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i.
Christmas Eve, 2010
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, save in the study.
Ever since the start of her career ten years ago, Hermione Granger-Weasley had sworn a few things – amongst others, never to compromise her ideals and values, never to take bribes, and never to be a total Scrooge Ebenezer and work on the most sacred of holidays. Especially Christmas.
Hermione’s friends and family were all celebrating the holiday with great gusto. For the extended Weasley family, encompassing the French connection, the Potters, and her own little Weasley-Granger branch of the tree, that traditionally meant a sleepover at The Burrow for all the children, while the adults feasted and got happily drunk. And yes, at this time her Rose and her Hugo were both at The Burrow under the watchful eye of Granny Weasley, and her darling Ron had sloped off after dinner for a pub crawl with the usual suspects; Charlie, George, and Harry.
The Victorian mantel clock over the fireplace chimed eleven.
Hermione looked up from her work over at the clock – a gift from her boss – and sighed. She told herself she hadn’t (yet) broken any of her promises in pursuit of her career in the Ministry of Magic, though she’d come close here and there over the years. But beavering away at eleven on Christmas Eve, that’s rather pushing it, no? She’d reasoned to herself that the Eve didn’t count, she would be with her family on Christmas Day, and knew it was the flimsiest of excuses. But her work in the Ministry’s Office of Wizarding Law was so important; Hermione’s portfolio of pending projects covered everything from legislative reviews to periodic reports to subject matter advisory to both prosecution and defence of upcoming Wizengamot court cases.
Hermione sighed as she stretched and looked at the mountain of files on her writing desk. I love the work, but I don’t really want to be here. I want… I want…
A flash of green spell-light filled the room. Hermione’s head whipped around. Is it me, or did the fireplace just light up? Her hand shot quickly to her wand lying on the desktop. “Is anyone there?” she called out.
“Me,” piped up a familiar voice instantly.
And three-year-old Hugo Granger-Weasley came round the sofa, his thumb in his mouth, all big liquid brown eyes and freckles under a messy shock of light auburn-brown hair.
“Hugo?! Sweetheart, how did you…” Hermione stared. “Did you just come out of the Floo?!”
“Yah,” said Hugo. He dragged his “blanky” behind him, the ragged RSPCA scarf that had once been Hermione’s, which he’d adopted as his security blanket.
“All by yourself?!” Hermione’s voice went up several octaves.
“Yah,” Hugo said again matter-of-factly.
Hermione’s head whirled with emotions; terror, anger, utter confusion. “Oh my God, how did you… wasn’t anyone… how did you even reach the powder jar… what address did you…”
“I said, ‘I wanna go Hugo Granger-Weasley, home, mummy, please’,” said Hugo.
I have to hand it to Percy, the Floo Network routing really isn’t what it used to be, thought Hermione. Back in the old days that sort of direction could have sent him anywhere!
With three-year-old imperturbability, Hugo put a chubby fist on her knee. “C’n I come up?”
“Of course, Hugo, sweetheart, come here.” She helped Hugo climb into her lap. Her son immediately snuggled into Hermione’s body. He was a warm comforting ball of childlike trust in her arms, despite his increasing size and weight; she gave him a squeeze and pressed a kiss into his messy head.
Hugo wriggled round so one eye could peer out at the stacks of reports on the desk, and he gravely inspected the quills and inkpots with his thumb in his mouth. “Whatcha doing mummy?”
“Um… Work,” Hermione replied. Feeling judged by the silence with which this was received, she added, “Dull and boring I know, but mummy has to do it.”
“Don’t you wanna play with Granny, an’ Rose, an’ Unca George, an’ Louis, an’ ‘ily, an’ daddy?”
“Of course I do,” said Hermione honestly. “Did you play with them just now?” Did the kids have a fight? Is that why he’s here? The part of her that wasn’t focused totally on her son curled up on her lap right now was snorting and rearing like an enraged hippogriff, wanting to dive back into the fireplace right now, Floo to the Burrow and yell at every single adult idiot in the house until she found out just HOW did they manage to let a three-year-old toddler – her son! – that they were supposed to be looking after slip through their hands and into the Floo network apparently completely unnoticed.
“Yes, we played toys, an’ painting, an’ with fire, an’ C’mas pudding.”
