The trip home was considerably less eventful than the morning sojourn into town. After her awkward encounter with Florence, Hermione located the "bar" near the pitch, which turned out to be a cafe called "The Book Bar." The relatively small interior was crammed with books. It was a haven for bibliophiles, even if the name left a great deal to be desired.
Hermione spent the better part of the day curled up in an armchair by a full-to-bursting bookshelf-her companions were a hefty book on the subject of household magic and a cafetiere equipped with a self-heating charm. She thumbed through the chapters on Herbology and Potions and contemplated an addition to the McGonagall garden. There were a fair few herbs and roots that would not require a greenhouse. Though the McGinagall property could certainly accommodate. Indeed, what Hermione lacked in a traditional education and advantages of birth, she more than made up for in curiosity and determination. But not for building entire greenhouses. Around four o'clock, the boys came thundering into the bar, clambering over one another and making all kinds of cacophony. However, the promise of ice cream was enough to quiet them and elicit promises of good behavior for the rest of the way home.
Hermione's parking still left something to be desired. Luckily, Edward didn't seem to mind. He gave her a good-natured smile before his sons charged ahead into his arms. Johnny eagerly ran to his dad, filling the porch with his vibrant laughter. The quieter Ian clung for a moment, then slipped into the house. Minerva was likely reclining in the same place before the bay window. perhaps even wearing the same button up shirt with the collar wide open that Hermione's touch had grazed when she had slipped her hand into a flimsy breast pocket and fumbled around for a cold, sleek cigarette case against soft, warm skin.
Hermione knew she had to retrieve the boys' quidditch things and start dinner, but she lingered for a moment. With unfocused eyes, Hermione pondered the bay window looking out on the front of the property. She imagined the enigmatic McGonagall woman sitting just beyond it, wire spectacles perched on a sharply elegant nose. Ian would come running in and Minerva would take those glasses off, folding them carefully and putting them aside, and beckon her little boy to the sofa, into her arms. Scant rays of tenderness would peek through the steely emerald eyes and a thin smile would creep its way onto her face when Ian snuggled into her and rambled on about his quidditch lesson and the nice girl who had gotten them ice cream and held their hands. He would bury his face into her neck and mumble on about the day, too muffled for Minerva to hear, but she would nod and respond and smile. How Hermione longed to be a fly on that wall or perched on one of the stacks of books near the sofa where Minerva often sat. Oh well, she was no animagus. And a fly would not be her first choice to begin with. Hermione gave a little laugh to no one in particular, then went to take care of the washing.
Dinner would be a decisive element of the trial week. She had to sell both Edward and the boys. Minerva—well, as much as she disliked the thought, Hermione knew Minerva's opinion of her mattered little. All the same—Hermione Jean Granger knew the power of a well-cooked meal and she couldn't help wanting Minerva to like her.
With a little technique and some heat, the fresh fish from the local market, Edward's choice, was drowning in butter and herbs and could fall apart in your mouth. Au gratin potatoes from three types of cheese sat in the oven and, though Hermione had not given any indication of what the mystery dessert might be, the promise of it was enough to get the boys eagerly setting the table. Though they did not give up attempts to negotiate the amount of vegetables they would have to eat before Hermione would bring out the potatoey cheesey deliciousness.
Just out of sight, Minerva perched at the top of the main staircase, watching the scene unfold through the balusters. in less than a day, Hermione had Ian happily folding napkins and Johnny using all his powers of concentration to lay out the forks and knives in their proper places. Alas, Minerva was not a skilled cook and neither was Edward. Dinner smelled wonderful. Not that she would ever deign to express that. She wouldn't be able to stomach it either, as bitterness had already curled its gnarled and blackened fingers around her insides, turning every touch, taste, and sensation into charcoal and sadness.
Well. Not every sensation. Minerva couldn't deny the way that her breath caught when Hermione entered her field of view, chestnut curls barely contained by a convoluted headwrap. In those early days, she believed that writhing, unsettling feeling that traversed the base of her spine to her sternum to be shame., a young girl without even a Hogwarts education to her name could do all that she, a Master of Transfiguration and recipient of an Order of Merlin, could not. She continued to stare intently as Hermione hung up the apron and smoothed her front before her eyebrows knotted in contemplation. Sensing that Hermione would be changing for dinner, Minerva fled her hiding place to shelter behind behind the closed door of the second-floor study before Hermione's footfalls even reached the bottom step.
Hermione could have sworn she was being watched. She felt the eyes on her when she put the fish on the table, hoping against hope that it could have been the mysterious and volatile woman of the house. Was she picking up a faint note of parchment and bergamot, or was it all wishful thinking? As volatile and difficult to handle as Minerva was, Hermione longed for another moment alone with her. Even if she wasn't sure what exactly she was hoping for. absently wiping her hands on her shirt, Hermione glanced about trying to catch sight of Minerva and realized she should probably change before dinner, after all, she was still trying to win them over. truthfully, Hermione knew she was as good as hired. Edward had already been through plenty of trouble and, short something unforgivable on her part, would be unlikely to undertake the process again. And, well, Hermione was aware of who she was (a poor waif) and what she looked like (an attractive poor waif) and the practical reality of these simple truths.
