mum... dad... everything will be okay now. Please, please calm down... yes, sit down dad... I'll explain... I'll tell you what happened."
Dad lowered himself back onto the sofa, never once looking away from her. Mum, however, didn't lower her hands.
"What do you remember?"
"Remember?" dad muttered weakly.
"Yes... what is the last thing you –"
"You and... this boy... you said you're students... I believed you. I didn't know you. You. I didn't know you, Hermione! What the – I haven't... this whole year... I didn't..."
"Do you remember the last night at home?" Hermione interrupted his panicked stuttering, keeping her tone as soft and even as she could, "You'd sent me up to my room to pack; we were meant to leave for Australia the next day. You both were watching telly, and I got you some tea, and..."
She broke off abruptly, and something swirled in both her parents' eyes.
"I remember the tea... then..." dad blinked. Then he exploded, "Jesus Christ! Then what? I remember waking up... and suddenly we're... I'm not... WHAT WAS IN THAT BLOODY TEA, HERMIONE?"
He'd never yelled at her before. Not like that. Not in that heart-rending, scary manner. "Nothing. There wasn't anything in – well, a drop of sleeping draught but –"
"WHAT?"
"After you fell asleep... I... ugh." She hung her head and confessed in one breath: modified your memories. I changed your identities, made it so that you moved here for good. And I made you forget you ever had a daughter."

She'd dropped the bomb, and it's chilling, devastating repercussion lasted for an eternal moment. The silence after an earth-shattering explosion is always the most profound. Above her fingertips, mum's eyes were brimming with unshed tears. Dad's mouth had fallen open in horror.
"What," he hissed by and by, "You did what?"
"I – um, I –"
"Why? Why would you – how dare you –"
"I didn't have a choice!" Hermione wailed in desperation, "They were coming after me! They would have used you to get to me! They would have hurt you... tortured you –"
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? Who are they?!"
"Death Eaters," she cried, "Voldemort! There was a war... I had to keep you safe, or else they'd have – no listen – I'm... Listen, mum! I was a target! They knew I was friends with Harry – not to mention a muggleborn – and they knew where you lived, and... and I did what I had to do to keep you safe! To keep you alive!"
Mum squeezed her eyes shut.
"A war?! THAT'S your excuse?" dad bayed, "A sodding war? You violated our minds because of a war that nobody noticed happened?!"
"It was mostly confined to the magical community – but you'd been seeing the news, hadn't you? All those murders, the so-called natural disasters..."
"It's true," Theo piped up hoarsely from behind her, "It got very –"
"Who are you?" dad snapped.
"He's my friend. Theo. He –"
"Why didn't you tell us any of this? Why didn't you talk to us? You had NO RIGHT to do this. How could you? To me? To your mother?"
"I'm sorry!" Hermione cried, "I am so, so, so very sorry. Please believe me. If I thought I had any other option, I'd –"

"Get out."
It appeared that mum had finally removed her hands from her face. Her mouth was turned down in a livid scowl.
"Mum... wha...?"
"Get. Out."
"No, please," Hermione implored, half raising her hand, "Just let me –"
"GET OUT," mum shot up to her feet, "Get out... NOW."
"You'd better leave," Dad ground out. He was glaring determinedly out of a window.
Hermione felt her soul rumple. "Just... Please..."

She was pulled out the room by Theo's gently coaxing arms...

"If you would just listen!"

His arms wrapped around her the moment they were back in the hallway...

"No... Please. Please..."

He disapparated them and the final syllable of her anguished plea dissolved into nothing.

xxx

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Three hearts had been broken by her so far. Ron's face morphed into dad's face morphed into mum's face.
She'd tried to apologise to them all – she'd tried to apologise to Malfoy. She was delirious with guilt and grief, so she pushed open the window of her room and whispered an apology to Bellatrix out into the night.

