(no subject)
Date: April 4rd, 2000
Time: 11am-8pm
Place: Grimmauld Place, Graveyard
Character Involved: Hermione
Rating: PG
Complete
Hermione had woken to someone storming around, and had pushed her head under her pillow to avoid the sound of raised voices.
When she finally emerged from Ron’s bed, the house had been empty. Now Grimmauld place was never a very pleasant location, at any time, but emptiness somehow made it seem bigger, darker, colder.
Wearing one of Ron’s shirts over her own, she’d pottered around in the kitchen, making a pot of tea.
It wasn’t right, this just wasn’t right.
Hermione looked at her reflection in the glass, for the longest time, almost staring through it, as if it weren’t there. With a sudden new vigour, she started on something else, making eggs, bacon, toast, tomatoes, and mushrooms, everything that a big breakfast would entail.
With everything on a tray, she’d climbed the stairs, her feet making a slightly louder sound than they had on the way down.
Climbing back into bed, she ate the food she’d made, not because she wanted to, but because she always had.
There was something about traditions, they were made and not broken. This was a tradition Hermione wasn’t going to let slip away. Since she’d been young, she’d climbed out of bed early, made breakfast with her father and returned to their room to sit and eat it together.
The start of a birthday, the start of a day of activities. The least she could do was keep it going, keep it alive. Her mother always liked having them all together, that’s what she liked most of all. One day, out of so many, where they could just be together.
Hermione looked down at the remaining food, she’d made too much. Of course she had. Leaving it there, she reached for her journal, trying to make some kind of sense of what was going through her head.
Spilling her feelings into the book she found that she’d at least reached some sort of decision.
Something. She had to do something and she would.
Clearing up the plates and the mess she’d created in the kitchen, she couldn’t quite bring herself to throw the extra food away. Instead she placed it in a container and into the fridge, someone would eat it later.
Showering and dressing as if she were on autopilot, she braided her hair down her back, sitting in front of the mirror as she always had, except it was her own hands in her hair, not that of her mothers. Hermione had found her own braids much neater, tighter, where her mothers were loose and messy. She’d always asked her mother to do it for her. Always.
Dressed for the cool weather outside, Hermione grabbed her jacket from the stand, saying a silent goodbye to the house as she let herself out.
Apparation was simple, easy, precise. But Hermione walked the distance to the underground, folding herself into one of the grubby chairs, her eyes moving over new scenery as they travelled.
It wasn’t far, home wasn’t far. It was a few trains, travelling through city until they reached green fields and dirt roads, still travelling further.
“Hermione, what noise does a train make?” He’d asked, hoisting her up so she could stare out the window. “Daddy, a train goes choo-choo, but that’s not important, how does the coal work again? Tell me how it works!” A much younger Hermione had replied, leaning against the glass, trying to get a look at the front of the train, like it would answer all her questions.
A much older woman jumped the last step down to the platform, pausing to watch the last carriage of the train disappear from sight, before she’d made her way forward, her shoes scuffing on the stones that littered the dirt road.
The town wasn’t far, but that wasn’t where she was heading, the gates loomed ahead of her, the cold iron curling up towards the heavens, as if once it had been a live plant, reaching for the sunlight, but now it was blackened and dead.
Hermione had no flowers, as was commonly the custom; flowers weren’t going to make anyone feel any better. She dodged past the slabs of stone, some elaborate with angels standing above the green patches, where as others were simple. Some remained unnamed all together and it was those that drew Hermione’s attention.
She could have asked Ron or Harry to come along, she knew they would have. But this wasn’t the time, not today, not a day that was meant to be just the three of them. The cold grey stood out against the vibrant green of the grass, two tombstones side by side. Always side by side. Part of her was glad they could be together, like they always had been.
There was a small row between them and Hermione took a seat there, as to avoid sitting atop either of the graves, perfectly in the middle of the two. The grass was dewy, her fingers almost numb as she reached forward to smooth the grass on her mothers side, a few weeds had started their growth and Hermione easily plucked them out, before her hands moved back to her lap.
It was quiet here. Not the eerie quiet of Grimmauld place, but a soft quiet, that was often disturbed by a whisper of trees or the song of a bird. Both stones were similar, with the death date identical, his read loving husband and father, hers loving wife and mother.
This had angered her, they’d been so much more than partners and parents, they’d been people, they’d been so much more than could be described in a few lines. She’d wanted the stones plain, reading their names and birth dates, with a cross carved into her fathers. It seemed her grandparents had other ideas and she hadn’t had it in her to fight.
Time passed so quickly, Hermione taking the time to reflect, to remember, to appreciate. As it started to get darker, she realized time had gone; again she was left with not enough time, with them, with this day.
As it got darker, it got colder, she’d have to leave, it was time to leave.
After sitting still for so long, standing up was harder than it should have been.
“I miss you.” The first and only words spoken were muffled by the sound of Apparition.
No breeze rustled the grass, no sound was made and another day passed.
