Rewritten Destiny

Emma Granger stood by her daughter's room door, watching the slight figure at the desk, hunched over stacks of books. The only sounds were the occasional rustling of parchment and the faint scratch of a quill against paper. It had been days—weeks, even—since she had seen Hermione truly rest.

 

Even as a young child, her daughter had always been driven, but this… this was different. It wasn't ambition anymore; it was an obsession. A dangerous, consuming obsession. Emma's hands clenched into fists as the familiar knot of fear tightened in her chest. She had seen this before—this withdrawal, this relentless pursuit of something—just before…

 

She didn't want to think about it, but the memory of finding that note—that note—tucked into one of Hermione's books was never far from her mind. The day she had stumbled upon it, her heart had nearly stopped. Those haunting words still echoed in her mind, sharp and painful as a knife.

 

"I'm so sorry. I can't do this anymore. The loneliness, the bullying, it's too much. I feel like I'm drowning."

 

Emma swallowed hard, pushing the lump in her throat back down. Hermione had recovered after that—or so Emma had thought. The discovery of her magical abilities seemed to breathe new life into her daughter, giving her a sense of purpose. But now, watching her, Emma was terrified that she had been wrong. What if this new drive was just another form of escape? Another way to push away the darkness that had once threatened to consume her?

 

She knocked gently on the doorframe, her voice soft but insistent. "Hermione, darling, it's time for dinner. You need to eat."

 

Hermione didn't look up. "In a minute, Mum."

 

That was the same answer she had given last night. And the night before. Emma sighed, stepping further into the room. "You said that last time, sweetheart. It's been hours. You've barely come out of this room all day."

 

Still no response. Emma bit her lip, torn between the need to be gentle and the desperate urge to pull Hermione out of this spiral. She sat down on the edge of the bed, watching her daughter, who was still engrossed in her work.

 

"I'm worried about you, Hermione," Emma said, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to stay calm. "You're shutting us out again. You've been… different since you came back. More withdrawn."

 

That got Hermione's attention, though only for a moment. She glanced up, her eyes tired but still sharp. "I'm just studying, Mum. I have a lot to prepare for next year."

 

Emma's heart clenched at the casual dismissal. How often had she heard those same words, reassurances, just before everything had almost fallen apart? She leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper. "Hermione… I'm scared. I'm scared that you're slipping away from us again."

 

Hermione froze, her quill hovering above the parchment. Emma continued, unable to stop now that she had started. "Do you remember, before your letter came, how you were? You barely spoke to us. You shut yourself in your room. You… you left us that note." Emma's voice cracked, and she had to pause to steady herself. "I don't know what I would have done if… if you hadn't come back from that."

 

For a moment, Hermione was silent. Her shoulders were tense, and Emma could see the internal battle waging within her. Finally, Hermione set down the quill, turning to face her mother. There was no anger in her eyes, only exhaustion and something darker—something Emma couldn't quite place.

 

"I'm not… I'm not like that anymore," Hermione said quietly. "I can assure you; I will never do that again. I have too many things I need to do ever consider giving up," she spat the last words with a venom she had never heard from her daughter.

 

But you don't talk to us anymore," Emma pressed. "Not like you used to. You're shutting us out, just like before. I'm worried that you're pushing yourself too hard."

 

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples to ward off a headache. "I just have a lot to do, Mum. There are things I need to learn, things that are important." Her voice was steady, but Emma could hear the underlying strain. "I'm fine. Really."

 

Emma closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. She had been here before, standing on the precipice of losing her daughter to something she couldn't fight. The worst part was not knowing what to do—feeling utterly helpless as Hermione drifted further and further away. What if she didn't intervene this time? What if she missed the signs again?

 

I can't lose you, Hermione," Emma whispered, her voice breaking. "Not again."

 

Hermione's expression softened, and she looked at her mother for the first time in days. "You won't," she said, though the words sounded more like a reassurance than a promise. "I'm just… I'm trying to be ready. I need to be strong."

 

Emma shook her head. "You don't have to be strong all the time. You don't have to carry this burden alone. Please, Hermione. Talk to us. Let us help you."

 

For a long moment, there was only silence between them. Hermione's eyes flickered with indecision, and Emma held her breath, hoping—praying—that her daughter would open up. But then the mask slipped back into place, and Hermione turned away, picking up her quill once more.

 

"I'll come down for dinner soon," Hermione said quietly. It was a dismissal, one that Emma recognized all too well.

 

Emma stood, feeling the weight of her failure pressing down on her shoulders. As she left the room, she cast one last look at Hermione, sitting alone, so distant. She wanted to believe her daughter's reassurances, but the fear gnawing at her heart wouldn't let go.

 

The truth is that Emma doesn't know if Hermione is truly fine. And the thought of losing her—truly losing her—was more than she could bear.

