(no subject)
"The Details"
Fandom: Harry Potter
Timeline: Set between books 6-7
There's a quiet battle of wills during summer break, as Hermione struggles with an impossible decision, and Helen Granger struggles to find out what's bothering her daughter. I've chosen Helen and Hector for the Granger parents' names (why not?).
Pairing: Hints of R/Hr, a tiny nod to D/Hr (because I couldn't help it)
Rating: PG
An odd feeling wakes Helen Granger that morning, and she rustles around a moment for her dressing gown. Loosely belting it, she pads into the kitchen to brew that first cup of coffee - and the last of the day, after reading that report on acid erosion.
Finally able to practice magic in front of her parents, Hermione had kept them entertained with endless requests for transfiguration and charm-work. Tea was a lively affair, with bouncing sugar cubes, teacups that sprouted legs and dashed across the table, and crowned by Hermione’s successful transformation of the kettle into a turtle, who stood up on his hind legs and shrilly whistled “God Save the Queen.”
Helen couldn’t deny that there were definite advantages to having a witch in the household. Hermione’s charms could wash the dishes, clean the floors, and even repair broken items. Charming more complex Muggle machines - like the coffeemaker - required a level of ability that Hermione admitted she wasn’t quite up to yet, and probably were illegal anyway. She reminded them of the sweet Mr. Weasley who enchanted cars to fly in his off-time and was later fined - and nearly lost his job.
So, unaided by magic, Helen stands at the coffeemaker and presses down the button, waiting impatiently by the window, gazing out into the little garden. The rosebush is waving madly - did Hermione accidentally enchant it when she tried to repair her spell damage?
But no. Something’s out there…moving in the bushes. Helen’s finger slips off of the coffeemaker as she crosses to the door. Pulling her dressing gown closer about her, she cracks open the door.
“Hello? Is someone out there?”
The bush goes still for a moment, then a figure steps forward, pushing back the branches, walking towards the house.
“Hermione, what are you doing out there?”
“Hi, Mum.” Her usually immaculate daughter’s white dressing gown is mud-smeared, and there are small twigs and leaves stuck in her rumpled hair, withered rose petals clinging to her shoulders. The wand - Hermione’s third hand, Helen thought to herself - was clasped lightly to her palm. She straightened, and attempted to clean herself up. Helen stepped lightly down the stoop to touch her daughter’s face, comb out some of the branches, reduce some of her daughter‘s resemblance to Ophelia. “What were you doing, dear?”
“Setting up wards,” Hermione replies, and despite her daughter’s odd behavior, despite the fact that wards don’t sound like a good thing, this is the first time Hermione has talked to her this summer like she used to - as if she’s explaining a project, and not hiding anything. “They’ll chirp like a demented flock of canaries if an intruder comes onto the property. Anyone that we don’t admit into the home won’t be able to get in without us knowing.”
“You got up at five-thirty in the morning to do this?”
Hermione shifts, and the moment of honesty passes in her daughter’s face. Helen’s been her mother for nearly eighteen years - she knows. “I had some bad dreams last night. There’s word in the Wizarding world that a few of the werewolves that don’t want to be part of society have been on the prowl.”
“Around here?” The thought sends a chill up Helen’s spine. She’s only seen pictures in her daughter’s textbooks, but nothing is impossible now. Helen once spent an entire session fitting plastic molds between the molars of an eight-year-old as they watched The Little Mermaid. All she could think about was whether or not mermaids were real. (They were, Hermione said, but you wouldn’t want one to sing to you.)
“No, Mum. I’m just trying to be safe. But if it happens, you and Dad find me, and I’ll Apparate us all out to a safe area.”
“Apparate?”
“How wizards and witches usually travel. Here, I’ll show you.”
And with a quick look around to make sure no one’s watching, Hermione flicks her wand and disappears, only to reappear a moment later, with a popping sound, beside the garden shed.
Helen’s jaw drops, but not from the incredulity of the action. It’s one thing to see her daughter charm teakettles and recite the history of Elvish wars. It’s quite another to see how powerful she’s become.
“I thought you had…brooms,” she chokes out. Brooms, trains, buses, and Floo Powder - how many ways did they need to get around? Helen used to feel so knowledgeable and successful - lead practitioner at her clinic, top of her class, raising a daughter who bordered on genius. In trying to understand her daughter’s world, however, bring it into terms that she could equate with the one she shared with Hector, she’s so often adrift and at sea - helpless.