Hermione fussed with her hair a bit and threw on a cornflower dress in an attempt to look presentable, then returned downstairs and announced that dinner was ready. Johnny and Ian thundered down the stairs, followed by their father. From the corner of her eye, Hermione caught a slender figure slinking towards the dining room. She was dressed in another loose men's dress shirt and a cardigan. Midnight hair piled haphazardly on the top of her head. Elegant, articulate hands spun magic around the cloth napkin to make it fold, unfold, shift, and dance almost imperceptibly-an effortless show of incredible skill. Talent and training wasted, Minerva would say. Edward too, maybe. Some inexplicable feeling urged Hermione to turn her head and stare in earnest; at the woman or the napkin, she didn't know. But, then, there was the ghost of a little hand on her arm, and the moment ended thus.
Ian, who wanted to sit next to her at dinner time. His eyes were so hopeful and his smile was so timid that all Hermione could do was smile sunshine and sit in the seat he had clumsily pulled out for her.
She knew instinctively that Ian was a significant reason behind Minerva's decision to put herself through the torture of St. Mungo's psych ward (don't ask just how Hermione knew this) and to accept the humiliation of her husband's patronizing treatment. But that didn't occur to Hermione then. What did occur to her then was that Minerva had been seated for quite a while before Edward, as if it were little more than an afterthought, gave her a "hullo, sweetheart" and a kiss on the cheek. And after this exchange, the napkin stopped its dance. A dark feeling bubbled in the pit of Hermione's stomach, so she turned to fiddle with the serving plates and the charms she had placed on them. To Hermione's embarrassment, Edward stood to toast " a new day and a delicious meal made by our helpful and talented Hermione" and stared at her just a little too long.
Thankfully, that was the extent of the adulation and the mundane clatter of serving spoons and cutlery fell upon the table. In the flurry of serving the boys, Hermione lost track of Minerva. When she next looked at the head of the table, Edward and his wife were pressed close together and speaking in whispers. Hermione couldn't catch more than a couple words at a time. And so curiosity rippled through her body without an outlet.
She had barely taken a mouthful before Johnny declared that he had finished his vegetables and so it was time for the potatoes. Some tense discussion, a couple threats, and a few more green beans later, Hermione conceded and attempted to subtly steal away into the kitchen where she might be able to catch some of the harsh whispers the McGonagalls were exchanging.
Minerva whipped her head around, jet black strands loosing themselves from her incomprehensible updo. Hermione could tell by the look in her eyes that Minerva was in the mood to antagonize her yet again. Hermione clenched her jaw and unhurriedly rose from the table, preparing herself for whatever feelings Minerva's taunting would provoke. She ignored the hissed "and there she goes again!" and braced herself for a stinging hex (it wouldn't be the first time). But it didn't come. Instead, more harsh remarks followed her into the kitchen.
"Remind me again why we have an animal eating with us at the dinner table? Golden retrievers don't belong in the dining room."
Let her talk. Hermione Granger was no battered woman.
Father and Sons sat in silence as Mother continued to throw jabs to Hermione's back as it retreated to the kitchen.
Hermione could hear the trilling of a high-pitched brogue continuing in her absence. Then there was a sudden loud whine of a chair grinding against the hardwood. If the previous evening was anything to go by, Johnny had angrily pushed himself away from the table and was on the brink of storming off.
For some reason, the jagged sound shattered whatever guilt Hermione felt for accepting Ian's invitation to sit next to her. silence hang in the air, darkening like a summer storm.. a derisive laugh welcomed Hermione back to the table, but it had an altogether different effect than the insults had. It should have incited her anger or instilled a shiver of fear, but the feeling rippling down Hermione's spine was of something else entirely. Something warm and pleasurable. She couldn't entertain that. She tried to remind herself that Minerva was merely making another poor attempt at playing the villain. That she should know better. That this woman was really nothing special. That she knew this type! It was no enigma! And yet an appealing enigma it remained. How striking it was! And how lovely it smelled. Nothing smells as enticing as the bloom that conceals a serpent.
Hermione all but threw the baking dish on the table without looking at either of them. .
"I'm going to check on Johnny," she said calmly, without bothering to mask the admonishment that lay under the surface.
Ian swung his legs helplessly and tugged on Hermione's dress. "I wanna come too." Hermione sighed and helped the younger McGonagall son out of his chair.
"Okay, just as long as you promise to finish your dinner after we go check on your brother." Ian eagerly nodded and clung to Hermione as she fumbled through placing a stasis charm on her plates. She let Ian take her hand and walked out of the room without looking at either of his parents.
"He's probably upstairs in the study. That's where the radio is." Hermione let Ian lead her up the stairs to his brother, who had clearly inherited his mother's temper. He initially snarled at her intrusion, but softened and consented to returning to the dinner table as long as he could stay up an hour past his usual bedtime. By the time Hermione returned with the McGonagall boys, Minerva had left the table and Edward had finished eating. Hermione restrained herself from letting out a big harrumph and slapped a fake smile on her face.
"Who wants dessert?" Hermione found herself tiredly admitting and vanished the plates from the table-she'd bother with them tomorrow. The boys cheered and Hermione retrieved the bread pudding.
The washing billowed in the wind, hanging from a line that Hermione had conjured using a spell from the book she had read that afternoon. The air was balmy and the cicadas sang. Johnny and Ian were happily tucking into their dessert. Plucked from the moments that had come before, it was a perfect moment. One Hermione would have cut from a magazine and dreamed up for herself. The bread pudding was sweet and cinnamon-y. Her mother's recipe. She would have loved this, Hermione thought. And that would have to be enough.