“Ate Christmas pudding,” corrected Hermione automatically. “And played with fireworks, I presume.” She subscribed to the idea that speaking properly to toddlers and avoiding baby talk helped them develop language skills faster. Hermione thought Rose was an excellent example that bore out the theory and recommended it to everyone, but as Ginny put it, with a thoroughly-sarcastic roll of her eyes, ‘they’re your children, they were born with books in their hands’. And that appeared to be the general consensus, to her frustration. “That sounds great, Hugo. Did you have fun?”
“Yah.” Hugo paused for a long minute, staring at nothing, as toddlers do.
“Then?” Hermione prompted.
“Then we went bed, but I wanted mummy.”
“Well, I’m here, sweetheart, I’m here.” Hugo yawned, which set Hermione yawning as well; she decided she didn’t really have the energy to bring Hugo to their bedroom. Or yell at her family. “Tell you what, let’s lie down for a bit here on the sofa, just for a few minutes.”
“Kay.”
Hermione carried him over. The sofa was amazingly soft and inviting. Hugo nestled right on top of her, sucking now on a corner of his blanky, and Hermione had to adjust herself a bit so he was only half-lying on her; he was growing heavier and heavier with each passing week it seemed. But mere seconds after she’d closed her eyes Hugo piped up, “Bedtime story!”
“Oh alright. What do you want to read?”
“Beefgy!”
“Just a few pages, Hugo, it’s late.” Hermione picked up her wand and Summoned the book; it zoomed in from the children’s bookcase in Hugo and Rose’s bedroom. She turned to the very last chapter, and began reading out loud.
Hugo listened attentively, chortling at the snozzcumbers and the whizzpopping and enthusiastically repeating the word “Bellypoppers!” to himself and giggling. When they got to part where the giant was eating with the Queen in the palace, He interrupted Hermione’s reading to ask, “C’n we’ve eggs ‘n sausages too?”
“What, now? You can’t possibly still be hungry, not after having had dinner and Christmas pudding,” said Hermione.
“Tomorrer.”
“Of course you may.”
Satisfied, Hugo nuzzled his face into Hermione’s chest, and closed his eyes. He was asleep after just half a page more. Hermione checked on him and put down the book. The sofa was so very comfortable. I’ll just close my eyes for a moment and…
It seemed like only seconds passed before she was woken by a firm hand on her shoulder; blinking rapidly, Hermione stared up at Ron, standing beside the sofa and looking as grim as death. I fell asleep. “What time is it?” she asked reflexively.
“One-ish,” Ron whispered. “I see you found the little terror.”
“He found me, rather,” Hermione whispered back. “Let me guess – they finally realised he was missing, and interrupted your carousing?”
“Yes, the bloody fools,” said Ron shortly. Clearly he’d just done his bit of yelling back at the Burrow; Hermione envied him the opportunity. “What happened?”
“He wanted his mummy, and used the Floo.”
“You’re joking!”
“I wish I was.”
“How on earth could he even reach the Floo jar?”
“I asked myself the same question. Magic?”
“Probably.” The corner of Ron’s mouth quirked up. “Fancy that being his first bit of magic, the little rascal. Not even Fred could beat that. What on earth have we gotten ourselves saddled with, Hermione?”
“Our son.” Hermione stroked the sleeping auburn head fondly. “Our Hugo.”
Later that Christmas morning, Hermione Flooed to the Burrow, checked on Rose, and had a satisfying shout at a houseful of chastened Weasleys and Potters.
But first, she made eggs and sausages.
*
ii.
Boxing Day, 2019
Chestnuts roasted on an open fire, over the kitchen hearth.
Because it was half past three in the morning, the coals gave off more of a suggestion of light than actual illumination, but there was still plenty of heat, enough to toast the nuts and warm the weary woman slumped in the chair by the fire.
Being Minister for Magic was not what Hermione had expected. She had thought the position would call for more report-reading, decision-making and budget-setting, and she had braced herself for that. What she hadn’t counted on was how much of her new job was simply people management. From simple communication of routine matters that somehow turned out to be anything but routine, to making sure deadlines were met, to chivvying reluctant and unmotivated staff, to untangling conflicts – that had usually escalated to shouting matches and drawn wands by the time they reached her door – to international diplomacy, which Hermione was beginning to realise was just the same petty nonsense but between whole countries… the teaching position McGonagall kept waving at her suddenly looked lots more appealing.
