An Opus Alchymicum Vol 4: The Dæmon's Crucible

Interpretations

Hermione bit her lip anxiously as she studied the blank expressions of the two people in front of her. They looked back, but they might as well have been looking through her for all the focus that their combined gazes had. Hermione sighed sadly, dabbed at her strained eyes and heaved in a weighty breath. This was nothing new ... for she noticed that many of her breaths seemed heavy in this world, as though she were stealing the very oxygen from the air around her.

She had been back in her original world for a fortnight now and this feeling, which had struck her the moment she crossed through the portal again, had grown steadily more pronounced as the days wore on. It felt as if she were being scrutinised, maybe even scorned, by the very forces of nature here ... spat on by the frozen Arctic snow, hissed at by the icy-sprayed winds of the German Ocean, then burned by the sun of Summertime Oxford ... all as punishment for bringing the evil magic of Thomas Riddle to active prominence in his new domain. It was as if her former world was hurting and blaming her for the wounds ... and telling her she wasn't welcome to exist here any longer.

The realisation sat achingly on Hermione's chest as she begrudgingly accepted this heart-breaking truth ... this wasn't her home anymore, she didn't belong here ... and she barely even felt allowed to walk in the world of her birth now.

And in no way did her crimes leave a more jarring impression on her than in the two people she was sat in silence with now ... the damaged, docile forms of her own parents. The attack on their dæmons had caused a terrifying change in them, one that nobody was yet able to fully understand ... but the effect was clear for all to see. For the Grangers would flip between two, starkly different states; sometimes they would be normal, chatty and active, if a little morose ... and at others, like this ... shell-shocked and utterly unresponsive. And the changes would strike at random and without warning, rendering these usually happy and lively people as mute and inert.

And today, they had woken up in their torpid form ... not even aware enough to realise that they had soiled themselves during the night. Hermione had helped Lyra and Lily to clean them up, before asking for their help in bringing her parents to a favourite beauty spot of theirs, where Hermione childishly hoped they might find rejuvenation and invigoration again.

But, so far, it wasn't working ... and they seemed to have no idea where they were, not that they were cogent enough to care.

"Hey ... feel up to some company?"

Hermione raised her drooped head to the garden gate. Harry was there wielding two cups of steaming tea and a hopeful, if weak, smile.

Hermione shrugged at the question, Harry took it as encouragement enough and ambled down the path towards her. The Granger residence was in a pretty spot in Abingdon, part of a row of red brick houses that ran parallel to the canal, which led towards Oxford a short distance away. The back gardens of all the properties bordered the waterway and a sort of communal garden had sprung up all along the bank, lovingly maintained by each of the residents as a matter of local pride.

It was here that Hermione was sat now with her parents. They had built a pretty little rockery in the area adjacent to their own garden, ringed it all with brilliant white pebbles, and installed a trio of pine benches and a bird bath, to create a lovely spot where they could sit and laze away the hours. It was their favourite place to relax.

"I used to love coming down here when I was younger," Hermione told Harry as he joined her and sat on the bench opposite, passing over one of the cups of tea and taking in the surroundings. Hermione sounded feeble, her voice flat and worn out from all her grief. Harry grimaced at her in pity as she began speaking again, totally desolate that he was unable to console her effectively. "I would spend hours just watching the narrowboats float by, wondering what adventures they'd been on, or listening to my Mum tell me stories as I rested my head in her lap on warm Summer evenings, or having my Dad tell me all about the different bird species as they drank from the bath or nibbled at the fat balls in the feed cage. He used to love all the birds."