We Love Her

We love her, of course we do. We're as proud as any parents could be, but we still wonder sometimes what happened to our little girl. She was always so bright, forever buried in some book or other; she was never a very popular child, but she was our little Hermione. She turned 11, and suddenly she's finding out there's a whole world out there. One straight from the fairy stories she read to herself long before others her age began to read themselves. We were so proud of her. It didn't matter that there was already a part of her life we would never really understand, that she was changing faster than we could ever have imagined.

So we bought her all her new materials. Loaded her smart new trunk with all the things she needed for a life in a new world. We waved her off, watched her fuzzy hair, so much like her grandmother's, disappear through the barrier into a place we would never know.

At the end of the year, she came home, raving about her two best friends, her eyes alight with passion. But even then, after only a year away, we saw how much she had aged. More than just a year, more than we imagined it could be. We never knew until years later, exactly what had aged her so, we lived in blissful ignorance, assuming it was the magic in her.

She spent the summer worried out of her mind about her friend Harry. He never replied, not until near the end, anyway. She would sit at the kitchen table, staring out of the window, silently begging for this to be the day he replied, and every owl from Ron only increased her desperation. She'd told us about his family, we understood why she was so worried, and we never pressed her, never tried to pry her away from her silent vigil. He did write though, eventually, and she cried with relief that this boy she had known for only a year was ok. We knew then that she would be a great friend to anyone who deserved it.

She went back to that distant castle, sending us a constant stream of letters and gifts from the Wizarding world. We could tell how happy she was, simply by the tone of her words. We saved every one of them, and often we would sit reading them long into the night when we missed her the most.

When she returned at the end of her second year, she had aged further, her character became more cynical, but still we did not know the cause of it. Each year was the same, the stack of letters and gifts piling up more and more, and each time we saw her, she was even older, her once-bright eyes dulled by we knew-not-what. She returned at the end of fifth and sixth years in tears, telling us who had died, but never how or why. First, dear Harry's Godfather who they all cared about so much, and then Dumbledore. She cried less then, the aging in her eyes far greater than it had ever been before. We worried so much about her, but she had not yet told us what exactly was going on in her own separate world that we would never understand. She told us her school was closing; simply saying that it was because the headmaster was dead, even though we all knew there was more to it than that.

Two weeks into the summer, her and her two best friends, who meant more to her than even we could imagine, left on an adventure of some great significance, that we still did not know. We waved them off, late one summer night, scared by the looks of fierce determination in these three pairs of ancient eyes, which had seen too much for people so young. She promised she would explain, and we accepted it, because we had no choice but to trust her.

So we waved her off, on yet another adventure, but this time we didn't even know where she would be; we had no way to contact her, though she promised to write. And life moved on, just as it had every other time she went away, but this time our worries wore us down to the point of exhaustion. The occasional letter gave us no information other than that they were all ok, until one, telling us that they were coming home, and that we must not tell anyone we were going to be there. We still had no idea what they were doing, but agreed wholeheartedly. Anything to see our daughter again; it had been over a year since they left, and letters had been few and far between. She promised us in this letter, that everything would be explained when they arrived.

And they did arrive. World weary and old, so much older than anyone should be at that age. That night, they explained to us, everything that had happened. From the murder of Harry's parents, the evil wizard hell bent on 'fixing' the world, the war, the deaths, everything that had happened to them and we had not known about. We promised to protect her against everything, but this was something so much bigger than we ever imagined it could be. We couldn't even begin to imagine a life like that, and she'd been living it for eight years. Growing up in a world like that, dealing with things like that, and doing it all so far away from what she'd always known would be there for her, and weren't. We cried, that night; bitter tears of sorrow and regret, while three full grown children slept downstairs. They refused the beds we offered, so used to camping in tents and under the stars they could not imagine the simple luxury of beds.

The next morning, amongst all that misery, but there was one bright light that overshadowed them all; our dearest Hermione was getting married to Ron. Any parents would be worried that they were too young to be rushing into it, but one look in their wise, determined eyes, told us that they were ready, and that they needed it, a light among the shadows to give them something to hope for. So we gave them our heartfelt blessing, and whiled away the hours discussing weddings, and dates, stationary, dresses, venues; anything but the long lingering darkness that closed in around the house.

Early next morning, the attacked. We stood, close together; scared to death of something we didn't understand, watching in awe as these children - one we had known for her whole life, two we'd known since they were eleven - jumped into organised and well-practiced action. Ron, diving towards the fireplace and drawing his wand and a small bag of powder; Harry going methodically from window to window, spelling them to hold. And our Hermione, our dear, dear, Hermione, standing in wait, figure relaxed into a defensive stance, wand gripped firmly, the only movement, the steady rise and fall of her deep, calming breaths.

~Ron's rushed conversation into the fire~ ~The first crash on the front door~ ~The two almost-men calmly striding to join Hermione~ ~The front door giving way~ ~Dark figures with white masks~ ~The coloured flashes of magic filling the air~ ~The sight of three children we loved so much fighting fully grown men who were much more in numbers~ ~The men in black being forced back by those three half grown people~ ~The loud pops of people in robes appearing in the room and rushing to join the battle~ ~The men in black retreating and disappearing~

So quickly, the violent battle was over, and we stood together surrounded by strangers attending their wounded while other searched outside for who-knew-what. Hermione rushed over, the fire of battle still lighting her eyes in away we hadn't seen in years. We were never more proud of her than just then. Any other parents would be horrified to see their little girl fight in a war they could not protect her from, seeing her fight battles, hurting people, because she had to.

Harry simply stood, unmoving as others rushed around him. His eyes fixed on the splintered remains of the front door.

"Hogwarts." He said, one word, spoken quietly, but it stilled the whole room, "That's where they're going. Gather all our forces in the Great Hall. We need to prepare for this one. This will end tomorrow, I promise you that." And he walked through the broken hole in the wall and vanished, people around us nodding grimly before leaving, just as Harry had. Hermione hugged us both, before taking Ron's hand, collecting their few belongings, and disappearing. And we still stood there, surrounded by ruined furniture and a broken door, which a short man in blue robes fixed with a wave of his wand, before taking our hands before our home vanished. A second later, we reappeared in a massive room with the sky, clear and calm, shining above us. So this was Hogwarts, just as Hermione had described so many times.

The short man introduced himself as Flitwick, explaining in a high voice that we were not safe in our home; that we would be safer here than anywhere, that they were sorry it could not have been in better times, but the circumstances made it impossible.

So we watched in awe as strangers discussed war. Battle strategies and plans that could enable them to win; prevent Hogwarts being taken. And in the morning the black cloaked warriors came. And the Hall emptied of grim faced fighters, some even younger than our own child and her friends, some many years older, but all with the same aged wisdom and resigned determination shining in their eyes. All led by Harry, Ron and Hermione, as if they were the commanders of this great army.

And we stood, huddled together for comfort, while we heard the echoes of battle resounding, a loud scream, and silence. And still we stood when those who had left not long before, returned, bruised and wounded, carrying the dead and the seriously hurt. Hermione and Ron among the last to return, tear tracks running through the grime of war on their faces. And as soon as they stood in front of us, Hermione, our strong, brave, dearest Hermione, broke down, falling to her knees, burying her face in her hands as we wrapped her in our arms. And we held her, just as we had when she was a child, as she wept, violent sobs shaking her body, her cries the most desperately lonely sound we will ever hear. And we knew, without having to ask, that Harry was gone.