Chapter Text
Footfalls echo in the memory down the passage which we did not take towards the door we never opened into the rose-garden.
T.S. Eliot
Chapter One
July and August 1998
Hermione Granger would not have even looked up from the computer if the twins weren’t called Harry and James.
She spent almost every afternoon at the Ottery St. Catchpole Public Library. It took her away from the endless hours of quidditch at the Burrow. Occasionally, she would go on outings with Ginny and Fleur, usually to wizarding London, usually to Diagon Ally. They had made such a trip last week to an apothecary for contraceptive potion for Hermione and Ginny—Fleur and Bill were working diligently to conceive a child, so Fleur tagged along solely for moral support. But most afternoons Hermione was here in the cold, quiet, small library.
The last time she had spent summer afternoons here was two years ago. The library had automated by then; a bank of computers lined the back wall, but the formidable wooden cabinets of the card catalogue remained, and Hermione had used them exclusively, avoiding the attention of such helpful librarians trying to steer her to the computers.
It's not that she usually needed the guidance, but occasionally a book, or more often an article, eluded her, and she had to use the reference guides.
This summer; however, the card catalogues were nowhere in sight. She had no choice but to conquer those machines.
They turned out to be miraculous in their efficiency. Enter a subject, even a partial title or name, and pages of likely possibilities popped up. Hermione felt the same way she did when she first transfigured that mouse into a teacup. She was ready to conquer the world.
The computers didn’t just contain the library catalogue, either. The whole world was there on the Internet, infinitely searchable, from places to order Chinese food in London to dental practices in Canberra.
The twins were running around the library, but Hermione was used to chaos at the Burrow. In the beginning of summer when they made it back from hell, it had been as quiet as a tomb, but over the weeks, life had returned; not the same of course, it would never be, but quidditch and elaborate meals and laughter, somewhat subdued, had returned. Nothing in these twins’ behaviour made Hermione glance up until she heard their names.
“Harry, James, you will come to me and settle down. Please, boys, just give me fifteen more minutes and we’ll go. We will stop by for treats, if you will just give me fifteen minutes.”
The speaker was a young woman, probably around thirty, with a small child on her lap. The woman had dark brown hair pinned on top of her head and was clearly in the later stages of pregnancy. She was seated at the end of the row of computers, and she had books and notes scattered around her. Hermione immediately sensed a kindred spirit.
“I’ll take them to the children’s section and read to them while you finish,” Hermione offered. The woman looked over at her in shock.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. I’m finished here, just playing, really. I would love to go explore the children’s collection with them.”
“Thank you!” the woman said with great relief. “Harry, James, come meet…”
“Hermione.”
The woman looked at her incredulously.
“Hermione? This is too much. My husband won’t believe it. Hermione?”
“Yes?” She had no idea what her name had conjured for this woman.
“My husband is a professor of classics. Every baby he wants to name Lysander or Hermione or Minerva. I’ve won so far, but he’s holding out this time for Cassandra or Constantine.” She patted her belly. “When I tell him I met a real life Hermione, I’m going to have a hard time this round. I’m Rachael,” she extended her hand, and Hermione walked over and shook it. “This is Clare,” she indicated the toddler, who buried her face in her mother’s side. “The shy one.”
“The names you chose are lovely,” Hermione looked over at Harry and James who had approached their mother to investigate the stranger.
“Thank you. Nothing wrong with our own classics. Jonathan, that’s my husband, doesn’t realize it yet but this one is either Anne or Edmond, and as I am the one in labour, I get the final say.” She turned to the boys, “This is Hermione. She’s going to pay attention to you while I finish. Be nice to her.”
The boys, who were clearly fraternal twins, looked up at her expectantly.
“Let’s go find a book to read. Clare, would you like to come, too?”
The little girl with blue eyes under long, blonde lashes, again buried her face.
“This one is happiest just here,” Rachael said. “Thank you, so much!”
“Of course,” Hermione replied and led the boys to the children’s stacks. After about half an hour of Paddington and Dr. Seuss, Rachel and Clare emerged from the computers.
“Are you ready for an ice cream?” Rachael asked the boys.
“Yes!” said James.
“Can Her mine eo come too?” asked Harry.
“Hermione is welcome, of course,” Rachael smiled. “Please join us. It would be an enormous help with the boys and the push-chair, and I’d like to talk to you about a formal arrangement. You’ve been a life saver this afternoon.”
“I’m not expected back before dinner, so I’ll be happy to go with you. Better skip the ice cream, though,” Hermione told her.
“Where do you live?” Rachael asked her.
And wasn’t that just the question.
“I grew up near London, in Putney, but my parents emigrated to Australia last year. I go to school in Scotland. My…boyfriend’s family lives in the area. I’m staying there this summer.”
Rachael expertly strapped Clare into the double push chair and simultaneously wrangled the twins.
“My in-laws are from here, Felton-Mitchells,” Rachael said as if Hermione would be familiar with the name.
“My boyfriend’s family lives quite out of the way.”
