Summary: Post-Hogwarts, Hermione and Ron encounter a certain problem that winds up changing their lives.
Rating: PG, PG-13 for some angst and Ron/Hermione cheesy cuddling.
Notes: This idea took root after reading a story about mentally-retarded children, and I couldn't shake the concept of some kid being born magically-retarded. Y'know? And no, I refuse to write a sequel. Pulling an "ending" together was difficult enough.
Disclaimer: I, Kraken, do not own any of the characters or universe in the above fanfic. Jeremiah Weasley is the intellectual property of Masoumi (who did give me the permission to use him), and the rest all belong to J.K. Rowling.
Dedication: To Elbow (for telling me to shut up, sit down, and write, after teasing me about writing a Harry Potter fic; Bow-chan's such a sweetie). And ElbowÉ? You may have chuckled over this "children's universe," but I know you're reading it anyway.
***
Jeremiah was giggling as Ron lifted him over his head, firmly grasping the toddler about the waist, and began to spin and spin. Jeremiah stuck his arms out to the sides, pretending alternately to be an aeroplane and a Quidditch Chaser.
Hermione smiled. Tears began to stream down her face.
A few more rotations before Ron noticed she was there, half-hidden in the shadows between the moderate-sized cottage and the hedge. He faltered, slowed down, and let Jeremiah curl into the crooks of his arms. The look he sent his wife was at first slightly goofy, as if trying to be reassuring, and then it melted into a mask of anxiety. "Hermione," he began. "Hermione--"
She stumbled over to him, put her arms around his neck, wondering how she could possibly tell him. The she reached up on tiptoes, lay her head on his shoulder, and let it all spill out.
***
"You have a right to expect a second opinion, of course," Minerva McGonagall had finished up with. "Only, I've never known the book to be wrong. I'm sorry, Hermione."
It was a depressing and awful lecture. Hermione had been in the castle that summer, checking on a few new books Snape had bought during his month of vacation in Austria, when McGonagall had intercepted her and asked in a low tone if they could discuss something important, now. Hermione had guessed that it had to do with a colleague, or one of Hermione's classmates or students, because that was only logical. Only to be expected. But then Minerva McGonagall had taken off her rectangular spectacles and concentrated on wiping them clean as she informed the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher that she had been checking through the roll book for future Hogwarts students, and that the name Jeremiah Weasley was nowhere to be found. From that, McGonagall (voicing words with a clam that by this time was beginning to fall apart at the seams) had surmised what many wizards found next to unthinkable, a grave topic to be discussed with little else but dread and perhaps pity: That Hermione's son must therefore be a Squib. This conclusion was not at all welcome, especially combined with the fact that Jeremiah had yet to perform any magic, even small or incidental spells. Ron and Hermione had always reasoned that sometimes wizards took a while to grow into magic, that this was nothing strange, let alone profoundÉ but, as McGonagall had shakily admitted, the book rarely lied, and that was in the ten centuries that it had been employed by the Headmasters, Headmistresses, Deputy Headmasters, and Deputy Headmistresses. Ordinarily, parents were never told if their child's name was "down for Hogwarts" until a letter in the kid's tenth or eleventh year, but Hermione was a valued member of the staff, and McGonagall apparently had thought better sooner than laterÉ.
Or maybe not. Ron gripped Jeremiah in one hand while the other laced bracingly through Hermione's curly hair, nestling at the back of her skull. She could feel her husband shaking, as if he wanted to cry as well but was not permitted that catharsis by the rigid bounds of masculinity and self-image.
Less inhibited than his father, Jeremiah began to sniffle upon sensing discomfort.
"No, no, noÉ," Hermione reproached gently, gathering her son from Ron. She glanced up into her husband's shock-wide brown eyes, and saw her own feelings reflected there. Most of it was concern for Jeremiah, although an awful lot of it was a defiance of everything McGonagall had said. Slightly contented, Jeremiah let himself be rocked to sleep, never noticing the looks his parents were exchanging over his tousled auburn head.
Once Jeremiah was tucked inside his crib/bed, Ron and Hermione resumed talking, in hushed voices.
"We'll get a second opinion," Ron assured Hermione. "I mean, we can't panic over one little incident, can we?" Both he and Hermione knew it was no "little incident," but neither wanted to say so. "We'll go to St. Mungo's tomorrow."
