MOTHER GOOSE
When faced with the choice between doing time, yet again, in Azkaban and having Paeniteo cast on him, Lucius Malfoy had opted for the latter. Given the nature of the spell – experts could never quite agree whether to classify it as Charm or Curse – he had thought long and hard about his options; in the end, though, anything had seemed preferable to returning to cold, isolation and the all-pervading smell of overcooked Brussels sprouts.
While it was impossible to withstand the compulsion to atone for one's misdeeds the spell imposed on its bearer, he was free to decide in which order and when to undertake his walks to Canossa. He had imagined that confronting Ollivander would be hardest, and thus the wand maker had been the first he'd sought out. It had been a surprising experience, all things considered, and less detrimental to his already-undermined self-esteem than he'd anticipated. Then he had gone to see Luna Lovegood, and Ginevra Weasley at the Weasleys' family hovel, erm, home, and things hadn't gone too badly. Many more had followed, and mostly he'd had to endure hate and ridicule; Paeniteo had forced him to debase himself before people he previously wouldn't have considered worthy even of a well-aimed hex.
The burden was becoming lighter, however, with every single act of penitence.
His hopes for his marriage to survive the preceding year hadn't been high. He would certainly have preferred for Narcissa to leave him in anger rather than contempt for the "grovelling wreck" he'd turned into, and the fleeting expression of pity on Draco's face, before he followed his mother to France, had been hard to bear.
The shopkeepers in Diagon Alley were beginning to put up Christmas decorations when Lucius found himself only one step away from the Paeniteo spell dissolving and thus from his much-coveted freedom. The one step he'd grown more and more reluctant to take, because even though the spell didn't leave any room for doubting that he was feeling guilt towards Hermione Granger, his rational mind struggled and twisted in its grip – he'd been a bystander, yes, but powerless and without a wand. He hadn't enjoyed the spectacle. Maybe he would even have ended her torture, had he had the means to do so, and had it not meant certain death for his wife and son.
All his efforts were in vain, though. If he wanted to be free, he had to seek absolution.
It was nothing short of a miracle that Hermione Granger had been able to keep her sanity during the horrifying months she'd spent stumbling from one dangerous situation into the next, and finally into the Battle of Hogwarts. She'd barely succeeded in keeping herself together, and only because she'd had a plan: get through this, get her parents and Crookshanks back from Australia, and then finally go back to normal.
She was surprised, in that detached kind of way that seemed to have become her default state since she'd woken up at 's the day after the battle, to find herself unable to put her plan into action. It had been her refuge, the guiding star she'd been looking at so she wouldn't have to look down on the ground; it had been the one immovable certainty that had somehow made everything bearable, even the Cruciatus curse and being abandoned by Ron.
And still, she couldn't do it.
Worse, she couldn't do anything.
Hogwarts had opened its doors in September, but she'd declined Headmistress McGonagall's offer of participating in the special NEWT-preparation course the Ministry had devised for those students whose seventh year had been disrupted by the war. She'd had various proposals from hopeful employers; she'd refused them all. Her friends were beginning to lose interest, she could feel it and she dreaded it, but she couldn't bring herself to answer calls or letters, or to go out. At least she didn't have to face Ron's sullen enmity, but that was pretty cold comfort.
Moving into her parents' place at the outskirts of Oxford had been easy enough; she drifted through the days, vaguely asking herself how long life was going to be like this, distant, not hers at all.
Christmas was approaching, and Hermione found herself increasingly unwilling to leave the house. Even though there was no trace of snow to be found in and around Oxford, the artificial white powder displayed in shop windows, the fake frost and bluish-white, giant snowflakes never failed to take her back to last year's Christmas and its horrors. She knew, or rather the rational part of her mind knew, that she ought to confront the memory, maybe see a counsellor – but what was she supposed to tell a Muggle counsellor? That she'd confronted a giant snake and escaped Voldemort by the skin of her teeth?
Meticulously cleaning the house, from attic to basement and the Muggle way, somehow seemed like the safer option.
Hermione had just started busying herself with the dirt accumulated in the joints between the tiles in the entrance, when the doorbell rang. She'd sent off a substantial order to Tesco's by internet and was pleasantly surprised that they'd managed to deliver within the chosen time slot. Wiping her hands on her jeans, she got up and opened the door.
Finding the Granger girl hadn't been easy; in the end, Potter had deigned to tell him that she was staying at her parents' house. Given the still-precarious situation of the wizarding economy after the war, the goblins were sufficiently grateful to him for entrusting them with his fortune that they'd given him the address without further ado.
