Tuesday, 25 August 1998
Hermione had no idea it was possible to avoid someone so much when you shared the same space with them. She and Malfoy spent the next week and a half at odds with one another. Some days he would leave the room early in the morning and not return until after dinner. Other days he spent the day in the living room channel surfing on the telly. Hermione didn't know when he'd figured out how to even turn it on but she knew he wasn't stupid.
At lunch on the last Tuesday there, Hermione was thinking about extending her trip. Malfoy had gone out again that morning and she had exhausted every single idea she had. She'd called directory assistance, she'd spent two days going into county clerks office with Malfoy tagging along, silent as usual, as she asked as many different government offices as she could think of and find, but there had been no one to answer her questions.
The door opened and Malfoy walked in, only to stop short in front of her. "Get your coat, I've got a lead."
She blinked up at him, confused. "You... What?"
"What do you think I've been doing when I go out? I've been searching for your parents."
"But you haven't helped me map out the city or given me any ideas! When I tried brainstorming with you, you'd just lock yourself in the bedroom."
He nodded and picked up her coat for her, bringing it to her. "I've been looking in places you wouldn't think to look."
She didn't understand that at all but she stood and let him help her into her coat. She didn't argue as he offered his arm; as soon as she touched him he Disapparated.
They arrived in a small field near a church. It was a tiny building painted yellow with a steeple so tall it made the building look like it would tip over. He tucked her arm over his and escorted her to the front doors and knocked. The doors opened and a young man, not much older than she and Malfoy, greeted them, "Mr Malfoy." He smiled but didn't seem overly happy. "And this is Miss Wilkins?"
"Yes," she answered. "Do you know my parents?"
The boy looked up at Malfoy then, a questioning look in his eye that Hermione didn't understand. "Why don't you come in?" the boy offered. "My name's Ken Bradford, by the way."
He led them to the front of the church and offered her to sit on the fabric-covered, wooden pew. She sat, still feeling confused but there was an undercurrent of tension between the two men that Hermione didn't miss. It made her apprehensive. What's more, is that Malfoy sat close beside her and let his hand slide down to hold hers tightly.
"I met Wendell and Monica Wilkins about a year ago when they were still trying to find a church that reminded them of home. They settled on this one after they attended a few Sundays and found the atmosphere was what they were seeking. Seems there was something else as well."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, sometimes, they would get this far away look in their eyes and talk about a daughter that had gone missing named Jean. Mr Malfoy said it was a side effect of high dose medication they were taking for health reasons. Mr Malfoy told me your name is Jean?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
She wondered how Malfoy'd learned that but let the thought pass quickly. This man knew where her parents were! She nodded, unsure of trusting her voice.
"The name of the church is Saint Jean's; it seems they found something that reminded them of their missing daughter here," he smiled sadly again. Something felt wrong; why was he sad?
"I didn't speak with them often, as I was usually busy organising the choir, but the few times we spoke they seemed like wonderful people if a little bit lost. They spent a lot of time working with the little children." That tiny sense of dread she'd been feeling coalesced into something heavier and made her stomach flip nervously.
"I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but Monica and Wendell were killed in an automobile accident about seven months ago. They were loved by our little congregation and we came together to pay all the expenses. We had no idea that they had family in England, or we'd have tried to notify you. They're buried in the church's graveyard just beyond the ridge. I can take you to them if you like."
Hermione couldn't breathe. She just stared blankly at Bradford. There was a sound, something loud and roaring in her ears that she couldn't identify; darkness seemed to creep up along the sides of her vision and everything turned fuzzy before going black.
* . * . *
Hermione didn't know where she was when she woke up. She blinked and looked around, hoping to get a clue. It looked like she was in a little office on a worn sofa. What made her confused was the warmth of her hand. She squeezed it, trying to ascertain why it was so warm, and something squeezed back.
No. Not something. Someone.
She looked in the direction she assumed he was and there was Malfoy. Looking a little lost, holding her hand.