At least at Hogwarts, they acted like children because they were children.
Hermione reached out and peeled a chestnut, round and plump and wonderfully hot on her fingertips. After the utter hurricane of work that was the office and the hurly-burly of the holiday celebrations with her family, she found it soothing to just sit by herself in the glow of the dwindling embers. ‘Me time’ was in short supply these days, she treasured every moment she…
“Hi, Mum.”
Hermione nearly choked on her chestnut. She looked around. Standing at the doorway was her son, tousle-haired in his blue-striped pyjamas. “Hugo? Why’re you awake?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Hugo padded over, dragged a chair up next to the hearth, and sat down, drawing his knees up to his chin and hugging his legs.
“It’s past three in the morning! Go to bed!”
“Aww, c’mon Mum, it’s Christmas.” Hermione wavered, wondering how far she could relent for the holidays, and in that moment Hugo pounced. “Anyway you couldn’t sleep either.”
“I was having a quiet moment to myself,” Hermione chided. “That is, up until a minute ago. You really should go to bed, a growing boy needs at least eight hours of sleep…”
“An adult woman needs at least eight hours of sleep,” countered Hugo with a cheeky smirk, with a stab at imitating Hermione’s didactic tone.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Any more backchat and I’ll change my mind and send you straight to your room!”
Hugo hurriedly put up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I retract that! Anyway, I wanted a drink.”
“You can have fifteen minutes,” said Hermione. “I’ll make some chamomile, that will help you sleep.” She got up to put the kettle on.
Hugo made a face. “Hot chocolate would be a lot more seasonal.”
“There’s a distinct limit to how far you can push this holiday thing, Hugo. And you’ve had plenty of sweets and junk food all day.”
“Oh, alright.” Hugo helped himself to a chestnut instead, grimacing. His expression changed however when Hermione handed him a mug brimming with thick brown liquid milk and melted chocolate, topped with a blob of whipped cream. “You’re the best mum ever!”
“No, I’m clearly a pushover and spoiling you rotten,” remarked Hermione dryly. She tapped her own mug against his. “Don’t tell Granny. And make sure you brush your teeth afterwards.”
“No, I won’t. Yeah sure.” They sat there companionably in the dark, sipping their drinks. “Ummm,” remarked Hugo, slurping blissfully. “You know, after you give up this Minister for Magic lark, you can always open up a café in Hogsmeade and serve this. You’d give Flora Fortescue a run for her money. What do you put in it?”
“Milk, cream, dark baking chocolate, muscovado sugar, mint, and a pinch of coffee,” said Hermione. She studied her son in the dimming firelight. It seemed like he’d shot up another few inches since she’d seen him off in September. She was reminded of another Christmas, several years ago, when she’d been surprised late at night by a much shorter, much cuddlier Hugo. How fast he grows. How fast time flies. “Do you know, it was a night rather like this when you did your first bit of magic?”
Hugo licked his lips, savouring the taste of the chocolatey milk. “Yeah, you’ve told me the story. Apparently I Summoned Floo powder from the mantel and made my way home from the Burrow when I was only three.”
“And gave me quite a fright. Do you know we sat down afterwards and read The BFG until you fell asleep?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have any memory of it. But I like that book,” said Hugo, grinning. “Giants eating Swedes for the ‘swede-and-sour’ taste. And the way the BFG talked. All the licksquishy whizzpopping frobscottle stuff!”
“Bellypoppers,” Hermione remembered. “I swear you’d giggle for minutes over the words. Even as a child you sensed that they were funny words.”
“Helicopters. You know, I told Granddad Granger we learned about them in Muggle Studies, and he said he sat in actual helicopters when he was in the British Army. He said he’d like to bring me to see them in the Royal Air Force Museum someday.”
Hermione nodded. “You should go, spend some time with your granddad.” Mentally, she made a note to consult her planner and set aside time for it. Perhaps the next summer holidays. “Do you like Muggle Studies, Hugo? What about the other subjects you study at Hogwarts?”
