Chapter Text
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
The words, black against white, mock.
Helen Granger’s fingers stall, staring at wet ink on paper and feels a small headache creep behind her eyes. It has been only a few weeks since her memories were returned; and sometimes a recollection will come unbidden but not unwelcome.
This time, in this memory Hermione is seven years old and already two weeks into the new school year. She recalls how her little girl had been so excited to begin second year of primary, reading every appropriate level book she could get her hands on during the summer (and some extra for pleasure reading). She can picture Hermione’s beaming, gape-toothed smile as she waved good-bye on the school steps before turning to enter the building, that narrow back eclipsed by a brand new over-sized pink book bag bouncing along with her pigtails with each jubilant stomp of her little feet.
Helen also remembers that the smile faded, those buoyant, big steps whittled down to a timid, quiet walk as the year proceeded . . . with a missing monogramed pencil case; then a broken lunch pail, a heavy, sodden pink book bag smelling of piss because it mysteriously ended up in the toilet; and a series of bumps, bruises, and scrapes that Hermione never had a satisfactory explanation for.
But – as heartbreaking as that was, as useless as school administration had been – what she remembers most clearly was when her strong, strong daughter came home after two weeks of abuse with two wads of gum snagged in her hair, calmly found the scissors to offer it over with a large grin on that little freckled face, saying, “I think I would like a trim, Mummy.”
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
I would like to cordially invite you
Deciding to let the memories play out behind her eyes isn’t difficult even as she contemplates the – mostly – blank page before her. She unexpectedly lost her memories once. To have them again is just as unexpected and a genuine gift she doesn’t want to squander.
So . . . she continues to reminisce, now on a nine year old Hermione, slightly taller and thinner than her seven year old self with a fuller mouth of teeth and a thicker head of hair. She liked to plait the thick mass back then even though, by the end of the day, much of it would come free – a tangled, riotous mess. At that age, she had acquired a deep scar on the back of her right thigh that was pale and shiny and felt like the thinnest, smoothest suede stretched over a little hollow.
At age nine, Hermione – her sweet baby, always struggling to make and keep friends – had finally seemed to fashion for herself a little niche within the community of classmates. Helen remembers two little girls whom had come to visit and play several times that year – Jennifer and Elizabeth. The girls didn’t seem phased by the strange happenings that sometimes occurred around Hermione, her infrequent – but sometimes explosive – bouts of, then unknown, accidental magic.
Hermione had marked Elizabeth’s birthday on the calendar and had found a gift for her friend months ahead of schedule. As the date approached, she became more and more excited about the slumber party Elizabeth had persuaded her parents to hold. A week before the proposed party, Elizabeth arrived at school with a stack of labeled lavender envelopes, taking care to distribute them at the end of the day to all of the girls in class.
All of the girls . . . except Hermione.
I would like to cordially invite you and your mother to my home
Helen wasn’t even aware. Hermione never mentioned it. She had come home from school that day, just as bright and cheery as ever, chattering on about her current literary obsession. Later, she would come to Helen, asking for help wrapping Elizabeth’s gift; and she brought the gift to school the next day. On the night of the party, Helen received a call from Elizabeth’s mother apologizing profusely for her daughter’s oversight It’s just the other girls don’t really know Hermione but I told Lizzie, “Lizzie, you don’t exclude a friend because of the thoughtless opinions of your other friends.” And I insisted that Hermione come to the party – if you’ll allow. She’ll have so much fun and we have more than enough food and cake to go around. The girls are playing board games right now, and I know a clever girl like Hermione will be a smash!
Helen remembers being dazed and confused as she turned down the stove flame and hung up the phone. She had called Hermione from the dining room where she had her books and folders and notebooks out studying, sat her dear daughter down then knelt in front of her to explain the phone call she just received.
Hermione had not quailed nor cried as Helen had anticipated. No, her girl looked her straight in the eye and said, “I don’t need friends who don’t like me for who I am or who will turn their backs on me because other people tell them to. I would much rather stay home with you and Dad watching old movies on the telly.”
It wasn’t the first time Helen had felt humbled by her daughter’s strength and character.
It wouldn’t be the last time either.
I would like to cordially invite you and your mother to my home to have tea with me next Tuesday, May 25th at 2:00 pm.
A family meeting had been called that night after dinner, before movies and the telly. Helen and Richard had told Hermione in no uncertain terms that she needed to be honest with them about the hurtful things as well as the fun, happy things that might occur in school and out. They couldn’t help her cope with the bullying if they didn’t know the bullying was happening.
And she did begin telling them; and Helen and Richard were beyond thankful for their daughter’s honesty because as Hermione grew older, the bullying became less overt but no less damaging. Hermione told them when she was accosted in the washroom, when her clothes were taken from her locker during physical education, when someone dumped her notebooks in the fountain, when horrible, sexual epithets were written in permanent marker on her desk.