“We do, but I’m not good on a broomstick. Harry and Ron tried to teach me, but I just get too nervous at the heights,” Hermione replied, walking briskly back, examining her closely. Helen knows that Hermione knows she’s been thrown for a loop - but she’s willing to bet her daughter doesn’t know why.
“I can travel that way if I have to, but I really do hate it. Even flying on thestrals and hippogriffs isn’t exactly pleasant. This is much nicer.” Hermione reaches her mother, and begins brushing the rose petals from her shoulders. “Anyway, all I have to do is a Side-Along, and someone who can’t apparate can travel with me.”
“It’s like your…driving exam,” Helen finishes.
“Yes,” Hermione smiles. “Anyway, the whole wards thing? Just me taking too many precautions. I also needed to harvest some rose-petal dew.” She holds out a glass vial, in which a small amount of liquid quivers.
She’s not being entirely truthful, and Helen can tell. Hermione is already scanning the edge of the garden, and Helen can see that she’s wondering what she’s forgotten. It’s a familiar expression.
“Hermione, if a werewolf did attack, could you fight him?”
The question catches Hermione off-guard, but Helen watches her recover.
“Oh yes, Mum. The only competent Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we ever had was a werewolf - a good one, Professor Lupin. If one came in, I could use a Stunning Spell on him, at least to knock him back far enough so that we could Apparate out of there quickly.”
Helen nods, taking this in. Then, the question trips out of her mouth, startling even her. “Would you have to kill him?”
Hermione turns pale, and Helen instantly regrets the question. But she wants to know - can her daughter raise her little wand and dispense death? Most parents would say no, but Helen knows her daughter better than this. If cornered, Hermione will fight her way out. If her friends were in trouble, Hermione never missed a beat in standing up for them. She would kill if she had to. Helen is actually glad of this.
“There’s a Killing Curse,” Hermione replies quietly. “I know how to do it, but I’ve never done it before. I don’t want to do it ever. I prefer just jinxing someone, or paralyzing them. Then I‘d do a Memory Charm so that they couldn‘t remember why they were after me in the first place.”
Helen reaches out and enfolds her daughter in a wordless embrace. She’s still so very small.
***
Because her mother isn’t exactly comfortable with enchanted knives in the house, Hermione takes the initiative, chopping celery and carrots to fry in the skillet. Beside her on the counter, a crackling radio plays. She’s not really listening to the Spice Girls crooning “Wannabe.” She’s waiting.
She wishes she’d thought of it earlier this morning, but she was so involved in getting the new potion started, she didn’t contact Mr. Weasley till later this afternoon. She also wishes she knew what form it would take, so she could give her parents warning. Then again, some warning was better than none.
“Mum, Dad?” They look up at her, smiling, each sprawled in an easy chair reading. “I’m practicing a new form of communication with other wizards, so don’t be startled if something silver bounds in.”
“Something silver?” Her father smiles, a bit boyishly. To him, the Wizarding world is one wonder after another - no dark spots. She can slide past him easily. Mum’s not so easily fooled, though, and since this morning, Hermione wonders how much her mother knows - if she’s been talking to Mr. Weasley via owl.
“A Patronus Charm,” Hermione explains, choosing her definition with care. “Sometimes, if you need to send a message, but you don’t want anyone else to read it, you send a Patronus with your message. Of course, you’re gambling on the possibility that the person you’re sending the message to is in the presence of someone you don’t want hearing the message, but it’s a little more secure.”
“It’s silver?”
Hermione backs up. “Everyone’s looks different, but they‘re all animals. When you learn to cast a Patronus, it can take the form of an animal that’s important to you. Something that has special meaning. I don‘t know what form Mr. Weasley‘s takes, so I didn‘t want you to take fright if a silver elephant or something runs through the living room.”
Dad smiles. “What form does yours take?”
“An otter. It’s quite playful.”
“An otter, you say?” Hector Granger lifts an eyebrow and looks significantly at Helen Granger. “What’s that say, dear?”
Hermione watches her mother fold her book against her stomach and look up at the ceiling, lost in thought.
“An otter,” she said quietly. “Very favorable among the Celts. A strong protector who helps others gain wisdom, who finds inner treasures or talents, faithfulness, and can recover from any crisis.” Her gaze fixes suddenly and sharply on Hermione, who feels exactly as she did as a naughty six-year-old girl. “They mean that you should enjoy life instead of enduring it.”
“And that, Hermione,” her father says fondly from his slumped position, “is where you get your head for detail.”
Mum smiles at him fondly. Hermione’s still watching her mother, wondering if she knows.
“Anyway, I’m putting the vegetables in. Dinner should be ready in an hour or so.”
