That evening, Hermione returned home at 6:27pm still.
Though tonight, no pit stop for Argentinian merlot — did her father still even remember that red? Did he even still prefer wine to ale or whiskey?
The little triangular park was empty. It had rained and the play equipment was damp with the chilling air.
Reason made itself scarce just then and she found herself gingerly setting down her briefcase beside the swing set and lowering herself into one. The thick rubber pinched her thighs and the gnarled chain was cold and slick where she gripped it and leaned her check against it.
Envious. There was that sensation again. The sensation of wishing for what others had. Particularly just then, what children had. What others let themselves have because they could, because they wanted to, because they didn't give themselves arbitrary limitations.
Hermione toed the worn rubber composite turf beneath her, allowing just the slightest sway of the swing. It was immediately unsettling to be pushed past her typical patterns of stability, and she already chided herself for how it might look through the curtains of a neighbor's home — a busy lawyer (as they knew her) having a little swing in the rain. Her heart and stomach felt as if they had lost their footing; the slight motion was jarring. And there was that tap tapping again.
Fear.
Time and salves had long healed the scars that Bellatrix had carved into her arm, but they were seared into her self-concept.
Mudblood.
A stiff upper lip and career in humanitarian service only do so much to unwind deep-seated doubt that maybe some truth were there. Reason and righteousness would shoo away those thoughts if they ever crept in, and that spared Hermione much grief.
Would the Wizengamot really permit parole? She mentally reviewed their past precedent and while parole was not unheard of, it was granted for more minor and non-violent offenses. The Ministry's position was still no tolerance when it came to unforgivable curses, and Merlin only knew how many of those Bellatrix spat in service of the Dark Lord. Still, the post-war social regeneration efforts that Hermione personally had a hand in formulating had leaned heavily toward the reintegration of former Voldemort followers. They had also been wildly successful; Hermione would think it only once that she wished it hadn't been. It would not be against the progress they'd been building to offer Bellatrix such clemency.
But that was really for the ones who'd been manipulated or coerced under threat of death. Certainly not for such an infamous sadist.
Public outrage would undoubtedly veer the Wizengamot away from this risky (an understatement) entertainment.
A more disturbing thought then crossed her mind: Or would the public see this as a closure in which the loose ends of bad people get tied up as good once more? Could it be that all the progress in recent years really had built the trust, as intended, but perhaps to a fault?
This mental exercise of proofless prediction did little to assuage her rolling dread. She was going about it all wrong. She knew that it would bring her nowhere and not affect an outcome, at least not at this moment. She needed a distraction, the company of loved ones, and something menial to occupy her mind instead. And she knew just where to look for that.
Ron looked up from what he was reading when Hermione entered their home precisely on her scheduled mark.
"You're back."
"Hi hon," she called from the doorway where she unzipped her boots and let her damp coat fall from her shoulders. The water on them sizzled off with a wisp of steam and they scuttled away.
Ron put down his copy of the Prophet and made a big show of stretching, reaching his hands up and arching over the back of the grey leather sofa. They had hired a Muggle interior decorator, for convenience sake, and apparently "concrete" was her inspiration source.
"How was your day?" He finally got up to wrap her in his warm arms and plant a kiss on her shoulder.
"Oh, the usual."
She slipped out and with a flick of her wand the kitchen sprung to life in their choreographed preparation of a meal. She leaned against the counter.
"Anything interesting in the Prophet?" she ventured with a mask of nonchalance.
"Ugh, yes," he slumped into one of the bar stools around the kitchen island.
"Oh?" Here it was, they'd have to talk about it.
"The Cannons are merging with the Flames. In the heights of a ten year winning streak. I mean, what numbskull made that piss-poor decision?"
... or not.
"Yeah, that doesn't seem like a wise call, does it?"
"They have the best offensive stack they ever had, why muss that up?"
"Right."
"And I know Gorgovitch is getting old but he confirmed last year he would play at least three more seasons. At least wait until then!"
At this point he was just airing his frustration, not really seeking her opinion.
"Ron —"
"Oh, and of all teams to merge with, might as well just bend over and spread 'em — "
"Ron!"
"Sorry, sorry!" He held up his palms. "Not a sports gal, I know."
"Well, anything else notable?" She prodded.
He just shrugged. "The usual. Politics."
