Chapter Text
It felt wrong…ringing the bell to my own childhood home. But I wasn’t welcome to walk in, even carrying the empty shoebox waiting to hold what was left of my belongings.
Through the fractalized glass of the front door, I saw the nearly shapeless figure of my dad approaching. He opened it, slowly…but didn’t greet me. He just stepped away and disappeared into the recesses of the home, leaving me to enter and shut the door behind me on my own.
I’d hoped he’d say hi…say my name…but I knew he wouldn’t.
Swallowing familiar tears down, I quietly climbed the stairs and walked to the end of the hall; pushing open the door to the room that hadn’t changed since I’d turned fourteen.
Lilac walls, grayish-white furniture straight from the magazines of the mid-2000’s…muggle books, a muggle cd player…
My ragged childhood stuffy “Mister-Mister,” looking bedraggled and haunted, propped up on the corner shelf like some patient guardian, waiting for my return.
And hanging over my bed, the large cork board; every inch covered in push-pinned, moving photographs of my years at Hogwarts, various ribboned awards, postcards, and newspaper clippings from the Daily Prophet…
The Harry and Ron that jovially threw their arms around the Hermione in those photos…I wondered what they might say if they knew we didn’t even speak a decade later?
The tears I’d managed to swallow at the bottom of the stairs threatened to overcome me, so I turned away from the corkboard, slid into a sitting position against the foot of my bed, and withdrew my wand.
“Diminuedo.” I silently ordered, tracing the spell pattern with my wand in the direction of a bookshelf. It shrunk to four centimeters, leaving a dark profile on the wall behind where the sun hadn’t touched the paint.
“Wingardium Leviosa.” I pointed the wand at the pictures on the wall…floating them overhead before shrinking them down and setting them on the carpeted floor and then floated them into the shoe box next to me.
Focus on the work. I told myself. It’s just another task. You’re not about to go silly over something simple like packing. You’re being ridiculous.
A tear did manage to escape when I diminished the size of my corkboard to the size of a postage stamp…but I was able to swipe away the offending sign of emotion quick enough I could almost convince myself it hadn’t happened. Setting my jaw with forced resolve, I began shrinking the remaining furniture around me and placing them all into the shoebox.
Finally, all that was left was my bed, the blue knitted blanket at the foot of the bed covering the accidental scorch-mark I left on my floral duvet. I remembered knitting that blanket at a speed that nearly gave me carpal tunnel.
Had I been fifteen? Sixteen?
Not bothering to unmake the bed, I shrunk it while dully watching the lacy bed skirt flutter like a scared bird before the doll-house sized furniture zoomed into the nearly full shoe box.
Just as I was about to gently place the lid on the shoebox, I noticed that since removing my bed, I had revealed a dusty tin that had previously hidden under the bedframe.
Picking up the tin and blowing off the dust, I recognized the castle and formation of green-kilted soldiers on either side of a fountain, all impressively set against the metallic golden sky.
It was an old biscuit tin…one that sent a strong pang of nostalgia and something like pain through my chest.
Taking in and releasing a slow breath, I gently opened the lid and found the familiar envelopes…his scrawly handwriting in ink that hadn’t faded even a bit after all those years.
My fingers trembled a little as I untied the deep-purple ribbon binding the envelopes together. Then, I was pulling out the very first letter he ever sent…unfolding the paper…
“Dear Hermione,
The only thing better than coming home and seeing family after a long time away, is finding your letter waiting for me.
Karkaroff wasn’t too bad on the trip back, but I didn’t get the first helpings at meals and wasn’t given seconds. And Karkaroff refused to speak to me. So, you don’t have to worry about that anymore.
As for what I plan to do this summer - between training in Quidditch and helping around the farm - I don’t think I’ll have time to do anything you might consider fun.
Actually, can you keep a secret?
Since spending time with you at Hogwarts…seeing how other people live…I’m thinking of quitting Quidditch. I do love the game, and love flying…but…
I just don’t think I’m built for the crowds, all the pressure from coaches and men like Karkaroff. Even one tiny little mistake is met with punishments and threats. It is no way to live.
It is so strange. Before the national team and the world cup, there was nothing I wanted more than to leave the farm and never tend to another plant again. But now?
Now I feel as if I can breathe easier with the familiar scents of the lavender, roses, and sunflowers of my mother’s farm.
Perhaps in my next letter I will send you some dried lavender!
In your next letter, tell me what books you are reading. I had so much fun listening to your opinions and I miss learning things from you like the history of your school’s “sorting hat,” and all about Gamp’s Law of Elemental transfiguration.
And of course, please tell me how your summer is going!
Your Friend,
V.”
Memories like heartbeats thudded through me; my mind oscillating between recalling the girlish joy of a first crush, and the adult sorrow of mourning the lost innocence of youth.
I folded the letter and pressed it to my face, inhaling the scent of old biscuits and lavender from the tin.
Viktor.
He had sent some lavender in his next letter…I remembered bringing it with me in a little sachet as if it were some sort of lucky charm.
When I lost it at the end of that summer just before going back to Hogwarts I was absolutely crushed. Crushed and embarrassed, so I never wrote to Viktor asking for a replacement.
Gingerly replacing the letter back into its envelope, I reached into the tin for the second letter when my bedroom door suddenly opened; the glowering face of my father looking for me.
We simply stared silently at each other, a stalemate of unspoken blame.
“I’m going out.” He finally spoke with a gruff, bland voice. “Lock up after yourself.”
He stepped away before I could reply.