DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this twisted so-called "plot".
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Home is where the heart is. But what would you call it if the heart is broken?
It had been a week. Every morning, Hermione pretended to be asleep as her parents got ready and left for work. Then she wandered around the empty house, picking up books at random to read, or staring glassy-eyed at the telly, or going for walks down to the beach.
Dad had been trying to be cheerful. He'd smile at her, ramble about his day as he fixed dinner and Hermione stood by him, chopping or peeling things as he'd request. And while the tightness in his eyes hadn't fully disappeared, and he'd still flinch every time Hermione made a sudden movement, he was coping far better than mum who still wasn't speaking to her. She wouldn't even look at her. It was truly the worst Hermione had ever felt in her life. She felt repulsive.
Well, most of the time. There were moments when her indignation would reign supreme: Moments when she'd feel that no matter how hurtful her actions had been, her parents were alive because of it. And by some miracle, she was alive too. We're all alive, mum! Don't you see how phenomenal that is?!
"So now we don't know whether to stick with the name, or change it to Granger'," dad said as he and Hermione sat sipping tea in the kitchen one evening, "We're quite well known as the Wilkins'... it'd be odd and inconvenient to change it. And I don't know... are we supposed to go around telling people we aren't called Wendell and Monica anymore?"
Hermione squirmed. Though he had spoken lightly and conversationally, his posture was rigid. He was not feeling light or conversational.
"Um," she rasped, "You... plan on staying here?"
"Yeah. We spoke about it, your mum and I... we like it here. Not to mention the fact that all our brothers and sisters are furious that we left with barely a word and haven't felt the need to stay in touch all year. Was that part of your curse?"
"It wasn't a curse, dad."
"Whatever," he said curtly, "The point is, their collective wrath is not something either your mother or I have the energy or patience to deal with."
"And you're... you're going to remain as the Wilkins?"
Dad shrugged, "Professionally, at least."
"I – I see."
She wasn't prepared for how badly that stung. She had been so sure that they would go back with her and become the Grangers in their house in Hampstead again. Maybe when they'd all be back with the right names, in the right place... everything would be right again.
But they were going to inhabit their new guise and they would stay in their new home and their new lives, all which had nothing to do with her.
"Why are you crying?" dad asked, looking flustered.
"It's nothing."
"It's never nothing."
"It's just – I – I thought we'd all go back home. Together."
He sighed heavily, and shifted his chair closer to hers, so he could put an arm around her. "This is our home now, Hermione."
"O–Okay then." She turned her face away as she felt it scrunch up with anguish.
"Damn it, Hermione," dad cried, "You messed with our minds! There had to be some repercussions! We've spent a year here building a life and reputation, growing roots... this is who we are now!"
"I get it –"
"No you don't! You did your spell, you blotted yourself out of our memories, but we were still us. We came to Melbourne, we set up our clinic, we made a life here. It wasn't all some dream we can wake up and walk away from. Besides... I... I can't imagine going back to that house. My life's been fractured, Hermione. I can't go back."
She nodded, and while still looking at the floor said, "And I can't stay here."
"I've been meaning to talk to you about that," dad began, "Er... hey. Do you mind looking at me? There you go, my pretty girl. Now. I don't think I'm very comfortable with the idea of you going back to that school."
"Wh–What?"
"Are you really surprised, after everything you've told me?" he asked incredulously.
"Voldemort is dead, dad. It's not going to be like that anymore."
"Look, Hermione," he insisted, "There hasn't been a year of your life since age eleven that you haven't faced grave danger. And it's all because of that school! How do you think I feel, as you father, as someone who's done his sodding best to keep you sheltered and safe –"
"As someone who's taught me the importance of education, I think you'd understand why I have to go back!" she retaliated.
"Ha!" dad barked, "What education? What are you even learning?! What has that place done to you that you feel justified in doing what you did to us?"
Hermione's chair scraped loudly as she shot up to her feet, "I told you why I did it! You said you understood –"
"I understood why you did it, sure. I just don't understand how. How could you even bring yourself to –"
"Do you think it was easy?" She was shouting now. "Do you think I didn't agonise over it endlessly? That it didn't wreck me? Do you think I don't feel awful – absolutely bloody awful – for doing that to you?! But I do not regret it, dad. No. I don't. Because you're alive. You know, Lupin – who was also killed by the way – had told me that one of the first places the Death Eater's planned to attack was our neighbourhood. Think that's a coincidence? And Theo told you what would have happened if I had run away with you. This was... it was the only thing I could think of while I – while I taught myself to survive, and spent my time planning and practicing and and god, knowing that Harry could very possibly die – and that would be the end – and – I just – he was counting on me to have answers – and I – I – I saw you dead, dad. You and mum... when I was being tortured... please, dad –"
Her words died out to make way for great, gasping sobs, and she folded her arms around her waist, nearly doubling over. Dad gripped her shoulder with one hand, but otherwise didn't move. And though her vision was foggy, she could tell that he was crying too.
