"Mum! Dad!" After a whole term apart, Hermione buried herself in her mother's arms as Mrs. Granger stroked her hair.
"I missed you both so much…"
"We missed you too," Mr. Granger said, watching his wife and daughter embrace with a smile full of contentment.
Lynn felt the warm weight of Mrs. Granger's hand on her head. Expressionless, she tilted her face up until the woman finally stepped back from Hermione, then offered a polite greeting.
"Mrs. Granger, Mr. Granger—hello. My name is Lynn."
The voice was flat, emotionless as blank paper; the face stiff as a whiteboard.
The couple froze for a moment. Another girl the same age…
Hermione might prefer books to parties, but she was still lively—always laughing, always bouncing.
This child felt completely cut off from the world.
Hermione gave a soft laugh, slipped her hand back into Lynn's, and looked up at her mother with a hint of a plea. "Mum, Lynn can stay with us for a while, can't she? Please?"
Mrs. Granger tapped Hermione's nose with a smile. "Of course. We'd love to have her."
Mr. Granger nodded in cheerful agreement.
Hearing the invitation, Lynn's brain processed the rule: acknowledge politely. She dipped into a small bow.
"Thank you, Mrs. Granger, Mr. Granger."
Such a formal little thing, Mrs. Granger thought, helping her upright. "No need for thanks. You're Hermione's friend. We're just glad she'll have company this summer instead of burying herself in books."
She sighed. Who would have thought loving to read could ever become a problem?
Lynn said nothing, but Hermione's mouth twitched. You've got it wrong, Mum… If I don't stop her, Lynn will out-study me by miles.
With Lynn present, Hermione saved the explanation for later, once they were in the car.
Outside King's Cross Station she ushered Lynn into the front passenger seat, climbed in back with her mother, and prepared for a proper talk.
As the car pulled away, Lynn stared through the windscreen and began silently reciting the Potion textbook, every brewing step fixed in her mind.
Their luggage was stowed behind her; she had no book to hold, so she studied inside her head.
Watching the vacant, flickering gaze beside her, Hermione knew Lynn had slipped back into study mode—memorising some text or other.
She sighed softly and tugged Mrs. Granger's sleeve, signalling she should lean closer.
Eyebrow raised, Mrs. Granger bent until her ear touched Hermione's lips.
"Mum… Lynn's situation is a bit… special."
Hermione's complicated tone made Mrs. Granger straighten, suddenly serious. "Special how? Tell me."
Hermione bit her lip and listed the habits drilled into Lynn by her parents.
One hour of sleep a night, the rest for study; meals limited to three and a half minutes each; no breaks; every moment devoted to books.
Any slip in results, any second stolen by something else, and she punished herself.
Mrs. Granger felt the world blur. It sounded unreal—cruel. Could parents truly do this?
"When I found out," Hermione whispered, "her left arm couldn't lift. Her upper arm was mottled purple and black, some bruises still bleeding."
Even now the memory chilled her; she had almost been sick at the sight.
Purple-black bruises, some oozing blood? A doctor as well as a dentist, Mrs. Granger drew a sharp breath.
The girl treated her body as disposable—and those parents had taught her to.
"After that I banned it," Hermione said. "I make her sleep six hours now, and luckily she listens to me."
"Well done," Mrs. Granger murmured, stroking Hermione's hair.
"Do her parents know she's staying with us?"
Already she was planning how she and her husband would deal with them if they objected.
No chance would they send Lynn back; under those people's care the girl's body would break sooner or later.
Hermione hesitated, then lowered her eyes. "Her parents are dead. That's why I invited her—otherwise she'd be in a hotel."
"Dead?" Surprise flickered across Mrs. Granger's face, then acceptance. Dead was easier; no one could hurt her now.
Like mother, like daughter: their thoughts ran the same track.
"You did the right thing," Mrs. Granger said, patting Hermione's cheek. "Every Christmas, every holiday—invite her. She shouldn't spend a break alone in some hotel."
She had watched Hermiones face all Christmas; her daughter clearly cared for this quiet girl.
Very well—she would help. Summer by summer, holiday by holiday, she would give the two of them time to grow closer.