“They are…?”
“Weasley.”
“Hmmmm, I haven’t heard of them, I’ll have to ask my mother-in-law; she knows everyone.”
“The Weasleys are a bit eccentric.”
“So are the Felton-Mitchells.”
They had arrived at the ice cream shop, and Rachael clearly had a routine for dealing with her children in this situation: three small vanilla cones and three times as many paper napkins as Hermione would ever think necessary. The children accepted their treats graciously and plopped themselves down at an outside table. Rachael vigilantly hovered over the consumption, paper napkin in hand, thwarting disaster before it arose. Hermione followed in kind.
Hermione hadn’t noticed in the harsh library lighting, but Rachael was stunningly beautiful. Her dark brown hair had natural red highlights in the sun. She had deep blue eyes and ivory skin. She had Veela like facial symmetry and nearly perfect bone structure, save a slight over-bite that made her sexy but still approachable.
All three children had large blue eyes and were dressed more formally than Hermione had seen of children, aside from photos of the princes in the pages of tabloids she remembered from childhood trips to the shops with her mother.
James had medium brown hair while Harry and Clare had light blond. The boys had traditional haircuts, short in the back, fringe to their eyebrows. Clare’s was parted on the side and secured with a ribbon covered clip. Their air and appearance made Hermione wonder if they usually had a nanny that was unavailable for some reason. Perhaps Rachael was a radically hands-on mother for someone of her station.
“Anyway, we’re here for the next two weeks,” Rachael continued her narrative as the children ate their ice cream. “The baby is due in four, and I refuse to have it in what passes for hospital here, so we’ll be back in town. I’ve been trying to finish my thesis for years—for four years—and I think I could do it if I had twenty-five hours. It’s written, but I have to revise and proofread my citations, awful, awful, horrible,” she said but seemed to feel quite the opposite.
“You’re going for a PhD?” Hermine asked.
“I’ve been attempting to for years, finished all the requirements except this blasted paper, and then the viva. Every time I get close though…” she patted her belly. “Wouldn’t change it. Jonathan and I always wanted a whole tribe. I’m one of four; he’s one of six.”
“Ronald, that’s my boyfriend, is one of seven.” Six now, she realized and felt a pang of agony once again.
“So you understand,” Rachael laughed.
“I suppose. I’m an only child.”
“Loved it or hated it? Both, I imagine.”
“That’s fair.” Hermione had mostly loved it. Her little of family of three had worked out very well before everything went to hell. But there had been times, summers mostly, when Hermione had longed for a sibling to spend the endless days with.
“Do you think you could come to the house for a few hours each day? I could escape to the library and perhaps even finish this before I pop. We would pay you, of course.”
The addition of a stipend was almost not necessary for her to agree, but she could certainly use the funds.
“Absolutely. I could do mornings, if you work better then, or afternoons, or both.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! It’s takes us a while to function properly in the mornings, so what would you say to eleven to four or five, depending on the day? If you could handle lunch and, well naptime, which is often a pipe dream, I could get four solid hours of work at the library and finish this abomination in a week and a half.”
“That sounds like…not a problem,” Hermione realized just then that this new plan would probably baffle the others at the Burrow.
“Oh, Hermione, you have made my day—made my month!” Rachael exclaimed.
The children had finished their treats, and Rachael was firmly but gently cleaning faces and hands and then wiping down the table that had hardly been marred in the first place.
“Walk home with us so you will know where the house is?”
“Of course.” Hermione pushed Clare while Rachael held each boy’s hand. Rachael and Hermione chatted about the town as they walked. Hermione had never been to the shops Rachael liked and had only visited one café, but she tried to fake more familiarity. She should be familiar for as much time as she had spent here in the past few years, but she had rarely ventured past the library.
This was becoming a frustratingly common feeling for Hermione. She was isolated in too many areas of her life. It was constraining. The experience of the past year had been traumatic, and mostly unpleasant, and challenging beyond her imagination, but it had reminded her that there was an enormous world out there beyond the little community to which she found herself tethered.
Rachael’s house was predictably impressive with a huge garden on all sides and beautiful blooms surrounding entire sets of outdoor furniture. Hermione had to stop herself from gasping. The boys let go of their mother’s hands and immediately started playing in the yard. Rachael unbuckled and lifted Clare from the pushchair and groaned a bit at the exertion.
“Here it is, such as it is,” Rachael sounded apologetic. “It’s rather a disaster.”
Hermione grasped to understand what she was talking about. There was slightly peeling paint around some of the windows, but that made the house more charming.
“This is your summer house?” Hermione asked, trying not to sound so naïve.
“Yes, it’s ours, it’s Jonathan’s, really, it’s officially owned by the Felton-Mitchells.”
“It’s so beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you. Come in for tea?” Rachael offered, but she looked rather exhausted, and Hermione realized no one at the Burrow had any idea where she was.
“I had better get back, but thank you. I’ll be here tomorrow at eleven?”
“Wonderful! I will see you then.”
