Eschatology, Parenting, and You (By Dr Granger, BChD)

June 20th, 1996

"Dad?"

"Yes, Hermione?"

A rush of static: a sigh. The sort of thing that just didn't get across over the owl post. "Can I come home?"

"I thought you'd be staying with your friends—"

"Please?"

William Granger was a clever man. He had taken his cleverness and gotten a fancy education, and now he had a bit of paper that declared to everyone just how clever he really was. In the course of acquiring the education he had even managed to find himself an equally clever wife, with whom he now ran a dentistry surgery where he very cleverly fixed the teeth of those not clever enough to bother taking care of themselves.

His very clever daughter, however, appears to have gotten herself into some sort of trouble, and her world was one that Dr William Granger, BChD, could not apply any of his cleverness to in the slightest.

For all the aching desperation in her tone over the phone—it was a miracle she had been able to find one in rural Scotland, even after five years at that school—Hermione was her cheerful self when she deposited her chests with a wave of her wand in the parlor. "Hey dad," she said, beaming, and twitched a hand at the door; it slammed shut behind her.

Perhaps it had just been finals stress. Hermione had always taken her grades so very seriously, just as she ought to. "I take it you won't be needing help?" William asked, smiling from his seat in his favorite chair. Younger generations had a way of making the older ones feel obsolete—for some parents it was computers; for others, he supposed, it was magic. He happened to be in the unfortunate situation of both, but at least Hermione was home this time around, perhaps she could help set up the Internet modem he and Melinda had been trying to figure out—

"Don't worry about it," Hermione said, now directing the chests one at a time up the stairs into her room. William heard a crash as what was presumably her bedroom door slammed open. "I can take care of it myself."

"Do mind the wallpaper," he said mildly. "We just redid the hall, your mother is quite fond of the paisley."

"I'll fix it if there's any tears, mmkay?" Hermione was clearly distracted, but still put in the effort for small talk. "Where's mum, anyway?"

"Work. Complications from a root canal. You know how she is, trying to do it perfectly." William set down his crossword. "I thought you weren't allowed to do magic at home over the holidays."

Hermione looked up from her work, blinking; one of the chests hurdling its way up the stairs bumped rather alarmingly into the very paisley wall he had warned Hermione about moments ago. William frowned; it wasn't like her to be so careless. "I—ah. It's not an issue anymore. I'm old enough now, see."

"I thought you had to be 18?"

The luggage hit the side of the wall again. William winced. "It's, um, complicated." She paused. "Actually, there is something you could help me with, and it's rather important. Something of why I've come home. Have there been any suspicious looking strangers stopping by recently, hanging around the house, anything like that?"

There hadn't been, but that changed the very next day. In the middle of the living room, in fact, standing there with his chin in the air like a prince surveying a strange new realm, wearing a crisp black suit edged with green symbols that looked like they had come out of one of Hermione's textbooks.

The stranger turned and looked at William, as if he was the one who didn't belong. William's mind was racing to possible weapons to deter burglars—he supposed he had a cricket bat above the mantle from his sporting days—when the stranger's pale face twisted up into a smile. "This is the residence of Hermione Jean Granger, yes?"

William had heard all about the War—or at least, scraps filtered through what Hermione had managed to tell him last summer when she visited. He hadn't gotten a chance to question her further last night, as she had simply plunked into bed declaring herself too exhausted to do anything but sleep. He had thought that the War might have something to do with her teariness over the phone, perhaps, and her letters had seemed awfully distracted—

William was trying to decide whether he had a better chance of success at calling the police or reaching the cricket bat when Hermione came bounding down the stairs. "You came!" she cried out happily, half leaping into his arms and taking him into a fierce hug. "I've missed you so much, I didn't get a chance to say goodbye after I got out of the Hospital Wing and I was so worried that you wouldn't be able to find me and—"

William coughed. They both looked at him; Hermione jumped back and folded her hands in front of her. "He's, ah." William scrambled for words. He was a dentist, he didn't like people on the whole, let alone social interaction, that's why he liked his books so much. "A friend of yours, then?" William squinted. Black hair, green eyes, brooding look. "Harry Potter, is it?"

Hermione shook her head, blushing slightly. "Oh, gosh no, he's not! Harry, I mean. He is a friend. Just not Harry. At all."

"We study together in the library," the stranger smoothly interjected, adjusting his suit. For a wizard, he managed to look almost—normal, if a bit on the formal side. And like Hermione's other school friends, he also looked older than he really ought to be. These children fought wars, William remembered, shivering slightly. "I'll be working with her over the summer."

William frowned. "Has she fallen behind in classes?"

Hermione's mouth formed an 'o' of surprise, but before she could respond, the young man cut in again. "To the contrary. Hermione excels beyond the wildest dreams of her... usual instructors. Brightest witch of her age and all." He looked over at Hermione, smiling in a way that seemed a bit more than just proud; plotting. Hermione had had issues in primary school with other students wanting to copy her work, he sincerely hoped she wasn't being taken advantage of again—"It's a bit of an independent study project. Getting a head start on the other students, see."