Let Lynn taste life in the Granger household; when Hermione finally confessed her feelings, the path would be smoother.
Mrs. Granger's plans were already stretching years ahead to the day Hermione might finally say "I love you."
"Mm!" Hermione nodded hard, beaming. Her parents always had her back, and the warmth of it bubbled inside her.
It felt wonderful to know someone was always behind you, a safety net you could count on no matter what.
"Oh, Mum, in two weeks Lynn wants to rent a villa so a few of us can stay together and hang out—just some fun time. You don't mind, right?"
Hermione gazed up at Mrs. Granger with kitten-wide eyes, as if begging for a treat.
Mrs. Granger laughed and tapped Hermione's nose. "Of course. I'm delighted you want to spend time with your friends; I'd never stop you."
"But Lynn's paying for the villa?" Mrs. Granger hesitated. "Does she have enough?"
Though it was the girls' plan and she and her husband didn't want to interfere, she worried Lynn might be stretched thin.
Hermione nodded, unsure what expression to wear. Lynn's parents treated her so badly, drilling unhealthy habits into her.
Yet money was never an issue—so contradictory it made her stomach twist.
"Her parents left her plenty," she said. "She says she can have as much as she wants, whenever she wants."
Mrs. Granger blinked. That didn't add up.
From what Hermione had told her, she doubted those people saw Lynn as a daughter at all.
To them she was a machine built to absorb knowledge and improve itself. With that pressure and constant studying, no wonder the girl came across as stiff and monotonous.
Immersion in books left no room for rich feelings or lively reactions.
But if they treated her like a machine, why leave her money? They didn't care about her body or mind; why care about her finances?
Impossible. Those funds—however they'd appeared—were almost certainly not from her parents.
Mrs. Granger smoothed Hermione's hair but kept the thought to herself.
It was Lynn's story to tell, if she chose.
The car rolled into the Granger Residence garage. Lynn climbed out, blank-eyed, glanced at the small detached house, then hauled both suitcases from the boot.
"Thanks." Hermione took her bag and flashed a bright smile.
Lynn inclined her head, tone flat. "You're welcome."
Following Hermione and the Grangers inside, Lynn lowered her gaze, refusing to gawk—her mind warned it would be rude.
"Here, Lynn, wear these—they're brand-new." Mrs. Granger set a pair of slippers beside her with a gentle smile.
Lynn looked up, voice mechanical. "Thank you, Mrs. Granger."
"Call me Auntie." Mrs. Granger's heart pinched; the girl spoke without inflection—how harshly had she been repressed?
She stepped into the slippers and trailed Hermione into the lounge.
Hermione pointed upstairs. "My room's on the second floor, guest room too."
She turned hopeful eyes on Lynn. "D'you want to share with me or take the guest room?"
Sharing—especially with Lynn—made Hermione's insides cartwheel.
Lynn studied Hermione's face, analysing.
Anticipation? Conclusion: Hermione wanted her to stay in her room.
Accept. Share. The directive surfaced again in her mind.
She nodded. "May I room with you?"
"Absolutely!" Hermione hugged her. "I'll fetch an extra quilt."
Flat thanks: "Thank you."
Mrs. Granger watched them, heart swelling and aching. She ruffled both girls' hair. "Quilts are in your cupboard, Hermione."
Hermione beamed and towed Lynn upstairs.
The two girls clattered upward, suitcases bumping.
The Grangers watched fondly but didn't help; independence had to be learned.
Hermione unlocked her door—untouched since term began—and winced at the dust.
"Guess I've some cleaning to do."
Since she was ten, her parents had handed over broom, mop and linen duty, then stayed out of her room and life, giving her the key.
Their rule: growing kids need privacy and self-reliance.
So holiday meant tackling the mess herself.
Lynn turned, toneless. "May I examine your room closely?"
Hermione blinked—wasn't it already in front of her?
Then she noticed Lynn staring only at the floor, gaze clamped there.
A pang squeezed her chest; she hugged her friend. "Of course you can. Relax—no fancy rules here."
Lynn mirrored the embrace, murmuring assent.
She lifted her eyes over Hermione's shoulder and assessed: sweep and mop floor, wipe window-sill, change bedding, clean desk—fifteen minutes at her speed.
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