Time: 11am-8pm
Place: Grimmauld Place, Graveyard
Character Involved: Hermione
Rating: PG
Complete
Hermione had woken to someone storming around, and had pushed her head under her pillow to avoid the sound of raised voices.
When she finally emerged from Ron’s bed, the house had been empty. Now Grimmauld place was never a very pleasant location, at any time, but emptiness somehow made it seem bigger, darker, colder.
Wearing one of Ron’s shirts over her own, she’d pottered around in the kitchen, making a pot of tea.
It wasn’t right, this just wasn’t right.
Hermione looked at her reflection in the glass, for the longest time, almost staring through it, as if it weren’t there. With a sudden new vigour, she started on something else, making eggs, bacon, toast, tomatoes, and mushrooms, everything that a big breakfast would entail.
With everything on a tray, she’d climbed the stairs, her feet making a slightly louder sound than they had on the way down.
Climbing back into bed, she ate the food she’d made, not because she wanted to, but because she always had.
There was something about traditions, they were made and not broken. This was a tradition Hermione wasn’t going to let slip away. Since she’d been young, she’d climbed out of bed early, made breakfast with her father and returned to their room to sit and eat it together.
The start of a birthday, the start of a day of activities. The least she could do was keep it going, keep it alive. Her mother always liked having them all together, that’s what she liked most of all. One day, out of so many, where they could just be together.
Hermione looked down at the remaining food, she’d made too much. Of course she had. Leaving it there, she reached for her journal, trying to make some kind of sense of what was going through her head.
Spilling her feelings into the book she found that she’d at least reached some sort of decision.
Something. She had to do something and she would.
Clearing up the plates and the mess she’d created in the kitchen, she couldn’t quite bring herself to throw the extra food away. Instead she placed it in a container and into the fridge, someone would eat it later.
Showering and dressing as if she were on autopilot, she braided her hair down her back, sitting in front of the mirror as she always had, except it was her own hands in her hair, not that of her mothers. Hermione had found her own braids much neater, tighter, where her mothers were loose and messy. She’d always asked her mother to do it for her. Always.
Dressed for the cool weather outside, Hermione grabbed her jacket from the stand, saying a silent goodbye to the house as she let herself out.
Apparation was simple, easy, precise. But Hermione walked the distance to the underground, folding herself into one of the grubby chairs, her eyes moving over new scenery as they travelled.
It wasn’t far, home wasn’t far. It was a few trains, travelling through city until they reached green fields and dirt roads, still travelling further.
“Hermione, what noise does a train make?” He’d asked, hoisting her up so she could stare out the window. “Daddy, a train goes choo-choo, but that’s not important, how does the coal work again? Tell me how it works!” A much younger Hermione had replied, leaning against the glass, trying to get a look at the front of the train, like it would answer all her questions.
A much older woman jumped the last step down to the platform, pausing to watch the last carriage of the train disappear from sight, before she’d made her way forward, her shoes scuffing on the stones that littered the dirt road.
The town wasn’t far, but that wasn’t where she was heading, the gates loomed ahead of her, the cold iron curling up towards the heavens, as if once it had been a live plant, reaching for the sunlight, but now it was blackened and dead.
Hermione had no flowers, as was commonly the custom; flowers weren’t going to make anyone feel any better. She dodged past the slabs of stone, some elaborate with angels standing above the green patches, where as others were simple. Some remained unnamed all together and it was those that drew Hermione’s attention.
She could have asked Ron or Harry to come along, she knew they would have. But this wasn’t the time, not today, not a day that was meant to be just the three of them. The cold grey stood out against the vibrant green of the grass, two tombstones side by side. Always side by side. Part of her was glad they could be together, like they always had been.
There was a small row between them and Hermione took a seat there, as to avoid sitting atop either of the graves, perfectly in the middle of the two. The grass was dewy, her fingers almost numb as she reached forward to smooth the grass on her mothers side, a few weeds had started their growth and Hermione easily plucked them out, before her hands moved back to her lap.
It was quiet here. Not the eerie quiet of Grimmauld place, but a soft quiet, that was often disturbed by a whisper of trees or the song of a bird. Both stones were similar, with the death date identical, his read loving husband and father, hers loving wife and mother.
This had angered her, they’d been so much more than partners and parents, they’d been people, they’d been so much more than could be described in a few lines. She’d wanted the stones plain, reading their names and birth dates, with a cross carved into her fathers. It seemed her grandparents had other ideas and she hadn’t had it in her to fight.
Time passed so quickly, Hermione taking the time to reflect, to remember, to appreciate. As it started to get darker, she realized time had gone; again she was left with not enough time, with them, with this day.
As it got darker, it got colder, she’d have to leave, it was time to leave.
After sitting still for so long, standing up was harder than it should have been.
“I miss you.” The first and only words spoken were muffled by the sound of Apparition.
No breeze rustled the grass, no sound was made and another day passed.