Hermione retraced her steps through town. The Burrow was at the other end, about an equal distance from the library as Rachael’s house was. The Burrow was extensively charmed and warded and couldn’t be seen until one was right on the property. As soon as Hermione passed through the barrier, she saw the quidditch match was still in full swing. Sometimes Fleur would take in the sun on a blanket near the pitch, but she wasn’t there today. The rest of the family excluding Molly, who was no doubt finishing dinner preparations, and Arthur, who was still at work, was airborne passing quaffles or defending hoops or looking for the snitch. Ginny waved to her from on high, but no one else took notice of her arrival. She wished she had helped Rachael with the children for a while longer and had offered to brew the tea while Rachael put her feet up.
Hermione entered the house through the kitchen door. Molly had dinner squarely in progress, wooden spoons methodically stirring in big pots, but she was nowhere to be seen. Hermione peeked into the sitting room and saw her reclined on the sofa with a damp towel across the top of her face. Molly had been a shadow of herself since they returned to the Burrow. She hardly spoke and went to bed directly after dinner most nights. She didn’t usually want help with the chores, seemingly relishing projects she could throw herself into and turn off her mind for a while.
Hermione realized that she hadn’t seen Bill on a broom outside and guessed that he and Fleur were having alone time in their top-story room. She suddenly felt very lonely and quite out of place. She tried to shake it off and quietly returned to the room she sometimes shared with Ginny to fetch her book. She wasn’t completely taken with it—a Victorian Era Wizarding romance that was considered important literature in the community. She had planned to check out something that grabbed her more fully at the library but then she had been diverted by Rachael and the children. She supposed this novel was bound to be more captivating eventually.
She dragged her blanket and book outside just as Ginny captured the snitch, pursued by Harry closely, but victorious. Harry tackled her affectionately and rolled her around on the ground, but Ginny kept the snitch in her fist triumphantly. Hermione felt ridiculous clutching book and blanket to join a party already concluded.
When they entered the kitchen en masse, Molly was putting the finishing touches on dinner, and one would have never known that she had been in a state just a few minutes before. Hermione stashed her things quickly and started to set the table without asking permission, to which Molly said nothing. A quick glance to the clock showed that Arthur was on his way home. He had removed Fred’s hand against Molly’s protest, but he told her firmly that it was just too much to see every day; Fred endlessly at Hogwarts, never moving. Fleur’s hand had been added after the wedding. Harry and Hermione were not yet represented. The clock had been hidden throughout the war as too great a security risk.
Every meal was a feast at the Burrow. That night Molly had prepared chicken and vegetable stew with several varieties of cold salad, homemade bread, and berry tarts with vanilla ice cream that was churning itself outside the kitchen door. Bill and Fleur had sauntered down unnoticed by all but Hermione, and their dewy-eyed attention on each other confirmed to her how they had spent their afternoon. Percy joined them occasionally for dinner, a bit tentatively as his siblings were not quite ready for bygones, but he wasn’t there that night. Conversation centered on the Ministry and how it was responding to the crisis and trying to return to some normal semblance of business. Arthur was currently occupied with talking to Muggles on the periphery of the conflict, primarily people like Hermione’s parents—those who had inside knowledge of the wizarding world and had survived the war.
Hermione felt a familiar pang that perhaps she could have employed a less drastic option than total obliviation, but the people Arthur were seeing were much closer to the fringe than the parents of one member of the Golden Trio, and even some of the fringe hadn’t survived.
“We’re almost finished. Then we work on Muggle property restoration and compensation,” Arthur told them. There was a lull in the conversation, and Hermione seized the moment.
“I have a bit of news; I…well, I rather stumbled into a job today,” she said lightly.
“A job, Hermione?” Arthur spoke for the group, who all looked at her in surprise. “At school…or…?”
“No, I was at the library, and I met a mum and three children. I’m going to be a temporary, part-time nanny while the mum works on the thesis for her PhD.”
“Her what?” Ginny asked.
“Muggles?” Molly sat up straighter.
“Yes, Muggles. Rather posh ones, I think,” Hermione laughed. “The Felton-Mitchells?”
“Yes, that sounds familiar. All the high Muggles in town are the Something-Somethings,” Arthur said.
“This group has a stunning summer house, and from what I gather, there are several branches of the family about. These have four-year-old twins,” Molly blanched at the word and Hermione felt instantly stupid for saying it. She looked around the table and continued, “an almost two-year-old little girl and an imminent baby. That’s why I’m needed; the mum, her name is Rachael, wants to finish her thesis—it’s a long research paper, almost a book really, that doctoral candidates have to write and then defend.”
“She she’s going to be a Muggle doctor?” Harry asked.
“Not a medical doctor, her doctorate will be in English literature, but she’s primarily a mum at this point.”
“Seems a lot of work with babies and more babies,” Molly said quietly.
“I think it’s been in progress for quite a while, and she just wants to be finished before this new arrival. Oh, and I forgot the best part—the boys are Harry and James.”