William Granger blinked. "I—see. What was your name again?"

The young man smiled. "Loki. Just Loki."

Melinda was the one to spot the scar—Hermione had exited the shower in just a towel and apparently had a great pink mark going from one shoulder down across her chest. "She says it's not serious," Melinda confided in him, facing him in their bed. Her soft brown curls framed her face, and in the half light William could not help but marvel at how very much Hermione was her mother's daughter, right down to how they both worried their lower lip. "She's told us how fantastic some of their magic is at healing; what could she have possibly gotten into that they couldn't even patch up properly?"

He asked about it at breakfast the next day. Hermione clammed up, red-eyed, and while he immediately regretted bringing it up at all, he regretted what came out of his mouth next even more: "You're not fighting in this war," he blurted out.

Instantly all her tears seemed to dry up and she cast upon him the most baleful glance he could have possibly imagined. Definitely his wife's daughter; it was as if someone had tried to tell her that it wasn't worth bothering to floss. "We're all in this war whether we know it or not," she said, cool as a cucumber. "I'm just trying to be prepared for it. That's why Loki's here this summer. Our independent project—you could read all the books in the world and not be ready. I'm just trying to be prepared for something that's going to happen whether I like it or not. Whether you like it or not."

Eventually he stopped arguing; it at least gave him and Melinda the quickly disappearing illusion of choice when it came to what their child did.

At least, after another Talk—this one with a capital T.

"I do read books, you know," she said, scowling as she flushed right up to her scalp. "And Loki—we're not like that, not really—"

"You can read all the books in the world and not be ready," William threw back at her. He knew how this went. Melinda squeezed his hand. Two students, united by a love of learning—it could happen to people other than those in dentistry school together, he supposed.

And it was going to happen, whether William liked it or not. He had seen how Loki had looked at her, and how she had looked back. Hermione may try to act like a mature adult—since when had she been so beautiful, since when did she get involved in battles?—but even if it hadn't happened in so many words, he had a feeling that Hermione had brought Loki into their home to see whether he passed the parent test as a suitable boyfriend.

And pass judgment he would. He hadn't gotten a chance on that last one of hers.

"We should have him over for dinner," Melinda announced over breakfast.

Hermione looked ready to spew her orange juice all over her toast. "Loki?!"

Melinda smiled beatifically. "If he's the one we'll be entrusting our daughter's study habits to this summer," she said, "it'd be good to get to know him. Besides—wizards know very little about us non magical folk, yes? It'd be a good cultural lesson for him. The marmalade, if you would dear."

Hermione's shoulders slumped a bit. "Something like that," she muttered, spooning rather more marmalade than was entirely necessary onto her toast before passing it along to her mother.

They walked in from—well, wherever they had been—at the worst possible time. Or at least, they had held the door open far too long, the wind blowing clear through the front door to turn haphazardly flutter through all the computer manuals that William had carefully propped up around the sitting room to very different and very specific pages.

William's head snapped up from the dissembled computer he had spent the better part of his Sunday fiddling with to snap at Hermione and Loki—his influence seemed to be making her so careless!—but he stopped short when he looked closer. Hermione was cradling a snake-like coil of something... crystalline yet fluid between her outstretched hands as if it were a living thing.

He watched, hypnotized, as what looked rather like the head of a cobra reared up, the coils all writhing about—was it made of water?!—as Loki gestured at it with long fingers, his eyes half hooded and smiling as he made the snake sway.

"Mind the door!" William managed as a few pages fluttered past him. He had taken over half the living room with this project, and he was already dreading how much paging about he'd have to do to find all those diagrams again...

Loki twitched one of his hands and the door shut behind them. "Sorry!" Hermione called out cheerfully, and turned to Loki, starting some conversation about something surreally arcane with her school friend. "So, elemental magic is really just an arbitrary set of labels for different states of matter..."

William scowled down at his computer parts. He had just wanted to hook up the modem, really, so he had acquired more books to try to figure out the thing that Asimov and all the others had said would replace books.

Loki and Hermione disappeared into the kitchen. William frowned in their direction. Or perhaps it would all just be replaced by magic one day, via living water snakes like data IVs to the brain.

Sighing, he started to pick through the manuals he had sprawled throughout the room. One thing at a time, he supposed; all things had a progression, and his, for the moment, was puzzling out computers.

At dinner that evening, Melinda tried to make small talk, curious as they both were about Hermione's 'friend'. "Are you an only child as well?"

Hermione choked on her asparagus; William passed her his glass of water. Perilous vegetable.

"I... have one brother," Loki said, his voice carefully neutral.

"I'm sorry, dear." Melinda took a sip of her wine. "I take it you don't get along?"