It was around ten in the morning when she stepped out of her room, clad in a tracksuit, ready to run laps by the sea. Being unable to sleep was killing her, so she thought she'd tire herself until she couldn't possibly stay awake.
But in the hallway she encountered mum, struggling to manoeuvre a wheeled suitcase while checking her pager. There was also a bulky looking duffle bag on her shoulder. She froze when she noticed Hermione.
"Um, would you like some help?"
Mum faltered, oddly deer-in-the-headlights-like, considering. Hermione just hoped she wouldn't ignore her, because she simply couldn't couldn't handle another blatant rebuff.
"No thank you," mum gritted out, "I'll manage."
Hermione pushed her luck: "Where are you off to?"
"Seminar in Perth."
And then mum rushed past her, the wheels on her trolley-bag scraped against the wall and left a razor thin scratch on the blue wallpaper.
"Bye," Hermione muttered to the empty corridor.
She huffed and panted, bent over with her hands against her knees. She must have run for over an hour. Beads of sweat dotted her temples and her legs burnt from overexertion.
Such a magnificent feeling.
It was an overcast afternoon, but sunlight still broke through the cloudy canopy above dazzlingly, catching random waves being tossed around by the wind. The wind that Hermione had run against. She looked back at the path she had sprinted – the tiny craters that her haphazard footfalls had created – before unceremoniously dropping to the ground with a thump. She lay back and squinted against the flashing beams of light, while her hands clenched and dug into the sand.
Sand: The tighter you tried to hold onto it, the quicker it slipped through your fingers.
xxx
By the time she got back home, her sweat had dried off and so had her endorphin-fuelled high. She stood under a hot gush of water for twenty minutes before crawling into bed and she slept till the sun had set and dad came to call her down for supper.
Three days after mum had left, dad took off from work. Hermione became aware of this at six in the morning, when he pounded at her door and demand that she get dressed, ("Sturdy, comfy clothes, alright?") and hurry downstairs.
"What's the matter?" she asked him.
"We're going for a walk," he replied nonchalantly.
And so they went for a walk. Dad took her to Mentone beach, down a small path along the coastline. The beauty of the seaside when the day was just being born was, of course, sublime.
"The Heidelberg School artists used to camp about here," dad said, gesturing around him.
"Australian Impressionists?"
"Yeah. You can see why, right? I mean, this sort of landscape is just..."
He trailed off, so Hermione muttered, "Made for light and colour exploration."
"Heh," dad chuckled, "Exactement. Now come on, we're not here to stroll. A brisk early morning walk is very good for the Englishman's – and woman's – heart."
Hermione's legs were still so stiff from her run that she suffered, (oh she suffered!) but she suffered in silence. The nippy air felt good against her face as it heated up.
"So dad," she huffed, "How'd you manage to take off work?"
"When your mother isn't around, sweetheart, I'm the boss. I gave myself a holiday. I'm very generous that way."
She laughed, and he laughed at her laugh. Frothy waves on one side, dusky wilderness on the other, and for the first time in a long time, Hermione felt centred.
They were quite for some time, before dad exclaimed, "Oh Hermione... you'll never guess who stops by the clinic every time he's in town!"
"Who?" she asked, piqued.
"Well... guess!"
"Dad, you just said I'll never guess."
"Hmph," he grunted, but his grin was intact. "Steve Waugh! I'm officially Steve bloody Waugh's dentist. Er, when he's in town. ...Which, to be honest, isn't all that often..."
She raised her brow.
"Well, alright. He's visited twice."
"That's serious patronage, dad. Wow."
Dad scowled. "You're so like your mother. That's exactly what she'd said."
The mention of mum sobered Hermione immediately, and dad realised it. They fell into silence again, and this time it lasted for a much longer spell of time.
They reached a jetty, shooting off the shore and placing them in the middle of sea and sky like they were standing on the edge of the earth. Dad stooped to rest his elbows against the wooden railing and peered at the horizon.
"You should talk to mum," he said, "When she gets back."
Hermione stood next to him, laid her head on his shoulder, and muttered, "She doesn't want to talk to me."
