*

Hermione's kitchen used to big as in spacious. It used to be big as in roomy. It used to be big as in large enough to fit extended family into the room and still feel cozy. Now, it felt big like a problem—a problem she didn't know how to deal with. 

Hermione licked her dry lips nervously, regretting not bringing the chapstick Ginny had lent her, as she slipped her house key back into her pocket, the same house key that she had spent three hours looking for earlier. All of her stuff was disorganized, a thing that annoyed Hermione intensely, to prepare for the upcoming Horcrux Hunt.

The layout of her childhood home was such that the kitchen was the first door after entering the house. As such, the kitchen had always been a place where she and her parents naturally drifted to. For now, it was empty except for the merry figure of her mother, stirring a pot on the stove. 

Jean Granger, dressed in a huge brown sweater and faded jeans, hummed a song that might have been popular—Hermione wouldn't know, she never listened to a Muggle station anymore unless it was to check the news. Despite not knowing the song, Hermione could tell immediately that Mum was humming it off-key. Some thigns never chance.

Hermione drank in the sight of her until she had enough energy to pretend to sound happy.

"Hi, Mum!" Hermione said, finally crossing the threshold into the kitchen. Mum turned around, startled, dropping the wooden spoon.

"You're here!" She wrapped her arms around her daughter, resting her chin on Hermione's head. Hermione soaked up the hug like she was the sponge and her mother the water. She inhaled the familiar warm scent of mint and lavender soap, tangled together with her father's wool and cologne hand sanitiser, a side effect of working at a dentistry.

"Your journey was good?" Mrs. Granger asked finally, pulling back to study her daughter carefully. She brushed some stray hairs out of Hermione's face, tucking them behind her ear.

"Yeah," Hermione reassured her mother. "I took the train from the Burrow; Mrs. Weasley was concerned about the Death Eaters, so I cast a few spells on myself. I'm perfectly fine, though." Hermione twirled around to prove it, her finally-tamed curls flying out in a circle, and her mother smiled. 

 She could have Apparated home, but she wanted a little taste of Muggle life. The gentle rocking and the back-and-forth of the Muggle Underground took Hermione back to simpler times: camping trips, a very cold beach vacation, riding into the city with her father. Times before Death Eaters and war and death pressed down on her with a vise-like grip. Unshakable.

Those memories felt like precious stones now, ordinary moments that she didn't know if she would ever experience again. 

"Good," Mum said, turning the stove off and placing a lid on top of the rich red soup she was cooking. "I almost wish..."

Hermione hated to worry her parents. I'm so sorry, she thought, as if her mother could hear what she was thinking. But in a day, it'll be all gone. You won't even remember me.

Hermione's heart sank at the thought. How could she do it?

"Hermione!" her father walked into the kitchen, hugging his only child tight. "How are you doing? You've been gone so long!" Hermione wrapped her arms around her father, breathing in his familiar smell of hand sanitiser like it was the last time she'd ever hug him. Which it very well could be...

A lump welled up in her throat, but she fought it off as she followed her father into the sitting room. 

The sitting room was a gay space decorated in bright colors. A fire flickered behind the hearth, a reminder of the chill dampness outside the door. A top the mantelpiece was a long row of pictures. Hermione was featured prominently in almost all of them, save for the few pictures taken before she was born. The room was decorated in bright colors, and in good furniture you could play on without breaking something.

"I'll go get dinner ready," Mum said. "Love you, Hermione."

Before her mother left the room, she dropped a kiss on Hermione's head, casual but loving. Hermione blinked back tears, unable to get rid of the slight struck-by-lighting feeling.

"Remember that one, 'Mione?" her father asked, jolting her out of her thoughts. Hermione smiled at the moniker. Ron had been so pleased to find a nickname she actually liked (the thought of his first attempts—Herm, One, and Hermy being the result of his creative pondering. Fred and George hadn't let her live down Hermy for a good six months; and she was pretty sure one of the first years still didn't know her real name as a result). She'd never told him  was from her father.

Hermione followed her father's gaze to a portrait off to the side, which showed Hermione on a horse, wearing a bright red rain jacket big smile.