It was in a thoroughly Muggle area, no trace of magic or magical beings anywhere near it; his feelings about visiting Hermione Granger weren't improved one iota by the realization that he'd have to disguise himself as a Muggle in order to go and find her.
Rather surprisingly he'd discovered, though, that shopping for a Muggle outfit was quite fun. His hair had earned him a few curious looks, but those had been swiftly quelled by his icy stare.
For all their buttons, zippers and belts, Muggle clothes were surprisingly comfortable, especially the contraptions called "jeans". And he had to admit, though only to himself, that not having to deal with heavy robes made peeing a lot easier.
After giving himself a last, critical look-over and deciding that dragonhide boots looked just as spiffy with jeans as they did with robes, he'd Apparated to Oxford, precisely on Hermione Granger's doorstep. He'd also correctly identified the button he had to press by the crude image of a bell.
And no, he wasn't nervous. Not in the least.
The visceral fear Hermione felt knifing through her belly, a split second after she'd recognized Malfoy, propelled the world right into her conscious perception, shrill and real. Gone was the distance, the vagueness. Never had colours been so vivid; never had the air smelled so pungently of frost and fog. Paradoxical though it seemed, she was grateful, if only for an instant, to feel the impact of life, of sheer existence, slam into her. Her heart was racing; blood rushed to her face. Her fingers were trembling as they sought for her wand.
Then it occurred to her that her wand was in the kitchen – she could see it clearly in her mind's eye, resting next to the coffee machine. So this is it, she thought, shit, I'm going to die right now, and the last thing I'll ever see is Lucius Malfoy in Muggle clothing.
Hermione Granger sat down on the floor, upsetting the bucket and spilling soapy water all over herself, and began to laugh.
They'd made it to the kitchen, eventually, after he'd helped the girl get to her feet – she'd been as limp as a Flobberworm – and explained about the reason for his visit. It was his first time in a Muggle household, and if he hadn't been so intent on preserving what little remained of his dignity, he'd have given in to his curiosity and explored. As things were, he was leaning against the frigiderator (strange name, that!) and doing his damnedest to appear aloof, while Miss Granger was preparing tea.
"Jaffa or digestive?" she asked.
"I, erm, beg your pardon?"
"Biscuits. Would you prefer Jaffa, that's orange jelly with chocolate coating, or digestive?" She showed him the contents of both boxes.
Given that this was his first foray into Muggle baking, Lucius felt that the decision was somewhat momentous. "Both, unless it is too much trouble."
"Not in the least," she replied blandly, and he had the distinct feeling that they were both clinging to the time-honed ritual of tea preparation, so as to postpone acknowledging how bizarre the situation actually was.
The digestives were chocolate digestives and had a very stabilizing, not to say comforting, effect on her, as did the Jaffa cakes. To judge by his biscuit intake, Malfoy was also in need of comfort – Hermione found that thought rather exhilarating. Probably he, too, was a bit overcome by the absurdity of sitting in the armchair facing hers, surrounded by Muggle things, and discussing the terms on which she might consider granting him absolution for the things he'd done to her.
"Anything I deem appropriate?" she repeated, nibbling at yet another biscuit. "Not 'within reason', no 'if's or 'but's?"
"None whatsoever," he replied. "I cannot impose any conditions."
He didn't just sound bitter, Hermione thought; he sounded exhausted. Frustrated. She had to remind herself that he'd richly deserved this, and then some. "Very well," she said slowly. "I'll think about it."
His face fell. That, too, was unexpected – wasn't he supposed to be a master of self-control? Then again, she reflected, she'd been last on his list, so how many people had he already seen? How many pounds of flesh had been extolled? Come to think of it, how had he been spending these last months after the battle? Had he been lonely, too? She really shouldn't be giving so much thought to The Emotional State of Lucius Malfoy, but since his appearance on her doorstep had dispelled the mist separating her from the world, she was feeling a bit like a grey goose chick following around the first moving object it had seen after hatching.
She'd been imprinted by Lucius Malfoy, Mother Goose Extraordinaire. Could things get any stranger? The world had been turned upside down...
And inspiration struck.
The Transatlantic Portkey Terminal was hidden, very much like platform 9 ¾, within Sidney's Central Station.
Very much unlike their British counterparts, the Australian Ministry of Magic did not have any compunctions about placing two burly security wizards at the exit, who pointed out and corrected any too-obvious fashion glitches. With Hermione in tow and their luggage shrunk and safely in the pocket of his linen suit, Lucius merely gave the guards a curt nod before they stepped out onto a platform bustling with Muggles.
