Chapter Eight
Hermione stretched, wondering in a cozy haze why she felt so comfortable—why she had so much space to stretch out—when last she remembered, she'd dozed off on the sofa. With Frigga in her arms.
Fearing she'd slipped onto the floor, and taken the baby down with her, she bolted upright as her eyes snapped open. Darting her gaze about her surroundings in a wild search for Frigga, Hermione found that she was no longer in the living room.
Awareness clicking into place immediately, she permitted herself to breathe and turned toward the cradle. There was Frigga, eyes gently shut, tiny plump lips pursed in sleep. Her chubby little hands were curled loosely into fists on either side of her angelic head.
A smile brightening her face, Hermione shifted across the bed, leaning over the top bar of the cradle. She reached in, tracing over one of those soft, tiny hands with delicate fingertips.
She knew there was only one explanation for their change in location. And that said explanation wasn't simply hovering in the room waiting for them to wake, or seated somewhere patiently examining more Muggle baby items he didn't quite comprehend, left her guessing he actually had managed to convince Draco to return. And that meant it was likely the two were occupied elsewhere in her flat attempting to learn how not to kill each other.
Of course, she wouldn't admit it aloud, and she winced simply thinking it, but given that his offspring was nearby, her money would be on Greyback in that particular confrontation.
Frigga's perfect skin felt so smooth and warm beneath the brush of Hermione's fingers. Looking into that slumbering little face, she whispered, "Don't worry. If either of them thinks they're going to separate you and me, they'll have my temper to deal with. And believe me, no one wants that."
Snickering breathlessly, she leaned in and dropped a gentle kiss on the baby's forehead, just beneath the cushy rim of that golden knit cap. The witch sat back, watching the baby snooze a moment longer before climbing out of bed and exiting the room.
The flat was quiet . . . . She took that for a bad sign.
Hermione crept across the floor on light footfalls. She honestly wasn't certain what she expected to find. Perhaps a body slumped in a corner as the other party stood idly trying to figure out what to do next? Maybe the two of them locked in a standoff? Whatever she thought she might see when she found them, the image that greeted her when she reached her kitchen did not resemble it in the slightest.
The males sat across from one another at her table, sipping coffee, in what felt like—if she could trust her own impression, and she wasn't certain she could anymore—comfortable silence. Or, at the very least, not strained, tense, or overly awkward silence.
"I'm almost afraid to ask what's going on in here," she said, trying for a light tone. Her voice sounded far too loud in the otherwise quiet kitchen.
Draco sighed, hanging his head a little before he answered, fully cognizant of Fenrir's gaze on him. "Mr. Greyback here was educating me on the realities of life both for, and with, werewolves. I have been . . . processing."
"Ah." Her attention darted from him to Fenrir, and back. The witch was at a loss for what else to say. "Is there more coffee?"
"Sure," Fenrir answered with a smirk. "Seems Malfoy brewed as deep a pot as he could." Tipping his head to one side, his eyes held Draco's still. "Can't imagine why he thought we'd need so much."
Just as she hadn't been sure what to say, she also wasn't quite sure what to make of that statement. Evidently, this held some private meaning, and though she was certain she could suss out what Draco Malfoy might be tempted to do with a container of scalding liquid around someone he considered an enemy, she deliberately chose not to think on it, simply going about the business of fixing herself a cup, instead.
Draco returned to staring into the depths of his mug. Greyback hadn't known that Hermione had not yet shared with him that she had werewolf blood—the very reason her bond with Frigga was so strong—and he hadn't the foggiest idea how he felt about not having to heard that very important factor from her lips rather than the Greyback's. Not important to him, not really, he told himself, but important with regard to her connection to the child.
And, much to Draco's discomfort, the child's father, whether she wanted to admit a connection there or not.
He couldn't decide how he felt because he could not be certain whether she hadn't told him because she'd chosen not to, or if she hadn't told him because he'd not permitted her the chance. Swirling the contents of his coffee mug with one hand, he frowned. There was always one way to make sure this situation didn't become any more . . . unsteady for him than it already was.
"I'll do it," Draco said, his tone strained.
Fenrir's brows shot up in question and Hermione pivoted to face the wizard and werewolf seated at her currently tiny-seeming kitchen table. "You'll do what?"
"Take you up on your idea." He shrugged, appearing mystified that she didn't understand what he was talking about. "I'll stay here with you while they're here."
She only stared at him. Her breath locked in her chest as she weighed his words. His expression. The awkward thickness of his voice as he said that. She was painfully aware of Fenrir cringing and doing his level best to hide his face behind his mug. At least one of them knew how to read a room.
Setting her jaw, she dropped her gaze to the floor as she considered how to answer. He could've phrased that any other way. He could've used words that didn't make the decision sound forced. He could've noticed how terribly tense that decision had just come out.
The way he'd made living with her, even temporarily, seem like it would be a chore for him. I'll stay here with you while they're here. The way it was achingly clear he was only considering it at all because of the current situation.
"If the idea of staying with me is so unpalatable, then perhaps you shouldn't bother."
