The Pressure of a Summer Return

Hermione Jean Granger clenched her fists on the vanity, knuckles white against the wood. "I'll be out in a minute, Mum!" she called, forcing cheerfulness into her voice. It was a thin veneer over the simmering frustration that threatened to boil over. She had only been back in Lavenham for less than a week and already was fed up with her parents' antics. Amid the chaos of her fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hermione had forgotten how dreadful it was to be back in her hometown with her parents for the summer holiday.

Even the terminology was a bone of contention: Hermione, for example, did not regard Lavenham as "home" anymore; Hogwarts and the Wizarding World were "home" for the young witch. However, her parents insisted on referring to Hermione as "home for the summer holiday" and took deep offence every time she corrected them.

As she stared into her own weary eyes, Hermione's breath came in short, sharp bursts as she gripped the edge of the vanity, the cool wood pressing into her palms. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply, trying to calm the storm raging inside her. Her eyes, shadowed by dark circles, reflected the sleepless nights and haunting memories of her fourth year at Hogwarts. Every glance in the mirror reminded her of Cedric's lifeless body and the terrifying return of Voldemort.

Hermione had been so relieved to see her parents when they picked her up at Kings Cross Station. Her fourth year at the school for witches and wizards had ended in a horrible tragedy, and Hermione could think of nothing more comforting than her parents' warm embrace.

The warmth of her parents' embrace at King's Cross had quickly faded, replaced by the cold formality that now characterised their conversations. Each awkward silence and forced smile reminded Hermione of the emotional chasm that separated them. Any talk of the complex feelings raging through Hermione's heart and mind immediately became awkward, highlighting the emotional void between her and her parents and causing undue worry.

Hermione was simply not the same woman who had left for Hogwarts last year. And it was because of that fact, paired with the unresolved issues from their arguments last summer, that Hermione was absolutely miserable. Her stomach twisted at the thought of trying to explain her turmoil to her parents. How could she articulate the nightmares, the constant fear, the sight of Cedric's death replaying in her mind? How could she explain Cedric's death without worrying them? Even more simply, how could she explain having had a front-row seat for Cedric's death and the return of He Who Must Not Be Named by viewing her best friend's thoughts in a Pensieve? How could two such scientifically obsessed people understand such complex magic? Honestly, how could anyone, Wizard or Muggle, understand what she saw?

Ron Weasley was truly the only person who would understand what was going on in her head. While they were Harry's memories they viewed, there was still a difference between them all. Ron was the only one who could understand the added layers of complexity that the voyeuristic elements brought to the situation, just as Harry had his own set of emotions about the physical experience.

Even the "typical teenager" experiences Hermione had during her fourth year were nearly impossible to share with her parents. Within minutes of getting in the car for the drive from Kings Cross Station to Lavenham, Bert and Mary started asking Hermione all kinds of questions about the Yule Ball and Viktor Krum, causing Hermione to immediately regret sending them pictures of the event.

"How old is Viktor?"

"Where is he from again?"

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"What about Ron?"

"What about Harry?"

"Do you fancy him?"

"Does he fancy you?"

"How are his marks in school?"

"What are his parents like?"

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"How did he ask you to the dance?"

"But really, is he your boyfriend?"

Additionally, when they finally arrived home that night, Hermione found a sex education book wrapped in brown paper lying on her bed with a note from her mother to "feel free to ask any questions." Hermione would rather have to sit through an awkward sex education class with her least favourite professor, Professor Snape, than ask her mother anything about the deed. She could even picture it in her mind: sitting in the dark, damp, cold dungeon with bubbling potions all around her; Snape at the board, writing 'vocabulary' words in his tight, elaborate handwriting; students randomly chuckling and Snape growing angrier and angrier before calling them all names and assigning them all detentions.

Thankfully, Hermione had managed to dodge her mother's questioning about the book for the few days she had been home, but Mary was quite persistent. Hermione contemplated writing a scientific research paper on sexual intercourse to give her mother but thought it might be slightly too cheeky. Taking one more set of three deep breaths, Hermione pulled her bushy hair back in a quick, messy plait and walked towards the sound of her mother banging around in the kitchen.

"What on earth are you doing?" Hermione said, hoping her voice sounded more amused than annoyed.

"Baking!" Mary Granger declared, her voice too bright. Hermione noticed the tightness around her mother's eyes, the way she avoided direct eye contact.

"You don't bake," Hermione said, filling her water glass from the tap and flopping down at the table.

"She does now," Bert Granger said with an exasperated wink.

"Oh?" Hermione smirked. "Is that right? You're a baker now?"

"What is it to you?"

"I distinctly remember the summer we had to repaint the kitchen because of the scorch marks from your attempt at homemade biscuits," Hermione said.

"It was the recipe that was wrong - in Fahrenheit instead of Celsius - not me," Mary scowled. "Nope, not my fault in the least."

"Sure, dear," Bert said, winking at Hermione. "So, Hermione. How's life?" Bert Granger's question was casual, but his eyes searched hers for reassurance.

Hermione felt the weight of his expectation, the need to maintain the facade of a normal summer. "Oh, it was fine," she said, her smile tight. "A lot of hard work, but I think my marks should be decent."

"Of course," Bert said. "But we already know that. You're brilliant!"

"Thanks, Dad," Hermione forced a smile. She knew she'd have to say something to satiate them for the immediate future. Hermione took a deep breath, mentally plotting out the bare minimum of what she should tell them.

"This year was quite different, what with the Triwizard Tournament and all. I wrote to you about it, right?"

"Yes, your friend Harry was in it, right?" Bert asked.

"Yes," Hermione said. "But that was the thing - he shouldn't have been. He didn't enter himself. Someone else put his name into the competition without his consent. He was much too young and inexperienced to have been able to compete on his own, so a lot of my free time was spent trying to help him."

"Did someone put his name in as a joke?" Mary asked, trying to sift the flour into a mixing bowl but getting it all over the counter instead.

"No, it turned out to be a bit more nefarious," Hermione said. "A man had impersonated one of our professors. He was the one who put Harry's name into the competition in hopes that he would be injured or killed. He was able to circumvent all of the safeguards to ensure students like Harry didn't enter the tournament."

"If Harry didn't want to compete, why did they still make him?" Bert asked.