Lucius steered them into a secluded corner. His travel companion, who had shown remarkable panache up to the moment when her fingers had touched the Portkey, had gone very, very quiet. She was pale, her eyes huge in a face that was whiter than he was comfortable with; Lucius felt concern, though more for himself –if something happened to the girl, that was all Shacklebolt needed to send him to Azkaban, whether it was Lucius's fault or not. The Minister had been extremely reluctant to go ahead with the offer of Paeniteo and only been persuaded by Potter, of all unlikely people.
The noise around them was almost deafening; he had to bend down to understand what she was saying.
"I don't think I can do this," she muttered.
Lucius sighed. "Do what exactly, Miss Granger?"
"This." She made a vague gesture at their surroundings. "Go to my parents' house. Remove the charm."
"We had agreed that I was going to remove the charm," he cut her off, deliberately misunderstanding her.
"That's not..." She bit her lip. "You know that's not what I meant. I'll have to face them, to explain..." Her teeth drew blood. "What if..." The lip started to tremble.
He briefly closed his eyes. Was the silly girl losing her courage merely to spite him? No, he was being unjust. Of course it was difficult for her to – and why the hell should he care whether it was? Or whether he was being unjust, for Merlin's sake? Yes, granted, she did look rather helpless and forlorn... What? What was he even thinking? The girl, no woman, fuck it, Hermione Granger had withstood the Cruciatus Curse cast by Bella! Helpless and forlorn? What a ridiculous idea. Yet there she was, looking at him as if she was drowning...
"Maybe," he heard himself say, "we ought to get dinner first, and if you'd like we could leave visiting your parents till tomorrow."
Narcissa had been right. He wasn't exactly a grovelling wreck, but he was certainly losing his grip.
Hermione tried to look unobtrusively at her unlikely travel companion while pretending to read the menu. Unsurprisingly – Hermione Granger just couldn't do unobtrusive – she didn't lower her eyes fast enough when he raised his, and felt her face got hot. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare."
"You mean you didn't intend to be caught staring."
Arrogant bastard. Suddenly she felt angry – how dare he sit here, calm and composed, making fun of her, when it was because of the likes of him that she'd done that horrible thing to her parents? "And of course not getting caught is as good as innocent?" she said, trying but failing to keep her tone flat and indifferent.
Malfoy's eyes darkened. "Miss Granger..."
"You have no right!" she blurted out. "I almost felt sorry for you, because that... that spell they put on you isn't any better than the Imperius curse! Nobody deserves to have their mind raped, not even you! And then, then you say a few words, and I realize that you haven't changed one bit!"
"And you'd started to feel so good about yourself," he drawled.
"That wasn't-"
"I am aware that that wasn't what you meant to say," he interrupted her. "Nevertheless it is what you said – had I changed, putting me under Paeniteo would have been monstrous, but since you are convinced that I haven't, you have to go back to thinking I got nothing more than I deserved. Which makes thinking of yourself as the supreme guardian of morals a little difficult, doesn't it?"
"What you did was wrong!"
"I don't deny it. Or rather, I don't deny that what I did was the consequence of a, let us say, supremely unfortunate choice."
She flung the menu on the table. "Why do you have to be so fucking cavalier about it all? Why can't you say 'wrong' or 'bad'? Why does it have to be 'supremely unfortunate'? Discriminating people because of their birth is wrong – do you at least understand that?"
"And wiping someone's memory without their consent isn't?"
People were beginning to stare, so she breathed deeply before saying "I shouldn't even dignify this with an answer."
"Let me guess," he said, smiling faintly. "Is it something along the lines of 'this is different'?"
"Of course it's different!"
"Because you are good and I am bad, yes, but try to imagine what you would have done, had you been a Death Eater and aware that the good guys were winning, with possible consequences for your parents. Would you have acted any differently?"
"That seems like a pretty academic question."
"Indulge me."
"If you mean to prove that one wrong decision doesn't necessarily entail only wrong actions..."
"I mean to point out to you, Miss Granger, that one choice, whether right or wrong, made at an early age and not entirely of one's own volition, does not justify discrimination any more than birth, creed or the colour of one's skin."
Hermione contemplated this silently while Malfoy ordered their meal and wine. The smile on the waiter's face seemed to indicate that an expensive vintage had been chosen; when he brought the bottle, Malfoy tasted and nodded. After filling their glasses and putting a bread basket on the table, the waiter vanished discreetly.
Malfoy raised his glass, and she reluctantly mirrored the gesture. "I like it," she offered after a first sip.
"You'll like it even more once it has breathed for fifteen or twenty minutes. Shiraz needs the oxygen. But I agree, it is very good."
