Hermione spent that Saturday afternoon just as she had spent nearly every Saturday afternoon since the end of the war; she sat at a table with a large tome pinned down with her left index and middle finger while her right hand scribbled notes with a Snap-Proof Quill.
Her hair was twisted behind her head into a tight bun, as she was prone to keeping it during her studies of late, and she sat forward on the edge of her chair with both balls of her feet planted against the floor. Her right leg bounced slightly as she dragged the fingers of her left hand down each page in her reading. That leg would do its anxious dance until she came upon something particularly interesting, at which point she would unconsciously stop all movement in order to fiercely scribble out her notes and citations.
This was how she had found all the answers before. Basilisks, Triwizard challenges, Horcruxes… all of the puzzles that had compounded in her young life had been solved with these same tools. And this was how she would solve her current puzzle as well.
It was not always the same library. For some months after the attack, Hermione had plundered the Hogwarts library – with the blessing of Headmistress McGonagall, of course. Meanwhile, Harry had encouraged her to keep her room at Grimmauld Place and, the other option being her parents' house, Hermione had gladly taken him up on it.
Once she had exhausted the applicable resources at Hogwarts, the witch beset the small household library, which had suffered horribly in the Doxy Wars of 1995. Books were stacked flat on the shelves or crammed too tightly together in no particular order – it was absolute barbarism. In the quiet September week after Harry and Ron had left for their first Auror Training, Hermione had catalogued and cross-referenced the entire library. She could not abide by such feckless disorder.
That was where she studied now and, apart from the scratch of her quill, the old house sat silent in its dust and loneliness. With the curtains open, afternoon sunlight poured into the room, illuminating clouds of dust that rose in sparkling whorls each time the witch turned a page.
The silence was broken when Ron's voice came to her, shouting up from the kitchen.
"Hermione! Are you home?"
"Yes. Coming." Despite the words, her quill flew to complete the sentence at hand.
"Hello?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake." Her voice rose from a grumble to a shout as she sprang from her chair and stalked out of the library. "Yes, Ron, I'm coming!"
She found his head in the hearth, grinning up at her. "Any luck with the books?" He looked pointedly at her right hand and Hermione peered down, surprised to see she still gripped the quill.
With a deep sigh, she let go of some of the tension and smiled at Ron's head. "No major breakthroughs." Taking a moment to Banish the quill back to the library – she didn't want to forget it downstairs – Hermione set about making tea. "Are you coming through or are you just going to sit there spitting out ashes?"
"Well, since you're offering…" Ron's head withdrew from the embers, only to be replaced by a green flare and the whole wizard hopping out onto the hearth rug. Grinning, he brushed soot from his Senior Auror Trainee robes and sidled closer to Hermione, watching as she gathered some biscuits on a plate, glanced at him, and then piled a few more on top. "Ah, 'Mione, you do know the key to my heart."
He moved close behind her and slipped his hands around her waist, pressing the length of his body against her back. Hermione could feel the heat of his breath on the back of her ear as he pressed his cheek against her bunned-up hair. Against her bum, she could feel the hot beginnings of his arousal.
The position was familiar. Many times in the last year, she had escalated the situation from this point by rubbing back against him or turning around for kisses. Today, though, the tug on her hair wasn't comfortable and that little bit of pain brought her frustration bubbling back to the surface.
Hermione turned in his arms and pressed the plate of biscuits into his hands. Ron, to his credit, only took the plate and smiled at her ruefully. "Tough day?"
With a small, affectionate smile, Hermione turned back to the counter to collect the tea. "I've certainly had better. I'm afraid I've hit a wall these past few weeks. Dining room?"
Ron led the way, speaking over his shoulder as he went. "What do you mean, a wall?"
"Well…" As she took her seat, Hermione frowned, struggling to remember. "What have I told you about the spell residues so far?"
With the look of one put squarely on the spot, Ron slowly added an obscene amount of sugar to his tea, stirring the brew slowly. "Uh… I remember that you said that there were some charms that could tell a bloke whether or not a certain spell had been cast in a place, but I can't remember what the catch was…"
Hermione poured a bit of milk into her own tea, watching the pale liquid cloud in the bottom of her cup before mixing smoothly. "The charms are specific to their partner spells – each must be cast separately and only tells the caster whether or not a specific spell residue is present in the area. Only a few such charms have been developed over the years because their corresponding spells are frequently used in criminal activity."
Ron sipped tea from the cup in his right hand while he collected three biscuits in the other. He waited until after speaking before cramming them into his mouth. "So there's no way to tell when other spells were cast?"
"No… but determining the identities of those spells is a complicated and time-consuming process." Ron was busy chewing, but he made a face that Hermione interpreted as interest, so she went on.