She dragged her head back inside at the sound of a knock: "Yeah?"
Theo popped his head around the door, mouth pressed into a straight line. "I take it you aren't joining me for supper then?"
"Nope," Hermione answered, dragging her fingers through her hair.
He huffed, "Well I have something for you," and held out a small phial.
"Dreamless sleep?"
"Yes."
"No thank you," she declined emphatically.
"You need to sleep, Hermione," he ground out impatiently, "When was the last time you slept?"
She shrugged.
"Well, it shows," Theo continued, "You look ghastly."
She smiled thinly, "But don't you think these purple rings make my eyes pop?"
The unamused look he levelled on her made her want to apologise again.

The next morning, Hermione sat down in front of the telly with a bag of crisps and a bottle of wine.

xxx

Later that afternoon, she was still in front of the telly, the former bag of crisps was a crumpled ball on the floor, and the bottle of wine was nearly empty.

Theo didn't seem to be around.

xxx

In the evening, the room got steadily darker and darker, and she remained in front of the telly with a fresh bottle of wine. There was some inane game show going on, and the host was an obnoxious, vivacious bugger with gleaming teeth. He probably had a great dentist.

xxx

At night she gently rolled off the sofa and onto the thick carpet. The room was awash with flickering, unnatural blue light spilling out of the television screen which she had muted, and with the way her vision was swimming, she could pretend she was underwater.
Droooooooooooooooowninggggggg.

With a small fump, a head landed beside hers, and her eyelids fluttered as she smiled at Theo.
"Hi," she breathed.
"Alright?" he asked with a half smile of his own.
"Completely blotto."
He chuckled, and they both stared up at the chandelier above them.
"You know," Hermione drawled, "There was a chandelier hanging over me when Bellatrix was torturing me, too. It was much grander than this one."
Theo's pinkie brushed against hers as he said, "Well, nothing but the best for the Malfoys."
"Of course," she snorted, "But the point is... this is torture too. This. Right now. Let's go back ho– Ha! Let's go back to England."
"Let's just hang around a little longer."
"For what? For fucking what? Bleh!" She slapped her hands over her eyes. Hard.
"Give them some time, Hermione," Theo advised softly, "Just a little more time."

xxx

"What the fuck is that?!"

Those were the first words out of Theo's mouth when he woke up. They'd both fallen asleep on the carpet at some point last night, and Hermione had managed two full hours of shut eye.
But now, the sun was streaming in through the windows and Theo rubbed his eyes as he gaped, appalled, at the telly.

"They're bananas," Hermione told him, "In pyjamas."
"I can see that!" he snapped, "But... just... why?"
Hermione tilted her head, "I'm not sure."
"What the hell are they eating?"
"Munchy honey cakes."
"Good grief, they're terrifying. Luna would love them."

xxx

It was late in the evening when their telephone rang.

"HERMIONE!" Theo hollered from the sitting room, "OI! WHAT'S IT DOING?!"
With a sigh, she rolled off her bed and shuffled over to where he was perched, charily poking the receiver.
"Is this how muggles communicate? It's worse than a howler!"
"Oh, move off," she muttered, "Hello?"
"Good evening, Ms. Granger. Reception. There are two people here – a Mr. and Mrs Granger waiting to –"
"Send them up," Hermione rushed out.
"Of course, miss."

Hermione set the receiver down in a daze, her breathing escalated till she was near-hyperventilating.
"What?" Theo demanded, "What is it?"
"They're here! My parents... they're here!"
"Ah."
"What do you mean 'ah'?! How did they know where to find me?"
"Well," he hedged, "I may have nipped out while you were determinedly getting pissed yesterday, and I may have gone by their place and left a note on the front door..."
"You did what?" she stared at him.
"Well, I had to give them the option of reaching out to you if they wanted it... and you know they'd have wanted it..."

But before Hermione could respond, a sweet little tinkle announced the arrival of her parents. They were there – right there – behind the door. Her legs had turned to lead, so it was left up to Theo to walk over and let them in.
The light from the corridor puddled around the threshold, and she fixed her eyes on it. She watched two pairs of shoes – scuffy grey brogues and shiny black boots – step into the pool and make their way towards her. As they approached, her eyes climbed upwards, and she took in their faces: grim, tired, and faded. All the abundant joy she had witnessed a few days back had dissipated; she was to blame for that.
"H–h–hello," she whispered, clasping her hands together.
Dad nodded. Mum looked away.
"Thank you... thank you for coming."
Mum still wouldn't look at her. Dad sighed. "You wanted us to listen," he said curtly, "So we'll listen. Tell us everything, Hermione... all that you've been hiding and omitting for god knows how many years."
"Yes, okay, I'll –"
"No lies. I need... we deserve to know everything."
"I will tell you everything," she avowed and swallowed thickly, "I promise."

