Homecoming Vicissitudes
Hermione kissed Harry on the cheek and dashed off to her waiting parents, throwing the twins and Ron a wave. The past year had been stressful even by Hogwarts standards, and had ended in tragedy. The sadness of Cedric’s death a gloom over the entire school, but for Harry, having witnessed it before almost being murdered himself…Hermione worried. She worried about Harry going back to his awful aunt and uncle most of all. Hermione suspected his neglect was worse than he let on, either wanted to minimize the pity or (and this was what she truly worried about) he was so used to being abused that he saw it as normal, or normal enough to not even mention. Certainly he would receive no comfort or understanding for what he was going through from anyone in that house.
Sometimes, in the common room or great hall as everyone talked and laughed, he would make a comment or a joke that caused everyone to fall silent. They would blink owlishly at him, as though they couldn’t comprehend what he had said. Hermione knew these looks well, having learned in primary school that mentioning ways in which her home life differed from the other kids only inspired their pity, and only made her more ‘other’. Harry seemed to have never learned this crucial social lesson, like when everyone was sharing stories over Christmas crackers about their worst Christmas gift, and Harry had said “One year, my aunt and Uncle gave me a single tissue. At least it wasn’t used!” He had laughed falling silent when he realized no one had laughed with him.Or the time he mentioned during Easter lunch that his uncle had come home after a day of hunting with his work friends, tossed a dead rabbit on the table and announced he had killed the Easter Bunny. Harry was then expected to dress and help cook it, despite being five years old.
She remembered how sad he had looked when no one laughed with him, and how quickly Fred and George had started joking loudly and throwing food to take the attention away from him. Hermione worried about sending him back to that house, his trauma from the tournament, Cedric’s death, Moody’s (fake Moody) betrayal, the return of the darkest wizard ever known…it would be a lot for anyone, and he had already been through so much.
She hoped her parents had missed the kiss, or at the very least saw it for what it was, a sweet goodbye for her closest friend. Lately it had seemed the only time they spoke to her was to lecture about something related to boys, teenage pregnancy, or ruining her future. Although, they did consider it mostly ruined already, as she would never attend Harvard with a degree from Hogwart’s school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She had, of course informed them that there were wizard doctors, and lawyers, but it hardly mattered.
As she got closer and noticed their stony expressions and her mother’s glare darting quickly to the group behind her. Hermione knew what was coming. Her parents had two settings, ignoring her completely, or criticizing her. Without a word her father took her trunk and tossed it in the boot of their car, and she got in silently, running a hand through Crookshanks’s fur for comfort. Her parents joined her in the car a moment later and they were off, the silence of the car a thrumming warning to her senses. What would it be this time? Would they take her books? Refuse her going away this summer? They would defiantly use their favorite threat; forcing her to leave Hogwarts. This was the only one she couldn’t see happening, they enjoyed her being gone too much to do something to make her stay. She was almost certain.
Used to silence from her parents, Hermione focused on coming up with her arguments for the coming fight. Her mother would, invariably tell her something was wrong with her appearance. Her hair was too bushy- even though Helen Granger swore the only way to tame it was vigorous washing and brushing (Something Hermione had learned this year was the opposite of curl care), her posture too slouched. Had she gained weight? If she had she had a summer of diet and exercise routines, perfectly tailored to her heath from whatever the current fad diet was. Last year had been Atkins and Pilates, and she had missed bread so much she had consumed almost an entire loaf at the welcome feast. Whatever was wrong with her, her mother would find it, (or invent it) and use it against her. Her father was another story. Mainly content to ignore her, he would come out of the woodwork occasionally to berate her for her lost future (as Hogwarts was not giving her a real education or degree in a sense he could understand) or obsess about the boys in her life. “Why are all her friends boys? What are they getting out of it?” She had heard him ask her mother. She hadn’t liked the tone, or the implication. The boys got her friendship, of course, same as from each other.
Sighing she cast back in her mind for a time when she had their attention, their love. As always nothing came to her.
The first time she realized her parents might not love her was when she was six years old. She didn’t have friends; up until this point it hadn’t bothered her for the most part. She often found the other school children to be altogether too loud, too rough, too immature. She preferred the company of grown-ups, having never spent any time with other children prior to beginning school. She loved to read, to lose herself in stories full of adventure and fantasy. It was, in part her love of reading that set her apart from the other children. Her cadence and vocabulary set them on edge, so they called her names like bookworm, swot, know-it-all. Hermione didn’t understand how that was an insult; wasn’t it good to know things? If you knew the answer, weren't you supposed to say it? However she justified her otherness, part of her young heart yearned to be accepted by her peers. She saw them celebrating birthdays and holidays, sharing cupcakes with the class and talking about presents and parties. She desperately wanted a birthday party. A pink cake with swirled icing that had her name on it. Presents of toys rather than books and planners or practical shoes. Balloons, streamers and best of all, other kids. After a month of begging, her mother had promised her a party, with all her school friends and balloons and cake, just like the other kids got.