"First, a sample of the residue must be extracted from the area in which the spell was cast, preferably as close to the target as possible. The extract is then analyzed in reaction with a standard array of potions – each of which must be brewed separately. Key observations from the resulting reactions are then factored into certain Arithmantic equations, ultimately leading to identification of the original spell." Hermione clasped her tea cup between fingers that were cold despite the late August heat that seeped past the cooling charms on the house. "Further calculations, in addition to more targeted tests with specialized families of more complex potions, could even lead to identification of the caster of that spell. However, the caster is identified numerically, meaning that a name must be derived by some other method... which has been absolutely impossible-"
It was then that Hermione caught sight of Ron's dull-eyed expression. He was gazing at the plate sitting between them, where just three biscuits remained. He lifted one of his big hands, reaching towards the survivors. Realizing that she was about to miss out on her favorite lemon biscuits, Hermione snatched two away.
Ron blinked, his cheeks faintly reddening, and retracted his hand. "Sorry, 'Mione… Potions , Arithmancy, and Charms all at once… it's a mite scary."
"Oh, Ronald. This research could really help you as an Auror, you know." She nibbled on a biscuit, tucking the other securely in the nook between her cup and saucer.
His face creased in a sweet smile. "I know, Hermione… and I know I should be listening to you, because you always figure things out. You were right about Harry and me taking the easy way out of the N.E.W.T.s and how we'd regret it later when we had to struggle with all the advanced spell work in Auror Training." He shrugged and dropped his eyes. "And it's been really hard for both of us, especially without you there to help us with our study plans. I thought I was set to die during finals last spring." Ron smiled again, leaning forward on his elbows. "You've always been there for me, though, Hermione… and I just want you to know that I appreciate you and all your hard work."
Not quite sure how to respond to that, Hermione just smiled and took Ron's hand over the table top. He squeezed her fingers gently and went on gazing into her eyes. "Hermione…"
The witch froze, suddenly recognizing a formal tone and feeling like her fingers had been caught in a trap. She had to fight to breathe.
"…do you want the last biscuit?"
Hermione expelled a sharp breath and scowled. Ron's smile had stretched into a grin; he had certainly meant to lead her on. She yanked her fingers out of his and pushed the plate with the last biscuit towards him. "Have it, prat."
Looking only a little abashed, the boy took the last biscuit from the plate between thumb and forefinger. He did not eat it, though, but simply held it for a moment, staring at its round yellow face. "If…" He seemed to think better of it, then change his mind again and, still staring at the biscuit, finished his thought. "If I really did ask you… would you say yes?"
Hermione bit back a snappish reply and took a moment to sip her tea, inhaling the fragrance as she held the cup below her lips. The milk enriched the brew, softened its edges. Unable to stall any longer, Hermione lowered her cup with a delicate click. She opened her mouth to speak.
Unfortunately, she wasn't quick enough. Never one to deal overly well with pressure, Ron cracked. "Come on, 'Mione. Harry and Ginny are coming up on their first anniversary this fall and, hell, you'll be twenty in just a few weeks. What are we waiting for?"
Hermione could only stare for a moment at Ron's pleading expression. Finally, in a low tone, she asked, "What has my age got to do with anything?"
"Well, it's… most people get married right after graduating. I mean, it's that or… well..." Ron shrugged.
"What?"
"Huh?" Ron's expression was an anxious blank. Anyone who hadn't been watching him for eight years might be fooled into thinking he really didn't understand, that his brain was just that flighty. Hermione felt her face darken into a scowl. She knew he was smarter than that.
"Married or what, Ron?" She pronounced each word with harsh precision.
He seemed to debate for a moment, then let it all out in a rush like some grim news. "Like McGonagall. Like Vector or Sprout or Hooch. Bloody hell, Hermione. Haven't you noticed? Witches marry right off or they never marry at all."
Hermione sat very still as she scrutinized the young man before her. "Are you implying that, if we don't get married as soon as possible, I will somehow become magically disinclined to marry you?"
"Maybe. Hell, I don't know why it happens." Ron shrugged, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. "It's just, you know, the way the Wizarding World works."
"Oh, that's ridiculous, Ron. The Muggles have the same stupid myth." Hermione stood from the table, clattering her tea dishes onto the crumb-strewn plate. Her second lemon biscuit darkened as tea sloshed out of her half-empty cup. She thumped both palms on the table and frowned at him. "You know I have other obligations. Why are you rushing this?"
"Look." Ron stood as well and raised his hands as if to make peace. "I'm not saying we have to go elope right this second. I just don't know why we're putting it off."
"I suppose the fact that I'm currently eyeball deep in investigating a rash of crimes that have been downplayed by the Ministry and ignored by the rest of the Wonderful Wizarding World is just a minor speed bump in our road to a happy marriage, then, is it?"
"Come on, 'Mione! You know I understand why you're doing what you're doing. Why do you have to be like this?"
"Like what?"