"Yeah," Hermione said, tracing her fingers across the portrait. "From when we went to Ireland and rode ponies." She'd been seven years old, and it was the first time she'd gone out of the country with her family.

"Remember how scared you were about the pony I was riding?" Dad asked, chuckling slightly.

"Terrified," Hermione agreed. "I liked my horse better."

"Pony," Dad corrected.

"What is the difference between a pony and a horse?" Hermione asked, looking at the portrait. The friendly back and forth, the easy tandem she had with her father squeezed at her heart. She refocused her eyes on the photo frame. She could still remember the flash of the camera, how the brightness made her squeeze her eyes shut. She noticed half her mother's face has been cropped out.

"Not sure," said her father, and they dissolved into laughter.

*

After dinner, Hermione went to be early, feeling exhausted. She curled up in her bed, the bed she'd slept in the first eleven years of her life.

Though she meant to get some sleep, all she could do was toss and turn, anxious and worried and scared about what she'd have to do tomorrow. 

She turned over and pummelled her pillow a bit, trying to get it into a more comfortable shape. It didn't help. Chasing sleep had lately felt like hide and seek with a shadow. Maybe she should start using a light sleeping draught. 

Finally, she couldn't take it. She sat up, grabbing her wand and whispering, "Lumos." The light flashed on, and Hermione waved her wand around to illuminate the small room.

In a corner near the window sat a bookshelf, piled high with childhood Muggle stories about ghosts and magic and fantasy and superheroes. Her eyes traced across the Muggle books that had been her solace as a kid, smiling slightly. They were all sovered in a light curtain of dust. Hermione hadn't read half of them in ages; not as the pages of her life devolved into it's own sort of fantasy. Next to the bookshelf at a desk, neat and tidy as usual, but Hermione knew that if she tried to use the pens in the drawers, they would most likely be dry. Across from the desk was Hermione's bed, where she sat, her knees covered in a blanket.

Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd slept in here. 

Was it last summer? 

Or had she spent all of it with the Weasleys?

The summer before that?

Or had she spent all of it at Sirus' house?

The summer going into fourth year? Surely she hadn't wasted that one away, too—

No; she'd gone to the Quidditch World Cup—

How much time had she wasted, and spent away from home?

Hermione loved her dormitory in Hogwarts. For the first time, she had other girls for company, and while she loved school, she didn't love Hogwarts the way other people like Harry did. And she was eternally greatful to Mrs. Weasley for welcoming her like a daughter into her house. But Hogwarts would never be home to Hermione, and neither would the Burrow. It was clear, whenever Harry spoke about Hogwarts and Ron about the Burrow, respectively, that that was their safe place. This room was Hermione's, and she'd have to give it all up tomorrow. 

Hermione sniffled as she heard the stair tread creak. A few seconds later, her mother peeked around the door.

"Still awake?" her mother asked. Hermione nodded. 

"Couldn't sleep."

Mum switched on the light and walked in, settling onto the bed next to Hermione. Blinking at the sudden brightness, Hermione rested her head her mother's shoulder as her mother began rubbing her back.

"Are you worried about something?" her mother whispered.

"How did you know?"

"I'm your mother, Hermione. I always know."

Hermione cleared a catch in her throat before she said, "The situation with Voldemort is really bad, and..." Hermione paused as she searched for the right words, "I have to make a choice between doing the selfish thing and doing the... right thing." Her throat tightened. Today had been so good; for once no one had mentioned the ever-present threat that hung over them like a fog. And here she was bringing it up.

She continued, "The right thing would probably save lives, but the selfish thing would make me so much happier."

"Well," Mum said, stroking Hermione's hair, "I'm not going to tell you what to choose, Hermione. I know that you have a good heart and a strong mind. You don't even need to tell me what's going on, but I'll always be there for you."

"Even if, I don't know, your memories got wiped and you had no idea who I was?" Hermione twisted at a loose thread in the blanket, feeling it stretch taut.

Mum kissed her cheek. "Even then, 'Mione."

Tears bubbled up in Hermione's eyes and the lump grew in her throat, but she held them back, wrapping her arms around her mother. "Love you, Mum."