More silence ensued; they each had a piece of freshly-baked bread.
"You know," Hermione said finally, "they used to call me the cleverest witch of my age, but picking apart philosophical arguments isn't really my forte. I know there's something wrong with what you said, something like the 'all Cretans are liars' thing, but I just can't put my finger on it. Okay, I can accept that you became a Death Eater when you were still very young…"
"Fifteen," Malfoy supplied, pointedly contemplating the contents of his wine glass.
"Fifteen?" Hermione took a fortifying sip. "That's… that's very young."
"Indeed," was all the answer she got.
She was beginning to feel quite hot and twisted her hair into a tight bun, securing it with a discreet spell after making sure that nobody was watching. There, that was much better. "Okay, so I have to admit that you probably didn't know what you were doing. Or rather that you were unable to see any alternatives. But…"
The waiter interrupted them once again by putting a variety of starters on the table.
"But," she continued, "I'm not quite sure how far you can stretch that excuse. For example" – she scooped up a few grilled mushrooms and manoeuvred them onto her plate – "I don't think it would cover your giving Voldemort's diary to Ginny, to name but one example."
"Why do you think I did it?"
"Well… So you could hurt the Weasleys? And possibly Harry? Oh, and Dumbledore, for good measure, although I'm not entirely sure I bear you any grudge for that."
A fleeting smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Mmmh. You've seen through his manipulations, have you?" Hermione nodded fervently. "Back to my motives, though – I'm sure it seems, or at least seemed entirely plausible that all I wanted was to hurt your friends."
He'd said it without a trace of venom or mockery, and so Hermione felt inclined at least to listen to him. "Are you saying that you had ulterior motives?"
"Ulterior?" He shook his head. "No. Different, even though I admit that I was fully conscious of, and maybe not completely adverse to, the risk for Ginevra Weasley."
"You mean…"
"Hermione, I mean Miss Granger-"
"Oh, what the hell." She took another sip of wine. Whether intentionally or not, Malfoy had got her hooked – there was no way she could resist a good story. As to whether it was true… Never mind, though. She was going to listen to him; the food was great and the wine fantastic, and they had to pass the time somehow. "Just call me Hermione. It feels less contrived."
He bowed his blond head. "Thank you. I feel honoured."
Strangely enough, she believed him. "Okay, so why did you slip Ginny the diary?"
"Have you ever touched one of the Dark Lord's Horcruxes, even briefly?"
Had she… Hermione gave an unladylike snort. "I… yes. And not just briefly."
"So you know what it does to those who touch it?"
"Even…" She had to shake her head, to dispel the images that came unbidden, crowding her mind. "Even to his followers?"
"Especially to his followers. I would have been able to protect myself, though, somehow. You may or may not have noticed that I was wearing gloves that day at Flourish and Blott's... But I simply couldn't stand by and watch…" Malfoy fell silent.
She had to make a conscious effort not to put her hand over his. "Draco?"
He nodded wordlessly.
"That makes sense. The more susceptible the victim, the stronger is the hold it gains."
Another nod, a brief glance into her eyes. "Yes. It had to be destroyed. I couldn't do it, for obvious reasons, Weasley was too much of a moron to understand that the darkest of artefacts was right under his nose every time he performed one of his useless raids, and I could hardly go to Dumbledore and give it to him."
"Why couldn't you destroy – oh, of course. The Dark Mark."
"Yes. Therefore, sending it on its way to Hogwarts seemed like the best solution."
Had she come all the way to Australia, only to have her perceptions and beliefs deconstructed one by one? By Lucius Malfoy, of all people? Hermione gave an inward shrug and allowed the waiter to top up her glass. "So tell me about the Quidditch World Cup."
None of the people he'd met in his forced quest for absolution had bothered to ask the one, simple and obvious question: Why? Lucius hadn't expected everybody to inquire after his motives; in fact, he would have rebutted such queries with a few well-chosen words, unless he deemed his interlocutor worthy of an answer. But the Weasley girl, or Ollivander...
He'd never liked being taken for granted. This was exactly what it was, though; he'd been cast as the villain, and he'd done well, and from that moment onwards he was the villain, which was all right until it became a cliché, but once that happened, there was no getting rid of the part. It stuck – worse, it was regarded as an essential part of him, and no matter how much the House Elves would scrub at the leopard's pelt, the spots weren't going to come off.
Lucius shrugged and grabbed the remote control from the night table. Granger, no Hermione, had explained to him how these plastic devices with the strange little symbols worked, and if he had to spend the night in a – admittedly rather acceptable – Muggle hotel, he was certainly going to make the best of it. Times were a-changing; if he meant to be a player in post-war society, he'd better acquire the necessary skills, and those most certainly included a knowledge of Muggle culture.