“Oh, Charms is lots of fun too. Last month, we…”
Hermione listened to Hugo ramble on, smiling faintly. She remembered nights like these with her own mum and dad, perhaps not so late and not so sugar-fuelled, her telling them all about the wonderful things she had learned at Hogwarts. It had been especially innocent before the war, before her parents truly comprehended how dangerous magic could be… before she herself had shown them that… Hermione shied away from the painful memory, reminding herself: think of the good parts, and treasure them.
Hermione replied to something Hugo said, reached over to stroke her son’s hair fondly, listened as he talked on, learned more about the boy she was raising.
Oh I do, I do.
*
iii.
December, 2023
Hermione knocked on the door, waited, didn’t receive any answer, turned the knob and entered, slowly.
Hugo was sprawled carelessly across the floor of his room, reading. Without a word, Hermione picked her way across the floor – already strewn with shoes, discarded clothes, Hugo’s wand, an opened packet of biscuits, books, quill, and bits of parchment, although she’d just tidied up before the children came home from Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays. She sat down at his desk, and handed him one of the two mugs she was carrying.
Her son eyed the peace offering coldly. He was still flushed to the tips of his ears from all the yelling between him and his dad a few minutes ago.
“You’re quite sure you’re too proud to refuse my hot chocolate,” Hermione stated evenly.
Hugo scowled, but took the mug. “You know, you taught us to knock, wait for an answer, and then come in.”
“I’m your mother,” said Hermione.
“I’m your son,” said Hugo, mimicking her. “What if I’d been changing?”
“That’s why I came in slowly. But I wouldn’t have seen anything I hadn’t seen before anyway.”
“I’m not three years old anymore.”
“Could’ve fooled me. But we’ll come to that later. I’m a lot more concerned about your studies.”
Hugo set down his mug. “I’m fine.”
Privately, Hermione noted that when Hugo looked angry or obstinate, he quite resembled his father. “Not according to your Head of House. I must say, Professor Flitwick must be extremely concerned and vexed to owl us personally.” She sighed. “Flitwick says your homework has fallen off sharply. It’s O.W.L. year. I’m worried, and can you blame me? What’s the matter, son?”
“Nothing is.”
“Hugo.”
“It’s nothing!”
“And you were just saying you weren’t three a moment ago.” Hermione regretted her spike of temper immediately. “Hugo, I’ve been fifteen. I know how it’s like. I just want to help you, that’s all, but to do that I need to understand you. Help me, please.” Her son didn’t answer, staring resolutely at his book. “Hugo,” Hermione pleaded, “I just don’t want you to make the mistakes I made.”
Hugo snorted. “Yeah right. When have you ever made mistakes? Minister for Magic, Head Girl, Little Miss Perfect, the cleverest witch in Britain or the bloody world for all I know. Well I’m not like you, or Dad, or Rose!” he yelled suddenly, sitting up and throwing his book aside. “I’m NORMAL! I’m a thicko! I’m shit in Potions, and Charms, and Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Care For Magical Creatures! What kind of idiot is pants at Care For Magical Creatures, of all things?! ME! I’m a blockhead! I’m a mess! A screw-up! I know I’m just going to get Troll for everything, so just… LEAVE ME ALONE!”
Hermione waited patiently.
When Hugo stopped to draw in a long, shaky breath, she said calmly, “If you’re done, please sit down, and listen to me. Firstly, you’re exaggerating a little. Flitwick’s shown me some of your essays. Your homework isn’t anywhere near Troll grade, and believe me, I know what Troll work is, I’ve gone through your dad’s work. And Uncle Harry’s. You’re every bit as clever as I have any right to expect my son to be. You’ve got plenty of brains. But brains is not the same as book-learning. And while I don’t expect you to get all straight O’s, I do want you to get all the O.W.L.s that I know you deserve. And I think you want to as well. Right?”
“I told you, I can’t!” Hugo said plaintively. “I’m too far behind. I’ll never catch up!”
“Do you really want to fix this?” said Hermione forcefully. “Because I can’t help you if you don’t. But if you do, then I know I can. So tell me.”
Hugo stared at her for a long time. Then he nodded.