The group agreed this was a positive sign. Ron didn’t have much to say, but that wasn’t unusual. She had assured them all she would just be gone for the afternoons.
Hermione and Charlie made quick work of washing up after dinner, while a spirited chess match was set up in the garden. Hermione could tell by the way Ginny was draping herself on Harry that Hermione would be in Ron’s room tonight, and she tried to stay awake so they could go up together, but she was knackered from all the activity that day. She kissed the top of his head; he seemed to be about three moves from defeating Bill, said goodnight to the group, and was the second after Molly to retreat upstairs.
She took a cool shower and put on her prettiest knickers, pink cotton with lace overlay, and a coordinating sleepshirt that outlined her breasts just so. She climbed into Ron’s four-poster. There was also a transfigured single bed Harry slept in during nights she stayed in Ginny’s room.
Just as she had drifted off to sleep, Ron climbed in the bed, freshly showered. She reached for him, and he pulled her close, kissing her face and then mouth, and she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him on top of her. They hadn’t shared a bed in a few days. She wasn’t sure why the couples hadn’t arrived at a more permanent arrangement, but they were all tip-toeing around Molly’s sensibilities.
Ron put his hand under her shirt and started groping her breasts, and she sat up slightly and removed the shirt, then wrapping her legs around him. He smelled wonderful from the shower, and she reached into his boxers to find his cock in a state that could generously be described as half-mast. She was already wet just from the kissing and initial contact, so it was a bit discouraging, but she went to work wrapping her hand around it and pushing her tits into his chest.
Ron had been quiet since they had returned to the Burrow. He slept most of the day and seemed disinterested in all activities excluding quidditch and chess. He also seemed rather disinterested in her.
In January, after Ron had returned to the quest, the two of them had been inseparable. They huddled together every night, ostensibly for warmth, but it was impossible to be pressed together and not have things progress. Kissing turned into groping turned into grinding against each other. Soon that wasn’t enough. One night, they silently shucked their trousers, Hermione carefully cast contraception spells she learned from a library book during fourth year, and he quietly pushed his cock inside her as Harry slept on, soundly, they hoped.
Library books had been Hermione’s only sex education aside from some very uncomfortable talks with her mother that were short on detail. She had researched the subject after the Yule Ball. Viktor had kissed her, and it had quickly evolved into legitimate snogging. He had not pushed for more, and she had been left with a longing she didn’t fully understand. As she had so many times before, she relied on the library. She had learned enough to understand the mechanics, but she hadn’t felt that longing again until she started sleeping pressed against Ron in the tent.
It became a comforting habit; one part of the day to look forward to. When Harry was away from the tent, they were bolder in their experimentation. Ron made Hermione come with his mouth—her first orgasm ever—which put both in a better mood for the next few days. Hermione felt guilty that they had something to help them endure the endless days and nights quite separate from Harry, but not guilty enough to stop.
She and Harry had streamlined the operation while Ron was away. This part of the day was devoted to fire wood, this part of the day was devoted to scavenging, hunting and gathering, this part to usually fruitless discussions concerning what they should be doing to advance the mission.
Hermione could sneak into a house or church or barn and find treasures she never would have given a second look to. All three had sets of clothes from laundry baskets in corners of entry ways or from clotheslines. Hermione was afraid to pass up any small item that might make some day easier, and obscure Muggle artifacts floated around in the beaded bag.
When the quest was turned on its head, and they were hurled into fast pace days of fighting for survival, Hermione and Ron still clung to each other. When Fred was killed that day, Ron went into a kind of walking shock; she practically had to tell him how to move as they entered the Shrieking Shack and then witnessed Riddle and Professor Snape and Nagini.
Then Harry was trying to catch Professor Snape’s memories, and Hermione was digging through the beaded bag for anti-venom she had brewed last summer in preparation for the trip. She found it with a little cry of triumph and started pouring it down the professor’s throat. Blood was gushing out of the wound in his neck, and Hermione pressed both hands against it as Harry worked. Snape looked only at Harry, as if Hermione’s mission meant nothing to him.
When Harry had finished, Ron pleaded with her to come with them. “He’s dying, and he’s evil, ‘Mione! He killed…”
“I know what he did,” she whispered furiously. “I’m not going to leave him. You go—help Harry. I will catch up.”
She was failing in her effort to stop the bleeding. She pulled her wand and cast a series of healing spells she had been practicing for months, but none had any effect on the wound. She took off her jacket, keeping one hand on the gash on his neck and pressed the dirty cloth against him, cringing at all the germs she was transferring. She was fighting off tears as her desperation rose. The beaded bag was about a meter from where they were huddled together in a corner of the shack. She stretched out her booted foot and hooked the bag with it, bringing it to her. She pulled out a bottle of Muggle whiskey and doused both her jacket and his wound with it. He tried to scream, but it came out as a whistling hiss.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered and grabbed his hand. He squeezed it in agony.