Loki spread his hands out wide. "I am here, am I not?"

William and Melinda exchanged a look. One of the Death Feaster chaps, they agreed silently as Hermione glared at them both for their insensitivity.

"We understand," Melinda continued on, smiling as kindly as she could. "We all need to get away from our family sometimes."

Especially where politics are concerned, William finished silently; but such things were not for the dinner table—that and religion. (For that matter, what god or gods did wizards worship?... he'd have to ask later. Carefully.)

But if Loki had personal ties to this War of theirs, he had better not be bringing it to the Granger household. He wouldn't have his daughter wrapped up in some other family's petty squabbles. They had quite enough of that sorting out what color the new sofa would be, thank you very much.

Melinda let the topic drop, and began making other, less intimate inquiries—how he had met Hermione ("research in the library"), what they did for fun ("research in the library"), etc. At some point she inquired about what he and Hermione would be working on over the summer, and he launched into a somewhat patronizing dissertation that went quite over his head.

At least he seemed serious enough, quite unlike her other friends.

"It's a salad, Loki."

"Food for rabbits that would not even fatten them up for the slaughter."

"Loki! It's good for you, or at least for us lesser mortals, lots of vitamins and minerals—no, that's dressing, you put it on top of the salad, you don't drink it—yes, I know it looks like a flagon—"

Melinda leaned over. "Do they not have salads at Hogwarts?" she asked, frowning.

William sighed through Hermione's attempts to explain their cuisine. Magic was no excuse for poor nutrition. And Loki's teeth had looked so healthy, too.

Next time Dr William Granger came home from work, he heard voices in the kitchen. Excited ones.

"See, the electricity—it's channeled through the wire, think rather like how magic can flow along your arm—it's in a highly controlled fashion, that's why the blades can rotate so predictably."

They hadn't appeared to have heard him come in. William hung up his coat and made his way to the kitchen.

The place was an absolute mess—since when could Hermione stand such chaos? Since starting to spend time with this Loki fellow, apparently. Utensils were strewn everywhere, bags of ingredients half poured out over the country, appliances left running... and in the midst of it all, two pristine sheets of as-yet unbaked cookies.

The oven beeped. William Granger caught the edge of an almost childishly gleeful expression on Loki's face. "And we place them in the electronic hearth now, yes? How strange it must be, to have neither magic nor servants to craft your own foodstuffs for you."

Hermione laughed. "I don't think you quite get it. See, that's exactly the beauty of it—crafting things for yourself, not having to rely on anything else. Other than industrialization, globalization, and pushing the right buttons, I suppose. The macademia nuts come from the other side of the world, just for these cookies, and our kind manages all this without any magic at all! Here, let's finish taking the blender apart and I can show you how gears work—"

William smiled, despite himself (and despite that awful mess they were making) and left the doorway without another word.

"Why do we have a new toaster?" Melinda, at dinner.

Hermione sighed. "It wouldn't surrender Loki's toast. He felt bad about it afterward."

William knew how this went. Hermione felt bad, so she cleaned up somebody else's mess. Just like during her first—and last—sleepover, when one of her eight-year-old not-friends had spilled some grape juice all over the new carpeting and Hermione spent all night trying to clean it up, only to be found in the morning asleep, cheek stained from the grape juice stain she had fallen asleep on.

"Cars," Hermione explained kindly, as William came in the door. "Think of them as a cross between a horse and a house."

Loki frowned, staring at William rather intently from his seat, as if he were a particularly large insect. "How... creative."

William shifted uncomfortably, though the movement was lost as he removed his shoes and jacket. Who knew that coming in through the door could wreak such peril on his ego?

Hermione's eyes, however, were bright with excitement. "They're fueled by things that died millions of years ago, surely even you can't even imagine that! The process of internal combustion is actually quite fascinating. Here, let me conjure you some paper, I'll draw you a picture..."

William went into the kitchen,the conversation already trailing off into the finer points of thermodynamics. At least his daughter seemed to have finally found someone that seemed to appreciate her; parents, he supposed, could ask for little else for their children.

He didn't want to think of it as chaperoning. That would imply that he didn't trust his daughter. Curiosity, rather, maybe touched with a little concern.

William usually took his lunch at the surgery, but today he made up an excuse about having forgotten a file at home and drove there with sweaty palms.

The house was silent until he actually stepped into the yard, and suddenly all he could hear were shouts and explosions as if the white picket fence had been the front of a war zone. It was coming from the backyard, if any of the Dead Feaster chaps had come for his daughter. Running to the back gate, he decided that magicless or no he would call the police and he had had quite the arm for cricket back in his day so maybe he could help take care of them himself—

By the time he ad gotten to the gate to the backyard he could hear laughter mixed in, though the sight before him left him feeling no less alarmed. Hermione and Loki were facing each other, the grass around them torn up far more than anything rugby cleats could even manage, their hair wild and their faces wet from sweat. Loki was down to a loose white collared shirt, half untucked; Hermione, a tank top that revealed a little more skin than William was accustomed to seeing on his daughter. Hermione clutched in one hand her wand, and Loki a knife. Bruises bloomed purple and green on her bared arms, though Loki seemed relatively untouched.