Their shadows loomed large and grotesquely distorted, thrown onto the walls by the light of a single lamp. There were four glasses, a bottle of scotch, and a bucket of ice sitting on the table, the last of which was dotted with tiny drops of condensation. Everybody was technically silent, but the impact of Hermione's monologue seemed to boom and echo around the room like the sound of a hundred brass gongs.
A monologue is exactly what she had launched into, and she told her parents everything. All the horrible things she'd had to contend with over the years, things that she had glossed over or not mentioned at all. Dad had sunk lower and lower in his chair as she'd gone on, interrupting only two or three times to ask a question. Mum had begun crying very early on... and she hadn't stopped. But she still wouldn't look at Hermione.

"Well, that's what happened," Hermione mumbled weakly.
Dad reached out to pour himself another healthy helping of scotch, and downed it in one go.
"You mean to tell me that I nearly lost you a dozen times since you joined that blasted school and... honestly... what kind of hellish school is it? What is this world you're a part of? God damn it. Every year we let you go to that place, thinking you're learning how to pull fucking rabbits out of a hat, and you're out there fighting for your life, fighting against some evil –"
He broke off to pour himself another glass. Mum sniffed loudly.
"How could you not tell us?" dad demanded furiously, "How could you not say a word? We're your parents! We are supposed to protect you, not you us! What were you thinking!"
"They were witches and wizards dad," Hermione muttered, imploring him to understand, "who hated people with no magic. They would have tortured you and ki–"
"FINE!" dad thundered, "I get it. We're weak little muggy things who didn't stand a chance! But we're not stupid, are we? You should have told us! And you should have let us take care of you... take you away from all that!"
Hermione closed her eyes. "How could I have left, dad? Left Harry? Ron? Ginny? All my friends? All the other muggleborns and halfbloods who didn't stand a chance?"
"Bugger that!"
"No, dad. I did what you taught me. I fought for what was right. I fought alongside my friends and for my rights, and against oppression and tyranny –"
"Oh shut up," mum sobbed. Still, she didn't look at her.
"Mum," Hermione entreated, putting all her everything in the word.
"What if you had died, Hermione," dad asked hoarsely, "What would we have done?"
"That's why I made you forget me," she replied, closing her eyes once more.
"My god," dad groaned, "I can't believe you did this. I just... shit... I can't. Can't believe it." Then he laughed a pained humourless laugh that hurt every bit as much as her mother's tears did.

Quietude roared again... until Theo cleared his throat.
"If I may," he enquired in a low voice.
"Ha," dad barked yanking his hair off his forehead, "Go ahead."
"I have the happy advantage of being well-acquainted with the other side – the Death Eaters. My father's one of them, see? Charming fellow, terrorised me, killed my mum, worked tirelessly to legalise muggle hunting once more, etcetera, etcetera. Now, I'm sure Hermione has convinced you that this war was serious business already, but let me tell you that taking her away would've amounted to fuck al – er, pardon me – nothing. The Dark – Voldemort had great ambitions... and if he hadn't been defeated, you lot would've spent the rest of your lives running. And they would've been very short lives.
"Because if it wasn't for Hermione... Voldemort... would not have been defeated. Potter would've been long dead if it wasn't for her, and we'd all be languishing under the rule of an unhinged, bloodthirsty despot. She wasn't just a foot soldier in this war, Mr. and Mrs. Granger – she was in the vanguard. If it wasn't for her staggering brilliance and bravery, we'd all have been done for."

Hermione wanted the floor to swallow her up, and she peer down at it pathetically, hoping that it would oblige. But who ever listened to her, right?
The floor did not swallow her up.