She put the bottle to his lips and he managed to slug down about a shot. “I need the rest of it, sorry,” she said and took the bottle from his mouth. She had to let go of his hand, too, to root around the bag for a small object that had been lying at the bottom for months. She found the little plastic box and retrieved it.
The Muggle sewing kit had been in a house they raided months ago. She had almost left it, but figured that even if it were useless it didn’t take up much space, and perhaps the box would come in handy. She undid the plastic closure with her teeth, and then realized she couldn’t thread the needle one handed. She partially stood and using one knee, planted some of her weight against his neck to keep the jacket in place. She desperately whispered lumos as she took the needle and thread from the kit.
She hadn’t threaded a needle in years, and her hands were shaking furiously I have no choice, this must work, she whispered furiously and started stabbing the thread against the eye of the needle. On the fourth attempt, it went through.
“Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, breathe, breathe,” she told herself and Professor Snape. He looked both terribly distressed and terribly annoyed at the same time. She took a second to steady herself and plunged into the deepest corner of her mind.
Before she turned eleven and had her whole world change in one day, Hermione had dreamt of becoming a surgeon. Many nights she would lie in her bed and imagine herself placing sure, beautiful stitches. Both her parents performed oral surgery occasionally, and she had asked both many series of questions about their techniques. She willed herself to go back in time and to tap into her ten-year-old self.
“Professor, I am sorry, this is not going to be pleasant.”
He flashed her a look that screamed None of this has been pleasant, dunderhead! Still, he made no effort to crawl away from her.
She gingerly removed part of the jacket, and the wound overflowed with blood again. She would have to be constantly wiping with her left hand as she stitched with her right, and she would have to act with purpose, with no hesitation, or he would bleed out.
She took another breath, used her wiping hand to grab the whiskey bottle for one more douse, and then dove in with the needle in her other hand, piercing his skin. He let out another agonized wheeze. With the fingers on her wiping hand, she squeezed his skin together and made her first stitch. She adjusted her stance so she could see. It was delicate and straight. She plunged in again and again as she completed each stitch. She left about three inches of thread hanging out where she started—she didn’t have time to tie it off, and she wasn’t sure if a knot would hold anyway. She realized she was humming, singing really, under her breath, a pop song from her pre-Hogwarts life.
Please don’t go. Don’t gooooooooooooooo away. Please don’t go. I’m begging you to stay.
She stitched and stitched, at some point he passed out, but his pulse was still there, he was still breathing. She counted her stitches between the song.
Twenty-one, twenty-two…
At twenty-four beautiful stiches, she had closed the wound. He was no longer bleeding.
“Yes!” she choked out and realized she had sobs in her throat that were finally coming out. She needed to get him to St. Mungo’s immediately or all of this would be worthless. She grabbed her wand again and tried to summon a patronus with no luck; just a silvery thread that died at the tip. She cast some cleaning charms on the wound but couldn’t tell if they made any difference, which added to her desperation. She brought up an image of her child-self, dreaming of being a surgeon again.
Thank you, she whispered, and then focused on how she had been able to close that wound using her old dreams. She thought of Ron and sleeping pressed against him for months, and how she never wanted to sleep without him. She thought that whatever happened that day, at least she was here with others. She mustered some hope that they were close to the end of this struggle. She picked up her wand again and put these thoughts towards the spell.
The otter bounded out joyfully.
“St. Mungo’s: I have a high value…person here, who is gravely injured.”
The otter swam away in the air.
She had no idea how long she waited until the team arrived and sprinted him out. He never regained consciousness before he was taken. She grabbed her bag and made it back in time for the end of the battle; the war, as it turned out.
Hours later she stumbled into a shower in a large bathroom at Ravenclaw Tower, which had sustained less damage than Gryffindor. Under a showerhead with the hot water hitting her, she removed her filthy clothes, covered in weeks of dirt and Professor Snape’s dried blood. After standing there naked under the spray for close to an hour probably, she discarded all her clothes in the bin, and wrapped a towel around herself. She scavenged some clean underwear and Ravenclaw robes and went looking for Ron.
She found him sleeping, huddled in a corner near the Great Hall. She sat against him and fell asleep. Her next memory was waking up alone, curled in a ball as sunlight streamed in. Elves were passing out bread and tea, and she supposed she consumed some before joining the morning after tasks.
Hermione and Harry whispered to each other all day, mostly about Harry’s revelations concerning Snape. Hermione had always felt despite all protests that Snape had been an ally. She couldn’t make the evidence fit any other way. It had been the one subject she and Harry had to avoid so as not to snipe at each other during the mission. Now Harry was a convert, and there was no one more fervent than a convert.
“He let people hate him, Hermione. He let people think the absolute worst…”
All of them phased in and out of tears continually, and Harry had a fresh batch just then, so of course Hermione did, too.
“Harry…”
“Don’t say it, okay. I know. I know you were the one who always believed…”
“No, that’s not what I was going to say. I just hope…”
“I know,” Harry’s voice was shaky. “He has to live. I have to be able to speak with him.”