"Yes," Hermione agreed. "St. Mungo'sÉ they know all about this sort of thing there, I've heard."
Ron shrugged. He was still tall enough that Hermione could lean her head on his shoulder rather than lay it there, and that was the way Hermione sat now. "Not as a specialty, of courseÉ." He shifted his arm around Hermione's waist. "But they would know something, believe me. If it's remotely magical, St. Mungo's the best place to go. Though there're supposed to be special clinics, too, but we wouldn't go to one until we were sure of the diagnosis." Ron's breath was catching in its throat, as if he made an effort to believe himself.
Hermione knew how awkward the whole situation was. Muggle genes were recessive; she had done studies and discovered that not only the genes that allowed the ability to manipulate magical energies were dominant but that, in most cases, a wizard child was unlikely to resemble a Muggle or Muggle-born parent. She'd known sevral people like that: Harry and Seamus, for starters, and she had tested many more. The only explanation--if Jeremiah truly was a Squib--was that it was one of the genetic throwbacks wizarding families produced once every five or six generations. The fact that it was her child made Hermione flush indignantly, even though she really wouldn't have wished it on her in-law siblings. Why couldn't have been another person? A distant cousin of Ron's, something she could handle? She raged silently, eyes shut as she felt August's humidity stick her chestnut hair to the back of her neck. Just one stupid, specific improbability that could have happened to some mother who didn't spend most of her time around juvenile witches and wizards.
"They have clinics?" she repeated dully.
Ron pursed his lips, or tightened his jaw. With her eyes closed, Hermione couldn't tell which action it was. "Yes. But no known cure."
Hermione gave into a dry sob and pressed her face into Ron's neck, letting him rock her back and forth as gently as he might a disconsolate Jeremiah.
***
"It's--it's just that I wouldn't know what to do," Hermione confessed. "I mean, yes, I was raised by Muggles as a Muggle, but it doesn't matter anyway, because I fit into the world of magic better." She hoped. Hermione could remember some of the sneers and taunts she'd had to fend off from the Slytherin quarter. "And it's not that I have anything against Squibs, with the possible exception of Argus Filch, but--" Her voice strained under internal pressure. "The idea of a boy born a Weasley and a Squib, and it shouldn't be possible--" She stopped and sighed. "You know what I mean."
"Yes," Dr. Clearwater agreed, putting one hand over her own stomach. It curved outwards, and Hermione remembered the celebration of the conception of Arthur and Molly's fifth grandchild. A white-hot flash of envy dazzled Hermione's retinas for a moment as she bet that Penelope was thankful it had been Hermione who birthed a Squib, and not her.
"I appreciate you taking the time to do this." Hermione's palm was chill when Dr. Clearwater shook it shortly, her voice terse and clipped. "I'll see you later, then?"
Dr. Clearwater smiled the tired smile of a woman bogged down by work. "I don't know--possibly at Molly's sixtieth birthday."
"I wasn't aware Arthur was planning to follow through on that," Hermione, caught by surprise, found herself replying. "Thought the whole deal over ages embarrassed her a bit."
"Yes, but it's Percy's too, and she'll use it as leverage to pry him away from work." The devious plot hatched by her mother-in-law had doubtlessly been coaxed into further mischief by Hermione's irrepressible brothers-in-law. (Hermione was still a little overwhelmed by how expansive her in-laws were; even most Weasleys couldn't name all their cousins, though many did try.)
"Oh." Hermione grinned, bright and false to hide the tenaciously lurking resentment. "Well, I'll probably see you then, right?"
Penelope smiled. "I'll send an owl with the results. They should be in a few days from now, but all I'm saying is don't get your hopes up until you've heard from me. And, HermioneÉ I'm honestly very sorry to say that your conclusion looks like the correct one. Really, truly sorry."
Hermione stiffened. She left the small room that smelled of Muggle antiseptic, saying another "thank you," but without acknowledging Penelope's condescending pity.