Most of all though was how she held herself: tall and strong, grinning fiercely like something out of one of those action flicks and not like just like some bookworm who checked the source material out at the library.

Something ached in William's chest. He watched as Loki beckoned at his daughter, suddenly too-grown-up, flipping the knife over in his hand and catching it by the point."Your shields are getting stronger," Loki directed at his daughter, an almost manic smile playing at his lips, "but try to make them more focused, only where the blade will hit. You'll waste far less energy that way."

William's mouth went dry, unable to even cry out as the dagger flicked itself through the air, too fast to follow—and his breath released sharply as the knife clattered to the ground, inches from Hermione's feet.

He watched as she picked the knife up, not near as tentative as he remembered her picking up kitchen knives to help with dinner years ago, back when she was just a girl, just a girl, awkward and terrified of slicing her thumb open on the bread board... She then grinned, again, and flipped the knife end-over-end in her hand, catching it if not nearly so deftly as Loki. "Your turn," she said.

They say that people are defined by their company of friends, and Hermione had certainly been keeping different company of late. William found his appetite had quite gone, which was just as well; his lunch break was almost over.

William came back from work later that day and found that there were no seats left for him in the sitting room, Hermione being completely sprawled out over the couch and Loki's lanky frame dominating William's favorite recliner. He sat in it like a king lording about in his throne, a tray of cookies on the coffee table before him like sacrifices to be had in his honor.

William stood at the entry to the sitting room, clutching his newspaper, unwilling to be banished to the kitchen by Hermione's rather scary school friend, but for all his logophilic tendencies unable to find the words to tell Loki to get the hell out of his chair.

Hermione, of course, was far too engrossed in what she was reading to even register her father's presence, but Loki caught on to his painfully awkward hovering quickly enough, his eyes slipping over the edge of the book he was reading to catch William's eyes. He seemed to frown slightly, considering William with an intensity that rather made him feel as if he was the one in the surgery chair being inspected, before shrugging and waving one elegant hand. As quick as he could blink a new recliner appeared in the sitting room, all brown suede and mahogany accents.

Loki was staring him down expectantly. William found himself lowering down into the chair, gingerly at first but as he sank into the softest suede he had ever known he felt himself relaxing in ways he hadn't imagined he could in a chair. Gosh, something like this might actually do wonders for his dentistry practice. "I—ah." William shifted in the chair, unable to restrain a sigh of contentment and certainly unable to find the proper words around Hermione's supremely odd friend. "Thank you."

Loki blinked, then gestured at the coffee table between them. "Cookie?"

It felt like a peace offering. William took one from the tray. What other attributes this chap might have, at least he would know how to take care of his daughter correctly. He bit into the cookie; it tasted like nothing he had ever had before, nuts and spices that surely hadn't come from the grocer down the street. Was Loki one of those international students? It'd explain the not-quite-right accent of his...

No matter. Sighing happily, he started in on the crossword.

Hermione had left to check in with her friends at the Order, but had apparently forgotten to tell Loki—at least judging by the frantic energy by which her friend was pacing about Hermione's room, muttering into a vial of flame. William could hear his footfalls clear into the sitting room, for goodness sake. At William's appearance at the doorway Loki turned and looked at him, concern crinkling his face. "Where is Hermione?" he demanded, stepping towards him.

Loki certainly cut an intimidating figure. Did they teach theater at Hogwarts? It took every ounce of professionalism he had scraped together in his twenty year career not to step back from the door frame. "With her other friends, I believe she said. Some sort of meeting about the War." He frowned. "Shouldn't you be there too? I thought—"

"Nothing I care to know," Loki said airily, once more all cool unconcern. The odd little vial was tucked back into his shirt. "Did she say when she would return?"

William shook his head. "She'll be eating dinner with the Weasleys, I believe she said, but beyond that I don't know." He frowned. "Now, look here, I don't know what counts for courtesy in your customs, but breaking into people's bedrooms—into people's houses, period, unannounced—is considered quite rude by our count."

Loki did that blinking thing again, this time cocking his head to the side as if inspecting a very small ant. William felt himself bristle a bit. Just because Loki was a wizard! "I assure you," Loki said, his tones silky smooth, "I mean no harm. To the contrary. I'd consider any breach of etiquette a small trade in knowing that she is well."

"Why are you so concerned about her?" William was feeling bold. He crossed his arms and took on his you haven't been brushing your teeth twice a day, have you? tone of voice. "Don't get me wrong, the idea of some magical war going on over my head quite frankly terrifies me and I'm ecstatic at every scrap of help that comes my daughter's way, but I am starting to have a very hard time believing that you're a student. Or a professor, for that matter. Why hasn't Hermione mentioned you in one of her letters before?"