 

---

Emma moved slowly down the stairs, each step heavier than the last. She rubbed her eyes, pushing back the tears threatening to spill over. Dan looked up from the kitchen table as she entered, a frown creasing his face.

 

"How is she?" he asked softly, knowing the answer from the tension in Emma's posture.

 

Emma shook her head, sitting down heavily in the chair opposite him. "She says she's fine, but…" Her voice faltered, and she felt a lump rise in her throat. She pressed her lips together, struggling to keep her composure. "She's not, Dan. She's shutting us out again. She's… she's hiding something, I just know it."

 

Dan leaned forward, placing a hand over hers. "Did she say anything?"

 

Emma shook her head again, running a hand through her hair. "No. She keeps saying it's all just schoolwork—that she has to prepare. But I can see it in her eyes. She's not really here with us. She's slipping away again."

 

Dan's brow furrowed. "Do you think it's like last time? Before Hogwarts?"

 

Emma swallowed hard. The memory of that dark time loomed over her like a storm cloud, always there, always ready to strike. "I don't know. She's different now, but I can't shake the feeling that we're losing her. And I don't know how to stop it."

 

Dan squeezed her hand, his voice steady, though it had an edge of worry. "We've been through this before, love. We'll get through it again."

 

Emma nodded, but the familiar reassurances did little to ease the tightness in her chest. Last time, she had found the note just in time. But what if this time Hermione didn't leave a note? What if she was slipping so far away that even Emma couldn't see it happening?

 

"I thought Hogwarts was helping her," Emma said, her voice barely above a whisper. "When she got that letter, she was so… alive again. I thought the magic, the school—it had given her something to hold onto. But now…"

 

Dan's expression hardened, his jaw tightening. "Maybe it's too much for her. Magic… it's not like anything we can understand. What if it's all too much pressure?"

 

Emma stared down at the table, her thoughts swirling with the what-ifs. They had both been so proud of Hermione, her achievements, and her intellect. But what if they hadn't seen the whole picture? What if being "the brightest" was too much for her to bear alone?

 

"I thought she'd found herself," Emma whispered, her voice cracking. "But now she's back to carrying everything by herself. She won't talk to me. She won't… let me in."

 

Dan was silent for a moment, his hand still wrapped around hers. Then, in a low, steady voice, he said, "We can't make her talk, Em. But we can be here. We can make sure she knows she's not alone."

 

Emma nodded, but her heart felt heavy. She wasn't sure how to reach Hermione anymore. Her daughter had always been independent and strong. But this was different. This was something darker, something deeper than school stress or a desire to excel.

 

"I don't want to wait until it's too late," Emma said, her voice trembling as she forced the words out. "I won't find another note like that one. I can't—" Her voice broke, and Dan quickly stood up, pulling her into his arms.

 

"You won't," he murmured into her hair. "We won't let it get that far."

 

But Emma wasn't sure. The fear gripped her like a vice, the terror that her bright, brilliant daughter—was slipping back into that place where no love could reach her.

 

"I don't know how to help her," Emma whispered, clinging to Dan's shirt. "She's growing up so fast, and I feel like I'm losing her. Like she's disappearing right in front of us, and there's nothing I can do."

 

Dan held her tighter, his silence more comforting than any words. But it didn't stop the dread pooling in her stomach. Hermione was slipping further away every passing day, burying herself in her books, studies, and whatever secret burdens she refused to share.

 

"I'll try talking to her again tomorrow," Emma said finally, pulling away and wiping her eyes. "Maybe if I give her some time, she'll open up. Maybe…”

 

Dan gave her a small, sad smile. "She'll come around, Em. She just needs to know we're here."

 

But the truth gnawed at Emma as she nodded, trying to hold onto the hope in Dan's words. She couldn't help but feel like time was slipping away, and with every moment Hermione stayed locked in her world of magic and secrecy, Emma's chance to save her daughter was slipping away, too.

 

---

That night, as Emma lay awake in bed, her mind raced with worry. Hermione's door had stayed closed after dinner, and the light had remained on well into the night. The quiet hum of the house did nothing to settle her nerves.

 

She glanced at the clock: 1:47 a.m.

 

Emma debated whether to check on her, to see if she was still awake. But she was terrified of what she might find.

 

The shadows in the room seemed to grow darker, and all Emma could think of was that crumpled note she had found in the pages of one of Hermione's old books. The panic she had felt, the way her hands had trembled as she read it, knowing that she had almost lost her daughter without even realizing it.

 

Emma's heart pounded in her chest, and she fought the urge to open Hermione's door and pull her away from whatever was keeping her locked away from them. Instead, she stayed where she was, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince herself that Hermione was still just studying. That she wasn't slipping into the same despair that had nearly swallowed her once before.

 

But the fear was always there, lurking beneath every reassurance.