Maybe he hadn't read that part yet. The part where the Voldemort's favorite lackey had vandalized Hermione's body with a knife with the worst slur one could call her might get released for "good behavior." Hermione dropped the topic; he was clearly not picking up what she was putting down and to be honest she didn't know how she should react anyways or whether she had it in her to be comforted even if she wanted him to.
"You still up for meeting Harry and Ginny at the Leaky Cauldron tonight?" Ron dipped his pinky into the romanesco being ground in the mortar.
"Of course, yeah. Let's eat first and I need to change."
"Make it quick," was all she got before the fell into silent routine.
By the time they Apparated into an alley near the Leaky Cauldron, it was late. But this was their childless-adults-in-relationships-with-jobs-who-make-time-for-their-friends weekly get together.
Harry and Ginny were already at their corner table when Hermione and Ron pushed through the always heavy and dusty front door into the dank pub.
"Harry, mate!" Ron enthusiastically clapped Harry on the back as they slid onto bench. Then his tone became somber. "I saw the piece in the Prophet. How are you?"
Hermione felt immediately sick and it must have shown on her face because Ginny caught her eye and her lips flattened in a silent grimace of solidarity.
So he had seen the article. He had seen it and knew what it meant. Yet it didn't cross his mind to address it with her, his wife, someone directly harmed by Bellatrix. Harry had lost Sirius and Dobby, and Hermione's heart ached for his — their, they had been friends too — loss. Hermione had survived, maybe too well by the looks of her husband's complete memory loss of her own Bellatrix trauma.
She stood.
"I'm getting us a round," she mumbled as she headed away, not caring whether anyone heard her.
When she returned with four tankards of Butterbeer and a refreshed smile on her face, the conversation had moved on and she was relieved. She would talk to Harry later and privately about the parole hearing. They were now discussing the recent Auror raid of an unlicensed medical potion distribution operation.
She slid her friends their beers. Ginny hesitated to take hers.
Hermione knew that behavior on a subtle yet intimate level.
"Ginny!" She blurted, then clamped a hand over her mouth as Ron and Harry were yanked from their conversation and the table beside them started. The Leaky Cauldron may be a pub but it was more the murmuring type, not raucous.
Ginny smiled sheepishly, color painting her cheeks and Harry placed a hand over the one gripping the tankard. An air of pride washed over him and he lifted his chin, a grin overtaking him.
"Yeah," Ginny confirmed. "I found out last week while Harry was away, gave me a bit of a shock initially, but I wanted to tell him first. And of course we weren't going to keep it from you!"
"Found out what?" Ron looked between them all.
"Oh come on, Ronald. They've been married for years now." Hermione nudged him, teasingly, and a bit snidely.
"Found out what?" Ron repeated.
The all just smiled lovingly at him, as if amused by a child's innocent question.
"What?"
"Ginny's pregnant!" Harry burst out, clearly unable to suppress his excitement.
The color drained from Ron's face and his hands that he been resting on the table curled into fists.
Then he punched Harry in the shoulder and this wasn't one of those punches shared between best mates.
"Ow! Ron, what —"
"MY SISTER?" Ron bellowed. "Potter, I swore once before if you laid hands on her I'd bludger you —"
"Ron, Ron!" Hermione's gentle hand on her husbands arm did very little to tame him. He untangled himself from his spot on the bench.
"My bloody sister?!" Ron hiss-spat next to Harry's ear before storming out the front door to the Cauldron.
There was silence between them all as they each processed what had just happened. Bill and Fleur's pregnancy announcement almost seven years ago had turned Ron's face beet red and he had tripped over his words as he gave Fleur a hovering hug. This was quite the opposite.
"I'm so sorry, Ginny. Harry." Hermione was the first to break it with a pleading tone and immediately torn whether she should chase after Ron or stay put to repair what he'd smashed with his friends. "I think he's just shocked and, er, reverting? I'll talk to him, of course."
"You don't have to apologize for him, Mione." Ginny replied. When it came to her brother's lack of impulse control, Ginny had little sympathy."Ron is Ron. I know he will come around, he always did before. I guess he's still upset about —" She cut herself off by her own censor and a visibly sharp squeeze of her hand by Harry.
"I'm happy for you." Hermione assured them, and herself. "Really, I am. You'll both be amazing parents."
Ginny and Harry shared a warm look between them, clearly in the early glow of impending parenthood before a chaotic reality would set in. Hermione admired that in them, among other relationship dynamics they shared. But she also felt that hollow pit deep within her grow a little so she offered some final words of congratulations and an unrestricted offer of pre- and post-natal assistance, then excused herself to go find Ron.
