Unsurprisingly, Hermione slept poorly that night. She had stepped into a situation far more complex than expected and it had her brilliant mind scrambling to piece together a preliminary understanding of the dynamic that she had unwittingly and unwillingly been brought into. Minerva—there was clearly something going on with her, but it seemed more like frustration with her circumstances; more lack of patience than bona-fide insanity. If it could be diagnosed, the conclusion would be too much strength, a hardened and brittle psyche, rather than fragility and underdevelopment.
Then there was her husband, who she was beginning to like less and less, for some reason. Edward was ignorant, Hermione had decided. And not just ignorant of muggle literature. His primary concern was undoubtedly to get things "back to normal" – his son John was not so different in that respect—and did not seem to care about why things had gone so awry, that is, that he may have some role in the disintegration of his perfect little family. Alas, the man was completely oblivious to the possibility that Minerva's "episode" was in fact a reaction to some greater dysfunction. And Edward had placed the responsibility of "getting well" on her and her alone, without changing the things that had made her go off. However, Hermione did not know what Minerva had done to end up in St. Mungo's, so perhaps his obsession with normality was a result of trauma…as was her own intense longing to 'be normal.'
She highly doubted it, though. And it was amid these whirling thoughts and the sound of the wind that Hermione tried to fall asleep.
The next morning—a Monday—marked the first day of Hermione's "trial period," in which she would be doing everything that would be required of her once Edward had returned to his ministry job. The boys had quidditch lessons that day, which meant multiple modes of transport. The first leg was a drive from the house into muggle Caithness. After parking the car, they would ask to "use the phone" at Morag's Cafe, which really meant using her floo to wizarding Inverness, where they would walk to the Quidditch field. "Straightforward enough," Edward had joked when he had explained it to her. There was something that Hermione didn't like about leaving Minerva alone with Edward, then again, he may take the time off for his own leisure.
Minerva, as expected, did not come for breakfast. However, she watched from the window as Hermione loaded the boys into the car and waved goodbye to Edward. As if she sensed Minerva's eyes, Hermione glanced up for a moment hoping to catch a glimpse of the somewhat volatile enigma of a witch before leaving for town.
The drive into town was fairly dull, thankfully. Hermione was an inexperienced driver, but the highway was clear and straight—they were indeed in the middle of nowhere, or fucking eckwelt as Minerva had so eloquently put it that first day—and she managed it without incident. Parking was another story; Hermione ended up using her wand to levitate the car into place once she was sure that no one was looking.
Morag's Café was more restaurant than coffee joint. All sorts of tasty smells—eggs, sausage, and buttery toast—wafted past their noses as a lean woman with a long, straight nose, high cheekbones, and kind eyes that tilted slightly upwards. She gave the boys a warm "Mornin' lads!" as she filled a patron's mug of coffee.
"Mornin, Miss Morag," the boys replied in unison.
Morag then took notice of Hermione and made her way over, still holding the pot of coffee and picking up a couple of plates while she was at it. "You must be Minerva's lass, Edward mentioned that you'd be coming." There was an awkward pause as Hermione, taken aback by Morag's energetic greeting, suddenly forgot what it was she needed to say in order to get to the floo. "I take it you're here to use the phone then?" Hermione nodded and Morag matter-of-factly corralled the three of them to a "storage room" where the fireplace was located.
"From now on, just give me a wee wave and head right back here, no need for formalities," Morag [said], as pushed a small tin into Hermione's palm, then rushed off. []
"Can I do it?" Johnny asked, looking up at Hermione hopefully. She opened the tin and held it out for him to sprinkle into the fire. "The Brazen Puffin," Hermione looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "What?! That's the name of one of the taverns."
"We are not flooing to a tavern, Johnny," she softened, "…even if it is called the 'Brazen Puffin'."
"Ugh, fine." He scoffed, and Hermione swallowed a chuckle. She watched him with a gaze that she thought was authoritative as he picked up another sprinkle and drawled with clear displeasure, "Inverness Floo Station."
"Thank you, John." Hermione replied in that specific sardonic tone frequently used with disobedient children.
They stepped out of one in a row of six fireplaces at the "Floo Station" (Hermione had never seen one before). And Hermione brushed the ashes off herself and the boys. "The field is that way," Johnny declared smugly, in that way pre-adolescent boys are wont to do when they demonstrate their 'superior knowledge.'
"Alright, then lead the way," Hermione replied, allowing Johnny to continue thinking so terribly highly of himself. Ian kept close to his brother, while Hermione followed a few steps behind, smiling absently at the siblings—angsty Johnny and his adoring younger brother, Ian. As the cobblestones gave way to a dirt path, Hermione got the sense that Johnny wanted to be rid of her, in that proud and easily embarrassed way that begins in pre-adolescence. "Where do you want me to meet you after practice?"
"We normally go to meet mum-" Ian piped up.
"Can we get ice cream after?" Johnny quickly added.
Hermione dodged the question and attempted to steer them back on topic, "Where do you meet her?"
"The bar." Johnny, having none of it, replied matter-of-factly and not without judgement. "Can we get ice cream after or not?" Ah, back to the matter of true importance—at least to a nine-year-old boy. Hermione gave the boys a cryptic smile, which they took as an affirmative, and eagerly ran off to begin their day on the pitch.
As Hermione turned back towards the village, she was intercepted by a self-important looking witch flanked by another slightly less self-important looking witch. Both were wearing visibly expensive summer robes and decadent strings of pearls. "You must be the girl that Edward McGonagall just hired," the self-important looking witch cooed in an overly sweet tone that carried a bitter aftertaste, like tea that has been left out for too long and its resulting bitterness has been overcompensated by too much sugar, leaving it somehow bitter and sickly sweet—and utterly tasteless.
Hermione gave a small nod. "Hermione, Hermione Granger. Pleasure to meet you." She held out a hand that neither of them deigned to take.
"Florence, Florence Nott. The pleasure is all mine," the self-important witch replied. One of the sacred twenty-eight, Hermione mused, and suddenly felt worse than naked in her muggle clothing. "Well, how is she?" the self-important witch asked. Hermione assumed she was referring to Minerva.
"Very well, thank you." Hermione replied defensively.
With a tone of false sympathy and a look of patronizing pity, the self-important witch, ahem, Florence replied, "You must have your work cut out for you this summer, after all, looking after the boys and their mother…" She gave a disappointed hum.
"Poor thing," the slightly less self-important witch chimed in, who was clutching her pearls melodramatically.
"Oh, it was inevitable, truly was," the self-important witch continued.
"Sad, so very sad," the less self-important witch again chimed in.
Turning again to Hermione, Florence continued to address her with condescending mock concern, clearly seeking some sort of gossip fodder from Hermione, "Well, the boys are just darling and we're just concerned about how they'll be affected by all this." Hermione's mouth thinned to a tight line, betraying her irritation.
"The boys will be fine" she responded brusquely. Even if she was unsure deep down, now was not the time to show it.
"You should really go and meet the other mother's helpers," Florence continued to self-importantly coo. Hermione looked over the woman's shoulder and saw a group of girls, all within 17-19 years old by Hermione's estimation. "Our Gabrielle attends Beauxbatons and Penelope is going into her seventh year, but you seem a bit old for Hogwarts," she gave a shallow laugh and the slightly less self-important woman joined in. Ah, the bragging and subtle insults. Great. Having the microscope suddenly turned on her, Hermione's frustration shifted to discomfort and she smiled uneasily at the pair.
"Do you know where the bar is" she blurted out.
"Well, one must admit a drink does sound delightful"