Safety Net

Every day is the same when looking straight ahead; caught in the safety of routine.

~*~*~

Her father, a mug of tea perched on the arm of his favourite chair, is supposedly watching the late evening news on the BBC. His eyes, however, are already half-closed, a result of yet another early-morning start at the dental surgery.

Her mother, her dark brown hair pulled back into a haphazard bun from which several tendrils are escaping, sits in the other armchair, studying the Times' crossword with a determined gleam in her eyes.

It's a familiar scene, one that should make Hermione feel secure and safe, as though everything is the same as it always has been. Curled up in her habitual corner on the couch, she takes a deep breath, willing the tension in her spine to drain away as she exhales.

It doesn't work.

She has only been home for two days, but she already knows that nothing will ever be the same. How can she sit and watch television with her father or do the crossword with her mother as though Lord Voldemort is just a silly name made up to scare children at bedtime? As though Cedric isn't dead? As though Harry wasn't almost killed?

She kisses her parents goodnight when the news bulletin is over, deciding to spare them any more of her brooding. Her mother looks at her closely, her expression one of both sympathy and curiosity, and Hermione's heart twists a little bit more. She knows that both her parents are worried about her, but she just can't talk about what happened. Not yet.

Dumbledore had sent a long letter to her parents the day after the Tri-Wizard Tournament, something for which she is very grateful. Her parents are both sensible people, long recovered from the shock of having a witch in the family, but a young man murdered and their daughter's best friend abducted and tortured were events that would have pushed their acceptance to its limit. Thankfully, though, they had obviously been reassured by whatever they'd been told by Hogwarts' Headmaster. They had fussed over her when they'd met the train - hugging her much harder and for far longer than they normally did - but they hadn't bombarded her with questions she couldn't possibly answer.

Hermione gives her mother a quick smile, then looks away. She knows that those unasked questions aren't going to stay unasked indefinitely.

After washing her face and cleaning her teeth, she finds herself listlessly prowling the confines of her bedroom. Her room provides something of a sanctuary, surrounded by her books and her school things that she is yet to put away, but she still feels trapped. Drawing back the curtain, her eyes search the moonless sky once more in vain. She has been home for two days, but she had yet to see Hedwig's familiar outline winging toward her house.

Letting the curtains drop back into place, she rubs her tired eyes with the back of one hand, then changes into her cotton pyjamas, inwardly cringing at their childishness. Too many flowers, too much lace. As she climbs into bed, she hears a light tapping on her door. “Hermione?” It's her mother. “May I come in?”

“Of course.”

Hermione tugs the sheet up over herself and watches with interest as her mother wanders about the room in almost the same fashion as she herself had done only minutes earlier. Finally, after smiling at the most recent photograph of Hermione with Harry and Ron, her mother turns toward the bed. “You're very quiet, sweetheart.”

“I'm all right.”

Her mother sits on the edge of the bed, smoothing her hand over the duvet cover. “It's very nice to have you home.”

Hermione forces a smile, dismayed to feel the pinprick of tears behind her eyes. “I'm happy to be home.”

“You don't seem very happy to be here.” Her mother's voice is gently teasing. “Of course, your father and I knew the day would come when you'd be too grown up to enjoy hanging about with us-”

“Oh, it's not that.” The prickling behind her eyelids worsens. “It's just that I - it's just that -“

“It's all right, sweetheart, you don't have to talk about it.” Her mother's dark brown gaze sweeps over her face. “Professor Dumbledore told us what happened at school.”

He didn't tell you everything, Hermione thinks unhappily, avoiding her mother's eyes. He wouldn't have told you that I'm so frightened something awful is going to happen to Harry that I can't bear to think of it. And he certainly wouldn't have told you that I made an utter idiot out of myself by kissing Harry goodbye, or that I'm angry at myself for wasting time worrying about looking like an idiot when there's so much more important things to worry about.

Her mother brushes the hair out of Hermione's eyes, interrupting her silent tirade. “It's Saturday tomorrow. Why don't we pop into the city and do a spot of shopping?” She casts an eye over Hermione's faded jeans, folded neatly on her study desk. “You could do with some more clothes.”

Hermione bites her lip, suddenly gripped with the ridiculous urge to laugh. She can barely get through her usual daily routine; the thought of shopping for clothes when Lord Voldemort might be preparing to launch an attack on the wizarding world is completely ludicrous. Besides, she wants to send another owl to Harry tomorrow, even though she has nothing new to say to him apart from her usual plea of `please be careful!'.

At that thought, the strangled laughter dies in her throat and her eyes blur with the tears she's been fighting for the last three days. Reaching out a hand, she gropes gratefully at the tissue her mother seems to have produced from thin air. “I'm so sorry, Mum. It's just that - ” She gulps, trying to stop her face from feeling as though it might crack into a thousand pieces.

Her mother's fingertips are cool against her forehead. “You know, sometimes when we're very unhappy, it seems as though nothing will ever be right again.”

She stares at her mother, trying very hard not to sniffle.

“And sometimes, when we're very unhappy, all we want to do is hide from the world and everyone in it and hope that when we stick our heads out again, everything will be back to normal.”

Hermione lets out a shuddering breath that is as much a sigh of relief as it is an attempt to stem her tears. She understands, she thinks hazily as she leans against the reassuring warmth of her mother's shoulder. “I just feel so useless.”

She feels the brush of her mother's lips against her hair. “You will be many things in your life, Hermione Granger, but useless will never be one of them.” Her mother draws back and gives her a coaxing smile. “Come on, let's have a day of shopping tomorrow. We might even have something naughty to eat for lunch while we're at it.”

Hermione feels a tiny grin tug at her own lips. Her mother's idea of `something naughty' would no doubt be sugar-free sweets. At least that was one thing that would never change. “That would be very nice.”

Her mother stands to leave, then turns to look at Hermione over her shoulder. “Don't you normally go shopping for Harry's birthday present around this time? We could do that too, if you liked?”

Her mother's expression is serene, her voice soothing, and Hermione feels the knot in her stomach begin to unravel as if by magic. Not for the first time, she wonders if she really is the only witch in the family. “Thank you,” she murmurs, giving her mother her real smile in days. “I'd like that very much.”

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