i've been crying over this for three years

3

This is a “Tabata made me cry three times post

sigma-castell  asked:

hey i was just wondering, seeing as you've done a chosen one! ron fic and plenty of harry AUs, have you thought about doing a chosen one hermione?

When Hermione Jean Granger was one year old her parents died in a car crash. She knew all about it because she asked a lot of questions and her aunt and uncle believed in answering them.

Why is the sky blue, auntie? Why are b’s and d’s like in the mirror? Where do songs come from? Why did Jenny Hopkins call me a–?

Her father had accelerated into a green light, like you were supposed to. (By the time she was eight, Hermione had the driver’s rulebook memorized). A truck driver, going the opposite way, hadn’t stopped at a red.

Hermione had been strapped in a car seat in the back, her aunt and uncle told her. She hadn’t been hurt at all except for the scar that stood out, jagged, on her forehead.

As Hermione grew up into a gangly, bushy-haired, buck-toothed wonder, she thought she could remember it– a glaring green light, a rush of cold air.

Hermione’s Aunt Meg worked in a hardware store and wrote poetry on her smoking breaks. Her Uncle Harold taught classical languages at a local university. When she was small, Hermione would sit with him at the kitchen table and solemnly scribble in crayon on his graded papers.

Aunt Meg took her to libraries and museums on the weekends, like they were county fairs or circuses, the same way she would have had her little sister and brother-in-law not died in a car accident and left Hermione on her doorstep (figuratively). In every life, Aunt Meg had bought Hermione her first book.

They had lived in a big city when they first got Hermione, but they had moved before her second birthday. Hermione grew up in a sleepy suburbs, a short bike from open fields. Aunt Meg showed her how to change the tires on her bright purple bicycle, and Uncle Harold bought her a little bell for the handle.

When her aunt and uncle fought, which they did– about dishes, or what to do about That One Rude Neighbor, or the proper classification of Herodotus, or why they had moved out here (they both remembered a charismatic recruiter from Harold’s university, but not much more than that)– Hermione would pick up her latest book and wander over to Mrs. Figg’s.

Mrs. Figg had three cats and gave Hermione candies she could never find in the store. “These ones are good for your teeth,” Mrs. Figg promised, when Hermione asked, her small face wrinkled with concern.

“My parents were dentists,” Hermione explained.

“Well,” said Mrs. Figg. “I suppose someone has to be.”

Sometimes Mrs. Figg’s portraits seemed to move, which Hermione’s aunt and uncle never believed when she told them. They worried about Mrs. Figg some, actually, because there were often loud bangs from her home and yard, as though someone had dropped something heavy (or displaced a human-sized portion of air instantaneously).

When Harry James Potter was one year old, his mother was killed during an Order mission against You-Know-Who.

Peter Pettigrew had been captured by the Death Eaters days before, though his friends thought he was dead. Sirius and Lily had gone ahead with the mission anyway, even though they had planned to have Peter with them. Sirius had been adamant– he believed in their capability, in their cause, and in not letting Peter’s last efforts go to waste just because there was no one else to step in for him.

It was Lily’s last mission, but it was also one of the last of the war. In the few days it took Sirius to stumble his way back home through backwoods gloom and raging grief, the war ended. Voldemort vanished. All around the wizarding world people began to whisper about Hermione Granger, the Girl Who Lived.

Maybe in wartime they wouldn’t have pinned so much guilt on Sirius. Maybe in wartime it would have been worse– a traitor’s execution. But they were limping into peace now and the Ministry was looking for scapegoats. Peter was gone, and Lily was dead. Maybe if Remus and James hadn’t been out of contact, hunting down sources, it would have gone different. Maybe if his last name wasn’t Black. But Sirius went to Azkaban without a trial, and Amelia Bones watched Harry until James got home.

There had been nothing left of Peter to bury but a finger. They’d cremated Lily so James could bury the ashes. He and Remus went out to the Potter family plot in Godric’s Hollow after the first snow of that winter and buried her in frozen earth. Harry fussed in a sling around Remus’s chest. James had written to Petunia, but she didn’t come, just sent a bouquet of white flowers that the poor Muggle florist had awful trouble finding the proper place to deliver.

James got involved with the local children’s Quidditch leagues, after. He taught tykes to fall safely off brooms and chase each other through the skies and whack at soft foam Bludgers with light plastic bats. It took him a full six months to get Remus to take a bedroom, instead of just crashing on the couch. Remus wafted from odd job to odd job, even dipping into the Muggle world when too many had wizards had turned him and his scars away.

Harry grew up knowing what his parents looked like– the grey gathering in his father’s hair, and the way his mother smiled down wide and wild from mantles and frames. He had a bedroom all his own, with a soft green rug and a big bed he slowly grew into. His hair never lay flat, just like his father’s, and he fluffed it up on days it dared to look vaguely tame. His father taught him how to fly, and he tried to learn how to smile–wide, wild–from how his mother did in photographs.

