Author's Note: Hello! Thank you to everyone who has reached out and asked if I was continuing the Hermione Granger series - the answer is YES! I will never back down from a dare! However, this past year, I have been working on some personal issues and they have derailed my writing schedule. Currently, I am at 125,621 words in 22 chapters - so about half-way done. I hope to have Order of the Phoenix done by the end of 2024 (with the bulk of it during November for NanoWriMo) and will post the rest of the chapters then. Thank you again for your patience, passion, and kind words!
Chapter One: Granger StrangersHermione Jean Granger clenched her fists on the vanity, knuckles white against the wood. "I'll be out in a minute, Mum!" she called, forcing cheerfulness into her voice. It was a thin veneer over the simmering frustration that threatened to boil over. She had only been back in Lavenham for less than a week and already was fed up with her parents' antics. Amid the chaos of her fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hermione had forgotten how dreadful it was to be back in her hometown with her parents for the summer holiday.
Even the terminology was a bone of contention: Hermione, for example, did not regard Lavenham as "home" anymore; Hogwarts and the Wizarding World were "home" for the young witch. However, her parents insisted on referring to Hermione as "home for the summer holiday" and took deep offence every time she corrected them.
As she stared into her own weary eyes, Hermione's breath came in short, sharp bursts as she gripped the edge of the vanity, the cool wood pressing into her palms. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply, trying to calm the storm raging inside her. Her eyes, shadowed by dark circles, reflected the sleepless nights and haunting memories of her fourth year at Hogwarts. Every glance in the mirror reminded her of Cedric's lifeless body and the terrifying return of Voldemort.
Hermione had been so relieved to see her parents when they picked her up at Kings Cross Station. Her fourth year at the school for witches and wizards had ended in a horrible tragedy, and Hermione could think of nothing more comforting than her parents' warm embrace. The warmth of her parents' embrace at King's Cross had quickly faded, replaced by the cold formality that now characterised their conversations. Each awkward silence and forced smile reminded Hermione of the emotional chasm that separated them. Any talk of the complex feelings raging through Hermione's heart and mind immediately became awkward, highlighting the emotional void between her and her parents and causing undue worry.
Hermione was simply not the same woman who had left for Hogwarts last year. And it was because of that fact, paired with the unresolved issues from their arguments last summer, that Hermione was absolutely miserable. Her stomach twisted at the thought of trying to explain her turmoil to her parents. How could she articulate the nightmares, the constant fear, the sight of Cedric's death replaying in her mind? How could she explain Cedric's death without worrying them? Even more simply, how could she explain having had a front-row seat for Cedric's death and the return of He Who Must Not Be Named by viewing her best friend's thoughts in a Pensieve? How could two such scientifically obsessed people understand such complex magic? Honestly, how could anyone, Wizard or Muggle, understand what she saw?
Ron Weasley was truly the only person who would understand what was going on in her head. While they were Harry's memories they viewed, there was still a difference between them all. Ron was the only one who could understand the added layers of complexity that the voyeuristic elements brought to the situation, just as Harry had his own set of emotions about the physical experience.
Even the "typical teenager" experiences Hermione had during her fourth year were nearly impossible to share with her parents. Within minutes of getting in the car for the drive from Kings Cross Station to Lavenham, Bert and Mary started asking Hermione all kinds of questions about the Yule Ball and Viktor Krum, causing Hermione to immediately regret sending them pictures of the event.
"How old is Viktor?"
"Where is he from again?"
"Is he your boyfriend?"
"What about Ron?"
"What about Harry?"
"Do you fancy him?"
"Does he fancy you?"
"How are his marks in school?"
"What are his parents like?"
"Is he your boyfriend?"
"How did he ask you to the dance?"
"But really, is he your boyfriend?"
Additionally, when they finally arrived home that night, Hermione found a sex education book wrapped in brown paper lying on her bed with a note from her mother to "feel free to ask any questions." Hermione would rather have to sit through an awkward sex education class with her least favourite professor, Professor Snape, than ask her mother anything about the deed. She could even picture it in her mind: sitting in the dark, damp, cold dungeon with bubbling potions all around her; Snape at the board, writing 'vocabulary' words in his tight, elaborate handwriting; students randomly chuckling and Snape growing angrier and angrier before calling them all names and assigning them all detentions.