She didn't need that. She'd spent so much of her time at Hogwarts pretending the fact that jerks like Malfoy would rather vomit than speak her name--called her Mudblood as if she didn't deserve an actual appellation because she was of Muggles born--didn't bother her one bit, when in very fact it had. And most of the wizarding world might accept Muggle-borns, but she had seen the way they treated Squibs. The way they would treat her son, ripping out his heart with poisoned words and serving up his self-esteem, crushed by their insults and withering looks. Most Squibs would not admit to being unable to practice witchcraft of wizardry, held it as a matter of shame, and tried to avoid witches as much as possible. If Jeremiah was a Squib, they'd have to move away from Hogwarts. Her child meant more to her than her job.
As she passed the waiting room, her temper swelled like a particularly destructive tsunami beneath her projection of outward calm. She felt angry and indignant; she was ready to find any full-fledged wizard and grab them by their throat and scream, sobbing, "You bastard!" And then the tsunami crested, and she remembered her policy of nonviolence, and the roiling wave broke. She was left feeling weak in the aftermath, and drained hopeless. Aching horribly in her chest for her child, and hating the stigma that would touch everyone associated with him. But children, perceptive as they might have been, were also left basically untroubled by the small upheaval of a doctor's visit, and Jeremiah was gazing at a card trick Orderly Longbottom was performing in order to occupy Jeremiah's attention. When Neville realized Hermione had re-entered the room, half the deck fell to floor and Neville's features took on a guilty look. "Hi, Hermione."
"Mama!" Jeremiah scrambled upright and caught Hermione about the legs. It was rare for Jeremiah to be left without either one of his parents for any length of time, but the Ministry had needed Ron and though Hermione hated excluding Jeremiah from most conversations, even ones he couldn't understand, he had been left for almost an hour among orderlies and a few bored, but quickly charmed, doctors.
Hermione hoisted her son into her arms, and smiled at Neville as if to say it was all right. "Hello, Neville. I didn't know you were working here."
"WellÉ." Neville shuffled his feet anxiously. "I'm sort of more a pharmaceutical person. They hired me because of my green thumb and 'people skills', or so they saidÉ I spend most of my time in greenhouses or pediatrics, you know. That sort of thing."
Hermione smiled a bit sadly; she couldn't help herself. Ron had been Harry's best friend, yes, but there were some thingsÉ some secretsÉ Ron wouldn't have received the right way, so Hermione had become Harry's confidant, in those times Harry needed a maternal figure in his life. Harry had told Hermione once, during one of his blue periods right after Hogwarts and his final defeat of Voldemort, all he knew about Neville's family. It had shocked and saddened Hermione, and she had understood some of Neville's quirks after being told--
--but to work in the place where you insane parents were kept? To rub your own face in that pain, day after day? Neville's nerve was rather laudable, if he could live with that grief in order to help others. "I'm sure you're doing a wonderful job, Neville."
Like the schoolboy Hermione remembered, Neville ducked his head and blushed. He was affected greatly by praise, and though it seemed to abash him, he flourished under it.
"Jeremiah seemed enthralled by the cards," Hermione continued, sensing Neville was a bit uncomfortable. "What were you having them do?"
"Well--you know Carroll, Alice in Wonderland and all--the trial scene, with the knave of hearts, and the rosebushes, and then I made them build a pyramid of themselves--nothing spectacular." His white robes were slightly crooked, Hermione noticed, glad to know that some people didn't change at all.
"Jeremiah thought it was." Jeremiah smiled shyly at Neville, the kind of smile he usually reserved for his extended family. "Have you run into any of the others lately?"
"WhatÉ Seamus, Dean, Parvati?" Neville asked. "Dean was in here with a fractured sternum a few months back, andÉ." He blushed again. "Lavender and I have been seeing one another for a few months, but other than that--no, I haven't. You?"
Hermione shrugged. With an armful of squirming toddler, it wasn't exactly an easy motion. "I've run into Dean and Seamus a few times, but--I'm concerned about Harry. I haven't seen him since the last time I was around the Ministry, and then I had to go searching him out." She bit her lip and wondered if this was the best place to discuss it, or the best person to discuss it with. "He's--changed."
Neville's frown mirrored hers. "No, I haven't seen him lately. What do you mean by 'changed'?"