Loki sighed, looking about Hermione's room—stacks, and stacks, and stacks of mostly alphabetized books, magical and non magical mingling freely. "Letters can be read by more than those intended to receive them," he said eventually, "and what we study together must remain a secret—including to much of the Order."

"What is it, exactly, that you study?"

"Eschatology."

William frowned. He didn't know that one. "Pardon?"

"That is your word for it, yes?" Now it was Loki's turn to frown, and he stopped his pacing. "I looked it up in one of your books of words. The dictionary." He paused. "The study of the end of the world? Is there some other word you know it by?"

Well, that was one for the Sunday crosswords. "That—doesn't sound like one of Hermione's classes."

"As I said: independent study."

William certainly had a hard time wrapping his head around some of the things that Hermione had told him about, but the end of the world took the cake for sheer drama. "To what end?"

Loki stepped forward again. Apparently wizards had a different conception of personal space as well as what constituted polite behavior. "To no end, if I can help it." His pale green eyes gleamed with an intensity that had William rocking back on his heels, though he managed not to take a step back. "There are things at stake quite beyond this war of your daughter's."

"What, so Lord Voldemort wants to bring about the Apocalypse?"

"Not Lord Voldemort." Loki's face was grim. "But that is neither here, nor now. Tell me, Hermione has told me that dentists are greatly feared by children. Why is this?"

William sighed and pushed up his glasses. He'd come back to this later. One of the first things he had learned about parenting was to sometimes accept redirection. "Well. We mean the best, we really do, but sometimes people just don't know what's best for themselves and it's our job to sometimes tell them things they don't want to hear..."

William brought it up again, later—this time with his daughter over dinner that night. "Loki tells me that he studies the end of the world?"

"Oh," Melinda said, putting a spot of butter on her potatoes. "Like Ragnarok?" She tittered a bit. "Funny, considering his name."

Hermione, on the other hand, paled noticeably. "That's what he told you he was doing?"

"What else would he be telling us?" William looked up from his plate, watching his daughter carefully.

She hid herself behind a bowl of potatoes, spooning a magnificent mountain of them onto her plate. "Oh. Um. Nothing, really. It's just odd he'd tell you... that one."

"He sounds like the sort who has his fingers in a lot of pies," Melinda slipped in, her voice mild.

Still, the troubled look on Hermione's face did not escape him. He speared a bit of asparagus with his fork. "You didn't mention anything like this earlier," he pointed out. "You've told us about some... blood supremicists, but nothing like... this. Hermione, if there's anything you need to tell us, if Loki is dangerous in any way—"

"William, dear, is this really the time—"

Hermione's cutlery clattered to the table. "Mum, dad, there's a lot you don't know." She looked them both in the eye. "And I'm not telling you either. If someone—if some Death Eater gets into your head and you happen to know anything important, anything at all, they will flay you alive to get every scrap of detail they possibly can." She tapped her head. "I don't mean to condescend, but you physiologically can't keep secrets from anyone with a wand. Not without magic that you just don't have. So I can't tell you anything. I'm sorry. I really am."

William blinked rapidly, a heat in his eyes. "Hermione, I—"

"It's the only way I can protect you!" Hermione suddenly shouted, now standing clear of the table. "I'm sorry. They're already killing people like you, you have to understand that. I need to keep you safe." And with that, she fled upstairs. They heard her door slam and something unpleasantly like a muffled sob.

Melinda smiled weakly, and reached across the table to take her husband's hand in hers, which still limply clutched at his cutlery. "Let her have a good cry," she said softly. "We can sort this out later."

"She's right," he croaked out, a dull terror curling around his gut, helplessness. He had paid off all loans on the house and had a solid pension plan and a lovely new car and had even set aside funds should Hermione choose to attend a good college but none of it, none of it really mattered if some dark stranger could swoop in and kill them before they even knew he was there. "She's right, there's not a damn thing we can do. We're dentists, Mel, and she's off trying to save the world who knows how many times over. Isn't that what we adults are supposed to be doing? For our children? And here we sit and our children are doing it for us."

Melinda's smile pressed into a firm line. "We support her," she said, her voice warm and calm. " Love her. Care for her. Completely and unconditionally. And most of all—not worry about things beyond our control. Like what our daughter does to try to protect us, and herself." She squeezed his hand. "Besides: we are saving the world, one cavity at a time."

Her daughter's mother, he thought to himself.

Melinda left a plate of dinner in front of Hermione's door; it was still there, untouched, in the morning.

