May 20th, 2009

"You said you'd do the dishes from now on."

"I-uhh I-"

"You stood right here in this kitchen and you said, 'Hermione, from now on after dinner I will do the dishes while you give Rosy her bath.' You stood right there and said it!" Hermione motioned to the spot her husband was currently occupying.

"I know I did- I know."

"I just-" Hermione sighed, waving her wand at the sink. "Nevermind, I'll do it."

Ron seemed to sink even deeper into his tall frame. "I-I'm sorry, 'Mione." he whispered.

"I don't want you to be sorry, Ronald," Hermione snapped as she charmed the tap to come on and the sponge to scrub on its own accord. "I just want you to help me."

Ron opened his mouth to speak again, wringing his hands, but Hermione whirled around.

"No, no that's not it, it's not help. You're not helping me, you're doing your job as a father and a husband."

"I do things! I work full-time but I still do things!" he insisted suddenly, standing up a little straighter as he did. "I-I change nappies and I take Rosy to mum's house and-and-"

Hermione's one single solitary clap interrupted him. "Bravo, Ronald, bravo. You do your job as a father."

Ron's ruddy face reddened further.

"Do you want to know what I do?" Hermione didn't give him an opportunity to respond. "I mean, beyond the fact that I also work full-time and currently have a gigantic case load. Beyond the fact that I spent nine months creating life. Beyond the fact that I pushed a baby out of my vagina. Do you want to know what I do?"

Ron looked down, his arms now across his chest. Hermione couldn't stop herself now.

"I manage the entire household, Ronald. I keep up with Rosy's healer appointments and I plan all the meals and I buy the groceries and I keep track of your appointments and worry if we're all eating a well-rounded diet. I dust and clean and wash the floors and buy Rosy new clothes because she's growing like a weed. I know what size nappies she's currently in, I know what size onesies she wears. I pay all the muggle bills and manage both our magical and muggle bank accounts. I plan the budget. I fix the sink. I do the laundry. And I fold the laundry. I also do the dishes and change the lightbulbs and-"

Ron whispered something inaudibly.

"What- I'm sorry, what?"

"You-" he began a little louder, balling his fists with conviction. "You never told me you needed those things done."

"I never told you? I never told you?" Hermione's voice cracked. "Who the bloody hell do you think tells me, Ronald?"

Ron was silent.

oOo

"Something's bothering you, Granger." It wasn't a question.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek furiously and set her amber eyes to the sky. Was her body betraying her irritation or was it because Dream Flint was a product of her own mind and thus knew it all already?

Was he a product of her own mind?

Of course he is, don't be daft, Granger.

"I'm fine," she repeated.

"Listen," Marcus began. "I don't really give a fuck why you're in such a rotten mood, but you're bringing down the vibe of the whole clearing which, until recently, was pretty pleasant."

Hermione shot up, eyes narrow. "I'm bringing down the vibe of the whole clearing?" the witch huffed indignantly.

"Yea, that's literally exactly what I just said, I thought you were supposed to be a genius."

"Y'know what, I am a genius, you tosser."

"Oh, such foul language-"

"I am a genius, I'm brilliant in fact. Would you like to know my OWL scores? Outstandings all around. Brightest witch of my age, Flint, that's what I am." Normally Hermione wasn't prone to such braggadocious outbursts, but this was a dream world, who really cared?

"My whole time in the wizarding world you purebloods have been attempting to make me question my own worth and I'm sick of it. I don't need it here, in my dreams as well as-"

"I'm not a pureblood."

Hermione stopped mid tirade, arms frozen in the air as they had been gesticulating wildly. "What?"

"I'm not a pureblood," the wizard reiterated slowly from where he sat in the grass, looking at her with dark eyes.

Hermione raised one eyebrow. "The Flint's are Sacred Twenty-Eight."

Marcus reached his arms above his head, stretching. "My mum's mum is a muggle."

"You're maternal grandmother is a muggle?"

"That's what I just said."

"The Flint's are Sacred Twenty-Eight," Hermione repeated this time a bit slower.

"Are you daft, witch?" Marcus rolled his eyes. "Obviously I'm well aware."

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and straightened her back in just the way Harry would recognize immediately. Hermione was about to call someone out on their bullshite.

"Explain to me how you could be a half-blood if your father's family, the illustrious Flints, are Sacred Twenty-Eight."

"Well to begin with, Granger," Marcus sighed. "The Sacred Twenty-Eight was compiled what- eighty years ago? Plenty of time for a half blood or two to be born, you might have noticed the Weasley's are also Sacred Twenty-Eight but they've been marrying muggleborns and half-bloods for awhile now."

"That's different," Hermione huffed.

"How so?"

"The Weasley's are Gryffindors, they don't care about all that nonsense and prejudice anyway, unlike-" Hermione waved a hand at Marcus "Well, unlike Slytherins, we hold it in quite high esteem."

"There are no muggleborn Slytherins that I'm aware of, but we're not all purebloods."

Hermione, thinking of a certain hooked nose professor, had to concede that point. "That may be the case, but even so-"

"Your blood status was never my business, Granger," Marcus interrupted her suddenly, his expression almost tired.

The face Hermione was making must've clearly communicated her disbelief as one look at it and Marcus was scowling.

"Really?" Hermione asked.

"Really really."

"You certainly didn't mind when your housemates were calling me 'mudblood' and the like."

"Listen, it's also not my business what anyone else was or was not calling you, you were a Gryffindor and right bitch back at Hogwarts. Biggest swot the school has ever seen I'd reckon."

Fair point. However-

"But-"

"You might recall that I never said a word about your blood status."

Hermione closed her mouth, jaw snapping shut. She thought for a moment, flipping through the album in her mind labeled 'Shitty Hogwarts Memories' or 'Times My Blood Status Has Been Brought Up.'

Both were quite extensive.

However, what she discovered even after going back to re-analyze a few memories, was that he was correct: Marcus Flint had never commented on her blood status.

Her nose? Yes.

Her hair? Yes.

Being Harry Potter's best friend? Yes.

Being a swot? Yes.

But her blood status? No.

"You can't think of anything, can you?" Marcus was wearing the most smug expression it caused Hermione to audibly groan.

"Gods, no, I suppose you're right," the witch conceded. "I have no memories of you calling me a mudblood or even mentioning that I'm muggleborn. I do have a plethora of other unpleasant memories, however."

"Sure, I was an arse." Marcus nodded. "But none about blood status."

"None about blood status," Hermione agreed, looking at the Quidditch player with fresh eyes.

The better part of the last year had been a lesson on learning to see Draco Malfoy in a different light, someone who she once believed had hated her. Perhaps this was the lesson? Was she harboring so much animosity and prejudice towards Slytherins in general that she needed to work through it in her unconscious state?

Yes.

Yes that was it! That was the lesson.

"No, why are you smiling, Granger?" The look of concern on Marcus's face seemed quite out of place on his strong features, Hermione almost giggled at it. "Granger, why are you smiling?"

"I've figured it out," she informed him triumphantly.

"No," he moaned, massive head in his hands. "No, no, what've you figured out? Gods, no, don't tell me."

"Why I'm here! Why my brain conjured you!"

"Godsdamnit, you insane bint!"

"Excuse me," Hermione gasped, hand over her chest.

"I am REAL! I am the REAL Flint!"

"I know that's what you-"

"Fuck my life. Fuck. My. Life."