A/N: This hasn't turned out to be quite the chapter I thought it would be, but I'm happy to report that my writing schedule is slowly shifting back to normal. Let us rejoice! I was in a slump for most of this week until I made a revelation, and now I'm very excited to be writing again. Yay!
As always, read, enjoy, and review! All readers have my sincerest thanks, but reviewers get EXTRA sincerest thanks. And doesn't everyone want EXTRA sincerest thanks?
ON TO:
Chapter Seventeen:
"Now, Mr. Grimpole," Mrs. Weasely said in the firm tone Hermione had heard her take so often with her own red-headed brood, "you may sit here and ask Hermione your questions, but you are not to badger her, do you hear me? For Merlin's sake, the girl has not eaten a proper English breakfast in ages, and I can only imagine what scraps Malfoy saw fit to throw to her."
It was a strangely comical scene that Hermione walked into that morning after a long night and little sleep. She had dropped off immediately the night before, but between the ghoul in the attic, her nightmares – which had made their triumphant return now that she was sleeping alone again – and her ceaselessly wandering mind, she awoke groggy and exhausted when the sun pierced her cosy room.
The scents of frying bacon, toast, eggs, and other wonderful food drifted up to her and brought her out of bed to find a tall, skinny man with a dour look sitting ramrod straight at the table. She hesitated before entering the kitchen; she had hoped that sympathy and concentration on other matters would delay this moment for a few more days to allow her time to perfect the approach she would take to this, what she assumed was an interview with one of the barristers working on Malfoy's prosecution.
But then, things never worked out the easiest possible way. Mrs. Weasely brightened at Hermione's entry and asked her how she had slept while laying out plates and dishes and silverware for breakfast. Hermione wondered who else was awake and at home. It was strange to see the breakfast table so empty, but perhaps the barrister's presence had repelled the usual crowd.
She considered telling the older woman about her nightmares and decided against it. That would mean explaining when and how they had started, and Hermione had already made up her mind to tell the world at large as little as possible about her time with Lucius. Perhaps she would visit with a Healer if the nightmares did not abate, but she certainly was not going to divulge in front of this attorney.
More than once while Mrs. Weasely was serving Hermione her breakfast, she noticed Mr. Grimpole open his mouth as if to begin the interview and snap it shut after a glare from the lady of the house. As weary, as nervous, and as generally uncomfortable as she was, Hermione had to smile when she saw that exchange.
But she could not prolong breakfast indefinitely, and when Hermione had slowed down to sipping a mug of tea, Mrs. Weasely gave a reluctant nod of acquiescence to the man's inquiring look. She did not leave, though, and instead stayed to wash dishes and organise the kitchen and, Hermione suspected, perform every task she could think of in order to stay and supervise the interview, though Mr. Grimpole probably could have requested that she leave at any minute.
She had expected that things would at least begin easily enough, but there too she was mistaken. The very first question Mr. Grimpole asked threw her for a loop, which she took as a bad omen for the rest of the interview.
"For the record, could you please state your name and occupation?" He was arranging his parchment and quill and odd little satchel and appeared more intent on rummaging through her belongings than on her answer. Because he was thus occupied, he did not see the slightly panicked look that flitted over Hermione's face. Oh God. Her name.
"It's… I might as well tell you now," she said with a sigh.
Mr. Grimpole looked up from his notes wearing such a puzzled expression that Hermione wanted to laugh. His skeletally thin hands stopped whatever they had been doing mid-air, and he tilted his head at her.
"I'm glad that to hear that you've decided to cooperate," he began slowly, "but you really must state your name. For the record. Then we can move on to whatever it is you might as well share." His quill hung expectantly above a thick roll of parchment, every bit as pale and narrow as the man to whom it belonged.
"That's just it. My name… it's complicated." She doubted that married women were actually required to take their husband's name, not anymore, but this was as good a time as any to break the news. "You see, while we were… away, I was…" It was even harder to say than she had imagined it to be.
Mrs. Weasely was absently rubbing a towel over a plate long since dry and pretending not to listen. Hermione took a deep breath. "I was married to Mr. Malfoy."
The plate dropped, repaired an instant later with a charm. The quill began scribbling furiously. Mr. Grimpole's pale eyes bugged out, and his mouth hung open. He clamped his jaw shut and lowered his eyes to his notes, and Hermione could hear him taking a few calming breaths. When he returned his gaze to her, he looked only slightly less astounded.