Helen often found that the aching empty helplessness watching Hermione go through this kind of torture day after day stole much of her spirit; but her baby never lost that smile, never bowed her head or changed. She would tell them about it all, take whatever limited comfort Helen and Richard could give, and return to whatever business eleven year old Hermione was occupied with at the time without any sign that she was bothered.
When Hermione received her Hogwarts letter nearly a year later and a (real live!) witch and wizard visited their home to explain how unique and blessed their daughter was (“It’s like the very best of dreams, darling! You’re going to have so many adventures!”), Helen had tucked away the part of her that shriveled at the idea of sending her baby away to Scotland – into an entirely separate previously unknown world! - most of the year to focus, instead, on this new opportunity. Hermione would finally have a safe place to shine in every aspect. She would meet other children just like her, just as gifted, just as magical.
She wouldn’t be dismissed as a pariah because her seatmate started exhaling bubbles in class while talking about sea life or because the light fixtures exploded into cotton candy when she could smell it through the open classroom window as a vendor passed by.
Perhaps, Helen thinks as the words on the paper taunt her, we were all entirely too optimistic.
I would like to cordially invite you and your mother to my home to have tea with me next Tuesday, May 25th at 2:00 pm. o’clock to discuss various matters, past and present.
“Mum!” The shout is accompanied by muffled footsteps coming down the stairs, the pace just shy of hurried. Hermione appears in the peripheral, looking about then spotting Helen at the dining table with her paper and pen (which she immediately flips, hiding the message drafted there).
Helen smiles at her daughter even as she catalogs the tell-tale signs of stress – pale face, a subtle quiver of the teeth, the restless fidget of palms and fingers, the dark shadows around her eyes that no magic charm or make-up can completely cover. She and Richard have forbidden Hermione from silencing her room at night. The nightmares always come, and they want to be there to provide comfort.
“Leaving for your meeting?” She stands to embrace her girl-now-more-a-woman. Regular, varied meals have helped with the emaciation. Hermione’s face is more rounded than when she appeared on their porch in Sydney, her bones not quite as sharp. Her hair doesn’t clog the shower drain anymore with the sheer volume that would daily shed.
Hermione nods, the motion a little too fast to be completely natural. “I should be back by half four.”
“You have your phone? And your wand?”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Of course, mum.” She pulls it out of her beaded bag, with the illegal extension charm.
“Well, then,” Helen lowers her voice, leans forward to kiss Hermione’s forehead, “have a good session, love.”
For a moment, Hermione’s arms hug her. Hard. With fingers digging into her shoulders painfully. Helen doesn’t say anything, simply squeezes her baby girl just as tightly in a silent I love you.
I would like to cordially invite you and your mother to my home to have tea with me next Tuesday, May 25th at 2:00 pm. o’clock to discuss various matters, past and present. recent events.
Helen stares at the few words, the many scratchings. Hermione has been gone for nearly an hour and will be nearly an hour still. She rubs her weary eyes and allows herself a moment to actually feel the rage she has built up and buried for years now.
Before Hermione left for Hogwarts that first year, before it was even decided that she would be going (she remembers the days of long whispered, hissed, and soft-spoken half-arguments, half-debates she and Richard had engaged in when Hermione wasn’t around), the three of them had sat down for a serious discussion.
If they were going to do this, if they were going to let their daughter go away into this new world so mysterious and different from anything they were familiar with, there were going to be some hard and fast rules of engagement.
Firstly, she and Richard would be partners in Hermione’s magical education: they would read all of her textbooks, and Hermione would be required to share and explain whatever spells, extra subjects, customs, traditions, etc. she learned about.
Secondly, Hermione would write to them every day while at school. No matter what. (The only exception to this rule was when she had been petrified during second year). When she made friends, they wanted to not only know about these children but their parents as well so that they could – during hols and/or the summer – reach out and make connections with magical families to further foster Hermione’s dual life.
Thirdly, Hermione was to continue being honest with them of any sort of negative happenings, no matter how disturbing; because they – as parents – had already seen their child victimized time and again by non-magical people. And though they were optimistic this wasn’t going to again devolve into that type of situation, they were also reasonably sure that every fantasy held some measure of unknown darkness.
Hermione had excitedly agreed to all of their rules; and after their first – amazing – stint in Diagon Alley, after reading all of Hermione’s textbooks along with her (as well as a very helpful recommended book by a previous Muggle parent The Magical World and Your Magical Child: A Muggle’s Guide), and helping her decide what to pack from home, it was time to make their way to the Hogwarts Express to say “see you later” (Helen could not stomach anything else).
Helen remembers that day as if it just happened, as if she and Richard had just returned home an hour ago from the hustle and bustle of the railroad platform. She can still see Hermione’s little face, surrounded by her chaotic chestnut hair, peering at them from behind the window, a delighted smile on her young face.
Helen remembers feelings of excitement and hope but also anxiety and helplessness, of it’s too soon and what if she likes that world better than this one. She remembers feeling lost. She remembers feeling worried.
She wonders briefly if there’s been a time since the doctor said “pregnant” that she hasn’t been worried.