“Excellent,” said Hermione briskly. “Then this is what we’re going to do. I’m going to tutor you personally. I’ll owl you once every afternoon, and once every night. All I ask from you is one extra hour every day. You’ll spend the time doing my assignments. Oh, and every Hogsmeade weekend from now till June? You’ll meet me in the village for lessons. At, I think,” and here Hermione allowed herself a tiny smile, “the Hog’s Head Inn. It’s quieter than the Three Broomsticks, and I know the barkeep. Believe me, between your brains and the way I teach, that’s all the time I’ll need to get you up to E’s at least for every subject before exams.”
“B-but you’re busy!” Hugo said. “What about your work! You’re Minister for Magic!”
Hermione shrugged. “So what? I’ll make time for you. If the Wizengamot don’t like it they can lump it. Or maybe I’ll resign.” At Hugo’s even more shocked expression, Hermione said, “You’re my son, Hugo. Which do you think is more important to me, the job, or you?”
Hugo stared at her for a minute. And then began to cry.
Hermione sat down on the floor beside him, and gathered him into her arms. “There. There, sweetheart. Shhh. It’s alright.”
Just as quickly as it had come, Hugo’s tears dried. “I-I’m sorry, Mum. I just… Y-you shouldn’t h-have to give up your job because of me. It’s u-u-unfair. I’m the worst son in the world.”
“Oh, you’ve some ways to go yet,” said Hermione.
Hugo shook his head obstinately.
Reluctantly, Hermione came at last to a decision, one that she had been pondering for years. I’ll tell him. She bent her head down and looked Hugo seriously in the eye. “Sweetheart, you’ve only messed up your studies a little, and not even that much. Let me ask you: did you jinx your parents and run away from home for a year? Well, I did.” Hugo’s wet red eyes widened. “Oh yes. You always wanted to know the stories, right? What really happened, the stuff they don’t put in the books about us because they don’t know. Well, I think you’re old enough. It’s time I told you. This one, at any rate. The story of what I did to Granny and Granddad. Then you tell me afterwards if you’re the worst ever.”
And Hermione began to tell her son her biggest secret.
*
By the time she was done with Hugo, it was late. Hermione went straight to her bedroom, and got ready for bed. Ron had fallen asleep, but woke as she climbed under the covers. He rolled over and draped one arm around her. Hermione backed gratefully into the solid warmth of his body. She badly needed the comfort it gave her.
“So,” Ron said, “did you give him a hiding?”
“No. I gave him hot chocolate.”
Ron made a noise of disgust. “Wow. Hot chocolate, and personal tutoring for the rest of the year. Mum would’ve just given me cauldrons of Howlers. We’re terrible parents. We’re… what d’you call it…” He snapped his fingers. “I read it in a Muggle book once. Oh yes. They call us bellypopper parents.”
Despite the emotional mess the long talk with Hugo had made of her inside, Hermione laughed out loud. “It’s ‘helicopter parents’, Ron. And no, we’re not. We’re just taking care of our son, and doing the best we can to help him reach his full potential.”
“Well, if you say so. I’m sure I read the other word somewhere… Did you at least find out what the problem was?”
“Yes. It wasn’t girl trouble. It’s complicated, and a long story. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, I’m wrecked.” Hermione pulled Ron’s arms tighter around herself. “He felt terrible about himself though. He thought he was the worst son in the world for putting us to all this trouble, and couldn’t seem to forgive himself for screwing up. So I… I told him about Australia.”
She felt Ron kiss the top of her head. “Ah, I see why. You poor thing. Worst daughter ever. And best mum, and best wife.”
“Hardly,” mumbled Hermione.
“Well, I think so at least. You know,” said Ron, a little more seriously, “this raising children lark? I’m never going to tire of it. It’s taught me something new with every twist in the tale. Hugo thinks he’s the worst and can’t forgive himself. You think you’re the worst, and can’t forgive yourself. Are you getting the picture I’m getting here? Your parents have talked to me about this many times over the years, Hermione love. They forgave you a long time ago. When are you ever going to?”
“I see your point,” said Hermione. “I’ll… think about it.”
“Don’t worry, in the morning I’ll tell Hugo about the time Harry and I wrecked the Anglia. Then we’ll have to think how to top that when it’s Rosie’s turn to tell us she’s up the duff or something.”
Despite herself, Hermione laughed, and swatted Ron’s forearm. “Good night, love.”
“Love you, Hermione.”
END
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