William didn't allow himself to get concerned until that evening. Hermione was an adult, after all, as hard as that was to swallow. As he was debating whether to set the table for her or to call the police (who probably wouldn't know a thing about errant young witches anyway) Hermione appeared with a loud pop in the sitting room. Her face was splotchy red from the beginnings of a sunburn and in her hands she had a bouquet of tropical flowers. She held them out towards her mother, who had just emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands off with a terry cloth. "I'm sorry for blowing up last night," Hermione said, a bit sheepish.

Melinda set the terry cloth aside and cooed over the flowers, while William swept his daughter into a tight hug, noting that she was almost as tall as she was, that she no longer had a half-hunch when she walked from carrying too many books but rather stood up straight and proud. She smelled like the sea, like crushed greenery, like pina coladas.

Their beautiful, terrifying daughter. She had sand in her hair.

"Did going out for a bit help?" Melinda asked, putting the strange bright flowers in a vase at the center of the dining room table.

"Australia was brilliant," Hermione said, releasing her dad and smiling, only a little awkwardly. William stepped back, and went to start setting her a place at the table.

The Grangers had never been south of Italy. Melinda's eyes were bright. "Oh, you should tell us all about it! We're saving up for another vacation, like the one we took to France a few years ago; perhaps we could all go there as a family when you graduate. I've always fancied Australia."

Hermione nodded, and told them all about it. Or mostly. She didn't once mention Loki, or Ragnarok. Neither of them asked.

Thirsty. Groggy, William rubbed at his eyes and rolled out of bed, shivering as his feet scuttled across the floor in search of his slippers.

As he padded his way down the stairs to the kitchen, however, he knew that something was wrong. A figure loomed in the doorway, robes falling all around him darker than shadows, facing away from William. He appeared to be inspecting the blinking light of the telephone, poking at it with a stick.

Or a wand.

Wizard, and certainly not Loki. No, Loki had already figured that bit of technology out.

Williams hesitated only for a moment, then treaded silently as he could down the rest of the stairs. His cricket bats were crossed over the hearth. If he could just reach one of them before the dark figure turned around to notice him...

This was his castle dammit, even if it wasn't made of old stones and magic: he knew which floorboards had a tendency to squeak, and avoided each and every single one. He did his best to keep a line of sight with the intruder, who was now working his way through the kitchen: by the looks of it, the wizard was mesmerized by the array of small blinking appliance lights, his wand aiming at every one as if they were alarms to be disarmed.

After an endless eternity, William's hand closed around the cricket bat. The intruder still hadn't seemed to notice him. He'd probably only have one crack at this. William crept up to him quickly as he could, holding his breath: the intruder only had enough time to whirl around, wand in hand, before the bat connected straight away with his head with a rather satisfying (if vaguely sickening) thud.

His castle, and he'd be damned if he didn't defend it.

"Yaxley?" William heard a voice from the porch, outside, and something move outside the window, darker than shadow.

Sneaking up with a cricket bat had worked once, and that was more luck than William was really allowed for one day. William took this as the time to run as fast as he could round the corner of the kitchen to get to the stairs, shouting as he did so. "MEL HERMIONE WAKE UP INTRUDERS!" he bellowed, loud as he could.

He heard the sliding glass door of the porch shatter behind him, and a second shatter as what sounded like the vase of flowers hit the ground. Heart pounding, he ran up the stairs faster than he had ever managed before, even during his sporting days. The family portraits lining the stairwell one by one exploded in showers of sickly green light.

When he reached the top of the stairs Hermione was already out her door, in the pink flannel pajamas they had gotten her years ago that most certainly no longer fit her. She still managed to look battle grim, however, fuchsia polka dots and all. "Stay with mum!" Hermione ordered fiercely, her wand flicking around rapidly. "They've put up Anti-Apparition Wards but I've called for help, I can shield us somewhat until he gets here—"

"Death Feasters?" William gasped, gripping his cricket bat a little bit tighter. He didn't wait for an answer, instead diving into his—his and Melinda's bedroom, oh god Melinda, where somehow there was already one of the figures by the side of the bed. His wand was directed at Melinda's throat, her whole body covered in head to toe cords like some child's idea of a mummy. "Death Eaters," the figure corrected quietly. He didn't have a face, just a mask, this awful silvery thing that looked right out of Halloween except this was real and it was threatening his wife.

It didn't take long for Hermione to notice—as she soon as she came skidding into the room, she just as quickly froze. "Mum!" she cried out, gripping her wand. "Look, she didn't do anything—I'll come quietly, just let them go—"

It would have been nice think something brave at this point. 'The hell you will' would have done nicely, but more appropriate was something along the lines of, 'Over my dead body,' given the mad laughter emitting from the two cloaked figures. "We have no intention of letting you come quietly," the figure hovering over Melinda menaced. Oh God, they must teach theater at Hogwarts. Melinda whimpered as the wand dug into her throat, twisting at the soft flesh there. "We have every intention of you coming screaming to our Lord's feet.