They changed the subject when Ron and Ginny were in earshot. The Weasley siblings had buried Fred first thing that morning. They continued to help with the grave for Tonks and Lupin, with the graves of the other aurors and students, but their eyes were dead.
The last task of the day was a mass grave for the death eaters, with Riddle at the very bottom of the pit. They dug a separate grave for Madam Lestrange at Hermione’s insistence. In case dear Bellatrix had any awareness of the proceedings, Hermione wanted to make sure she would have no comfort in the proximity of her remains to Riddle’s.
The day’s efforts weren’t far off from what they had done in the last few months on the mission. Emotionally, though, they were wrecked in a way they hadn’t been for most of the time. It had been trying, terrifying, and daunting, but it was nothing like the finality and grief they now endured. The victory was nothing like Hermione had imagined. There was no sweetness. There was no triumph. The relief she felt from the abating terror was tinged with despair over the vast loss.
They ate a late dinner, the first time they had eaten since breakfast, and she and Ron, desperate for some decent rest, found a Ravenclaw bed to collapse on. They lay in silence, and she thought they would fall to sleep immediately, but moments later, Ron was pulling at her robes as he had those times in the tent, tugging at her knickers, and entering her on his side from behind. Hermine enjoyed the comfort of the act and thought there was no way she would come, but she did under Ron’s insistent fingers. They fell asleep, and he woke up hours later, screaming. She rolled on top of him held him and let him sob into her. Then she fucked him again.
After they moved back to the Burrow, Ron only occasionally found comfort with her. He sometimes hardly looked at her, and they hadn’t had a real conversation since before the battle.
She felt the urgency to cement a connection with him all the time, but of course in bed. That night in his room, she moved her mouth from his and focused on his ear, nipping the lobe and then putting her tongue in and around as she wrapped a leg around him, pushing her groin closer to his. He hardened in her hand and she sighed in relief in his ear. He shoved her knickers down and felt her, in and around with his fingers. She hoped he found her wetness encouraging. She took down his pants, silently urging him to put his cock in her while he was still hard.
She wanted it too much. Her desperation deflated him. He slumped over on the other side of the bed. She reached again for his cock, but he turned abruptly, shucking her hand.
“No. It’s not going to happen, Hermione,” he said with audible disgust.
“It’s okay. Can I just…would you just…”
“I’m really tired…”
“Just hold on to me,” The pleading in her voice repulsed her, and him, too, apparently, because he turned over, gave her a perfunctory, quick embrace, and then settled as far away on the bed as he could manage.
She cried silently; she didn’t want him to pity comfort her. She finally fell asleep.
She slept rather late for her. She left Ron snoring softly close to the edge of the bed and took her tea and toast in the garden with her book. Molly was gardening and let Hermione help with the weeding until it was time for her to clean up for the day at the Felton-Mitchell’s.
She arrived at the house a few minutes early. She was nervous about meal preparation, but Rachael had planned cold sandwiches and fruit, which was hard to wreck.
The children ate most of their food, and Rachael left quietly while they were distracted to avoid a panic from Clare. The little girl realized immediately after lunch that mummy was gone and had a good, indignant cry for a quarter hour before falling asleep on Hermione’s lap. She put Clare in her bed carefully and spent the next hour reading to the twins and trying to convince them to sleep, which was futile. She finally let them out of bed and supervised train village construction until Clare awoke. They spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden until Rachael returned at four on the dot. This time, Hermione made the tea herself, almost breaking down in tears over the electric kettle that brought her back to her own kitchen in Putney and her parents’ mug collection hanging on hooks below the cupboards. It was almost as if she had apparated there.
She carried a charming tea tray with five cups, mostly milk for the children, tea for herself and Rachael, and a sleeve of biscuits she found in the pantry. She had a tear just under her eyelash that she shrugged off on her shoulder before Rachael could see.
“Were you able to work at all? Sometimes I find that conditions are perfect and I’m no longer inspired,” Hermione said lightly, tamping down that emotion.
“Oh, yes. I’ve finished the hard part, really, the part that required inspiration. I just have to revise and cite.”
“What is your thesis about?”
“Romantic period poetry blah, blah. I’m sick to death of it really. If I weren’t already pregnant, I’d probably throw myself at Jonathan to avoid having to find a job and actually teach or write another word about the lot of them,” she laughed, and Hermione tried to hide that fact that she was appalled at what Rachael was saying. “It doesn’t help that I’ve been working on this for eight years, I suppose, and before that university. Speaking of which, what are your plans? You are eighteen?”
“Yes, I had to miss the whole last year of school because of a bit of personal unrest. I’m supposed to go back and finish this year, and then who knows. I’m also thinking of chucking it all, taking my exams and just trying to enroll in university for the winter term.”
Rachael looked at her in obvious curiosity, but Hermione knew she wouldn’t enquire further. It would be presumptuous and rude. Hermione missed Muggle British manners.
“Would you be able to do well enough on your A-levels, having missed a year?”