It was a mild balm to the stress that Hermione had always been rather obedient, so it was not really a surprise when an owl tapped at the kitchen window as she washed dinner plates that first night (crying into the soap bubbles at the idea of having an unexpectedly empty nest at the ripe age of thirty-nine).
That first letter was a five foot long catalog of every wonder she had experienced since boarding the Hogwarts Express; and while the entire account was enchanting, magical, filled with a palpable run-on sentence type of excitement littered with exclamation points, in the midst of it all was a passage - three paragraphs long – which had worried and puzzled she and her husband for years.
It began: And I met another boy while searching for Trevor the toad, a beautiful boy who memorized the First Year Book of Spells too! His name is Draco Malfoy and I do believe I will marry him someday.
While there was much about this boy’s wit and charisma, an entire paragraph and a half was dedicated to the color and nuance of his eyes. There had been other people she had been introduced to, other magical children just like her, but those – including the “famous” Harry Potter – had only garnered a passing mention. This Draco Malfoy had made quite an impression; and given that Hermione had never entertained even a crush before, eschewed the notion of romance really, she and her husband had felt put on notice.
The days went by in a strange time vacuum that seemed at once quick and intolerably slow. Each letter was a lifeline to sanity as well as increased worry. It became apparent early on that Hermione spent much of her time outside of class alone. Mentions of the Malfoy boy started out heavy and frequent but tapered off after Hermione wrote, “I am not certain what happened or if I have done something to offend, but Draco Malfoy no longer seems interested in speaking to me in or out of classes.”
Her friendships with Harry and Ron began shortly after – Helen would never again forget the horror of being woken in the middle of the night by floo to be told her daughter had been attacked by a mountain troll. It was then she realized fully that their lives had morphed from perfectly normal slice-of-life to high fantasy where anything was possible and probable.
It was a lesson that proved true over and over again as every letter came, detailed with accounts of hexes, curses, potions “accidents”, pure-blood versus Muggle-blood ideology and slurs, magical criminals and prison breaks, people that could turn into animals and werewolves, and the revival of dark wizards that were thought long dead and defeated.
The death of Cedric Diggory had seen she and Richard talking of pulling Hermione out; but their daughter refused even the idea of such a thing. She needed to be there for Harry, she said. She needed to be there “till the end, no matter what.”
That was when she knew her baby girl wasn’t just a witch, she was a soldier. So they reluctantly decided to put their faith in Headmaster Dumbledore to keep the school – and Hermione – safe while the pride and worry remained, a heavy weight lodged in the vicinity of their stomachs.
As things became worse within the wizarding world, Hermione’s letters became shorter, more focused, often ending with an uncharacteristic “I love you both so much” or “You are never far from my thoughts”, and – more alarming – “keep safe and floo to the Burrow if anything strange happens.”
During that time, Draco Malfoy’s name began appearing again; but rather than more stories of bullying and general prattiness, Hermione expressed a selfless sort of worry for him, citing that he was paler than usual, quiet and isolated, stressed and thin.
Helen had simply been thankful something other than tormenting her daughter was keeping the boy preoccupied.
And then Headmaster Dumbledore was dead, Hermione’s heart broken and eyes haunted. She didn’t talk to them for days while she was home. She began hiding the Daily Prophet from them.
The next thing they knew, they were childless and moving to Australia.
I would like to cordially invite you and your mother to my home to have tea with me next Tuesday, May 25th at 2:00 pm. o’clock to discuss various matters, past and present. recent events.
Sincerely,
Helen Granger
No.
Sincerely, Respectfully, Regards,
Helen Granger
“Alright there, love?”
Helen jumps in her seat, startled, to find her husband – sweaty and dirty from unpacking and cleaning the new office. She can smell him from where she sits, several feet away. “You startled me.” She reaches up to remove her reading glasses before standing to meet his kiss. “Everything coming together?”
He smirks in that roguish way that always makes her breath catch. “We should be ready to open in a month or so.” His brown eyes dart down to the sheet of paper and numerous inked scratchings. “Still at it, eh? Are you certain you want to do this?”
“It’s just an invitation. They can always decline.”
Richard plucks a nearby chair, turns it and straddles the seat, forearms resting across the back. “The question is: Will you accept a declination?”
She stares at him in answer, and he sighs. “Helen . . . Darling, what exactly are you hoping to accomplish?”
Helen casts a nervous glance toward the front door, knowing Hermione will be home soon. “I’m not sure. I just need to talk to him . . . to understand.”
His hand finds hers, his thumb coasting over her knuckles. “Understand what?”
The front doorknob jiggles with someone’s keys, the door opens then slams shut. Hermione’s voice is a soft call as she announces, “I’m home.”
They can hear the tears in her daughter’s tone, the slight quiver at the end of her words. Hermione always cries at these meetings.
Helen meets Richard’s eyes directly, her intentions firm. “Everything.”
Mr. Malfoy,
I invite you and your mother to tea next Tuesday, May 25th at 2o’clock to discuss recent events.
Dr. Helen Granger