A third figure came up behind Hermione from the stairs—the one that had been outside, William thought dully—and pressed his wand to Hermione's throat. "How fortuitous," he said, his voice rasping. William could pick up the faintest hint of a Slavic accent. "I barely even got a start on you last we met. Alas, my Lord forbids your death, but he said nothing about—other things." William watched in horror as the figure's other hand moved to trace the line of his daughter's shoulder, brushing the fabric of her too-small pajama top asides until it revealed the beginning of her scar. "Other ways to make you scream."

"That's it, Dolohov?" Hermione spat out, though she didn't move, not with the wand at her throat. William clenched at the cricket bat helplessly. "Torture, again? Because at least I finish what I start."

The cloaked man at her throat snarled and tore at the pajamas now, exposing the start of the swell of her breasts. Other ways to make you scream, William thought, his chest painfully tight. God, it was like in one of those horror novels—"Oh, you'll be quite finished by the time I'm done with you, Mudblood bitch. Now drop your wand."

Hermione stood, frozen, her breath shuddering in and out, her chest heaving. The figure above Melinda gave his wand an encouraging twist and Melinda squealed even through the gag, tears streaming down her face. William felt his heart lurch, half-breaking against his ribcage. "Drop your wand now."

Hermione closed her eyes.

Two things happened.

The first was a blinding flash of light—quite literally blinding, because William found himself completely unable to see. And, blindly, he threw himself in the direction of the startled oaths where he had last seen his wife, swinging the cricket bat at what he hoped was head level. It connected with—something, and William felt himself fall to the floor, tangled up in the Death Eater, the whole world seeming to crash around him.

The second was—silence. As William struggled to his feet, vision slowly recovering as the world tilted madly around him in blurry shadows, all he could hear was the sound of his own ragged breathing. Melinda swam into his vision first, still bound up—and then he saw one of the cloaked figures laying limp at his feet, blood oozing from a head wound.

He stared at his cricket bat a bit dumbly. Two for two, he thought, best batting average I've ever gotten.

"A bitch," Loki said calmly from the doorway, apparently addressing the Death Eater slumped against the wall next to him—a streak of blood staining the paisley above his head indicating he had been thrown before sliding down, "would imply her a dog, at the same level as curs such as yourself." Hermione stood behind him, wand pointed steadily at the figure; Loki stepped forward and pressed one foot against his chest, pushing.

Everyone heard women screaming in films; it was a horror movie staple. When men were in terror, or pain, film directors had them gasp and groan in an appropriately masculine fashion. This however—William hoped to never hear this again. The pitch to the Death Eater's screaming was wrong. William wanted to turn away, wanted to shut out the sound somehow, but felt frozen to the stop, impaled by the grotesquely twisting expressions on the face of the man that had threatened his daughter a dizzying few moments ago.

"Stop it," Hermione said after an endless eternity. She bit her lower lip, but her eyes were still ensnared by the sight, seemingly unable to pull away. "Loki, this isn't necessary."

Loki shrugged, and twisted his hand. The Death Eater's head snapped to an angle that made the bile rise in William's throat.

Hermione then pointed her wand and with a few muttered words released the bonds around Melinda. "Mum, dad, you alright?"

William collapsed down on the bed next to his wife, who clutched at him with a sob. He looked over at his daughter—she was leaning against Loki's chest now, face buried against his shoulder. Loki brought his hand up and cradled the back of Hermione's head, fingers buried in her brown curls, his eyes open and alert.

"Better," he croaked out, though he wondered why he still felt afraid.

"I killed Dolohov," Hermione told them, her voice even. "I meant to stun him, but—well. Necks are easy to snap as it turns out. And Dad took care of Yaxley and Gibbon."

"With a cricket bat ?" The pink-haired one turned to William, sitting on the couch with Melinda, and grinned. She seemed to reevaluate the distinctly self conscious dentist. "Awesome."

The investigation force her kind had sent—Aurors, Hermione had called them, this one Tonks—didn't ask nearly as many questions as William had been expecting, and most of them went over his head. Things about wards, and traces, and nothing at all about Loki. "I'll explain about him later," she had seethed, and William and Melinda hadn't seen much of a reason to disagree. He had saved their lives. The Grangers owed him a little discretion.

They were, after all, powerless to do much else. The most they could have done was vacuum the glass out of the rugs and put up new wallpaper—which Hermione did without even asking with a mere wave of her wand. Melinda was left to fidget her handkerchief, without even a kitchen to compulsively tidy up.

