Mary Macdonald knew what she was doing. She knew that no matter what, the her now would never be her again. Even with that solidified in her head, she couldn’t stop herself. Mary’s wand had been the first thing she’d ever gotten by herself, for herself. It had grown up with her, protected her, and she loved it. That’s, though she knew it would be the smart move, she couldn’t break it, couldn’t destroy it.
Mary Macdonald took out a pen and a pad of paper, wrote herself a note, and casted her final spell.
Mary Macdonald read a note, picked up a stick, and buried it under the ground in her backyard. For no other reason then she felt she had to.
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The birth of her daughter was Mary’s most favorite day of her whole life. She’d dreamed about it and fantasized about this day since she was young. Mary knew that sounds silly, most of her memories have become foggy without her knowledge as to why (she wasn’t that old), but this one thing was the one thing she had held on to.
“Hermione,” Mary had whispered so only her and her little girl could hear, “you are my treasure, I’d do anything for you”.
As the years passed, Mary kept that promise. Working late hours to make enough money to buy the latest novel her baby wanted, helping with school projects that went late into the night, trying to tame Hermione’s hair, unsuccessfully, just as her own mother had done.
It wasn’t always easy, Mary had had a phobia of sickness since she herself was a little girl, that didn’t get resolved when Hermione got sick (her husband had to swoop in more than a few times). It was especially hard, though, when her baby would ask about her school years. While her husband always had a story and a moral to tell about his grandiose adventures, Mary sat there, trying to remember even just one singular aspect of her younger life.
No, it wasn’t easy. But it was worth it. Every second of it.
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On the day the letter came, it started off normally. Mary woke up, made a pot of coffee in the cottage she had grown up in, and went to grab the mail. Just like every morning. The letter that greeted her evoked something in her. Her gut was stirring, and for some reason, as she looked down at the fancy ‘Hogwarts’ seal, a pit of nerves sprang up inside her body.
The letter was addressed to Hermione. Without much delay, Mary ripped open the letter and read it.
It was a letter for Hermione, exclaiming that she was a witch and this headmaster would like for her to come to their school of ‘witchcraft and wizardry’. It was absurd. It read like a fairytale, yet she knew that it was real. Mary knew this was, for whatever reason, familiar to her.
The months passed after Mary had shown both her daughter and husband the letter. Her baby was ecstatic, so Mary’s concerns were pushed to the back burner. When the day arrived for Hermione to get her special wizard school supplies and board the train headed to the school, Mary didn’t accompany Hermione. She told her family that she couldn’t bear to see her smart, little girl grow up and leave her. They believed her.
What Mary failed to tell them was that it hurt. Well, she did say that it hurt to see Hermione leave, but what she concealed was a different kind of hurt. Mary had thought about that letter often for the past few months and everytime she did, this ache pulsed through her. It was unbearable. She didn’t dare try to explain to her husband, she loved him so, so much, but Mary knew this was a secret for herself.
The letter wasn’t hers, it wasn’t addressed to her. It read ‘To one Hermione Granger’, it wasn’t even addressed to the Grangers, just her daughter and only her daughter.
Once again, in her little cottage, empty save for her, that ache coursed through her. Mary decided then and there that she would pile this away in her most secret, most dark corner of her mind. She put it on the shelf next to the questions about her memories and that odd stick that would keep her up at night. These things were things that Mary resolved to never think about again, thought that was a losing battle some days and most nights. And there the letter would sit for years, collecting dust in the far recesses of her mind. Never as much dust as the lone, wispy recollection of vibrant green eyes, but almost as much.
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It was like this that the years went by. Mary stopped waiting outside the elementary school, and instead started to wait for letters, strangely (and painfully) by owl. Mary stopped cooking for three and instead started to write her recipes down for the day when Hermione had her own family to cook for. She didn’t stop buying books though, that habit stayed. It was an expensive habit for sure, due to how many Mary bought, but it was worth it to see her baby’s eyes sparkle when she came home for the holidays.
Mary could still remember the summer after Hermione’s first year at Hogwarts. She might not tell her dad everything, but Mary always got every detail of the latest scoop. Mary still remembers how she and Hermione sat out in the garden, under the hot sun, and talked about boys.