Draco's brows shot up into his hair, clearly only now rethinking the manner in which he'd actually said it. "No, Granger, wait. You know that's not what I—"
"I know that we'd never before discussed taking this step before now. I know you had a fear in your eyes when I mentioned it the first time." She swallowed hard, lifting her head to meet his eyes. "I know that you love me, but that the only reason you're considering 'taking me up on my idea' is on account of how wildly uncomfortable you are with the idea of Fenrir staying here."
Now was Draco's turn to swallow hard. She referred to Greyback by his first name with such ease. As though they'd been in each other's lives in a civil fashion for so much longer than a few hours.
"I can't blame you for feeling that way," she went on, her expression souring as she shook her head, "even though it calls into question how much you actually trust me if you feel wolf-sitting warranted. But I don't want you here unless you actually want to be here. Not for the sake of keeping an eye on him, not because you're insecure about me. I don't want some scenario wherein you spend the next month suspicious and edgy and jealous, and then, as soon as it's over and we all know whether I'm a werewolf or not, you're just as quick to pack your bags."
Draco was suddenly very confused. "I . . . ." His eyebrows pinched together. "Are you saying you want me to move in, for good, when this is over?"
Her eyes went wide, confused herself at how he wasn't getting what she was saying. She drew a breath and let the air rush out through her nostrils. "I'm saying I want you to decide what it is you honestly want instead of acting on fear and precaution. Making a choice out of perceived threat or obligation is not fair to either of us. I'd like it if you chose to stay because you're worried for my safety, not because you're jealous. I'd like it if at the end of the month, we could sit down and discuss if continued cohabitation is the right thing for our relationship."
The wizard gnawed at his lower lip, conflicted. She didn't get that here he was wondering if they'd even still have a relationship at the end of the month, but he couldn't exactly say that, because that would simply lend into everything she just mentioned about his insecurities and envy and his true motivations for agreeing to stay.
That, and he wouldn't speak on such things with Fenrir Greyback sitting right bloody there.
His shoulders slumping, Draco stood from the table. "Tell me plainly what it is you want me to do."
Offering a small smile at his attempt to understand, she said, "I want you to take a little time with this. Make sure your choice is your choice, not your obligation or your worry. I think you and I deserve that much."
Whatever his response might've been, an unexpected knock at the door cut him off.
Hermione was not surprised to find both pairs of male gazes pinned on her in question. "Don't look at me. I've no idea who that could be."
In dual unspoken decisions, Fenrir retreated to the bedroom to check on Frigga, and Draco followed Hermione to the door. Maybe it was simply the building manager this time—as she'd thought it might be when Draco had shown up earlier than planned.
Opening the door—and completely aware of Draco tensing behind her before they knew who it was—Hermione's face lit up. "Mum!"
"Oh, I'm sorry for popping by unannounced," Dahlia said warmly as she bustled her way into the flat, setting down a few bags. "Hullo, Draco."
The young man nodded, clearing his throat. "Dr. Granger."
"Hope I'm not interrupting, I was just doing some shopping and thought I'd check if you needed anything."
Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance as she closed the door behind her mother. "Um, no, not . . . not quite . . . exactly. You, uh, could've phoned."
Dahlia's face broke into a mischievous grin. "All right, you got me. I just really wanted to see Elora! I—" She glanced toward the bags and dropped her voice to a giddy whisper. "I may've even gotten her a few things!"
The sound of Draco's palm connecting with his forehead was audible, though it didn't stop Hermione's heart from lightening, a smile playing on her lips. But then Mum's words echoed in her head, reminding her of the reality of Elora's situation. She'd told Fenrir that her mother had fallen in love with Frigga just as surely as she had, but she hadn't expected this spontaneous splurging.
Draco seemed on the same tack. Stepping around the Granger women, he decided if he was going to prove to Hermione he trusted her, he needed to start somewhere.
"I'll be back in a bit," he said, dropping a quick kiss on his girlfriend's forehead.
Her gaze darted toward the bedroom door and then returned to him. "You're sure?"
He nodded. Oh, he wasn't sure at all. And he absolutely wasn't sure about leaving the women alone with the werewolf in the other room, but even he could admit—very, very grudgingly—that Greyback was not the same man he remembered from the war. If he were, he'd never had chased down Draco to have a rational conversation with him an hour ago. "Yeah. I've . . . got some thinking to do."
Again her heart lightened. She knew it was a lot she was asking of him—patience, understanding, compassion—and that it wasn't too long ago that he'd stopped being 'so insufferably Malfoy-ish.' "Thank you."
Giving the ladies a nod, he slipped out the door.
Once they were alone, Dahlia pivoted on her heel to look at her daughter. "Do I sense some tension?"
Wincing, Hermione shrugged. "Well . . . a little, but we're working through it."
Dahlia picked up her bags. "C'mon. You can tell Mum all about it while I show you what I got for—"
"Okay, before you go any further, we need to talk. About . . . about the baby."