“Hey,” said Remus once, watching Harry scribble colored pencil outside the lines while James attempted spaghetti in the kitchen. “I’m sorry.”

“For your ugly mug?” James asked idly, poking at a bubbling pot of red sauce. It burbled at him. “For telling Harry about that thing with the Kneazle? Kid’s never gonna respect me now, you know.” James flicked his wand at the flame and it flickered, dimming. “Sorry about what, Remus?” Harry put the end of his pencil in his mouth thoughtfully, gnawing at it.

“It was always you and Lily,” said Remus. “Or… before, before whatever it is happened to him, I don’t know how…” Remus took a small pause. “It was always you and Sirius. Potter and Black, hell in hats.”

James had put down his wand. The pot had splattered his sleeve with specks of red and his hair was flopping forward into his eyes. At the table, Harry’s hair was falling into his own green eyes and Remus missed Lily so much he couldn’t breathe sometimes. “Moony, don’t be a dumbass,” James said.

“I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” Remus finished, stubborn. “If someone was going to stay, it shouldn’t have been me.”

“I didn’t get stuck with–” James scrubbed his hands up through his hair, which made it worse rather than better. “You’re not– I miss Lily. I miss Peter. I miss Sirius, even. We lost them, both of us, but both of us are still here.”

“Small blessings,” said Remus sourly.

Giant blessings, what the hell, Remus. We didn’t lose everybody. I didn’t lose you,” James said and Remus dropped his chin. James said, “Lily was Lily, and she– and Sirius was– but we were a family. The Marauders. This was never about any one of us, you’ve got to know that.”

James shook his head and Harry asked, “Fire?”

James leapt for the smoking sauce while Remus gathered himself quietly. When they had sat down to eat and Harry had started to cheerfully splatter tomato all over the cleared table, Remus said quietly, “I can’t imagine being the only one of us left. I don’t know if I could have survived that.”

Harry grew up in Godric’s Hollow, in a house strewn with scuffed brooms and dented Quaffles. James taught him to tie his shoes, to fly, and to have candy for dinner sometimes. Harry sat on the grass outside the pitch for every game his father coached or refereed, cheering on both teams before he figured out you were supposed to be partisan.

Harry grew up watching Remus come home to the house in a rotating cast of uniforms, roles, and schedules– archivist, waiter, Knight Bus technician, tutor, gas station attendant. But it was always Remus underneath the dirt or melted ice cream or ink or cellar dust– his scars, his soft smile, the long arms that would lift Harry up and ask him about what he had learned that day.

When Ron Weasley was one year old, his little sister Ginny was born, robbing him of even the distinction of being the youngest. He tried not to be bitter about it, but Ron, even as a toddler, had never been very good at not wanting to be more than he was. (Any of them would have done well in Slytherin).

But Ginny was small and red-headed and loud, and Ron got used to being not the best, not the wittiest, not the bravest, not the strongest, not the youngest. He pulled up weeds in the garden (and sometimes (often) accidentally vegetables) while Ginny learned how to crawl, then to walk, then to run.

When he had nightmares, Ginny let him sleep in her downstairs room, far away from the creaks and groans of the ghoul in the attic. The ghoul didn’t scare him in daylight, but he had bad dreams.

When Hermione was one year old her parents died. She was clutching the bars of her crib, staring out, when they died. They thought it was a robbery. They were dentists. They were asleep at 11:39 p.m. on Halloween night. When they heard the window glass break and the front door blast open, they both ran for their daughter’s room in their pajamas.

Voldemort, working off a prophecy overhead by Severus Snape, discovered her before Albus Dumbledore could track the Chosen One down. The Order was looking. The Aurors Dumbledore trusted enough to tell were looking, too, but Tom Riddle got there first.  

When Hermione was one year old, her mother stood in front of her crib in a ratty too-big t-shirt of a band she had liked very much in university. When Hermione was one year old, her mother stood in front of her, crying, standing over a dead man in polka-dot PJs, and said, “Not her. Whatever you want, take it, but don’t hurt my daughter.”

Not even a day after she had been turned orphan every adult in the wizarding world knew Hermione Granger’s name. They whispered it, they shouted, they raised their glasses to the Girl Who Lived. When Albus Dumbledore himself came to give her her Hogwarts letter ten years later, every child in the wizarding world knew about Hermione and her lightning scar. Only the curious–historians, hobbyists–knew her parents’ names.

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anonymous asked:

I would never mess with anyone's food. But if you make my sixteen year old waitress who has only been doing this job for three days cry, I've got no problem smirking at you when I say "enjoy your meal." I can see you checking your burger over suspiciously and it's honestly the least you deserve.