Thankfully, Hermione had managed to dodge her mother's questioning about the book for the few days she had been home, but Mary was quite persistent. Hermione contemplated writing a scientific research paper on sexual intercourse to give her mother but thought it might be slightly too cheeky. Taking one more set of three deep breaths, Hermione pulled her bushy hair back in a quick, messy plait and walked towards the sound of her mother banging around in the kitchen.
"What on earth are you doing?" Hermione said, hoping her voice sounded more amused than annoyed.
"Baking!" Mary Granger declared, her voice too bright. Hermione noticed the tightness around her mother's eyes, the way she avoided direct eye contact.
"You don't bake," Hermione said, filling her water glass from the tap and flopping down at the table.
"She does now," Bert Granger said with an exasperated wink.
"Oh?" Hermione smirked. "Is that right? You're a baker now?"
"What is it to you?"
"I distinctly remember the summer we had to repaint the kitchen because of the scorch marks from your attempt at homemade biscuits," Hermione said.
"It was the recipe that was wrong - in Fahrenheit instead of Celsius - not me," Mary scowled. "Nope, not my fault in the least."
"Sure, dear," Bert said, winking at Hermione. "So, Hermione. How's life?" Bert Granger's question was casual, but his eyes searched hers for reassurance.
Hermione felt the weight of his expectation, the need to maintain the facade of a normal summer. "Oh, it was fine," she said, her smile tight. "A lot of hard work, but I think my marks should be decent."
"Of course," Bert said. "But we already know that. You're brilliant!"
"Thanks, Dad," Hermione forced a smile. She knew she'd have to say something to satiate them for the immediate future. Hermione took a deep breath, mentally plotting out the bare minimum of what she should tell them.
"This year was quite different, what with the Triwizard Tournament and all. I wrote to you about it, right?"
"Yes, your friend Harry was in it, right?" Bert asked.
"Yes," Hermione said. "But that was the thing - he shouldn't have been. He didn't enter himself. Someone else put his name into the competition without his consent. He was much too young and inexperienced to have been able to compete on his own, so a lot of my free time was spent trying to help him."
"Did someone put his name in as a joke?" Mary asked, trying to sift the flour into a mixing bowl but getting it all over the counter instead.
"No, it turned out to be a bit more nefarious," Hermione said. "A man had impersonated one of our professors. He was the one who put Harry's name into the competition in hopes that he would be injured or killed. He was able to circumvent all of the safeguards to ensure students like Harry didn't enter the tournament."
"If Harry didn't want to compete, why did they still make him?" Bert asked.
Hermione chortled to herself. Why indeed? Why did Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, allow half of the things he did? "It was a binding agreement or something," Hermione said, skirting the issue.
"That certainly doesn't sound very safe," Mary said with a slight edge to her voice. "What kinds of things did Harry have to do in the competition?"
"Well, there were three different tasks that the champions - that's what they were called - had to do," Hermione said, hesitating momentarily. Did she really want to tell her parents that the champions had to outsmart nesting dragons? Or that she herself was held prisoner underwater by merpeople for an hour? Definitely not. That would not go over well at all. "The tasks had different magical aspects to test their skills," Hermione said. "Honestly, it was much more interesting for me to do the research prior to the tasks than watching them. I learned loads. Since the other champions were seventeen or older, I was able to study some more advanced subjects."
"Oh, brilliant!" Bert said. "Bravo! What was one of the most interesting things you learned?"
Hermione smiled to herself. They would now be fixated on what she learned, not what happened during the Triwizard Tournament. Success!
With a smile, Hermione began to blather on and on about Gillyweed, a magical plant that allowed Harry to breathe underwater during the second task. As she animatedly described the intricacies of Gillyweed, Hermione felt a genuine smile stretch across her face. The horror of the past year seemed to fade as she relished recounting Harry's triumphs and the clever spells they had learned. When she ran out of interesting tidbits about that, she moved on to the Summoning Charm Harry used in the first task. Bert was very interested in the spell that turned a wand into a compass. By the end of their discussion, Hermione found herself actually enjoying reliving the academic successes of the past year instead of the tragedy. Despite the insanity of the year, Hermione had to admit that she certainly learned quite a bit.