"Married! But why? How? By whom were you two wed? Under whose authority?" His voice rose as he spoke until it squeaked at the end.
"Please, Mr. Grimpole…" Mrs. Weasely called out in a reproving tone.
Though the other woman was turned around, Hermione cast a grateful smile at her back.
"Yes, of course, I apologise for my outburst." To her surprise, the man really did sound regretful, though she wondered if he were sorrier at the loss of his professional demeanour than at the possibility that he had upset her. "Let us continue."
Hermione sat with her hands demurely folded, waiting for his next questions, but they did not come right away. The barrister sorted through his papers and his lips moved soundlessly as he organised his thoughts. She wondered how long she would be waiting at this table and how long Mrs. Weasely could continue to invent tasks for herself in the kitchen.
Finally, Mr. Grimpole was ready to proceed. "Very well, Miss… Mrs. Malfoy." He said the last two words slowly in a tone of complete disbelief and no little revulsion. It occurred to Hermione to wonder whether Mr. Grimpole were Muggle-born, like herself.
"Please," she interrupted, "Call me…" She hesitated. "Ms. Granger." Certain as she was that the wizarding world had not taken to that title as strongly as the Muggle world had, she decided then and there that they would just have to get used to it. It would be technically inaccurate to call herself 'Miss' anything, but she had resolved not to use the Malfoy name.
"Yes, of course," he replied and her guess that he might be Muggle born was reinforced by his lack of surprise at the term. "Ms. Granger… how did the marriage between you and Mr. Malfoy come to pass?"
"We were married in Muggle Paris. He could hardly take me to a wizard magistrate." She knew this was not what he had been asking, though it would help him to verify the legality of the marriage. Muggle marriage might not be en vogue in the wizarding world, but they were binding. So binding that purebloods who married Muggles were often disowned by their families.
"I… What I meant to ask is whether you were married of your own free will or whether you were somehow compelled or threatened, magically or otherwise."
Hermione dropped her eyes to her hands and reached out to take a sip of tea before replying. "I can't say."
Mr. Grimpole blinked at this and peered at her with his head tilted. "Can't say? Are you saying that you unable to answer my question or merely unwilling?"
"I can't say."
"Hmm." Silence fell once more as his quill dashed over the parchment. He nodded to himself and mumbled some more before returning his attention to Hermione. "Do you have any idea why Mr. Malfoy should choose to marry you? Are you at least able to answer that question?"
She nodded. "I believe he did so in order that I would be prevented from testifying at his upcoming trial." That it had been her idea, she did not think prudent to add.
"Of course." At this, Mr. Grimpole looked positively despondent. Doubtless he had envisioned bringing Hermione on the stand amid tears and lurid descriptions of torture at the hands of the vicious Death Eater. Still, she reasoned, he and the rest of the prosecuting team and the Daily Prophet would be able to wring quite a lot of the fact that he had married her presumably to keep her quiet. What exactly had he done during that time, they would speculate, that made him so desperate for her silence that he would soil himself and his name by marrying a Mudblood?
"Ms. Granger, I must apologise for taking up your time on what may be a fruitless quest. I must return to my office and conduct some research on the question of spousal immunity, but it seems likely that I shall not have reason to return to speak with you again. If you can think of any way you may be able to help us, please do not hesitate to owl me immediately." He started to pack his things into his satchel and paused as something else occurred to him. "If you wish to attend the trial, owl my office. The trials are not open to the public, you understand, but you are… intimately connected to the case."
"Thank you," she said, "but I don't think I will take you up on that."
He looked crestfallen again for a moment, and Hermione realised that he must have been envisioning what a sympathetic sight she would make at the trial, pale but dignified, seeking justice for the man who had perpetuated unthinkable horrors on her. Hmph. Maybe he truly did believe he was working for justice here, but she would not participate in the farce.
She stayed at the table while Mrs. Weasely, who just happened to finish the dishes at that moment, showed Mr. Grimpole to the door. When she returned, Hermione sighed deeply and laid her head on the table on crossed arms. Mrs. Weasely hurried over to sit beside her and set a friendly hand on her shoulder. To Hermione's relief, she did not feel the need to say anything reassuring. What could she have said, after all?
Hermione thought she might cry, but her eyes remained dry. She stayed in that position until she heard footsteps near the kitchen and straightened in her chair as Mrs. Weasely stood and returned to her station in the kitchen. Ron and Harry had barely sat down before they started reaching for the food and piling it on their plates.