“Probably. I would give myself six weeks or so to study first. It’s most likely moot anyway because I’m almost certainly going back to school.”
“In Scotland?”
“Yes.” Hermione finished her tea and gathered the cups and refuse on the tray. She washed up in the kitchen, and grabbed her bag. “Eleven tomorrow?”
“Yes, Hermione, thank you so much.” Rachael handed her a twenty-pound note, the first Hermione had ever earned.
“Thank you; see you tomorrow,” Hermione said goodbye to the children and began the walk home quickly adding up sums in her head. If she worked every day for the rest of the week and next, that would be one hundred and eighty pounds. It made her giddy.
She settled into a work schedule. The afternoons flew by, especially the few days the boys decided to sleep. Ginny stayed with Harry in her room most nights, but Ron waited until Hermione fell asleep and then slept on the spare bed. Hermione tried not to dwell on it too much. They would figure it out eventually.
Her summer job would end the first Saturday of August. Rachael was throwing a birthday party for Clare and asked for Hermione’s help.
Hermione wanted to give the children a token at the party before they left. She bought three white bath towels at one of the Muggle shops in town and solicited Molly’s help.
“I don’t know sewing charms, but I would like to decorate each towel with their name and symbol they would like.”
“That’s simple. What interests them?”
“The boys like football and trains. I guess Harry likes football a bit more and James trains. Clare likes ponies. That is something like a unicorn but…”
“I know what a pony is, Hermione,” Molly laughed. “I might need help with the football, though.”
Hermione sketched one, and Molly set to work. She was intent on the task rather than teaching, so Hermione didn’t learn much, but the towels turned out beautifully. James’s had his name in red stitching and a train that looked like the Hogwarts Express. Harry’s was blue with a lovely black and white football, and Clare’s was gold with a dappled pony.
“Tell me about the children,” Molly said as she folded the towels expertly showing off each design.
“The boys aren’t identical,” Hermione said quietly. Molly hitched her breath but maintained composure. “They favour each other, Clare as well, they are all fair skinned with blue eyes. They are quite well behaved. They don’t quarrel much.”
“Fred and George hardly quarreled with each other. They were not well behaved, though,” Molly laughed.
“Harry and James are very protective of their sister, just as your boys are to Ginny.”
“I suppose we have more in common than we have differences with the Muggles although that’s hard for me to fathom, sometimes, forgive me, Hermione. I forget…”
“Oh, no, Molly. I forget, too, sometimes. There were many tasks I had to relearn at their home, but you’re right. Fundamentally the same. Good ones, awful ones, lots of average ones.”
“Is she close to her time to have the baby?”
“Any day now. She’s finished her project and has sent it off. She’s just hoping to be back in the city. The doctor and hospital she likes is there.”
“Those were the very best days. It’s her fourth baby? Fred and George were the fourth and fifth. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it, but Bill was older, and so much help. I thought we might be through after a year with Fred and George, but Ronald had other plans and then Ginerva.” Molly looked happier during this reverie that she had in a year.
“Molly, excuse me if this is too personal, but did you ever think about a career?”
“I did. I earned an O on my charms NEWT. I enrolled in a culinary course and had an apprenticeship with a chef.”
“Did you like it?”
“It was very exciting, and I loved everything about the restaurant business from managing the wine list to designing the linens, but I married Arthur, and Bill was on his way very soon after that, and it’s not like I haven’t used all those skills over the years.”
“With your dexterity in charms, though…you must have wanted children right away,” Hermione cringed at her own impertinence, but she was curious.
Molly laughed. “Once we were married, we wanted children right away,” she said, hinting that before they were married was a different story. “I haven’t regretted it. Not one day, Hermione. But…” she looked at Hermione with what seemed to be slight trepidation.
Hermione smiled at her encouragingly.
“It’s not for everyone.”
“No. There’s no reason, though, now, you know in 1998, that a witch couldn’t do both,” Hermione said.
“Of course not. But it would be quite challenging, I think. Anyway, you have loads of time. Can I ask you, Hermione, about Ronald?”
Hermione’s heart sank. “Of course.”
“I’m so worried about him.”
“I am, too.”
“Do you have any…insight about how to help him?” Molly started to cry and Hermione wasn’t far behind.
“I wish…I just don’t know, Molly. He’s not confiding in me currently; he’s not really talking to me at all.”
“I don’t think he’s talking to anyone. Are you, forgive my bluntness, are you together in a…romantic sense?”
“I don’t know. We were, but he’s keeping me away at the moment. I love him, Molly.”
“I know, dear. I don’t think we, the magical we, you know, are very good at these things. Helping people who need it.”
“How are you, Molly?” Hermione asked her quietly.
“I’m…. I miss him all the time. I have such regret; you can’t begin to imagine. I’ll never be fully…well, I don’t think, but I have the others, and Arthur, and you, and Harry, and Fleur, and I will go on.”