"She does, my love. She really does. But she's... feeling so much that she doesn't know how to start. You need to make her talk to you." When she didn't respond, he sighed and gently nudged her head with his shoulder. "Hey... you know her. She sulks, but she always wants to talk things out. Promise me you'll try."
Hermione lifted her hand and rested it on his wrist. "I'll try. I promise."
A little blue and white bird landed atop a corner post and shook its wings... and then fluttered off again.
"I never fully realised what it meant," Dad murmured, "You being a witch. Never really internalised it. It was such a bizarre and... whacky... thing. Then you'd come back from school and tell me you can make things fly, and turn teapots into mice and what not... and I just," he sighed again, "Everything was so fantastical that I didn't involve myself enough. You spoke about things, about your life and ambitions – and I was so terribly proud, never doubt that – but I just listened. That's all. I didn't question you enough... I didn't pay close enough attention... I... damn it... I've not been a very good father to you, have I?"
She was aghast, and she immediately straightened to stare at him, "You are a wonderful father! You and mum have been the most supportive and loving –"
"Supportive and loving, sure," dad interrupted with a sardonic twist to his mouth, "But absent. We've been absent. I will never forgive myself for that. I should have grilled you for answers. I should have been more aware! My little girl had been playing with her life year after year, and I didn't have an effing clue! What kind of father am I? Tell me... why didn't I push to meet your teachers even once in six years? I talked to Arthur about electric generators for hours but I didn't once ask him about how he thought our kids were doing. I didn't ask him about the school, or how your world functions. I didn't bother to learn much about anything that constituted your new life. And I am... I'm so ashamed, Hermione. I'm so very sorry –"
"Dad..." she choked out, "Don't."
"If I had involved myself more... been a father rather than a dumb, enthralled spectator, maybe you wouldn't have done what you did. Maybe you would have trusted me with the truth. Maybe we could have helped each other. Maybe... maybe... oh, I don't know."
The cracks in the cloudy sky were golden yellow like syrup.
"I want to be able to move on," Hermione sniffled, "I want to move past the chaos, the violence, the hurt. I want to go back to school, and ace the N.E.W.T.s. I want to get a job that I've earned, and that'll let me work for things I care about. I want to live my life, and hang around with my friends, and sit down for dinner with you and mum while we talk about... about... Rumi. I want to feel okay. I just want to finally feel okay."
That little blue and white bird returned to perch on the same post as before, this time with a winged insect in its beak.
"You know I love you more than anything in the world, don't you?" dad asked.
As Hermione walked into her parent's clinic, she thought about the last time she'd been there: Wrecked. Terrified. Disillusioned, in more than one way.
She was utterly visible this time, and the girl at the reception shot her a look the moment she entered.
"Hello," she said with forced pleasantness, "What can I do for you?"
"Um, nothing," Hermione replied, "It's fine. I'm just waiting for da– er, Dr. Wilkins."
"Don't have an appointment, do ya? Well, we'll be breaking for lunch right now, I'll see if I can fit you in later in the afternoon..."
"No, that isn't necessary; I'm not a patient, I –"
"Hermione!"
She spun around to see dad jogging towards her with a big smile on his face. "Ready for lunch?"
"Absolutely," she smiled.
"Great." He then regarded his receptionist, (who was looking most curious,) and said, "Olivia, this is my daughter."
"Now where'd you get a daughter from?"
Dad sighed tragically. "Look, Olivia, if your parents haven't told you about the facts of life yet, I really can't help you."
"Ooh, you're funny, doc," Olivia sniped dryly, "I mean... I've never seen her around before."
"I was at boarding school. In Scotland," Hermione told her, fighting a grin.
"Right. Beaut. What's your name again?"
"Hermione."
Olivia peered at dad. "You and lady doc are really good at naming things, aren't you?"
"Yes," he said simply, "Now we'll be off, alright? Be good. And for the love of god, please be back on time."
"Sure thing," Olivia grinned, and waved as dad led Hermione out of the building.
The letter arrived in the mid-morning... that familiar crisp white envelope with the Hogwarts' seal. But her name and address weren't written in spidery cursive and the usual glittering purple ink, no; they were neatly printed across the front in sharp, no-nonsense black.
Headmistress McGonagall was pleased to let her know that Hogwarts was ready to reopen. She would be delighted if Ms. Granger would return to complete her schooling. She had immense faith in Ms. Granger's abilities, blah bloody blah. She was also please to announce that Ms. Granger had been appointed as Hogwarts' Head Girl for the year, 1998-99.