"Morning, Hermione," Harry said, poised over his plate reaching for a stack of sausages.
"Morning," Ron echoed through a half-chewed roll.
Mrs. Weasely looked horrified and scolded the pair of them, but Hermione just smiled. It was nice to know that battles with Death Eaters and daring rescues did not upset certain fundamental things, like the appetites of those two in the morning.
"Good morning," she replied. "Try not to choke, Ron."
Somewhat admonished by Mrs. Weasely, the pair slowed their frenetic pace and really looked at Hermione for the first time this morning.
"How are you feeling?" Harry asked. "You don't look… I mean… are you sleeping all right?"
Apparently he had acquired some little tact while she was away. Someone, she guessed Ginny Weasely, had taught him that it is not done to tell someone that she looked terrible in the morning.
"I… I was comfortable, yes. Er, I've been having…" She wilted a little under Mrs. Weasely's suddenly interested gaze. "… a little trouble sleeping for awhile now."
"If you want to talk to someone," Mrs. Weasely said to Hermione as she filled some of the depleted dishes, "I can give you the address of a friend of mine. She's good for talking about things… maybe things you don't want to share with anyone else." She smiled warmly at Hermione before redirecting her attention to re-stacking pancakes.
"Mum, did I hear someone else here just now?" Ron asked, this time without a mouth full of masticated bread.
Mrs. Weasely shot a quick look at Hermione, who nodded. The exchange was not lost on either of the young men, who temporarily lost interest in their food and locked their eyes on Hermione.
"It was an attorney," she explained. "He wanted to ask me about Mr. Malfoy and the trial and how I could… contribute."
"And? You didn't tell him you weren't going to be able to testify, did you?"
Hermione raised an eyebrow at Ron, who reddened a little but did not look away. "What I did or did not tell him is hardly your business." She did not exactly why she was acting so coolly toward him on this point but justified her reticence by reminding herself that she would have to get used to refusing to answer people's insistent questions.
"Listen," she said in a softer tone, "there are some things I have to tell you, but I can't, not yet."
And to prove that he wasn't such a bad guy, because he really wasn't, Ron extended a hand across the table, which Hermione took with a smile. She squeezed his hand.
"We'll be here," he said quietly. "No matter what. Right, Harry?"
Ron, Hermione thought, would never fail to astound her. If only he could be understanding and supportive like this all the time, maybe she would not have… Delete that thought. They had tried that road and most emphatically turned off it again.
"Whatever it is, we'll still be your friends," Harry affirmed.
Hermione took her hand back and gazed at her friends. She wondered if they would still be smiling when she finally did screw up the courage to tell them about Lucius. Her husband.
No one else was home that day; Hermione could not have said what day of the week it was but apparently not the weekend. Harry and Ron left after their breakfast, and Mr. Weasely had left while she had still been sleeping. Ginny, she learned, was finishing her residency at St. Mungo's and would not be home for another week or so.
Hermione would have liked to return to her own work as the Ministry's Director of Research, a position she had lobbied to create in order to coordinate all the Ministry's research efforts, mostly concerning the War, scattered across the various libraries and schools. It was not something she hoped to work at for the rest of her life, but it was certainly… educational. She did have time to read, but she had learned more about bureaucracy and the often informal way business was conducted at the Ministry, over lunch and during elite fêtes she had never been invited to attend.
But she received an owl that very morning from her supervisor forbidding her to come into work for a couple of days or even a week if she wanted. Annoying as that was, she could understand how sympathy for her ordeal might combine with a reluctance to have journalists and owls burdened with get-well wishes to come flooding the Ministry corridors. By the time her marriage became public knowledge – and it would – many of those get-well wishes would become hate mail and Howlers.
Mrs. Weasely gossiped about people Hermione knew, who was dating whom and which feuds had blown up again and who was in line for which promotion, and avoided the topic of her abduction, even though Hermione could tell the woman was dying to hear about it. It was therapeutic, the idle conversation and the responses Hermione made automatically. She was not quite ready to return to her own home, a little house she rented near Brighton, so together they worked on those little maintenances large, rambling, falling-over magical houses (and other sorts) required. Individually little things but somehow there was always one more that needed to be repaired or corrected or cleaned.
Just as they were sitting down to a quick cup of tea late that afternoon, a knock sounded on the front door. Mrs. Weasely ordered Hermione to stay where she was and returned, wearing an uncharacteristically grim expression with Rita Skeeter in tow. Hermione wanted to put her head in her hands again, but instead she smiled at the reporter and asked after her health. Or rather, she opened her mouth to ask after her health when Rita interrupted by rattling off instructions for Mrs. Weasely about how she liked her tea – lemon, tiny dash of honey, generous splash of whatever spirits she had.