She had woken up the morning of her birthday giddy with excitement. She had pulled on her frilly pink dress and brushed her hair as quickly as possible and raced down the stairs, sure that there would be decorations and maybe even a special breakfast. She wondered who from her class would come, and if her mother had remembered how much she wanted the Peach Pretty Barbie, with her long flowing curls and peach ballgown.
Instead she saw her father, reading the paper and sipping coffee as her mother plated his breakfast. There were no decorations, no happy birthday banner, no sign of the day being different in any way. Maybe that was for later?
“Good morning!” She shouted, throwing herself down at the table and beaming at her parents.
Her father grunted behind his paper. She mother turned sharp eyes to her “What are you thinking coming down here like a herd of elephants and shouting? Go get ready for school!”
Hermione’s eyes filled with tears. “But..” she started, looking back and forth between her parents.
“You heard your mother, GO!” Her father bellowed.
Hermione obeyed. She always obeyed. At the time she reasoned they had a surprise for her. However when she got home from school, rushing in the door and kicking off her shoes, the house was dark. No dinner smells, no party decorations.
“Mom?” She called out. She was met with silence, and a note on the fridge to eat the sandwich they had left for her. It wasn’t the first time she was left home alone, and on a normal night she would quietly eat what was left and go to bed, making sure to brush her teeth. She would do what was expected of her. Today, the sight of that sandwich in the fridge left a burning pain in her gut. She was so sad and so…angry. How could they forget? Or did they remember but they didn’t care?Leaving the sandwich and the note, she had trudged up the stairs and poured her heart out to her only love, a stuffed bear she had had forever. Ted was her only friend, even at 6 the other children at school had deemed her unfit for friendship. She tried too hard, knew too much, and used words only the teachers knew. She tried to figure out what made her so different. The other children had friends. The other children played and laughed and were silly with each other. The other children had parents that gave kisses and hugs at pickup, packed lunched with notes, and sent cupcakes for the class on their birthdays. Hermione realized something she had always known. Her parents were different. She never got hugs and kisses. She had never found a note in her backpack from her mother telling her to be good and that she loved her. Thinking about it now, she couldn’t remember ever hearing those words from them. Perhaps one day someone would want to be her friend, someday someone would love her. Today, however, no amount of rationalizing worked. It was her birthday. Birthdays were important, she knew from the way other children acted about them. Birthdays meant a reason to celebrate someone you loved.
Hermione had tucked herself in that night and cried herself to sleep, waiting for her parents to come home, sure in her young heart that no one had ever loved her.
That year they never even wished her a happy birthday.
They acknowledged it sporadically in the years after; on her 9th birthday she received a card with a few bills and a generic birthday wish, and her 11th was another card, another cash offering. Once she started at Hogwarts, her mother informed her that she shouldn’t wait for owls from them, as “We don’t have time to hunt down birds and deliver messages. We will see you at Christmas.”
Except they didn’t. Her parents always had an excuse. Work, events, vacations she was never invited to, friends and parties. It was easier for her to stay at school over the Holidays, stay at the burrow over the summers, anything that kept her away and out of their hair.
They kept her basic needs met. They supplied her with money for school supplies and robes, new clothes would be laid out for her when she returned home. There was always food in the cabinets and bathroom supplies stocked in her en suite. She had everything she could need, except attention. Except love. She couldn’t remember a time when they had told her they loved her, or even a time when they had showed love with their actions.
In her primary school years, this emotional void was filled with teachers. She longed for adult attention, for someone to tell her how good and smart she was. Her young mind reasoned that if she was perfect, rule following, quiet, smart, clean and self sufficient, she could earn the love of her parents. The teachers did love her; she was quiet and studious, eager to learn and top of every class. What her young mind hadn’t figured out was how to get other children to like her, not realizing that by seeking to constantly be the best and know the most had earned her several harsh nicknames. She was a swot, a teacher’s pet, a know-it-all. The other children shunned her, and she had another place to be constantly unwelcome.
Hermione found her escape in books. Fantasy worlds of magic and adventure. Dragons, knights, princesses, wizards. She especially loved books like “The Chronicles of Narnia”, where neglected children found magic worlds where they were loved and wanted and special. She longed to be special enough to gain her parent’s approval, smart or accomplished enough to earn hugs or smiles the way she had seen other children’s parents offer. After she read “Matilda”, she sat in her bed and reached out her hand, pretending to use her telekinetic powers like the book heroine and summon her stuffed bear. To her utter shock, the bear floated to her waiting hand, bumping along the bedspread. Hermione had raced to her parent’s room, where they were watching the news in bed.
“I can move things with my mind, like Matilda!” She shouted, and tried to prove it. Scrunching her nose she reached out her hand and willed a figurine to come to her hand. However with an audience of increasingly angry parents, nothing happened. Instead she was told off for “spouting nonsense”. Her mother had come into her room the next day with a box and taken all her books, telling her from now on she was to only read non-fiction. If she couldn’t learn from it, it was banned. She read them in secret, of course. Spending hours in the library, escaping her lonely reality.