Hermione didn't stop to mourn the demise of another childhood dream when she sent the shiny golden badge back to McGonagall, along with a terse letter expressing (something akin to) regret. It wasn't something she was sad about. In fact, she smiled at the notion; for once, she had declined to shoulder responsibility. You see Headmistress, Ms. Granger would like to be accountable for no one but herself for a while. Ms. Granger wanted to spot kids breaking rules and look the other way. Ms. Granger wanted to defy curfew without feeling guilty. Ms. Granger wanted to drink illicit alcohol for fun, rather than because the world was too hard to bear sober.
That night when she woke up with a gasp after another nightmare about giant snakes and desecrating fire and Tonks, Fred, Lupin, Colin, Lavender... she walked over to her window to press her face against the cool glass. When she pulled away, the glass was wet and splotchy.
Those were the dreams she chose to mourn.
"Here," dad said in a conspiratorial quasi-whisper as he shoved two bottles of beer in her hand, "Go on."
Mum had gotten back the day before, twisting at the door to drag her suitcase in, and Hermione hadn't given her a moment's notice – she'd barrelled into her and hugged her.
It stunned her, the immediacy with which mum embraced her back. And not in a perfunctory, placating manner, either. Mum held her tightly, (one long squeeze during which Hermione felt the kind of wholesomeness that she'd been craving,) for a few moments. But the second her arms slipped away, she walked around Hermione and disappeared upstairs.
That brought us to the current moment: Six-thirty in the evening, and dad was in the kitchen, steaming fish for dinner.
"Go on!" he urged, gesturing wildly towards the patio where mum was draped on a deck chair.
"I'm going," Hermione gritted out.
With trepidation sitting like an iron ball in her throat, she dawdled her way towards the door and out; mum looked up at her, eyed the bottles in her hand, and sighed. Shaking her head in a way that was almost amused she asked, "Your father's idea?"
Mum was looking at her and speaking to her. "Yes," Hermione blinked, "Um, here."
She handed her a bottle, and diffidently sat down on the chair beside her.
"Didn't think to give you a bottle opener, did he?"
"Oh. Oh no. It's no problem, I'll..." But when Hermione took out Bellatrix's wand to sort out their problem, mum blanched and recoiled away from her. "Sorry!" Hermione gasped, "I'm sorry! I'll –"
"It's fine," mum muttered tightly as she slowly straightened her posture once more, "You can... it's fine."
She held her bottle out and Hermione sheepishly tapped Bellatrix's wand on its cap. "Sorry."
They sipped from their bottles to the tune of meticulous chirping – a hundred cicadas making their strange, esoteric music. The light from inside fell in small specks across the patio floor, and threw weird shadows all across the lawn.
"It's a lovely garden, mum."
"Thank you. Nothing like the old one, I know. But the climate here is a bit different."
Hermione breathed a laugh. "Quite an understatement, that."
Mum didn't respond, making Hermione wonder if she'd somehow offended her by attempting to make rubbish small talk. (To be fair... it was mum who had brought up the weather.)
"How was the seminar?" she tried again.
"Dull."
"Ah. That's a pity."
"Hm."
They sipped from their bottles, and now the chirping of crickets felt like a horrendously appropriate sound effect.
"Dad took me to the clinic the other day. It's very nice."
"Thank you."
"And I met Olivia. She seems like quite a character."
"She is."
They sipped from their bottles, and Hermione was so close to tears.
"So does that friend of yours."
She all but spat the sip she'd been taking right back into the bottle in her haste to reply. "Huh?"
"Theo. He seems like quite a character, too."
As always, the thought of Theo's character made her smile. "Oh, he really, really is."
"He's gone back to England?"
"Yes. Though he said he might visit sometime."
"Your dad thinks he's fantastic."
"He's not wrong."
One corner of mum's mouth quirked up in an approximation of a half-smile. "He's the one you mentioned in your letters, right? The one who you had us send one of Mabel's famous mud cakes for?"
"Yes," Hermione nodded eagerly, "He practically inhaled the whole thing. He also loved her cinnamon biscuits. And her butterscotch fudge. And her date and walnut loaf."
That earned her a full smile.
The next couple of sips were laced with hope and hazard. Hermione knew very well that they could continue talking in that manner all evening; it would be pleasant... and so very wrong. Glossing over the resentment just wouldn't do.
"Are you ready to talk to me, mum?" she asked in a small voice, (Mum's only reaction was one prolonged blink, and a loud exhale,) "Please?"
"What do you need me to say?" mum whispered hoarsely.