"Are you... I know you're not okay, but physically? Not going to pass out again? I've got a potion if you think you might vomit. Didn't know what to do with you when you fainted on me." His voice was quiet and she assumed the man, Bradford, was somewhere else.
"Is it true? Are they really gone?" she asked.
He didn't say anything but handed her a photograph. It was of her parents, laughing as three toddlers seemed to be using them as a climbing tree.
She felt her eyes prickle at the sight. "They always wanted more children," she murmured. He didn't release her hand. "Have you been to the gravesite?"
"No, once I confirmed that it was them, and there's no doubting you're related to that mess of hair, I came to get you. Bradford out there might need to be Obliviated, seeing as how I couldn't possibly have driven all the way back to the hotel to get you. I figured I'd do it after you talked to him again if you like."
"Was it just a car accident? Really? No foul plot? No Death Eaters?"
He squeezed her hand. "I never heard of any of the Death Eaters being sent to Australia."
She nodded slowly. "I want to see it; I need to see it. The gravesite, the stone if they have one."
He stood and straightened his clothes with one hand then offered it to her, never letting go of the one he held. She allowed him to help her up and let him lead her out of the office. Bradford was across the small sanctuary sweeping and he looked up when they walked out. "I'm sorry I didn't think to offer you the sofa before I told you. I didn't realise you're... I didn't pay attention, I'm sorry," he said, glancing down at her stomach.
She nodded. "Can you take me to the grave?"
"Of course," he said and gestured for them to follow him out a different door than they came in. On the hilltop, he brought them to a row of stones, and then to the one stone on the end. It was a simple, flat stone, carved with their fake names and birthdays. Underneath was a simple line. Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. - Hebrews 11:1.
"Thank you," she whispered to Bradford. He got the hint and left them alone.
"I'm sorry Hermione," Malfoy said. "I didn't want to find them like this but it was an avenue that I know I'd feel I'd miss if I didn't try while we were here. I wanted to help, I really did."
"It's okay," she said, and then shook her head. "It's not okay, not really, but I think you know what I mean. I'm glad you found them."
Hermione didn't know how long they stood together on that hilltop in stillness and silence. If she had been thinking clearly she might have been impressed with how Malfoy didn't fidget, but her mind was elsewhere. Far away in both time and space as she thought about her parents and her childhood. Finally, after what must have been hours, her stomach growled and Malfoy squeezed her hand.
"I think you need to eat some dinner," he told her and he led her back towards the church. He left her outside when he went in to speak once more with Bradford. Hermione wasn't thinking at all. She was just sort of floating, the few thoughts she had scattering to the wind before she could actually acknowledge them. Malfoy came back out and wrapped his arms around her. She didn't even flinch. He Apparated them back to the hotel, where he helped her take off her coat. He gathered some of her pyjamas and set up a bath for her, casting a charm on the tub. Hermione didn't know what it was nor did she care.
"I'll order something for dinner, you take a warm bath, and then we'll eat. After that, you're going to bed. Lestrange is going to kill me for allowing you to sleep on the sofa as much as you have." He poured some of a pearlescent potion he summoned from his luggage into the bath and then gestured for her to do something. It took too long for her to figure out what he expected her to do. "Hermione," he said, speaking in an even softer voice than he had been, "you need to undress to get in the bathtub. You don't need my help to do that, do you?"
She just stood there, staring past him at the wall. Undressed. Right. She was slow to shake her head but she did raise her hand to the hem of her shirt. That was as far as she got before she dropped her hand again. Lost in that horrible non-thinking place inside her mind. He bit his lip before he reached out slowly and took the hem of her shirt in his hands. He raised it an inch and when she didn't fight him off or argue, he pulled it up and over her head. Her body reacted, helping him by lifting her arms, but she didn't even bother to try and cover herself. She heard him sigh and felt him gently turn her around so she faced away from him.