When the first Hogwarts letter arrived, hope bloomed in her heart. Could she really be magical? A witch? Her parents thought it was a joke, at least until a woman in brilliant green robes with a severe bun showed up on their doorstep. Professor McGonagall had invited herself inside and proceeded to explain the letter, how Hermione was what was called a “muggle-born” witch, and then to prove it, turned herself into a cat. Her parents, once over the shock were initially thrilled. A witch had to mean prestige of some kind. However upon learning about the statue of secrecy and Hermione’s ban from doing underage magic in the home, things were worse than ever. She had gone from being an unwanted burden of sorts to a dirty secret that occasionally took time away from their lives.
The car came to a stop, and Hermione realized with a start they were home already. She slowly exited the car , trudging up the front steps and trying to make a beeline for her room.
“Not so fast.” Came her mother’s sharp voice.
Freezing in place, she turned to face her parents, who glared back.
“What have you done to your hair?”
Her hands went up to her curls, nervously smoothing them down. She had been trying different conditioners and charms since the Yule Ball, and was fairly pleased with today’s charm work. The combination of her curl cream and a relaxing charm had left her curls falling down her back in glossy ringlets free of her typical frizz.
“Just some conditioner- and one of the girls I dorm with told me about this comb for curls-” This was true, Lavender had often and loudly told Hermione everything wrong with her curl care, not that Hermione had wanted any of the girl’s advice. She did have to admit, however, once she started using certain products and a gentle comb rather than ruthlessly brushing out her hair every day, her ‘un-tamable’ hair had undergone quite the pleasant transformation.
“What’s this now?!” Faster than she could react her mother had crossed the space between them, grabbing Hermione’s face in her hand. Sharp nails dug into her cheeks as her mother squeezed, forcing her mouth to pop open.
“DON! She used magic on her teeth!”
“How many times have we told you not to change your face with that! Who are you primping yourself for?” He sneered at her. “That boy you kissed, was it for him?”
“No, that’s just my friend Harry, he-”
“Not the one you went to the ball with- Krud, wasn’t it?” Her mother released her face. “Are you sleeping with him?”
“Viktor Krum, and no, nothing like that I..”
“If you get pregnant by some lowlife, that’s it. You’ll be out of this house.”
“If you think we’re raising some magical bastard you have another thing coming!”
“Is that what you get up to in that school? Don’t they watch you children?”
“Don’t you have girl friends? I only ever see you with boys, that’s unnatural, don’t you know what they say about girls like that!”
“Do you want to ruin your future like your cousin Brenda? Pregnant before graduation!”
“Not like a degree from that school is going to take her anywhere!”
Hermione sighed. It was useless to fight, they would never listen. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t sleeping with anyone, her parents had decided she must be and that was that. She would let them lecture her until they got tired of it and go to her room. Idly she started thinking of an advanced charms book she had in her bag, she was intrigued by the idea of expanding charms, like the tent they had stayed in for the World Cup. She wondered how difficult it would be, and if anyone would catch her performing it on her book bag. Godric knew she could use the space.
A series of cracking pops echoing from behind the house broke off her parents mid-tirade. The three Grangers froze, turning bodily to the sounds. Cruel laughter and footsteps followed, and the kitchen door shook as something slammed into it. Her parents exchanged terrified looks.
“Call the police, Don!” Her mother whispered, her eyes locked on the kitchen door as it shook again, and more laughter came from behind it. He reached for the phone, fingers barley brushing the bright yellow plastic before all hell broke loose.
The kitchen windows exploded in a shower of glass shards and torn window panes as the back door finally gave in to the assault and swung inward with a spray of wood splinters. Helen Granger screamed and covered her face, as Hermione yanked her wand out and cast a shield charm around them. Black robed figures filled the small kitchen, surrounding the small family. Hermione barley had time to register the masks before a howl rent the air, a sound Hermione had hoped to never hear again. The howl brought back that terrible night…her beloved teacher turned bloodthirsty monster, the dementors, the race against time…
Death eaters, murderers and… a werewolf- in her kitchen in Hampstead Garden. Her brain felt sluggish and unable to process the reality- how could they be here, how could there be death eaters standing a food away from her mother’s stand mixer? Her parents cowered behind her, seeming to catch on faster than her to the gravity of the situation and realizing their only chance stood behind their daughter’s hastily cast shield charm.
“What’s going on!” Helen Granger screamed into Hermione’s ear. She grabbed onto Hermione’s shoulders, her long nails digging in through the material of her hoodie. Hermione winced away, starting to sweat with the effort of holding a shield. Her wand arm shook, and she knew it was almost over.
She could hear Professor Flitwick in her head, “Protigio, or the shield charm is an excellent temporary defence. A quickly cast shield charm will protect you from most hexes and spells, but they take quite a bit of focus to perform. A shield will weaken the longer you try to hold it, so they are best cast as defence, then dropped, allowing you to return fire, or get to a safer location. A shield will also protect you from harm in the event of accidents, such as a potions explosion.”
Her shield flickered as more death eaters filed in, filling her mother’s cream and red Tuscan kitchen with black robes and silver masks. The juxtaposition made her head swim. This wasn’t possible. How could they be here? Why?
You know why, her mind whispered. How long could you be friends with The Harry Potter without it coming back to haunt you? Did you think you were safe here, that muggle locks and laws would stop them?