He was brooding at a Muggle bus stop down the road, but seemed to have his wits back. Hermione knew Ginny had been about to let slip what was indeed the truth. Ron had never quite gotten over it, and she wasn't referring to Ginny and Harry's relationship that was now a decade old.
Hermione sank onto the sheltered bench beside him, and slipped her arm around his back. She rested her cheek on his shoulder and they just sat.
London proper had also received rain, and the slicking sound of cars on asphalt filled the space between them for a span of moments.
It was Ron who spoke first.
"I'm sorry, Mione. I made a right ass of myself, didn't I?"
"You did, but it's ok. Harry and Ginny understand."
"I know they do. Do you?"
Hermione signed. "I do."
Those two words supplemented the months of unspoken grief and hope and bargaining and blame that had consumed all they had left and left them with this numb ache in its place. They no longer spoke it aloud but it tainted their every interaction, wedged itself between the easy closeness that had grown from friendship into romantic love, and clipped their intimacy. It had also frozen them in place, unable — or unwilling — to progress beyond this state of having slowly given up. It hadn't eliminated their love, but it had definitely changed it. Hermione was willing to admit that.
"C'mon. Let's get us home."
In her dream she was holding a sleeping baby. It had bright red hair but Hermione knew — could feel — it wasn't her own.
She wanted to roll her eyes at the layer of her subconscious that initiated her dreams. A dream about babies after a pregnancy announcement. How expected.
She wasn't sitting in a pristinely decorated nursery in a rocking chair where one might expect to be holding an infant. She was instead in a glass box perched on a wooden stool. It was hazily dark outside the box.
Thud.
She spun around to the source of the sound, pulling the baby further into her chest.
A nude body was throwing itself against the glass.
Thud.
Another one, on the other side. It's skin was coated in a sheen of moisture that glistened in the dim like oil. It's face was cracked open in elation, ecstasy. It was a stark contrast to the erratic and self-damaging act of hurling against the glass panes.
Thud.
More and more of these figures began emerging from the shadows and launching themselves at her, or most likely this baby.
They were trying to get in. The bodies had no minds, just actions, and they clawed at one another, ripping each other back only to bash themselves against what was proving to be an impenetrable barrier.
It was a violent frenzy of flesh.
Hermione spun left and right, tracking the growing clammer and clutching the still-sleeping infant.
Surely the pounding would wake it soon. And if they broke in...
She loathed to think what would happen.
The baby stirred and stretched it arms up over its head, breaking free of its swaddle.
Hermione rocked it gently and hushed it, though it was perfectly calm and mute.
Its eyes then pinched open and Hermione's blood froze in her veins.
They were pits of black.
And all of a sudden the frenzy stilled completely. Bodies piled upon one another and all wild eyes locked on the pair at the center of the box.
They had been... tamed.
A baby's chortle chased her as she wrenched herself from the dream, gasping in horror.
Ron was sleeping deeply beside her, letting out soft snores periodically as she tried to shake the dark eyes from her mind. It was unlike Hermione to dream, and now two nights in a row she had been woken by vivid and disturbing images that felt too real. If she wasn't careful, dreams like those could knit their way into her sense of reality. Yes, they had been odd, but familiar in the residue they left behind.
She couldn't fall back to sleep, again.
This had to be a once (twice now, she supposed) anomaly, she figured as she slipped out of bed and threw on a long cardigan. She was simply shaken by the varied news of the past day. It would pass and resolve itself so she could get back to maintaining her life.
Maintaining, her self-editing mind echoed.
She crept down the hall, past closed doors to extra rooms she had no use for any longer.
Downstairs, she stood aimlessly in the sitting room, unsure how to just be in her own house she called but didn't believe was a true home. The last time she'd known home, Godric, that could be as far back as Hogwarts, or childhood home. The warmth of her nostalgia was interrupted by a soft yowl and a warm orange mat of fur weaving between her ankles.
She knelt to pet her familiar and Crookshanks took that opportunity to leap into her arms, causing her to stumble and sit back on the sofa.
It was only then, scratching absent circles over her cat's head, that some of the tension she'd been holding in her shoulders and between her ribs began to run off, and that was a sobering thought to permit.
A/N: a bit of canon divergence though my goal is to only alter the final chapter of deathly hallows... In the original Molly Weasley kills Bellatrix. In this AU she is spared and incarcerated. More on that in future chapters.