Luckily for Hermione, she easily filled the dinner conversation and was able to clear the table quickly (needless to say, Mary's biscuits didn't turn out well, so there was no afters to sit through). Hermione could tell her parents wanted her to sit with them longer, but she convinced them she had an essay to write for school.
As she excused herself from the dinner table, Hermione felt the weight of the day lift slightly, anticipating the solitude of her room. Once safely in her there, Hermione took a deep breath and sat beside her Hogwarts trunk. She had yet to open it since she had been home. She wasn't sure if it would be comforting to surround herself with all of her Hogwarts items or if it would make the horrible memories hurt more. Hermione rubbed her eyes, probably wiping off all of her makeup. One moment, Hermione felt a rush of pride recounting her knowledge; the next, an overwhelming wave of sadness threatened to pull her under. It was as if her emotions were a roller coaster she couldn't escape. The extreme highs and lows of her mood—thanks, puberty—were utterly exhausting.
Crookshanks, her bandy-legged orange cat, jumped up onto the lid of the trunk and curled into a tight ball. Hermione took that as a sign to leave it closed for now. She gave Crookshanks a few scratches behind his ears and felt him purr in approval. The rhythmic rumble of Crookshanks' purrs was oddly soothing, reminding Hermione of the time she had accidentally become a cat herself. There was something comforting in the familiarity of it, a brief respite from her troubled thoughts. Adding to her mental exhaustion was her physical exhaustion from not sleeping well. Her body ached with the fatigue of countless sleepless nights. Dark circles framed her eyes, and her movements were slow and deliberate, weighed down by a constant, bone-deep tiredness. Each night, Hermione dreaded sleep, knowing the horrors that awaited her in the darkness. The weight of her nightmares clung to her, making every waking moment feel heavy and sluggish.
Most of her dreams were the same: some variation of watching Harry's memories of Cedric's death and He Who Must Not Be Named's return. In her dreams, she watched helplessly as Cedric fell again and again, the image seared into her mind. Sometimes, her dreams strayed from the truth. Those were the worst ones. In those dreams, instead of Cedric dying, she had to watch Harry, Ron, or Viktor die. It was devastating and nearly incapacitating.
Hermione pushed the nightmarish images from her mind with a shake of her head and gave Crookshanks a few more soft pets. Since Hermione had transformed into a cat during her first year in a Polyjuice Potion blunder, she had a certain affinity for the sound and feel of a cat's purrs. It just made everything feel a little bit better. Crookshanks decided he had had enough pets and pounced off the bed to Hermione's desk to look out the window. Hermione sighed and turned her attention back to the trunk. Before she could second guess herself, she popped open the latch and lifted the lid. The familiar scent of Hogwarts puffed out briefly before dissipating into her room's stale, hot air.
She braced herself for a rush of panic as she opened her trunk, but when it didn't come, she let out a long, slow breath. The sight of her hastily packed belongings brought a bittersweet mix of relief and nostalgia. She picked up the jumper she had hastily thrown on top of her belongings in the mad dash to pack up her room at the end of term. She was just about to toss it in the washing basket when a flash of gold caught her eye in the sea of maroon yarn. Hermione held it up. A knitted 'R' stared back at her. She had accidentally grabbed Ron's jumper! Every Christmas, Mrs Weasley knit her children jumpers with their initials on them (Harry even got one their first year).
During one of the last few nights of school, she and Ron were sitting in the common room together playing Wizard's Chess. Hermione suspected that, like her, Ron didn't like to be alone with his thoughts and Harry's memories. Harry barely left his room at that point, leaving Hermione and Ron alone quite often. They aimlessly played game after game, glad to have each other there as they got lost in their thoughts. Though the late-spring evening was warm, Hermione found herself shivering with a deep chill. Ron jumped up without a word (nearly knocking over the board) and raced up the stairs. He returned a few moments later with his jumper. The simple gesture had made her feel seen and cared for in a way that words couldn't. The act—and the jumper—warmed her heart.