Hermione raised her eyebrows at that last instruction. She had never heard it was good etiquette to request whisky in one's tea, especially before dinner.
"Very hard day, my dear, simply exhausting. It's gruelling work, but I am a slave to the public. Unlike some people, I can't sit around drinking tea and staring out the window all day, can I?"
Mrs. Weasely made a choking noise, and Hermione gave Rita a sharp look.
"Now, now, I mean no offence, young lady. Merlin forbid I get on your bad side again." For an instant, Rita actually looked nervous, but her brash chatter took over again before Hermione could decide whether she had actually seen that twitch. "That is, Wizarding Britain is overjoyed to hear that a team of Aurors were able to rescue you from your imprisonment, yes, quite a boost for morale."
As she spoke, Rita scrounged around in a new handbag, this one fashioned of what looked like alligator skin except striped with virulent pink and green. She withdrew a roll of parchment, not unlike Mr. Grimpole's, and her Quik Quotes quill, very different from the attorney's restrained grey-and-black model. She adjusted her glasses and leaned across the table with wide eyes. The quill leapt and scurried across the page with big loopy flourishes Hermione tried not to read.
"Now, tell me everything. The people want to know, they must know what horrific crimes Mr. Malfoy committed while he held you captive." Hermione could see that the reporter was trying to convey sympathy, but she resembled nothing if not an eager feline waiting to pounce. Her lips kept curving in a predatory smile, which she immediately tamped down.
"Did he hurt you in any way? Did he engage in… unspeakable acts?"
When Hermione showed no inclination to answer, the woman leaned back a little and barked a question about her tea. Mrs. Weasely took her time but finally did set down a chipped cup at the reporter's elbow.
"Come, Miss Granger, we're going to hear all about it at Malfoy's trial, after all. You must want the people on your side before then. Surely a smart girl like you can see how important public opinion is at a time like this. If you don't tell them anything, they'll start to suspect that perhaps your captivity wasn't all some people are making it out to be. Why, it's even possible that people will start to whisper that Malfoy wasn't the one who did the abducting… that you two were in league the whole time."
Her voice dropped as she continued. "It's surprising that you look so well, Miss Granger. No bruises, perhaps a bit of a mark around your throat and bags under your eyes, and you are rather pale, but you look almost too healthy for someone who had been in the grip of a ruthless Death Eater for so long."
Hermione remained silent. Let the woman vent as long as she liked and write whatever she chose. She had endured Rita's diatribes before and the resulting hate mail. She could do it again.
Rita edged her chair closer to the table and cast a watchful glance at the bustling Mrs. Weasely before lowering her voice to a whisper. "Or perhaps we will not hear everything at the trial. I went to visit your new friend Grimpole today, young lady, and he did not seem nearly as happy as I would have expected. Hadn't he just come away with an especially moving testimony from a beloved… semi-public figure? He refused to answer, of course, but his secretary and I are on very good terms, and she let it slip over lunch that he had got nothing from you. Nothing useful, at least. A single foot of parchment's worth of notes.
"Of course she could not divulge the contents of that single foot, but she could say, because it would become public knowledge in a matter of days, that you would not be testifying at Malfoy's trial. The Wizengamot can order just about anyone to testify; I thought it very odd that you should be exempt from the law on this matter."
Oh damn. Oh bollocks. Oh bloody hell. Her marriage was going to be front page news in tomorrow's edition of the Daily Prophet. She either had to think of some way to shut Rita up, shut her up fast, or resign herself right now to the very bad publicity she would have very soon. She could not even complain to Mr. Grimpole, who would certainly fire his loose-lipped secretary and who would then be set up as a martyr to the people's right to know.
"I've spent all afternoon wondering how this was possible, and then I got in touch with some of my Muggle contacts. I had a suspicion, you see, and they were able to confirm it in just a few minutes."
Of course they were. Marriages, even shady marriages which had transpired with a hefty bribe and without the necessary paperwork, were a matter of public record. She would not have been surprised if such information were available over the internet in some fashion.
"So you have two options, Miss Granger… or should I say, Mrs. Malfoy." An unpleasant grin spread across the reporter's face. "You can tell me the story you know I'm looking for, or you can look forward to tomorrow's headline."