"I – I know you're angry, and –"
"Angry?!" she spat, "Hermione, I'm furious. The kind of fury that's almost incomprehensible!"
"God, I know. I know, I know. And I wish I hadn't had to do that to you. But..." her voice withered as mum's eyes flashed.
"But what?"
"I vastly prefer you being angry with me than you not being here at all."
Oh but that was apparently the wrong thing to say. Mum set her beer bottle down on the ground with a kind of dangerous slowness. She sat up till her back was ramrod straight. "And I," she hissed, "Would vastly prefer having control over my own mind."
"I didn't change who you are mum," Hermione said in the same small voice, "I didn't touch your thoughts, feelings, or rationale. I just –"
"You just zapped yourself from my head. Yes." Mum's tone was getting louder with each word, "And tell me, do you think any of those thoughts and feelings have any meaning to me without you? To hell with everything else. You are what matters to me more than any of that! And what if you had –––– died. What then?"
"You wouldn't have known–"
"I wouldn't have known. My daughter is dead, and I wouldn't know. Don't give me that bullshit about it not mattering because I didn't remember you. No matter what the scenario, you are and always will me my daughter. You took that away from me. And if you had died, Hermione... oh. If that had happened, I would want to feel every second of it. I'd want to be consumed by the sheer agony of it."
Hermione opened her mouth to speak but mum wouldn't allow it.
"I don't give a damn about the ethicality of what you did. I can't even think about anything beyond the fact that you stole yourself away from me and happily leapt into a suicide mission."
Mum got up and left after that. She didn't join dad and Hermione for dinner.
Breakfast the next morning was as strained as Hermione expected. Mum was puffy-eyed, dad was white-faced, and she didn't even want to know what her own face was like.
Four days went by and Hermione kept up her daily runs by the beach. She read Of Human Bondage for the second time.
It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded.
One Sunday, when Hermione came back from her run practically shaking from the exertion, she found mum waiting for her in the kitchen.
"I think you might be overdoing it," she said.
Hermione tried to remain impassive... as opposed to screaming, or freezing, or jolly well exploding with anxiety. "I'm fine."
"You're far too thin. You look ill. Sit," she commanded, nodding her head towards a chair.
Hermione complied, and seconds later there was a tall glass in front of her. "Um..."
"Chocolate milkshake," mum supplied, and sat down on the seat opposite her.
"Thank you."
Hermione kept her eyes on the layer of froth lining the rim of her glass as she drank. Mum didn't say anything, but she was watching her so very closely.
"You need to take bigger servings of your meals, too," mum ordered once Hermione had finished.
"Okay."
"Are you drinking enough water?"
"I think so?"
Mum snorted delicately. "No. You aren't. And you're clearly not sleeping very much either."
"It's a lot better now," Hermione mumbled, fiddling with the hair band around her wrist, "I'm managing to sleep through most of the night. I think being here has helped... it's so completely removed from... from... everything."
"That's good," said mum with narrowed eyes, "Do you really think going back to that school is the best idea then? Isn't it central to the trauma you've been through?"
Hermione suppressed a sigh. But of course she'd share dad's opinion on that matter; however mum had the remarkable ability to remain clinical in such situations.
"It's more than just that. And I want to see Hogwarts become Hogwarts again – not the place of the final battle – the place where my friends died – but the place where I finally felt..."
"Finally felt what?" mum insisted impatiently.
"Like I wasn't a complete freak."
Mum's face twitched. After exactly four seconds she asked, "Are Harry and Ron going back as well?"
"No."
"How come?"
"They accepted jobs at the ministry."
"Weren't you offered one too?" Mum looked annoyed.
"Yes."
"Well, why didn't you take it?"
"I want to pass my exams first."
Mum's annoyance turned into something far too complicated to label. "I see. What about Theo?"
"He'll be there. And Luna and Ginny. Dean, too... I think. And –"
"You probably want to take a shower," mum cut in abruptly.
Hermione sucked in a breath. "...Yes. I mean... okay."
"There's a lovely little bookshop nearby; just twenty minutes away. Hurry down and I'll take you."
A crooked sort of peace descended upon the Grangers over the next week. June had trickled into July, and the air turned colder, the wind sharper.
Mum had set up a daily routine for her. She ran, she read, she ate, (seeing which, dad's cooking got more and more elaborate,) and she slept. Sometimes her nightmares would wake her up within minutes. Sometimes strange shadows would turn her blood into ice. Sometimes she'd spontaneously burst into tears while standing under the shower.