He unhooked her bra and slid it down her arms, then unfastened her jeans. He even pushed them down her hips. She let him help her out of her shoes and socks. He guided her into the tub them. The water was shimmery from the potion and warm. The smell was pleasant, lavender, lilac, and something else that Hermione's mind seemed to whisper smelled sort of like baby powder. She blinked when the door snicked shut behind him.
* . * . *
Wednesday, 26 August 1998
Hermione woke up in the bed, snuggled into Malfoy's embrace. At first, she didn't move because she was shocked at his audacity but then she slowly started piecing together what had happened the day before. After a while, she felt her body sag more into his arms, not particularly caring that she should be upset about him holding her.
She didn't know how long she laid there awake, but finally, her bladder would not let her linger any longer so she eased out of his hold and tiptoed into the bathroom. When she came back, he was awake but still in bed, watching her, his face unreadable. He raised the blanket back up, a universal sign of 'come back to bed' if she'd ever seen one and, not caring any longer about propriety, or rightness, or blended betrothal, or non-weddings, she crawled back into his arms and burrowed close to him, soaking up his body heat and comfort.
They spent the day mostly in bed getting up to use the loo as needed. Malfoy made sure they had plenty of food to keep them fed, but for the most part, neither of them talked nor looked for entertainment elsewhere. Hermione spent most of her time in her thoughts and Malfoy seemed inclined to let her. When it was time for bed, Hermione crawled back in and watched Malfoy climb in on his side. At first, he didn't raise his arm to offer his embrace, but after a moment of contemplation, he did. She wasted no time snuggling against him though she did seem to take a long time to fall asleep.
"Harry, no, you can't go out there alone!" Hermione heard herself say. They were in a dark place, somewhere cold. The sound of footsteps could be heard, shuffling closer and then farther away.
"You're right, Hermione, I can't. You have to. It's your place." He handed her an axe. It was heavy and bright red and it reminded her of fire alarms at her primary school.
"I can't use this!"
"You have to," Ron's voice called but she couldn't see him. He was outside the tent.
"What about a wand?"
"Wands are for wizards," Malfoy's teasing voice called. "And you're not a proper wizard are you?"
"I'm a witch!"
Bellatrix's mad cackle rang out, "Witch bitch, bitch witch, they're all the same. Dead now, aren't they? You will be too soon!"
Hermione spun around, suddenly feeling secure with the axe in her hands, heavy though it was. But it wasn't an axe any longer, now it was a shovel.
"It's time," Lestrange said into her ear as if he were directly behind her. She felt a shove towards the tent flap but now it was a door instead. Double doors that led to fabric-covered pews.
"Let the little children come to me," it was Voldemort's voice now, standing at the pulpit, hands braced as if he were preaching to the empty congregation. Except it wasn't empty. Men, dozens of men in black cloaks and silver masks all stood and turned to look at her. The shovel in her hands was replaced with a bouquet of rotting roses, the smell thick in her nose. When she looked back up, she was walking towards a masked man with long orangey-red hair.
"It wasn't red enough for her," she heard Bellatrix giggle from the crowd.
Hermione turned again, wanting to run away from all of it. What she saw next was her parents, standing on top of the hill, holding toddlers. The toddlers were dead, their skin cracked and bloated from decay and their eye sockets open but the eyes were deflated.
"Your fault," her father said.
"Always your fault. You and that magic. We should have thrown you out," her mother said with anger in her voice.
"We wanted them, we never wanted you. Didn't you know that?" her father said again.
"It's time," Harry said, handing her an axe. She looked back up at her parents, and they were blooded and dead. Half oozing skeletons, with broken ribs and feet. Walking, shuffling, towards her. "You have to do this, Hermione, it's your place." She raised the axe above her head and brought it down, splitting her father's skull. What was left of his brains slipped out over the shovel.
"You missed!" Her mother's dead body shouted with glee, giggling like mad Bellatrix.
Then her father's body started shaking its shoulders like it was coughing. "Huffh, huffh, huffh, huffh."