Hermione held the jumper up to her face and breathed deeply. She could faintly smell spearmint and freshly mowed grass. She would have put it on if it weren't so unbearably hot in her room. Instead, she put it near her pillow so she could sleep with it like a stuffy. She continued to empty her trunk, taking care to hang up her robes and cloaks. Her periwinkle-blue dress robes from the Yule Ball were scrunched up into a ball. She had been furious at Ron for being a complete prat that night and had just thrown the dress in the corner of her wardrobe. She unravelled it out of the trunk and tried to brush out some of the wrinkles with her hand. It did nothing; the dress would have to be steamed. Hermione wished she could use magic outside of school. If she could, it would be perfectly pressed in no time.
The next item Hermione pulled out of the trunk was the book that her friend, Sophie, had gifted her: The Completely Complete History of Magic, Volume Infinity. Every time she read it, the content would be slightly different depending on what's happened since the last reading. Sophie's father had gotten an advance copy, and she had gifted it to Hermione. After emptying the rest of her trunk, Hermione lay on her bed with Ron's jumper under her head and cracked open the book from Sophie. Morbid curiosity overcame her as she flipped the pages to the Triwizard Tournament. She held her breath as her eyes scanned the entry:
…and, in a tragic accident, Cedric Diggory, the Hogwarts champion alongside Harry Potter, passed away during the last task.
Hermione abruptly shut the book. An accident? This book was just as bad as the Daily Prophet, which had wasted no time 'reporting' on the events of the tournament. She had naively thought that, without their star reporter, Rita Skeeter, they would have a little bit of integrity. She glanced over at the jar on her window ledge. A giant beetle glared back at her. Hermione's mind churned with possible solutions for dealing with the animagus reporter, but today was not the day to confront that particular problem.
Hermione picked up her very worn copy of Hogwarts: A History and fell back onto her bed. At some point, she fell asleep and awoke to the faint light of dawn streaming through her window. Crookshanks had returned to her room and was curled up in a tight ball near Hermione's feet. After quite a bit of lounging and stretching, Hermione finally sat up and walked down to the loo to brush her teeth and get ready for the day. On the agenda were visiting Mildred, the Lavenham librarian, and then waiting for Finnegan, the undercover wizard postman. Last year, he had let her in on his secret and also put her in touch with his twin sister, Keelin, who was one of the witches in charge of security at the Quidditch World Cup.
Hermione walked into the kitchen and stopped short, her eyes widening. Her mother, usually already at work by this hour, sat calmly at the table with a cup of tea. "Mum!" Hermione exclaimed, her voice a mix of surprise and confusion.
"Hi, love," Mary said. "I thought we could maybe go shopping today. Just us girls."
"Oh, okay," Hermione said, forcing a smile despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. She hated it when plans changed, but she masked her disappointment with practiced ease.
"Maybe we could chat about that book we got you?" Mary suggested, her voice tight and awkward.
Hermione froze, her mind flashing to Snape's clinical diagrams. "Uh, erm, no. That's okay. We don't, erm, have to."
"Your father and I just want you to be safe," Mary said in the same strained tone.
"I am—will be," Hermione stuttered, her cheeks flushing. "I will be. I haven't—"
"I don't need to know details," Mary interrupted.
"Good," Hermione said. "I mean, you can because I haven't—"
"I just want you to know how it, erm, all works," Mary continued.
"I do."
"But you said—"
"Yes, but—"
"And that Viktor—"
"We didn't—"
"Certain actions have consequences, and we just want you to understand—"
"Right, but I can read, you know. I'm not stupid," Hermione snapped, instantly regretting her harsh tone. She took a deep breath, her eyes softening. "Sorry, that came out much more harsh than I meant it."
"It's okay," Mary replied.
"No, it isn't," Hermione said. "I apologise."
"Apology accepted," Mary said, taking another sip of tea.
There was an awkward silence. Hermione used it to prepare a bit of toast. As she sat down, Mary put down her cup of tea.
"We don't have to go shopping if you don't want to," she said.
"No, I'd love to," said Hermione in what she hoped was a believable tone.
"I've just missed you so much," Mary said softly.
"I've missed you too, Mum."
"I—we—feel like you're growing up, and we're missing it all."
Hermione didn't really know what to say except, "I'm sorry, Mum."
"I know you don't intentionally avoid us," Mary said. Hermione inwardly cringed. She kind of did. "You're just so busy at school, and we understand that. But, now that you're home…" Mary let the thought hang between them.