Her eyes narrowing a bit, Mum said, "All right," those two words slow and loaded with caution.
"Okay, here goes . . . ."
As Hermione guided her mother through the flat on measured, deliberately heavy footfalls so the werewolf would hear their approach before their hushed voices reached him. As they walked, she explained about Fenrir—well, not in great detail, nothing about his exceedingly dark & twisted past, more as a . . . fellow combatant in the war. She brought up Remus as a way of illustrating what the Greybacks were. Though Dahlia was surprised to learn the sweet little baby could be a werewolf, she took it pretty well, but then Mum had been the only person to whom she'd told the truth from the beginning. Hermione was glad for that, with the thoughts of mild-mannered Professor Lupin, about whom she'd heard so many stories, and adorable Frigga being the first things that came to mind when she thought of werewolves, there was more of a chance the Muggle woman wouldn't judge Fenrir Greyback for what he was.
Hermione braced herself as she knocked on the half-open door of her bedroom. She knew what Fenrir'd said about her and her mother's heritage and what it meant for their rapport with Frigga. If she could think of how to explain to Mum 'hey, guess what, we're part werewolf', she'd have done it already.
If she could think of how to explain about Fenrir needing to stay with her until the next full moon, she'd have done that, too.
"Why are you knocking in your own house?"
Hermione folded her lips inward on a laugh at Fenrir's confused question. From the corner of her eye, though, she noticed Mum's brows shoot upward at the mere sound of his voice.
"I don't really know," she answered as she eased open the door. "My mother is here, she brought some things for Frigga."
"Hullo," Fenrir said, smiling awkwardly and nodding. At any other time, Hermione might've burst out laughing at the image of someone of his stature, of his overall appearance, making that face.
"Hu—hullo." Dahlia seemed frozen on the spot.
Hermione realized how enormous and imposing Fenrir probably looked—in her bedroom, among her things. Glancing from Fenrir to Mum, and back, Hermione forced out the words, "Fenrir Greyback, Dahlia Granger."
Again, Fenrir nodded.
"I . . . ." Dahlia managed a gulp, her voice spilling out in a murmur, "I understand why Draco was tense."
Mum was . . . stuck, for lack of a better and less mortifying term. Hermione knew perfectly well how Fenrir Greyback appeared to anyone who didn't know his terrifying history. Like the absolute posterchild for the archetypical bad boy women were intended to go into tizzies over.
So, perhaps she had noticed what he looked like, herself. It hardly meant anything that she recognized the man had some unreasonably attractive qualities about him, she insisted quietly in her head.
Arching a brow, Fenrir met Hermione's gaze, aware of Dahlia attempting to collect herself. "We need to talk a moment."
Clearing her throat, Hermione gave a nod of her own, now. "Sure. Um, Mum?"
"Hmm?" Dahlia looked to her daughter.
"You'll be all right here with Frigga a moment?"
Turning her attention on the cradle, where the baby was just starting to stretch and wake, Dahlia smiled, completely separated from the strange moment instantly. "Of course. We can look at all the lovely new things I got her!"
Hermione exhaled a sigh of relief as she watched Mum take her bags over to the bed and settle herself beside the cradle. She immediately started speaking to Frigga in a cooing sing-song tone.
Fenrir's fingers slipping around her upper arm to tug her from the room gave off a warm, electric sensation that almost made her shiver. Hermione looked at his hand on her as he guided her through the door. His skin was on hers, unlike when they'd hugged while she'd been crying. Perhaps that was why she felt his touch so acutely just then.
"What is it?" she asked, giving herself a sobering shake as he relinquished his hold on her.
He glanced at the door, speaking in a low, rumbling pitch. "Your mother's reaction to me just now?"
"Yeah, was that because of, well, you know?"
Nodding, he exhaled. "That response was definitely instinctive. It's a bit . . . I didn't expect her to be so close to the source."
"What do you mean? Do I need to keep you two separate or something?"
He could hear the attempt at humor in her voice. Fenrir wished he could go along with her and simply chuckle, but he wasn't sure what it meant, actually. "No, um, she should get used to me over time easily enough. But her initial reaction . . . your mother is—and by extension you are—much closer to the wolf than I first thought."
Hermione felt like there was a jagged stone in the pit of her stomach suddenly. "What do you mean?" she said again.
His broad shoulders drooped as he considered how best to say it. "Your mother's only a human because of the fifty-fifty chance I mentioned."
That mention came back to her immediately—it was when she'd asked about Teddy Lupin. She couldn't seem to form the words, and Fenrir took the need of it off her shoulders.
"One of her parents was the werewolf in your family," he murmured, his amber eyes full of sympathy.
He didn't have to say anything further, she understood. The heavier the influence in her blood, the more likely it was that Frigga's bite would turn her after all.
She wouldn't say it, but now that she knew this, now that she'd seen how her grounded, logical, level-headed—still completely in love with Dad after so many years—mother had reacted to simply entering the same room as Fenrir Greyback for the first time, Hermione wondered if Draco's insecurities weren't as unfounded as she'd been telling herself.