"Don't tell Harry," she asked the Autor suddenly. "Please, he's so stressed out as is, I don't want to worry him even more—you know how he is, he'll just blame himself—"

Tonks shook her head. "Look, we won't be making a formal report of this to the Ministry, though I'll have to have some words with Dumbledore. I'm so sorry that we forgot about your family in all this... and I don't know how you got out of the Trace, I know Lupin would have given an arm and a leg to have known how back in his Marauding days... but you've got your whole house lit up as a bloody beacon with how much magic's been going on around here, it's an absolute target to anyone looking around Muggle neighborhoods for half bloods like you. I hate to say it, but even with all the crazy wards you put up, you were pretty much asking for it." Tonks sighed, waving her hand to cut off Hermione's interjection. "I know this is your business. Trust me, I get the whole privacy thing... but we really ought to tell Harry. I know you want to protect him—"

"Please." And Hermione's voice was so full of pleading that Tonks, after several long minutes, wearily nodded.

Honesty. The first casualty of war, William supposed. He held Melinda's hand.

At least he had his cricket bat. Shame on anyone who thought that extracurricular activities merely distracted from your education.

"I'll be staying with the Order for the rest of the summer," Hermione informed them at dinner that night. "It'll be safer. For everyone."

"But I thought the Aurors—"

"We can't trust the Aurors." Hermione's face was the grimmest William had ever seen someone pile slices of a pork roast onto her plate. "Or the Ministry, for that matter. We think there's a leak." She sighed heavily. "I know, I haven't been here long, but—it's just better this way. I'm what the Death Eaters want, so it's better if I'm somewhere else." She looked down, clearly agonized and not over Melinda's meatloaf. "They know where you are now. It's just a matter of time until they decide to come after you again—even if the new wards do hold—and try to use you against me." Her eyes squeezed shut, obviously trying to hold back tears.

There wasn't much to say to that. Melinda tentatively brought up plans to take new pictures to replace the ones that had been destroyed in the attack. "We need something to remember you by, dear," with only barest hint of redness around her eyes.

Loki came by for the first time since the incident the next afternoon, while Hermione packed. William found him hunched over the family computer, picking at buttons; Hermione had finished figuring out the modem the night previous, clearly needing something to distract her. "Such strange magic your kind has," Loki said by way of greeting as some sort of tinny jazz began to emanate from the speakers.

"Welcome to the digital age," William said, "or so I keep being told by store reps." He paused. "I'd like to thank you for saving my family. It—it means a lot. And it's good to know my daughter has a friend like you watching her back." He swallowed, and went for the important bit. "And, whatever it is that the two of you are doing that you can't tell me about, or even tell those Auror folks—fine. As long as you take care of her, I don't care what it is. This Ragnarok business." He shook his head again. "I really don't care. Just... just take care of her." Repetition, and not even the sort executed in a proper literary fashion. William felt weak and helpless.

Loki turned from the computer, blinking in surprise. "Of course," he said. Then, after a moment's hesitation: "Could you show me how to use this Interweb? Hermione spoke of it the other day, and while I confess that I am curious proper use of the 'search' spell still eludes me."

"You and me both," William said, and he couldn't help but laugh, moving over towards the computer and hovering over it. The books had all said that parenting would keep him on his toes. He didn't think this was what they had in mind. "I think we both prefer old fashioned pen and paper, but I'll show you what I've figured out so far..."

There was a flash of light, and Melinda set down a camera from where she had been standing in the doorway. "So cute," she said, smiling as Loki scowled.

Hermione left. They managed to smile and wave a lot, and not cry a single bit. They didn't receive any letters that year, either about that Ragnarok business or the War. Safer that way, probably. She didn't come until a year later, and this time—

William sighed. This time, she didn't even try not to look sad.

Melinda managed a smile as she held open the door for her daughter. "I'm so happy you decided to visit," she said as Hermione stepped through the door. "Will Loki be coming by as well?"

Hermione shook her head, and pushed the door shut behind her before Melinda could get a chance to do so herself. William set down the crossword, though he didn't get up from his chair. "He's... otherwise engaged," Hermione said, distant. "Look, I'd like to grab something from my room. Could you wait down here? I'll just be a minute."

William wondered at her look. If Loki had hurt her... well. He'd figure out something to do to him. Parental obligation and all. William resolved to ask about it later.

Melinda nodded. "Of course. The roast will be ready soon, so don't take too long."

Hermione swallowed. "Thank you. For... for everything. It's meant so much."

Melinda smiled, warm and bright. "Anything," she said.

Something like pain passed over Hermione's face as she turned away and went up the stairs. Definitely something to ask about.

Melinda sat down in the recliner opposite him, sighing as she sank down. Loki certainly had done a marvelous number on their furniture. "She'll be fine," she said, her voice confident as she picked up another of her travel magazines. She had been planning that trip to Australia on and off all year. It was their way of thinking about later, later, when they could have their daughter back from this whole other world that had swallowed her up and thrown her into a war. "She just needs some time."

William realized, as his world began to shift, that Hermione hadn't brought her luggage in with her. Perhaps she had left it on the sidewalk.

But then he picked up his crossword puzzle. No reason to go outside. None at all. Why would someone have left anything out there? This was a nice neighborhood. People took care of their things here, they didn't just leave things behind.