"Crazy!" Ron ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head in frustration. "Cor, it's like I hardly know you sometimes. You've been acting more and more mental all year - and I'm not the only one who thinks so. Harry says you've been adding Dark books to his library. Are you-" He took a few fierce steps away from her, then whirled back. "Are you fooling around with something you shouldn't be?"
Hermione blinked and pushed herself away from the table that stood between them, straightening to her full height. She crossed her arms over her chest, scraped her bottom lip with her incisors, and coldly said, "Of course not, Ron. I'm using those texts to study some of the Dark spells that may have been used at the sites. I resent that you think you have some right to decide what I should and shouldn't be reading." After holding his gaze for a moment, she gathered all of the dishes together and, eyes on the table, continued. "And, if I've seemed like a changed person, maybe you should be talking to Harry about what it was like for him losing Sirius." Without another word, Hermione turned and strode into the kitchen with the dishes.
At the sink, she whipped out her wand and tried to charm the scrub brush into doing the wash, but it broke the first teacup in its ferocity. With a snarl, Hermione repaired the cup, tucked her wand away, and began washing by hand.
"You're not the only one who lost family, Hermione."
Her hands stilled, suds slowly crawling down between her knuckles. The tiny white orbs glided over her ink-blacked fingers, then dripped away. "I don't mean to imply that I am, Ron. But it's different for me. My family was just my parents. I don't have brothers and sisters to turn to in this. I can't even talk to Mum about Dad. In some ways, I've lost her, too." She turned slightly to look over her shoulder, locking stares with Ron where he leaned in the doorway. "I've really relied on you a lot this year, Ron. And I'm so grateful that you could be there for me…"
Seeming to come to a decision, Ron stepped into the room. His expression smoothed to one of sympathy and his arms spread slightly, offering up a hug. It was the same escape he always offered her from her sorrows, from the things she snapped in her heated moments, and Hermione had always taken it, had always needed it.
Now, it took a moment of intense internal struggle for her to resist going to Ron and effectively closing the door on this conversation before she could take the next step. The irreversible step. Her mother's face loomed at the back of her mind, seeming to grow older before her very eyes.
…have them while we're still spry enough to lend a hand…
Really, it was already too late, anyway.
With a deep breath, Hermione straightened and crossed her arms. "But…" Ron's arms lowered and she had to look away from him for a second while painful realization flashed across his face. Finally, she met his eyes again. "But maybe it's time I stopped being so selfish."
He just stared at her for a long moment, shock stretching his features. "Hermione…"
"I can't get married, Ron. I can't-"
"If you didn't want to marry me, why've we been shagging all year?" His voice was rising, anger breaking through. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking to Hermione as if he was trying to hide his heart.
She leaned against the sink, the edge of the counter pressing against her, steadying her. "I did want to marry you. Before my dad-" She heaved a breath and plunged on. "Before Dad died, I just wanted to take my N.E.W.T.s, go on studying Arithmancy, marry you, and have children. I wanted that normal life that we had fought for for so many years. But then…"
"But what?"
She stood up a little straighter, injecting some briskness into her voice. "But then that normal life stopped being a possibility for me." Ron was still scowling at her, but Hermione held her head higher and let her face fall into the grim expression she had become so comfortable with. "Marriage, children… As long as my father's killers walk free, I cannot stop to have these things, Ron." Her tone softened slightly. "You, though… You don't have to go on waiting."
Ron stood very still for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was pained. "What are you saying, exactly?"
"I want you to be happy. I'm-" Hermione frowned. "I'm dead weight, Ron. I don't want to hold you back from the life you want."
"I wanted that life with you."
She held out her hands helplessly. "I can't change what I have to do or how long it could take. All I can do is set you free and let you make up your own mind."
Ron's head was shaking slowly back and forth, his lip curling a bit in disgust. "Free, am I? Dumped, more like. We've been together all this time, and you do this to me." He opened his mouth to say something else, but only clamped it shut again and strode to the hearth. Some Floo Powder sprinkled to the rug as he hurled a handful into the flames. "Senior Commons, Auror Academy!"
Then, he was gone. The house was empty. Silence ruffled its feathers and settled itself over the room. Hermione felt herself sealed snug in a delicate shell of solitude. Two thoughts pressed together, warm and viscous in her head.
It's finally over.
What have I done?
She methodically finished cleaning up and left the kitchen. When she passed through the dining room, she saw the last biscuit lying on the table where Ron had dropped it. She left it there for the moment. The gaudy yellow color of it made her feel a touch ill.
Hermione's first instinct was to return to the library and carry on with her studies, but she walked past the door automatically and turned into her bedroom. It was tidy, with nearly everything tucked into its proper place and the bed made up for the day. Even Crookshanks lay curled on her pillow in a near-perfect sphere of orange fluff. The one item that was not where it should have been was the bag she had carried to St. Mungo's that morning, which sat on her bed, the strap draped over the edge. In such a controlled environment, it looked almost wanton.