"Ever since the death of Dumbledore, he mopes so much. The closest he came to acting normally was at his wedding, but he's become sort of withdrawn, like he fears human contact. He always blamed everybody's death on himself." Hermione hugged Jeremiah close to her chest. "Well, I hope you're having a good time; you seem really suited to Pediatrics, and you've always been brilliant with herbs." She turned and tried to leave before Neville could tell her how sorry he was in regard to Jeremiah's condition.
"Hermione," he interrupted, laying one hand on her shoulder. "I overheard, about Jeremiah. And--it'll work out, some way, Hermione." He gave her a lopsided, uncertain grin, but Hermione couldn't help but feel infinitely grateful.
"Thank you, Neville," she told him, and meant it. "Thank you."
***
More bad news awaited her when she returned home, stepping off the Knight Bus with a grimace on her face. Jeremiah had started crying for no discernible reason, and she hadn't been able to soothe him; it had left Hermione with frayed nerves and an intense dislike of the insensitive Stan Shunpike. She was rocking Jeremiah slowly, back and forth, back and forth, when Ron walked in the door with a mixture of bemusement, anger, and pain in his eyes.
"Ron?"
He shook his head. "I've just been talking to McGonagall." Again, the bright red hair flashed in the evening sun. "She told me that Sarah's name isn't in the Hogwarts book, either--you know, Bill's daughter."
"What?" Hermione jumped up, causing Jeremiah to whimper. She kissed the top of her son's head, then turned again to Ron. "Are you certain? Is she certain?"
"Yes, and yes. I don't know what this means; Franklin and Jaime are both listed, but not Jeremiah and not Sarah. She even showed me the book, and asked me what I thought of it, as if it was some difficult Transfiguration homework problem. It just seems really, really weirdÉ. What d'you think, Hermione?"
She crossed the room. "It is oddÉ." Her forehead creased in concentration. Something about the whole business sounded familiar, as if she'd read of it before--only, she couldn't remember when. Something about advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts and curses in the genetic material. Had someone cursed certain Weasley sons to sire only Squibs? But why certain sons? What did Ron and Bill have in common? Trying to determine how and who and what and why and when was incredibly vexing. Jeremiah was nearly two years older than Sarah, and it had probably happened before Jeremiah's birth, but that could have been done at any time. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Neville's reference to Carroll earlier made Hermione think, like Alice, Curiouser and curiouserÉ. "What else did McGonagall say?"
"That she was sorry." Ron looked slightly revolted. "Everyone's sorry, but what are they doing about it aside from making stupid, useless apologies?"
"Nothing," Hermione said softly.
"No." Ron's voice dropped. "Nothing. Like having a Squib kid's contagious, or something." He snorted.
"You have to admit, though, that no one's really nice to Squibs. Remember Filch?" She did, and in her recollection was Ron snickering vindictively over Filch's inability to perform magic. The memory irritated her for a number of good reasons.
"Yeah." Ron slouched. "Hermione, what're we going to do?"
"We're going to raise him," snapped Hermione. She could feel her face coloring with rage and indignation. "It's not as if he's a monster--you said that, Ron. We're going to wait and hope those test results are negative, and if they're not we're going to look into those clinics you've heard about, but our attitude towards Jeremiah will not change. Nor should anything else. He's still our son, and maybe we won't get him a broomstick for his next birthday, but otherwise--" Ron put his hands on her shoulders and she realized belatedly that she was shaking.
Ron gathered her into a half-awkward bearhug. "I didn't mean it that way," he told her in soothing tones. "It's just I wasÉ concerned." He released her with a tense brevity, and picked Jeremiah off the chair. Hermione could tell he wanted to point out that Bill's wife, Sarah's mother, was Muggle-born as well, but knew it was not the answer and would only provoke a nasty fight.
"I'm going to research this," Hermione announced. "I know there's some sort of curse that causes magic genes to skip a generation, I've heard of it somewhere--only it's not common, because most wizards don't have the stomach to use it, even Dark wizardsÉ."
Ron snapped his fingers. "Lucius Malfoy."
"What?"
"Well, think of itÉ. I mean, he was definitely nasty enough--all those Death Eaters fear him--and he hates my family, and he could've done it during the trial, so--" Ron looked as if this made perfect sense, but the Weasley family had always wanted to see the Malfoy family brought low--nor had they ever been truly sated in that desire, even by the humiliating court hearings and raids.