Her eyes flew opened and she gasped again, realising the sound was coming from her own mouth. Her body was covered in sweat and yet she was cold and she felt ill like she hadn't in several weeks. She bolted from the bed into the bathroom, not caring that the shower was running or that Malfoy must be in it. She vomited twice before she sank to the floor, gagging once more once the moist heat of the bathroom air settled on her skin.
The shower had stopped, but he hadn't moved the curtain. "Hermione?"
She didn't answer.
Malfoy peeked his head around the shower to look at her sprawled out next to the toilet. When he saw she had her eyes closed, he pushed the curtain aside and stepped out. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist before he knelt down beside her.
"Granger?" he asked again. "What's wrong?"
Finally, she cracked her eyelids open to look at him, flesh slightly pink from the shower, wet hair plastered to his head. Not dead. He wasn't dead. Her parents were, though, and that was what had probably triggered the dream.
"Nightmare."
"Do you need the anti-nausea potion?"
She nodded with the least amount of movement she could get away with.
"Headache too?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"And pain relief for the sore throat. You'll need to get back in the bed for that one."
"Don't want to; it's hot."
"Okay," he said. He put his hands on her forehead in a gesture that seemed so utterly foreign to him that Hermione was almost sure he was someone else using Polyjuice. When she couldn't think of a thing to ask him, she gave up. Who would care that she was in a bathroom with a naked Malfoy, sick and dependent on him for potions. The whole thing sounded ridiculous. It dawned on her then that the gesture might have been one his mother used on him when he wasn't feeling well. It made much more sense that way.
He had stepped out and was dressed when he returned with the little blue vial. He had two others in his hand but didn't give those to her until he escorted her to the sofa. Then he handed her both and a glass of water he must have conjured. After he had taken care of her and sat beside her with his arm half around her and half propped on the sofa, he finally asked, "Did you want to talk about your nightmare?"
"I killed them. It's my fault."
"No, your parents died in an automobile accident. You did not kill them. You were busy in Britain winning a war."
"I sent them here."
"And they could have easily have been killed in a car crash in Britain. It had absolutely nothing to do with you."
"What if I took away or blocked a memory that needed to drive? What if the accident was Dad's fault? That man didn't say whose fault it was, or—or what exactly happened. It could have been Death Eaters, couldn't it have? What about sympathisers, wizards who would have known about me being wanted and decided that—"
"Hermione!" He interrupted. "Hush now. You did not take away their memories about driving. There were no Death Eaters or sympathisers in Australia. You did a good thing sending them here."
"But they were there," she whispered.
"They were where?"
"In the church, and he was there, and I was wearing black and there were dead roses and it was awful!"
"Hermione, have you started talking about your nightmare? Who was there? The Dark Lord?"
She swallowed. "Well, yeah, he was there too, but, no it was Lestrange at the end of the altar and all the Death Eaters in the pews and he'd charmed his hair to look like Ron's but not, and... and then I had to kill my parents with a shovel—no, an axe, and there were dead kids and—"
"Hush," he said gently, raising his hand and wandlessly summoning something else from the bedroom. He caught it, uncorked it with a flick of his thumb, and held it near her lips. "Take this, it's apparent that your nightmare wasn't coherent and you're working yourself into a state." When she didn't make a move to drink it, he brought it closer, pressing it against her bottom lip. "Please, it's just pregnancy-safe Calming Draught."
She finally conceded and let him pour the small vial into her mouth. She took a deep breath in and realised it felt like she hadn't been breathing for a while. She let the calming draught work with the headache-relief, sinking into Malfoy's embrace again.
After they sat there, both sunk into the sofa as the light of the day crept into the windows, Hermione broke the silence. "Do you think my baby will be a squib?"
He shifted next to her and kissed her on the temple. "Absolutely no way any child of yours will be a squib."
"How do you know?" She sounded lost, even to herself.