"I think shopping sounds wonderful," Hermione said as earnestly as she could muster.
"Brilliant!" exclaimed Mary, awkwardly patting Hermione's hand. "Just brilliant."
Hermione should have realised that "shopping" meant a thousand questions.
Hermione struggled to keep up with the barrage of questions Mary slung at her, each one chipping away at the fragile structure of her half-truths. As Mary's questions grew more probing about what (who) the champions had to retrieve at the bottom of the lake, Hermione's desperation peaked. In a bid to divert the conversation, she blurted out a request for help buying new bras.
Mary's eyes lit up with delight at the request, a stark contrast to Hermione's burning cheeks. Despite her embarrassment, Hermione knew it was a small price to pay to avoid revealing she had been Viktor's 'treasure' at the bottom of the lake. Mary switched into what Hermione privately dubbed 'full-mum-mode,' fussing over her with an intensity that felt like a poor imitation of Mrs Weasley.
It was quite challenging for her not to be annoyed at how hard Mary was trying (and failing) to be a doting mother, not to mention the fact that she was basically treating Hermione as if she were ten instead of nearly sixteen. Despite her irritation, Hermione endured the shopping trip, emerging with an excessive number of undergarments. She kept reminding herself that this was still preferable to the alternative.
The mother-daughter pair capped off their shopping adventures with afternoon tea at The Gallery, the restaurant within the historic Swan Hotel. Throughout the meal, Hermione repeated a silent mantra—"She just misses you. She just misses you."—forcing a smile to her lips despite the simmering frustration.
Rationally, Hermione understood why her parents were so eager to spend time with her. They barely saw her outside the summer holidays—and even then, her time was often cut short, like last year with the Quidditch World Cup. Their lives had diverged so drastically, they had almost nothing in common anymore. Yet, understanding didn't make it any less maddening.
Her parents were the kind of people who always approached problems with logical solutions and calm discussions. Hermione couldn't understand why they didn't seem to acknowledge how different their worlds had become. It wasn't a sad or bad thing—just an inevitability. For the first ten years of her life, her parents had been content with the status quo. Now, they seemed to care more about her life than she did.
When Mary and Hermione got home, Bert was already there, making dinner. He eagerly asked for a detailed recount of their day, while Hermione felt her patience fraying with each passing minute. She knew she needed a moment to herself to recollect her patience before dealing with them both. She excused herself to put away her shopping and escaped to her room. She glanced out the window on the off chance an owl would be waiting for her with a letter from Ron or Harry, but the sill was sadly empty.
As Hermione folded the piles of new clothes she knew she'd never wear and put them in her wardrobe, a canvas bag shoved in the corner caught her eye. She immediately recognised it as one of her grandma's knitting bags. Inside was a half-finished sock with really soft blue yarn. Memories of visiting her grandma and 'helping' her knit flooded back, the scent of wool and the rhythmic click of needles vivid in her mind. She highly suspected her grandma would go back and fix everything Hermione did when she wasn't looking, but Hermione knew at least the basics of the craft.
With a deep breath, Hermione plastered on a smile and returned to the kitchen to pretend, yet again, to be the perfect daughter instead of a stranger. Thankfully, the idea of going back to her room and trying to remember how to knit kept her calmer than she ever thought possible, even when Bert started talking about making plans for the Christmas holiday to spend it as a family. She hadn't returned home for the holidays since her second year, and she certainly wasn't planning on it this year.
"Do you know what day you'd be coming home?" Bert asked.
"No, I'm not sure," Hermione said, which, technically, was true. She didn't know when the end of term would be.
"As soon as you find out, you'll let us know, yeah?" Bert continued.
"I will, Dad."
"It will be so nice to spend the holidays with you," Mary said with a smile.
Hermione took a giant bite of her sausage and courgette pilaf, hoping her noncommittal nod would end the conversation. She could feel her annoyance rising. It was time for another change of subject. She racked her brain for a topic her parents could discuss at length (and tried not to focus on the fact that she also had no idea what her parents were up to these days).
"So, how is the practice going?" Hermione asked after swallowing, hoping to steer the conversation into safer waters. "Any interesting cases coming up?"