But she also watched bad telly with dad and laughed till her stomach hurt. She pruned the garden with mum. She walked over to their clinic every afternoon and chatted with Olivia while she waited for them to join her for lunch. One evening, they sat out around the smouldering fire pit and Hermione took in their faces and asked them if she could show them something. They didn't flinch when she pulled out Bellatrix's wand, and were delighted by the sight of her shimmering otter patronus.
The day Hermione finally decided to restore all their old photographs was a difficult one. They spread the lot out on the living room floor, and all three of them had tears in their eyes.
Dad tried to teach her driving one day. Hermione refused point blank the next day. One evening, they gathered around the telly to watch a film about the RMS Titanic that had gotten rave reviews. Mum fell asleep halfway through and dad was more focused on a sports magazine. Hermione found it quite tedious as well. (Except for the male lead, who was rather... well. But he also reminded her – vaguely – of Malfoy and that certainly was tedious. Malfoy was more like the vile fiancé, anyway.)
And finally, the day that Theo was meant to visit arrived. Hermione came out after a long shower, steaming and humming... and she paused in front of the mirror. Her skin was glowing, and her cheeks were flushed scarlet. Her hair had grown considerably; the rings under her eyes were absent.
She stared at her reflection and thought, Hermione Granger, and... Blimey! It was a perfect fit.
Hermione sat with her face pressed against a window, staring at the gate to the house like a hyper-vigilant watchdog. Dad was sitting in a nearby armchair, ostensibly reading the paper, but mostly he was laughing. At her. The moment she saw his lanky frame step into the garden pathway, she was off like a rocket. She dashed towards him with a humungous grin that he mirrored and then she was being spun around as he hugged her.
"Hello," she said laughingly.
"Hello, you," said Theo.
She dragged him towards the house, and mum and dad were standing at the door, smiling indulgently.
"Dr. and Dr. Granger! Lovely to see you again!"
"You too, lad," dad chuckeld, "Come on in. Can I offer you some –"
"Lemonade? Merlin, yes. I have dreamed of that lemonade so many times in the past two months."
With another chuckle, dad disappeared into the kitchen.
xxx
"Well this is a nice change," Theo exclaimed loudly when mum affectionately ruffled Hermione's hair as they sat in the living room.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's all right, Theo. We've talked and things are getting better. You really don't have to be obnoxious and make uncomfortable jokes."
"Really?" he beamed, "Thank Theo."
"Thank... um, what?" mum spluttered.
"No!" Hermione moaned, "Please don't ask."
But by the size of Theo's grin, she knew it was too late.
xxx
The locals were hosting a small market that day, selling trinkets, baubles, and plants. A row of diverse food trucks lined the back. Mum, dad, Theo, and Hermione roamed amongst the colourful spread while sipping hot cider from paper cups.
At a clothes stall, Theo bought a Bananas in Pyjamas t-shirt.
"You know that's for a three year old, right?"
"I am a wizard," he declared loftily, "Perfectly adept at casting growing charms."
At the same stall, he also insisted on buying scarves for mum and Hermione.
"You really don't –"
"Don't be absurd, young man –"
"Oh, I insist. You've paid for all my food and I know I don't eat like a bird."
He took advantage of the fact that mum's hands were full of Agave plants, and threw a wad of money at the seller. He also bought a long tie-and-die gypsy skirt for Luna.
They wandered further, and dad got caught at an antique shop that was selling a cricket ball that may or may not have been used during the 1992 world cup final. Mum stayed back to stop him from spending an exorbitant sum on it, ("What do you want it for, anyway... England lost that final!") and Theo and Hermione strolled ahead.
At one point, he stopped dead.
"I need that lamp," he declared. The lamp in question, covered in seashells coated in glitter, was the tackiest thing Hermione had ever seen.
"That's the tackiest thing I have ever seen," she said.
"Exactly. I need that lamp. For the centre table in my new flat."
"Did you hear me correctly? I said it's TACKY."
"And did you hear me say EXACTLY? It's for my flatmate."
"Yes... I suppose... if anyone could appreciate the, ah, uniqueness of that lamp, it's Luna."
"I won't be living with Luna."
"No?" Hermione blinked.
"Nope. Xeno still needs her around, apparently. Laying it on a little thick, if you ask me."
"I see."
"Yeah. I need that lamp."
"But wait," Hermione stuttered, "If you're not living with Luna, then who..." she broke off when Theo shot a who-do-you-think look at her.
But of course. Who else? Hermione considered the hideous lamp once again, and pictured grey eyes widening in horror. A sneer. What the fuck...?!
