Ecdysis

Chapter 4 - Summer Before Third Year: Repose

Every year we went on at least two trips. Camping was a must, laying out tents in the expansive green wilderness where we'd gaze bright stars and respire the purest countryside air. And then we'd go on another holiday, Granger-style, somewhere in Europe where we'd glean new culture and witness Dad struggle to navigate foreign loopy roads in chemical-scented rental cars. Italy, Greece, Switzerland—whichever country was my parents' flavour of the season. This year, Mum chose France. She wanted beaches and bistros, while giving me an opportunity to visit museums—Muggle museums. "So Hermione can get a feel for her own culture."

That afternoon, after booking flights and reserving the two-bedroom suite, they picked out a recipe to cook together—lasagna, two different flavours—and played Paul McCartney on the kitchen stereo, shimmying around one another as they chopped and simmered and steamed. The smell of Nana Jean's garlicky tomato sauce rising in the air made my mouth water.

I watched them through the kitchen pass-through while I finished my history paper. Mum made a fuss about my ink and quill, asking why I couldn't just use a pen. She was worried I'd stain the priceless wood of her dining room table, but I promised I'd be careful and refused to leave despite a heavy dose of evil eye.

It was nice to be home. To wear singlets and cotton shorts around the house, bare feet on plush rugs, to be in a sitting room with tall windows and ample natural light. We lived like bats in the common room at school, and though I loved the lake window, I'd become Vitamin-D deficient. I missed reading without squinting my eyes, and my parents' home cooking, having my own room—one that didn't smell like other people's sweat and wasn't mucked up by dirt tracked inside with school loafers. The comfort of not wearing shoes in the house, and not having to wash my hands before bed. In the communal spaces at school, kids were downright unhygienic—so far, I'd caught Goyle picking his nose and scraping it under the study, a dozing first year drooling on the paisley green armchair, and Pansy spilling black nail varnish on the tufted sofa without cleaning it up, the leather's black so who cares?

I completed two rolls of parchment more than required for my history essay. Three different professors had stopped me after class on three separate occasions, pleading that I stick to the word count. In my defence, essays only had word minimums at the beginning of term, but maximums were implemented halfway through the year. It was disappointing, but luckily, Professor Binns had all the time in the world, and I hoped he'd appreciate my extra two rolls of parchment featuring peer-reviewed quotes and additional Muggle resources comparing misconceptions of witch-burning trials to the truth.

After putting my quill and ink away, careful to wipe the tip so Mum's table wasn't ruined, I made my way into the kitchen where she was layering lasagna number one, while Dad hovered over the gas stove, sautéing field mushrooms for lasagna two.

"Hermione, pick up a knife and slice courgette for your father." Mum jutted her chin toward a wooden chopping board and a silver kitchen knife on the opposite side of the marble island.

"Peeled?" I rinsed the courgette in the sink first, shiny but gritty in my hand.

"Sure." She spread tomato sauce over sheets of pale lasagna, then grated fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano over it, working her thin browned arms. Mum loved being in the sun. Freckles and age spots dotted her wrists and tops of her hands. She wore minimal jewellery; her wedding ring was gold and plain, forever avoiding anything that sparkled. Around her left wrist was always a skinny brown leather wristwatch, the strap loose enough to twist so she had to rotate her arm in odd directions to read the time. "Did you finish your school assignment?"

"Yes," I said, while grating thin streamers of courgette skin with the peeler I'd grabbed from the utensils drawer. "It was about witch-burning trials in the Mediaeval times."