To her relief, both parents eagerly dove into a discussion about an upcoming case involving a patient who had tried to give himself a root canal. Hermione nodded and gasped at the right moments, her mind wandering.
"Do you remember when you used to help us with our cases?" Bert asked, a nostalgic grin spreading across his face.
"I certainly do," Hermione said, her own smile tinged with bittersweet memories.
"Those were the days, weren't they?" Bert continued, his eyes twinkling.
"Uh huh," Hermione murmured, ready to take another giant bite depending on where the conversation went.
"We have been thinking," Bert continued, "and wondering what your plans are after Hogwarts."
"Oh!" Hermione said, her mind racing. "Well, I'm not sure. The specifics change quite a bit, but I definitely know I'd like to work in the Ministry of Magic. I'm not one for politics, but Ministry workers have a lot of influence on the Wizarding World. Whilst I think there's a lot of good that goes on, there are a few things I'd like to-"
"So you're planning on staying in the Wizarding World when you're finished?" Mary asked, hesitation lacing her voice.
Hermione frowned. "As opposed to… what?"
"Coming home and going to University," Mary said.
"Taking over the dentistry practice," added Bert.
Hermione wasn't sure what she expected them to say, but it certainly wasn't that.
"With all due respect," Hermione said measuredly, "why wouldn't I want to remain in the Wizarding World?"
"Well," Mary said, "it's one thing to embrace magic in secondary school, but beyond that?"
"It's just not practical," Bert finished.
"How is it not practical?" Hermione demanded, her voice rising with the surge of anger.
"Maybe practical is the wrong word," Mary interjected quickly.
"I'd say so," Hermione retorted.
"Sensible is more what I was thinking," Bert said, his tone cautious.
Hermione was speechless. She stared at her parents as if she didn't know them, because, at that moment, she didn't.
"Be realistic, Hermione," Mary said gently.
"What is 'realistic,' Mother, is that I am a witch. A real witch. And I will 'realistically' be a witch for the rest of my life whether you like it or not."
Mary's eyes widened, her mouth opening and closing as if she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Bert looked stunned, his fork frozen midway to his mouth.
"Hermione, please," Mary finally whispered. "We just want what's best for you."
"And you think what's best for me is to abandon everything I've worked for? Everything I am?" Hermione's voice cracked, her anger mingling with the pain of feeling misunderstood. "You don't understand. You've never tried to understand!"
"Hermione, that's not fair," Bert said, his voice firmer now. "We've always supported you."
"Supported me?" Hermione laughed bitterly. "By wanting me to leave behind the magical world? By expecting me to follow a path you've chosen for me, without even asking what I want?"
Her parents exchanged glances, their faces etched with worry and confusion. Hermione's heart ached at the sight, but she couldn't back down now.
"You're asking me to choose between the two halves of my life," Hermione said, her voice softer but no less intense. "But I can't. Magic isn't just something I do. It's who I am. Asking me to leave it behind is asking me to stop being myself."
Bert put down his fork, his expression sombre. "We're not trying to make you choose, Hermione. We just... we miss you. We miss the time when we were all closer."
Hermione's anger flared again. "You think I don't miss it too? But things have changed. I've changed. And you need to accept that."
Silence fell over the table, heavy and suffocating. Hermione stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I need some air," she said, her voice trembling. "I can't... I just can't do this right now."
She nearly knocked over the table in her haste to leave. As she stormed up the stairs, she heard her mother call her name, but she couldn't stop. It wasn't until she reached her room and slammed the door shut that the tears began to flow, hot and unchecked.
Hermione threw herself onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow. The sobs came in waves, each one wracking her body with a ferocity that left her feeling drained and hollow. She felt like she was being torn apart, caught between two worlds that could never truly understand each other.
After a while, she sat up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked around her room, at the Hogwarts trunk, the scattered books, and the knitting bag in the corner. These were the pieces of her life, fragments of her identity that she couldn't abandon, no matter how much her parents wished otherwise.
Hermione took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She knew this fight wasn't over, and there would be more difficult conversations ahead. But for now, she needed to hold on to who she was and the world she belonged to. And she needed to find a way to make her parents understand that this was her reality, and it was here to stay.