"Part of my pre-Hogwarts education was memorizing lineages. Squibs are rare and tend to only happen in pureblood families. It's even rarer for squibness to happen when half-blood and Muggle-borns are married into the family. Your magic is powerful, Hermione, and your child's will be too."
Hermione thought his reasoning wasn't very sound but left the discussion lie. She really hadn't been worried about that. Now that she was thinking about her dream in retrospect all she could really remember was her parents being Inferi.
"My nightmare was all sorts of mixed up," she said. "My parents were Inferi and I tried to kill my Dad with an axe; he was still breathing but he was dead. And Mum laughed like Bellatrix when his brain slid out."
"Oh gross," he said, shuddering theatrically.
"I agree. I wish I didn't know what that accurately looked like."
He looked a bit startled at that. "What?" he turned and stared at her incredulously.
"The final battle. I don't know if it was a spell, or if whoever it was only got grazed by something falling, but I saw someone's brains sort of slip out of their bashed open skull. I saw a masked Death Eater take a reflected Entrail-Expelling curse as well."
"I'm very glad that after the fire in the room I sort of hid until the end there. I didn't want to be there."
"I know. I didn't particularly want to be there, either."
He blinked. "What do you mean? It was the final battle; you guys won. You're brave." He said it as if that was a reason for wanting to fight, wanting to be in a battle for life or death.
"I had to be there. For Harry, of course, but for myself as well. Why would I stand down in a fight that was representative of a fight for my very right to exist? The battle might have all been prophecised to be about Harry and Voldemort, but in a real sense, it was my fight too. Being brave doesn't mean I wanted to fight. It just meant I'd fight even though I was scared," she paused, not sure if he understood. She didn't feel quite her normal eloquent, thorough self just then. "Do you understand what I mean about being brave?"
"I've heard the saying before. 'Being brave isn't about being scared, it's about being scared and doing what's right anyway.' Can't say I learned that particular lesson very well. Are you feeling better now? Physically, I mean? I can get some breakfast sent up or we could go out for a walk and breakfast. There's a little café around the corner."
"I think a walk might be nice. Though I'm worried I'll get nauseous again."
"I've got more potion, and I've got pockets. Don't worry. I can take care of you, you know."
She didn't know if that was just in reference to this or to his odd blended betrothal marriage proposal that she bollocks up. She just nodded.
* . * . *
Monday, 31 August 1998
Hermione stood and stretched her back before slipping past the empty seat beside her. She'd given Malfoy the window seat this time, though she wasn't sure why he bothered. They'd decided that since they both could take a mild sleeping draught when they got on the plane that they could take the overnight flight back to Britain. Her bladder was the only thing that woke her up.
She washed up in the tiny little bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She didn't look particularly out of sorts, though she still felt that way. She made her way back to her seat and settled in again, glancing over to see Malfoy with his head tipped back in slumber.
He'd been very sweet and kind to her after he found out that her parents had died. He'd taken care of her, given her silence when she needed it. Gave her potions, made sure she ate. She was very grateful that he'd done so because for several days there she didn't remember much. Just a very deep ache in her chest knowing she'd never see her parents again.
As she hoped the sleeping draught would lull her back into slumber she thought about what he'd said. He'd called her clueless and cruel in regards to Lestrange. Her feelings about the father of her child were muddled and she didn't know what to do about it. She wanted to talk with her Mum, of course, but that wasn't going to happen. Mrs Weasley was supportive, even encouraging, but Hermione wasn't sure she was the best woman to talk to about anything either, but she was the closest thing Hermione had to her own mother now.
She felt her eyelids droop and she made a decision. She'd spend some time at the Burrow. She wanted to be away from both Lestrange and Malfoy as they both had her tied up in knots and she didn't want their presence addling her mind any more than they had. She'd spend a week at the Burrow. Talking with Mrs Weasley, getting tentative advice about boys, and solid advice about children. Mrs Weasley would help her.
Hermione put her hand on her baby bump and hummed, falling asleep thinking about what having a child might be like.