Hermione had taken Molly’s hand, and she put the other arm around her shoulders. She realized they would all be leaving in a few weeks. Harry and Ron were supposed to begin Auror training at the Ministry, she and Ginny were heading back to school, Charlie would again go abroad, and Bill and Fleur would certainly want to return to their home. She was suddenly just as worried for Molly as she was for Ron. More, really because, Ron at least had this new challenge starting and would have to muddle through it. Molly was about to be left by herself for most of the day at the Burrow.
Having no solutions or even any helpful words, Hermione again asked for Molly’s help to wrap the little gifts and then dressed for the party. She was intimidated to meet the whole Felton-Mitchell crew, but also curious about them, especially Jonathan, whom Rachael and the children clearly adored.
She arrived an hour earlier than the start time of the party to help with last minute preparations. Rachael had hired a caterer and a party supply team was setting the garden, so Hermione helped dress the children in beautiful, rather formal summer outfits and found changes to have on hand in case one or more ruined their clothes.
When she walked down stairs behind the twins with Clare in her arms, she finally saw the man who must be Jonathan with his blue eyes and light hair, and looks reflected in all three children.
“Hermione?” he asked.
“Yes. Mr…Professor Felton-Mitchell?”
“Jonathan. I cannot begin to tell you how much I adore your name. If Rachael would ever play…”
“I love it, too, dear, but you’re wasting your breath,” Rachael laughed behind him.
They were dressed as formally as the children, and Hermione was self-conscious for the first time of her rather drab sundress.
“The children look wonderful, Hermione, thank you,” Rachael said.
“Can we hermitically seal them for the next hour?” Jonathan said.
“Not likely,” Rachael took Clare from Hermione. “Pretty birthday girl!”
“I have plans B and C in this bag,” Hermione had the folded extra outfits handy. “After that people will just have to accept that children sometimes are dirty.”
“Thank you,” Rachael said genuinely. “Any chance of you coming back to town with us and working full-time?”
“I wish I could.”
“Rachael said your school is in Scotland?” Jonathan inquired. “What’s it called?”
“Holwarton. It’s very small.” Hermione had concocted a cover story years ago when she returned home on breaks. She had even thought about designing a website at the library as she became more familiar with the computers.
“And what are your plans then? University? What interests you?” Jonathan asked her. Rachael was making a pot of tea and the children were playing in the sitting room. Hermione joined the couple at the breakfast table.
“So many things. Medicine, I suppose, primarily, but social work, too. I was thinking about medicine for very…vulnerable communities. Maybe medical research with a similar focus.”
“Don’t have children,” Rachael declared as she poured the tea.
“Rachael!” Jonathan seemed taken aback by his wife. “We know loads of physicians with families,” he told Hermione.
“We know one female physician with a child, and she’s the least happy person I know.”
“Darling, that’s not true. And look at you—you have four, almost, and a doctorate soon.”
“A doctorate that will probably be completely out of date before I’m able to use it in any practical way. A doctorate that took me years to finish and that I had to rely on being genetically averse to quitting to finish the wretched thing. Don’t worry, Darling, I love my life.” She leaned over and kissed Jonathan’s cheek.
Hermione felt strongly that this whole conversation would never apply to her anyway, given her current situation, but she observed the dynamics of the marriage with interest. They clearly were besotted with each other.
“Don’t listen to her, Hermione. Rachael was the most brilliant in our year. Far more than me…”
“Not true,” Rachael said.
“Completely true. We both wanted a gaggle, and we’re rather close to completion on that, right?”
“Perhaps one more,” Rachael said with a smile.
“Perhaps one more; I’ll remind you of that in a week when you are cursing my name and all those of my sex,” Jonathan lay a gentle hand on Rachael’s belly.
“Yes, Darling, please do.”
“And then you will be back in the game if you want to be, although frankly you would be rather mad to, as university is overrun with imbeciles.”
“Just in the classics, surely,” she teased him.
“Oh, of course. Everyone in the literature department is well-reasoned and insightful.”
“That has been my experience.”
The horde arrived, and Hermione took over most the childcare. There were two other nannies, who knew each other and weren’t terribly friendly to Hermione. The children were surprisingly well-behaved, especially Rachael’s, Hermione noted with a bit of pride. The boys were thrilled she had given them presents, too, and James especially loved his Hogwarts Express towel. It made Hermione smile imagining the train connecting them in a tiny way.
Rachael held court among her in-laws, and Jonathan was right, she was brilliant. She also looked exhausted by the end of the party, and Hermione wished Jonathan would send his family on their way.
At the very end of the afternoon, when the sun was beginning its retreat beautifully behind the full, flowering trees in the garden, the family of five had settled at one round table together. Rachael’s feet were in Jonathan’s lap. Clare was exhausted beyond measure and was fussing, and the boys were sniping at each other a bit. Hermione wanted to stay and help with baths and bed, but she was expected at the Burrow and had no way of telling them she would be late short of patronus, which seemed dramatic for this occasion.
Clare let out a shuddering little sob, “Huhmioneeeee.”