“Hermione, sweet,” Mary said as her gloves tugged on another weed that was trying to hide itself with her cucumbers, “we both know what a terrible liar you are. Give up the act, I know you li-”
“MOM! Don’t even say what you’re about to say!” Oh, what a temper her girl had. Mary turned to look at her daughter. She saw her tanned skin glow in the sun, just like Mary’s, and she knew that faint, little freckles would pop up later. Her hair was weaved into two French braids, while Hermione’s hair was wild and curly, it wasn’t quite like Mary’s. Her own type of braid would make Hermione’s hair fall out. The girl wore overalls, slightly too small now, and Mary lamented her little girl’s growth and briefly thoughts of a shopping trip skirted in her mind before Hermione interrupted again. “Ron is abysmal, he doesn’t even read!”
“You know, I’m quite partial to gingers myself”
“Dad isn’t ginger.”
Mary was glad her baby girl found friends, or maybe more one day. A mother always knows.
However, when Hermione talked about her other friend, not Ron, it hurt. The kind of hurt was familiar, she’s been used to it for years, ever since she realized she couldn’t recall previous years. That didn’t mean the hurt lessened. In fact, Mary was sure it grew, just as if it was Hermione in her overalls.
Harry Potter. Potter. Mary knew that name. When Hermione would speak it, sparks of pain flew, like Mary had been stabbed, both in the heart and in the head. As much as she’d like to tell Hermione to stop talking about that Harry Potter boy, she knew she couldn’t. Her baby has always had trouble with making and maintaining friends. Mary would just have to try her best to throw the hurt away and focus on the pride she felt.
And like that, her most secret, most dark corner of her mind, expanded. This time, Mary locked away the name ‘Potter’ and threw it on the shelf. Very unlike the gentle hand she used to place the green eyes. Eyes, memories, stick, letter, and now name. Deep down, subconsciously, Mary knew these all were connected. Somehow she knew. This knowledge, unlike the others however, were in an even more dark corner of Mary’s mind. This corner was more of a basement, and was much, much more secret than anything else. So secret that not even Mary knew of it. And, unlike the other shelves that were quickly filling up, this basement, of sorts, held only two things: knowledge of the connection, and the answers to any and all questions about Mary’s memories.
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On the day a second letter came, Mary woke up, made a pot of coffee in the cottage she had grown up in, and went to grab the mail. Much like when the first arrived. This time, the letter wasn’t addressed to ‘Hermione’, but rather ‘the Grangers’.
This time, Mary and her husband sobbed on the ground of their old, creaking kitchen floors with the knowledge that their baby, Mary’s baby, the girl that she wanted so badly that she remembered, might not come home. Hermione had been petrified, much like how Mary felt.
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When Hermione safely came home that summer, with tales of how Harry Potter saved her, Mary decided that she would stop hating the name of such a wonderful boy.
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The years came and went. Hermione’s letters came while Mary’s went. Hermione came and went.
With each of Hermione’s visits on holidays and her stays during summer, more and more room on the shelf in Mary’s mind was reduced. Spells that her smart girl showed her were placed there as well as names. Sirius Black, Lupin, Longbottom all on the shelf.
The years came and went, and during this transaction, Hermione stopped telling Mary everything. Her stories were shorter, adventures now brief. It reminded Mary of her slipping youth. Mary knew Hermione was still very, very young, but sometimes she missed her little girl with her big stories.
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Mary was sitting on her couch, in her old creaky family cottage watching TV. Her husband was on her side and they were cuddling. Her daughter was upstairs in her room, most likely reading. It was like that when she remembered.
Mary Macdonald knew that even a spell as final obliviate wasn’t entirely final. If one casts obliviate on one that has already been obliviated, the spells will cancel each other out.
Mary Granger had forgotten that. Now she knew. She knew what all the names she had locked away meant to her. She knew the spells Hermione had showed her. She recognized the letter her smart little girl had got because years ago, Mary had gotten the same letter. She knew why those beautiful green eyes haunted her. Most of all, she knew what the piece of wood she had buried so long ago was. Her wand.
Though her husband might have thought her crazy, Mary sprung up and started digging like a damn dog, only stopping when she found purchase in smooth wood.
Mary knew that she had calmed down in her motherhood, but now her teenage liveliness (that she could remember!) was returning to her veins. It took everything in her to not apparate right then and there, but instead going back into the living room to call out to her husband in a giddy voice. “I’m going out! Be right back!” And with that, Mary was off to find her daughter.
Once again, Mary was off to Hogwarts.