She looked up when the motion of mum tugging at dad's sleeve caught her eye.
"Right," dad nodded and stood up, "We'll be off then."
"Wait... what...?" Hermione gasped, a new wave of dread washing over her. Was that it then?
"It's late," dad replied, "We should head back. But..." he coughed awkwardly, "I am making dinner tomorrow – that vague estimation of paella that you love so much – so... it would be nice if you could come by. Monica doesn't appreciate it half as much."
"Evelyn," mum rasped, "My name is Evelyn."
Then she walked out the door, and Hermione didn't even get a parting glance. Dad let out a shuddering sigh and followed.

"Are you okay?"
"I suppose."
"Dinner is a good sign, yeah?"
"I hope so."

They were sitting on some steps on the Yarra river promenade, watching people meander around in their Sunday best.

"I don't think mum will ever forgive me."
Theo shook his head, "She will."
"You don't know that," Hermione replied dully.
"Oh I think I do," he quirked his mouth at her, "You, darling, are impossible to stay angry at. Ask me. You're adorable when repentant... it's irresistible. Do you think I let just anyone get away with ignoring me? I mean, you somehow even got Draco to stop wanting to obliterate you for screaming at him."

She felt her face heat up and she looked away... a gust of wind skidded over the water and rushed to cool her down again.

She received a letter from Harry and Ginny via the consulate sometime around noon. They asked her how everything was going and she sent a reply saying everything was going well.

Dad's (vague estimation of) paella was as sumptuous as ever, yet Hermione struggled to keep eating. She was hyperaware of the way dad was watching her so closely, and the way mum wasn't looking at her at all.
Theo, however, was scarfing down spoonful after spoonful.
"Excellent stuff, Mr. Granger," he pronounced, "Truly exemplary."
"Er, thank you," dad mumbled. He pushed his food around his plate for a moment before asking, "So... how long have you two been together?"
It was truly unfortunate that Hermione was taking a sip of water at the time.
"Nope," Theo said hastily, as she hacked out a lung, "Not together, sir. I'm the greatest person Hermione knows, but that's about it. I have a girlfriend... she's wonderfully dotty. Hermione introduced us, actually; just another reason why I'm so desperately grateful to her. She's truly the best friend a bloke could ask for... except when she's throwing a tantrum for no reason, or when she's making me spend hours in the library, or when she's the reason I have to endure death defying situations... like riding on the back of a blind dragon... alongside a Weasley. But all worth it of course, when you weigh the pros and cons. She's brilliant, isn't she? So compassionate, and yet so ferocious... I mean, she's the only person I know who can make my prat of a brother shut up. It's glorious. Furthermore, I've even come to find that –"
"Theo," Hermione choked, "Why don't you shut up?"
He was affronted in the most Theo manner. "Well excuse me for trying to extol your virtues so that your parents decide to forgive you sooner!"

She could only open and close her mouth wordlessly at that. But then, amazingly, dad laughed. A true laugh, a real expression of mirth, an authentic Dad Laugh. He threw his crazy hair back and guffawed. Hermione shot a startled glance at Theo and he grinned back at her triumphantly. She then stole a surreptitious look at mum, and though she was still steadfastly staring down at her plate, she was most definitely fighting a smile. She never could resist dad's laugh.

xxx

The evening was blustery and dad lit up a small fire in the back garden for them to sit around.
"I'm going to bed," mum announced not five minutes after they'd settled.
"Evie, come on..." dad murmured, reaching for her hand.
"Goodnight," she said firmly and walked back inside.