"You need that lamp," she affirmed.
xxx
"... and so she set a flock of angry canaries at him," Theo finished his unnecessary rendition of a certain anecdote from Hermione's life with much relish.
"Can you stop," Hermione groaned, attempting to shake her hair forward to cover her face while dad's laughter resounded all around the room.
"And one time," Theo went on after spearing more of dad's fine lasagne into his mouth, "she kept wizarding Britain's top journalist in a jar for weeks."
"Excuse me, what?!" mum sputtered.
"I would hardly call her a journalist –"
"Oh, and let me tell you about how she organised a dissident group – an army if you will – in fifth year to stick it to the establishment, and turn out the malicious woman who was out to ruin Hogwarts."
"Umbridge is actually evil, alright! She deserved –"
"Deserved to be carried through the forest by a herd of blood-thirsty centaurs?"
"Excuse me, what?!" mum sputtered, while dad continued to laugh.
"You should have heard my inquisitorial housemates moaning about you lot that year."
"Shameless sycophants, all of them!"
"I'm sorry," mum interjected, "Can we go back to the blood thirsty centaurs?"
xxx
Long after dinner, and long after mum and dad had retired to bed, Hermione took Theo down to the shore. He conjured a thick woollen blanket and they lay side by side, like they used to by the Hogwarts' lake.
"McGonagall wanted me to be Head Girl, you know," Hermione told him. The sky was so thick with clouds that not a single star was visible.
"Hmm."
"I turned it down."
"I know. She gave the job to Susan Bones."
"Oh," Hermione smiled, "She'll be good for it."
"You know who the head boy is?"
"No. Who is it?"
Theo didn't reply till she'd looked at him, and with a face full of glee he said, "Longbottom."
Hermione felt the top of her head fly off. "Oh my... wow!"
"Right? Would you have ever thought...?"
"No! But he deserves it. Absolutely." And she laughed with pure delight, "He must be thrilled!"
"He is. When he told me he was about six shots of firewhiskey down, and singing songs about glory."
Grinning, Hermione wondered, "When was that?"
"Draco's birthday. Finnigan made it his personal mission to get us all plastered."
"Dra – uh – what?"
Theo smirked, "It was one wild party, Hermione. Thomas was there too, and he taught us how to dribble a football using a stuffed troll's head. Tracey and Padma Patil were there. Joined at the hip, they are, and..."
"...And?" she prompted when he suddenly stopped speaking.
"Oh. Sorry. I got distracted by the thought of the two of them joined at the –"
"You're a prat."
"Yeah. Oh, and Bill and Fleur showed up too. Did you know Bill can chug a galleon of beer without breathing? Corner passed out in an alleyway. I shagged Luna in a bathroom stall. So... to summarise... it's a crazy new world back home, full of strange friendships and stranger bedfellows. You'd better prepare yourself."
For a whole week after Theo left, Hermione had to recap every detail of every year she'd spent at Hogwarts. She cursed her best friend to hell. After all, she had already told her parents all the big things that'd happened. Broadly.
It led them to in depth discussions about how the Magical bureaucracy worked, and about how the Magical media worked, to how the media in general worked, until finally, they were talking about human rights and moral values, and Hermione had once again turned into a complete heroine in their eyes.
Huh. Well, perhaps Theo didn't have to go to hell after all.
xxx
"I was angrier with myself than I was with you."
It was the morning after the crescendo of their discussions, and Hermione and her mother were sitting in the garden sipping tea.
"What do you mean?" Hermione probed.
"I understood why you'd done it even before the initial flash of red hot rage had dissipated. I – I got it. You wanted to keep us safe and happy because you love us. You stayed with your friends because you are loyal and compassionate. You opposed that Lord and you fought for your rightful place in the world because you are brave and strong. And you are brilliantly intelligent and capable, so of course you had to be a pivotal part of the resistance.
"That's when it hit me... you aren't the woman I'd hoped I'd raised you to be. You're better. You're... just... so... amazing. I was furious with you, yes; but that didn't stop me from feeling proud. I was in awe – in helpless awe – and I hated myself for it."
Hermione had no words in her head, no voice in her throat. She felt cut off from all her faculties, and could only feel things she couldn't name.
"I wanted to be a mother angry with her daughter. I wanted to focus on what ifs and worst case scenarios, but all I could think was – now, there's a woman!
"Look, Hermione... I'm not saying that my resentment has disappeared, or that I'm not hurt anymore. I am. But you should know how I feel about the kind of person you've become. I always knew you were extraordinary, my darling... anyone who's met you can confirm that. Just think of what it means that you've surpassed even my expectations!"