As Hermione gnawed her lip, though, she was forced to admit it did seem that was the most likely person to curse a Weasley, although it wouldn't explain Bill's affliction as well. "It could have been. After all, he wouldn't fear retaliation."
Ron snorted again.
"It's true. He probably thought we killed his son," Hermione continued. It was a topic she wasn't overly fond of, for reasons Ron didn't seem to grasp.
"We didn't," Ron negated. "Harry did, and he even told Malfoy that he had so Malfoy wouldn't accuse Dumbledore."
"It was a mercy killing," Hermione corrected sharply. She looked away from Ron and Jeremiah so they couldn't see her eyes water. Harry had felt morosely suicidal; he'd confessed to Hermione that he had never killed before, and never in a situation like that one, with the victim begging him to end it, pleading for a swift, short, painless execution. A vision-searing flash of vivid green, and peaceful white features forever. Black wings maddeningly still in the air.
Requiem.
Hermione had had a job of convincing Harry that what he had done was right ad only compassionate, but his emerald eyes--like Lady MacBeth's--had refused to see past the bloodstains on his hands.
"And you think Malfoy believed that?" Ron shook his head. "How do we know that he didn't curse Harry, too? Harry doesn't have any kids yet; nobody could be sure until he did--"
"This is speculation," Hermione interrupted. "Ron, please. Quiet."
***
Clarinda Weasley gave birth to a second child a month and a half early, a few weeks before Penelope's was due. (The results of the tests confirming Jeremiah's inability to perform magic had come in months before this event, and Ron's face fell upon seeing McGonagall's first assumption proved.) The baby boy's name was inscribed in the book that kept the roster of future Hogwarts students, McGonagall said. A month later, it was discovered that Penelope's newborn son wasn't listed.
***
"I think I've found something," Bill spoke up. His announcement was broken with a yawn, and Hermione decided he looked as tired as she felt. Ron, Hermione, Bill, Arthur, Molly, Percy, Charlie, Ginny, and Charlie's wife Portia had been sorting frantically through the Hogwarts library since noon, searching for possible curses that might have caused the odd affliction that the Weasley family had been stricken with. The results said that not only was Jeremiah a Squib, but so were his cousins Sarah and Michael, Penelope and Percy's firstborn. "It's called the Salazar Curse." Bill wrinkled his nose. "Three guesses as to whom it's named after, and the first two don't count. Anyway, it's not geared toward turning people's kids into Squibs, but--" He shot a look at his father.
"But what?" pursued Ginny.
"Grandchildren," Bill finished quietly. "The firstborn of every child of the target is a Squib. I'm guessing it was placed on Dad after Jaime was born, so it didn't touch him, but it got the next of us." He grimaced and rubbed his eyes.
Arthur Weasley, anguish in every line of his face, bit his lip. "God."
"It's all right, Mr. Weasley," Portia said quickly. "It's not your fault, but that of whoever cast this thing." Portia's hair had begun to unravel out its dreadlocks, and she leaned heavily on Charlie's arm.
"Lucius Malfoy," said Ron angrily.
"Ron, we don't know that," Hermione tried to interject, but her father-in-law shook his head.
"I can't think of anyone else," he admitted. "And I hate to say it, but during his transfer to Azkaban, he looked me in the eye and asked me how much I loved Muggles. Told me I'd find out." And suddenly Arthur Weasley looked ancient and sad, his visibly-veined hands trembling over the book he had been poring over. "And then he muttered something. It didn't sound like a spell, it sounded like a passage in Hebrew or something, but he could have put the spell in there anyway."
"Without a wand?" Percy sounded doubtful.
"Old magic is done best without a wand," explained Hermione slowly. "So--if I get this right--only Jeremiah will be a Squib, and any other children will be witches or wizards."
"It's a very nasty curse," Arthur continued. "I mean--being responsible--"
Seven voices chorused, "You're not at fault."
"--for grandchildren who can't do magic and having to answer not only to them, but your own children--" Arthur's shoulders shook like his hands had, and Molly turned to him. The Weasley children went over in an attempt to comfort and reassure; a knot of sorrowful redheads. Hermione, feeling awkward, glanced at Portia, who looked just as lost and woeful as she felt.