Staring at the bright flames as they flickered and disappeared into smoke, Hermione conjured all sorts of trite metaphors about life's inconsistencies. She felt odd... vacantly burdened. Squeamishly comfortable.
Dad sighed and swept a hand through his hair. "You'll be moving in here now, wont you?" he asked Hermione.
"I..." she swallowed, "I hadn't planned on it."
"Of course you are," dad said decisively, "We've a spare room that could only have been meant for you... I see no other reason for us to have decided to paint the walls purple."
"Is that wise, dad?" she wondered, "I don't think mum would like it."
"She'll come around, Hermione. You know her, don't you? She always comes around."
But it's different this time, she wanted to say... instead she found herself rolling her eyes when Theo proclaimed, "That's exactly what I told her!"
"On what basis did you make that claim?" dad asked with raised brows, even as his mouth twitched with amusement.
"Man's intuition," Theo replied superciliously.
"Right," dad grinned, then turned to Hermione, "This chap's a nutter. Where on earth did you find him?"
Hermione huffed a laugh. "Oh, he's always been around, skulking all over Hogwarts like a surly bat –"
"Sod off, Hermione –"
"But then he suddenly attached himself to me, and I couldn't shake him off. Not only was he unspeakably persistent, he didn't even ease me into his true personality. I was delivered the full Theo experience from the get go."
"Sounds harrowing," dad muttered with faux-gravity.
"She was charmed, I tell you! Utterly charmed –"
"Then I sicced Luna at him – thought that would shake him up a little... but he went and fell in love with her –"
"Unbelievable."
"She fell in love with me too! Because I'm a gem–"
"And then I had to endure months of him pining –"
"I did not pine!"
"– getting all flustered and ridiculous –"
"– and speaking of pining... do you REALLY want me to bring up your ginger obsession?"
"–finish all the sweets and cakes you used to send me! Literally gobble them up like some sort of monster –"
"You offered! You bloody well OFFERED!"
"You know," dad broke in in a firm voice, "we do have neighbours. I don't think they care for screaming young men."
"Honestly, Theo," Hermione shook her head, "Do control yourself."
He stuck his tongue out at her, and she laughed.

Only Theo could've done that. Only Theo could have taken a moment that really ought to have been heavy and severe, and turned it into one full of bubbling lightness.

"Well then," she whispered in the last few minutes they had left in their suite.
"Well then," Theo parroted.
They hugged each other tightly.

In the lift he said, "How long do you plan on staying?"
She replied, "I'm not sure... but I'll be back well before term starts."
"Mm. Good."
"Give my love to Luna. And Ginny and Harry if you see them."
"I will never give Potter love, Hermione. Not even for you."
"Prat."
"But if I come across Thomas, Finnigan, or Longbottom... yeah. I'll give them your love."
"Gosh, thanks," Hermione intoned dryly.
"And who else..." Theo quirked his brow at her, "Bill and Fleur?"
"Sure?"
"Xenophilius?"
"Er..."
"Draco?"
Hermione stuck her nose in the air and declared, "I will never send Malfoy love, Theo. Not even for you."

For the rest of the journey down to the lobby Theo wore a small, enigmatic smile on his face as he hummed the Bananas in Pyjamas theme song.

The walls of the room were her favourite shade of purple. The bed had two large, fluffy pillows – just as she preferred it. Above the bed was a framed print of bottles painted by Morandi. There was an enormous bookshelf running across the length of one wall, half full of novels that she loved, poetry anthologies, art history tomes, and political treatises.
It was, to summarise, exactly the sort of room she'd claim as her own. Her parents had made it so even when they didn't know she existed; it seemed to her that while she had successfully erased herself from her parents' minds, she hadn't been able to remove herself from their... souls? Ah, that annoying schism once more. Nonetheless, whatever... impulse... had driven them to prepare this room was something Hermione cherished.

She set her beaded bag on the floor, and sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. From the open window, a cold breeze rushed in, tickling the ceramic chime that hung from its frame and caused it to dingle melodically. She could see the tops of trees and the blurry hint of the bay beyond.

"All settled in?"
Hermione started, then gathered herself and smiled faintly at her father who'd appeared at her door.
"Yes," she replied, "Thank you."
He stared at her. "Dinner will be ready in an hour or so. I'm making grilled chicken."
"Sounds fantastic."
He continued to stare at her. She blinked awkwardly, fighting the urge to wring her hands... until finally, he raised his arms and said, "Oh come here, you little monkey."
She sobbed, wailed, gasped – made some sort of noise – and ran to him. He hauled her up into his arms, squeezed her, and it was like being bathed in mad, overpowering relief. Fear, hunger, hurt, torture, death – she'd seen it all and now there she was, being soothed in an embrace that made her feel safe, full, warm, and loved. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against the slightly rough fabric of dad's shirt.