For hours Hermione lay with her head in mum's lap, crying uncontrollably. Fingers gently carded through her hair, and the morning carried on.
Lobster, Hermione decided, was not her favourite food. Performing bloody surgery to get to her lunch was not something she cared for.
"Isn't it brilliant?" dad gushed.
They walked back to the clinic at a leisurely pace, and the moment they stepped inside, mum grumbled, "Well, of course Olivia isn't here. Damn it, Mr. Ivanekov will be here any second. Oh, er... Hermione... do you mind manning the reception till she gets here?"
It took a lot to keep from making a face. "Of course not." She just really, really didn't want to.
"Okay. Extension one for my office, and two for your dad's. But send Ivanekov to him please."
With that, she rushed away, and dad followed while muttering, "I always get that painful bugger."
Hermione dealt with Mr. Ivanekov, (she would swear he was part of the mafia,) and Missus Jo, and Ms. Browning and Mr. Prakash, before Olivia swaggered in.
"What are you doing here?"
"Your job," Hermione replied tersely.
"Oops. Late again, am I? Sorry."
"It's quite alright." Stupid girl.
"It's my birthday on Saturday. My friends and I are going to a bar by the beach to celebrate. It'll be nice if you show up."
Hermione's brows lifted in surprise. "Oh. I..."
"Come on. Let's get you rotten. My boyfriend Matty's got hold of some really cool herbs, if you know what I mean..." Olivia winked wickedly.
...it's a crazy new world...
"Sure. I'll come. Thanks."
It had started with one light beer. One innocent, harmless light beer that had loosened her nerves enough to vaguely enjoy the company of five complete strangers. There was Olivia, her boyfriend Matty, a Jake, a Matthew, a Jenny, and a Tabatha.
But then three rounds of tequila shots happened. Then somebody pressed a fucking strong gin and tonic into her hand. Then two shots of something awful and pink that Jake insisted they try happened. Then another... one... two... what... rounds of tequila...
They were a giggling, stumbling hoard when they left the bar. Hermione was moving in a time lapse. Blink, and she was outside the bar, and blink, she was at a beach. The whole world was the sea and it was made of waves. Her heeled boots weren't letting her walk on sand, so Matthew lifted her off the ground and carried her. She may have whooped, and perhaps that's what encouraged him to swing her around and around.
She vomited behind a bush.
They sat on the floor of a small blue gazebo that was floating through pure black nothingness. Matty pulled out two fat rolls of paper.
"Happy birthday, baby," he said to Olivia, "Best weed old Vic has to offer."
After her first drag, Hermione coughed for seventy five years. The rest of them laughed and laughed dissonantly. After her second drag, she thought she might vomit again. After her third drag, she felt the railing behind her hit her back obladi oblada life goes on, brah.
Forth drag, Tabatha and Jake were saying some bullshit about how the universe was magical. Ha. What did they know? Fifth drag and the unbearable lightness of being. Suspended in nothingness.
xxx
Dawn was blooming when Hermione peeled herself off the floor. Her companions were strewn carelessly around her in various, undignified poses.
Well, all except...
Hermione stood up, (Jesus Christ!) and closed her eyes against the wave of swirling nausea that that triggered. She staggered to the other end of the gazebo, and collapsed against a post. Olivia and Matty were sitting right at the edge of the shore; the water must've been coming all the way up to the place where their legs lay, tangled together.
They made a rather cheesy silhouette, posed against a standard sunrise-by-the-sea background. ...But then she tipped her head up to look at him, and he bent his down to kiss her, and something in Hermione's soul twisted so terribly, it gutted her. She was an echo chamber for loneliness.
The couple on the beach fell onto their backs, and Matty rolled them so that he was hovering over Olivia ––––
Hermione turned away, and pressed her palms against her eyes for a moment. Just a moment.
She gathered her hair into a bun, stepped over the scattered bodies and set off on the long walk to her parent's home.
She broke the news over breakfast: "I think it's time I went back."
"Already?!" dad baulked, "But term doesn't begin till September!"
"I know... but it's Harry's birthday on Friday, and I have to get all my books and supplies ready. There's also a very ill-tempered portrait in my bag that needs to be returned to his rightful place."
She wondered what state 12, Grimmauld Place would be in.
Mum set her fork and knife down. "When will you leave?"
"Tomorrow evening."
"So soon!"
Hermione sighed and offered her parents a small, sad smile. "I'll be back for the Christmas hols."
"Not soon enough," dad groused.