Hermione stood before her small book shelf and, drawing her wand, unlocked the sight ward protecting what she had come to call her Borrowed Book Section. Titles changed, liquefying into their true names. Choicest Charms became Mindful Meddling For Masterful Manipulations. Pubcrawl, A History of Goblin Grassroots Revolution became Shades of Grey, Volume II; Crueler Curses.
When, in her research, she had come upon references to books that neither Hogwarts nor the Puffed-Up House of Black possessed, Hermione had been forced to become more enterprising. She wrote letters to renowned owners of books, who sometimes permitted her to visit their private libraries and sometimes, trusting that her War Hero status made her into some champion of unquestionable moral fiber, they actually lent her the books by owl. Hermione herself never would have lent out books to a stranger, but she did not hesitate to take advantage of the trust of less discerning bibliophiles. It was for the greater good, after all.
Occasionally, she would come across a reference to a Dark book that no one she contacted kept – or wanted to admit to keeping. Hermione had a particular modus operandi for such situations. If a perusal of Knockturn Alley failed to drum up the text of interest, it was time again to return to Malfoy Manor.
The first time had been frightening as well as challenging. Between returning to the site of her own torture and unlocking some very complex and intimidating wards, it had been nothing short of nerve-wracking. It was February by then, and the air, sharpened by 3am chill, had pierced Hermione's cloak and raked her whole body like a raw nerve, like tonguing the empty socket where a tooth had just been.
Like the lingering sting of the Cruiciatus Curse.
Gryffindor that she was, though, Hermione did not hesitate to go back a second time when she realized the books she had stuffed into her beaded bag did not contain all of the answers she needed.
In the months she had been on her hunt for information, she had borrowed a total of twelve rare and dangerous books from the Malfoy library. They now inhabited the bottom shelf of her Borrowed Book Section and, every time she looked at them, Hermione felt a faint pang of guilt, quickly squelched by righteousness. Had the books belonged to anyone but Draco Malfoy, she could not have taken them in the first place. Repentant or not, the boy was a git.
However, Hermione could not deny the truth and, every time she looked at those books, the same thought popped into her head. I am a book-thief, now.
Gazing at the full shelf, she could not help but wonder whether maybe Ron had a point. Maybe she really was a different person. A dreadful old maid obsessed with the Dark Arts who exploited the love of young men for her own selfish reasons and then broke their hearts, and who also snuck into people's houses and stole their books.
Turning away from the bookshelf with a sigh, Hermione flopped down on her bed. Crookshanks gave her a stony, slit-eyed look of reproach, but closed his eyes and splayed his ears with a raspy purr as Hermione scratched the top of his head with one blunt fingernail. Leaving her cat in peace, she stared at the ceiling for a moment.
Even here, the still air was filled with Ron's hurt, thick and choking as dust.
With a sigh, Hermione snatched up her bag and took out the notebook to begin planning her next conversation with Jane. Only, when she looked at the open page, something else caught her eye. She held the notebook at arm's length above her face and squinted at the half-word she had scribbled out - oh yes, when she had seen Snape through the curtains. She had forgotten about it completely, that little instant of epiphany.
"Lega… legality? Legacy? For heaven's sakes…"
Hermione's life had always been composed of puzzles of varying size and importance. At present, the biggest puzzle surrounded her parents and the Death Eaters. On a much smaller scale, there was the Ron-puzzle, accompanied by other, similar friend puzzles. There were also puzzles that had nothing to do with her, but which she felt compelled to take a crack at anyway, the Snape-puzzle being case in point. And then, there were the tiny, every-day Hermione-puzzles to be figured out, which included occasional fits of awful handwriting, fickle ideas, and internal conflicts.
Sometimes, though, two half-finished puzzles could be fitted together to make a bigger picture.
Snape had known a great many Death Eaters and their proclivities - the sort of insight Hermione had hoped to gain by interviewing prisoners in Azkaban before all her requests had been denied. But Snape was not in Azkaban. He was right across the aisle from her mum. If she could fix whatever was wrong with him, his aide could be invaluable in her search. Of course, if St. Mungo's couldn't fix Snape, there was no reason for Hermione to believe that she could. Still… Still.
She looked again at her list, which was all written in highly legible cursive, then back to the scribbled fragment. The 'a' in 'Lega-' was especially horrid, disconnected at the top and stretched a bit too tall, almost like a 'd'… or...
Hermione stared. Oh. Oh, yes. That was an idea…
She hurled herself to her feet, yanked the copy of Mindful Meddling from her shelf, and rushed to the library to look for Rasputin's Reptilian Resource.
.
AN: Thanks for reading! In the process of revising this chapter, it occurred to me that this story has a huge potential to go Dramione. Tucking that idea away for later. Thoughts?