"I do have to ask one thing, though," Mum said, still holding Hermione, like she never intended to truly let go. "Is it going to put you in danger?"

"Huh?"

"Making the right choice. Is it going to put you in danger?"

Hermione inhaled, not sure whether to lie. Mum's hand's ghosted across her back, soothing her tensed shoulders. 

"Yes," Hermione said quietly. "It's going to put me in danger, but if I make the selfish choice, two people I care about are going to be in even more danger."

Mum squeezed Hermione. "You're such a brave girl, Hermione," she whispered. "I love you so much."

"I love you more," Hermione said quietly, playing the little game she and her mother loved for the last time.

"Impossible," Mum laughed. "I love you most."

*

Hermione spun on her foot, Disapparating with a crack. When she Apparated to her destination, she hurried through the Burrow gate, her shoulders trembling with the weight of what she'd just done.

She couldn't go into the house. Not now, when she was barely holding it together. She'd just sealed Wendel and Monica Wilkins' fate.

And that was when the sobs hit, overpowering her, consuming her, shaking her, until she was on her knees, her arms wrapped around her body like she was collapsing. Shattering. She couldn't stop crying, because her arms would never be the same as her mother's.

Something was poking her foot. A chicken. The chicken, the stupid, idiotic chicken, cocked its head and let out a loud squawk. 

"Hermione?" Ron's voice, so familiar, pierced through the haze in her mind. "Bloody hell—Hermione—are you okay—"  Ron was by her side, yanking his wand out of his jeans pocket, scanning the terrain. His voice grew frantic as he he knelt next to Hermione, his eyes scanning her as if checking for injuries.

"I'm fine," Hermione choked out, but the words were just replaced by tears. How long ago had she told her mother the same thing? 

How many more times would she have to keep repeating the same lie?

Ron didn't say she was clearly not fine. Instead, he worked through the versions of 'fine' step by step. "Not injured?"

Hermione shook her head, wiping snot from her nose. 

Besides her, Ron's tensed shoulders relaxed slightly as he knelt awkwardly beside her as if he wasn't entirely sure where to put his arms—still as confused by a crying girl as he was when they were younger. Those former versions of themselves almost felt like different people; children who were untainted by the curse of war.  

Ron slowly settled his arms around Hermione, as if he was scared she might pull away. Instead, Hermione leaned into him, clinging to him, letting him ground her. "What happened?"

"I--I--" Hermione took a deep breath, trying to stop the heaving sobs. 

"Hermione, it's fine, why don't you take a minute," Ron said quickly, his blue eyes worried. Hermione was struck, again, by how much they'd changed. They were only seventeen, but they didn't feel like teenagers anymore. Ron gently rocked her back and forth, one hand patting her back, and the other pulling her head into his chest. 

Aren't we too young for this shit?

She inhaled. Slow and steady, coached a voice that sounded like her father's. In, out... in, out...

"I'm fine," Hermione said again, as her shoulders stopped shaking and her voie steadied slightly. She took her final deep breath, shoving her hand into her pocket, where her fingers met a small wooden frame. She pulled it out, looking at her young face, alight with joy, as she had her first pony ride. In the background, she could see her parent's faces, looking at  Picture Hermione like she was the centre of their world.

The war would be over someday. She had to believe that.

And for now, she'd hold onto this memory.

To all the memories. 

First of all, major thank you guys so much for reading this. It really means a lot to me, and I love to interact with you guys and hear your thoughts, and constructive criticism is always welcomed! 

In this fic, I picture Hermione to be obviously sick with guilt about washing her parents memories, and also regretful because she hasn't spent much time with them lately. From fourth-year onward, Hermione spends most of her time... with the Weasleys. I also think it's weird that no Muggle friends of Hermione are ever really mentioned. So poor Hermione's dealing with a lot. 

I come back to this whenever I'm feeling uninspired with my other projects and edit it. Usually that's like every six months, so it's really cool for me to see my writing grow and change. This is my therapy fic y'all. (I currently have ten different therapy fics running. Oh well). Anway, if you re-read this and some things have changed, that's why lmao

Once again, thank you so much, and I'm excited to see you in the fandoms :)