But as she speaks, a small ball of silver light appears in the living room. Both of Hermione’s parents jump, but look up in interest. Hermione’s wand is already out reflexively, though she thinks she can pass it off as a necessary gesture for the little Patronus.
The silver blob moves, revealing the form of a dignified little weasel, who stands up on its hind legs to look at Hermione.
“Hello there, Hermione!” it cries out in Arthur Weasley’s jolly voice. “I’m happy to practice talking Patronuses with you any time. Just remember to call your Patronus over to you, give the message like you’re talking to that person, and say Expeditus Patronus - and then the name of the person you want it to go to. Send me one back to see if you’ve got the hang of it. Incidentally, are you coming to our little event soon? Molly and the kids are looking forward to seeing you!”
The little speech done, the weasel bows slightly, before vanishing as its silvery body into evaporating mist.
“Well!” her mother exclaims into the empty air. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”
“I like that Weasley bloke,” her father adds, grinning from the couch.
“What event did he mean, Hermione?” her mother asks. Something in Hermione wilts - she’d hoped her mother wouldn’t pick up on that.
“One of Ron’s older brothers is getting married in a few weeks,” she said carefully. “Since I’m a friend of the family, they’ve invited me over. I think Mrs. Weasley wants some help with the preparations, too.”
“Ah.” Hermione sees a speculative glint in her mother’s eye. “We’ll have to get you a new dress, you know.”
“Oh, Mum, I don’t…”
“Don’t ‘oh Mum’ me,” Helen smiles. “Your old dress robes won’t do for a wedding. We’ll get you all fitted out this weekend. Tottenham Court Road. What do you say?”
“All right,” Hermione gives up the fight before it begins. “No arguing about the cleavage, though.”
“Can’t hear you!” her father pipes up, holding his paperback to one of his ears.
“Right,” Helen smirks at her husband. “No arguing.” She pauses, with a look that catches Hermione off guard. It’s almost challenging, in a way. “Aren’t you going to Patronum Mr. Weasley back?”
Hermione bites back the reply that a private message is meant to be private, and regains a grip on her wand. She searches her memory - this is always a challenge. She can perform the charm all right, but it’s difficult to remember a really good moment that isn’t tinged with sorrow or regret in some way when one is facing down a fight with dementors. It’s even more difficult when her mother is staring at her, trying to figure out what she might have wanted to have a quiet word with one of the Weasleys about. Particularly when she did want to ask for some advice that she couldn’t in front of them.
Inside her, like an inflated ball rushing up through water, comes the feeling of absolute elation in her first year at Hogwarts. The morning after their fight with the mountain troll, when Harry motioned her to sit by them at breakfast, when Ron tossed her a roll with casual ease, as if she’d always been there. She’ll remember that feeling of acceptance within her like a golden bubble forever.
“Expecto Patronum!” It bursts out of her, with unaccustomed vigor, and the little otter wafts into being, swimming through the air in circles around her. It’s a strong one - she can feel the glowing warmth of it built from her memories. Before her parents’ wide-eyed expressions, she gestures the Patronus towards her, and it bobs over willingly.
“Hello Mr. Weasely!” she says to the otter. “Thank you for practicing the Patronus message with me - I think it will be very useful. I also have an interest in some of the charms you use every day in your job, and I might be looking for a bit more information on one. And yes, I’ll certainly be at Bill and Fleur’s wedding! Please give my love to everyone! Expeditus Patronum - Arthur Weasely!” she finished.
The otter turned a backflip, then swam off speedily in the direction that Mr. Weasley’s Patronus had come from.
“All right, then,” Hermione said, holding her mother’s eyes for a moment. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
Hermione returns to the kitchen stiffly, scoops up the vegetables, and begins to cook them in a little olive oil, cracked pepper, and dill. She thinks about the second cauldron steaming above her head, the new potion bubbling merrily beside the vat of Polyjuice she’s cooking up. Once the moon comes up again tonight, she’ll have to pour it into a bag and stuff it in the back of the refrigerator to freeze, praying that neither of her parents will find it.
Beside her on the counter, the radio chimes the top of the hour as the news program comes on. Hermione continues to stir the vegetables with a wooden spoon, listening carefully. There’s almost no point in reading The Daily Prophet anymore.
“Breaking news here in London - a grisly scene is unfolding as police discover five people dead in a Norbiton apartment. No official reports have been released yet, but an officer speaking on conditions of anonymity reported that the scene bore all the marks of a ritualistic murder and the possible use of explosives…”
Hermione reaches over and shuts off the radio.
She looks over at her parents, nose-deep in their books, and makes a decision.
Next