So, what had the Granger girl told him? This button was for switching on the TV, wasn't it? Suddenly distracted by the memories of their dinner, he let the remote slip from his fingers and onto the duvet.
Sure, she was a self-righteous little thing, full of Gryffindor values and Dumbledore morals, her ego buoyed by the victory in which he she'd played such a crucial part; there was something more to her, though. The self-righteousness was merely an expression of something more deep-seated and less unpleasant – she wanted to do the right thing, always, and she had the ability to recognize that the right thing wasn't always what the so-called good guys had emblazoned on their banners. And empathy. Of that she had more than was good for her. If she fell into the wrong hands, associated with the wrong people, she might easily be manipulated... up to a point, he thought. Not all the way through. And woe upon the unfortunate individual who drove her past that point – there was a ruthless streak a mile wide. Throwing Umbridge to the Centaurs being a case in point.
Lucius smiled to himself. If ever there'd been a young witch worthy of becoming his protégé, it was Hermione Granger. Would she consent to such a scheme, though?
He was still asleep, a smile on his face and his dreams teeming with possibilities, when Hermione knocked on his door the next morning.
Her parents had chosen Sidney's oldest suburb, Glebe, to establish their new lives as Monica and Wendell Wilkins. The streets and houses reminded her of home, a "home" that had been touched by the Far East and the grandeur of colonialism. Low, terraced houses, some of them painted in gaudy colours, exotic shrubs in the front gardens, and here and there a more stately public building. It was quite charming, really.
In spite of the oppressive, moist heat and the sun beating down on her with surprising force, considering that it was barely past nine a.m., Hermione was feeling progressively colder with every step they took towards her parents' house. She hadn't eaten much for breakfast, just a slice of toast and a bit of fruit, but it was sitting heavily in her stomach. She glanced up at Malfoy's profile; he looked serene and wholly unconcerned – no surprises there, after all he only had to undo her Obliviate to be free of the spell that bound him. Then he would be returning to England; they hadn't yet discussed whether she was going to travel with him or go back later. In the privacy of her own mind, Hermione admitted to herself that she'd rather leave with him, because the thought of spending time with her parents, after all that had transpired, and without his protection...
His protection. What had the world come to? How was it even possible to feel safe in the company of a man whose appearance ten days ago on her doorstep had induced her to believe that she was going to meet her maker? Not to mention that she even felt the need for protection. She still was Hermione Granger, who had lived through encounters with Death Eaters, who had ridden a dragon, who had fought in the last battle... She hadn't changed, no more than Malfoy had, not fundamentally. But even so, here she was, walking next to him and wishing she could just take his hand. And here he was, walking next to a muggleborn witch as if he'd never called her a Mudblood, and he'd been open with her the night before, and honest, well as far as he was able to...
So maybe it wasn't so much that they had changed; the circumstances were different, though, and if a fundamentally changed situation brought to light all these new and unaccustomed aspects of their personalities, maybe there was hope after all...
Hermione was so lost in her thoughts that she collided with Malfoy, who had stopped in front of a garden gate.
"This should be it," he said.
Sweat was running down her back, rapidly cooling and making her acutely uncomfortable. Suddenly breathing felt like the most difficult thing she'd ever done. "Yes," she croaked, "this is it."
"So maybe you ought to ring the bell?" There was a hint of mockery in his voice, but not the bad kind. He sounded more like an indulgent parent. Mother Goose in a linen suit and highly polished loafers.
"I guess I should," she said and grabbed his hand.
When he sensed her clammy fingers insert themselves between his, Lucius felt a sudden pang of nostalgia. To be nineteen years old again, just for one day, right there on the cusp between adolescence and adulthood, where having the occasional childlike or even childish moment was still permissible... On second thought, no. He'd rather not go back to that awkward stage, especially since his own father had strongly discouraged childish behaviour from the moment Lucius had uttered his first scream.
Hermione, on the other hand, may have been forced to grow up prematurely, but the child was still in there; usually well hidden, it had obviously just gained the upper hand.
He meant to give her fingers a reassuring squeeze, but they were gone before he could follow the impulse. Childlike indeed, Lucius thought and bit his lip against the smile that was lingering there. So he merely stood and watched, as Hermione fell to her knees, sobbing and laughing, and picked up an enormous red cat, no, definitely part Kneazle, that had streaked round the corner of the house and straight towards them. Apparently enthusiastic to be reunited with its mistress, it rubbed its squashed face against her cheek.
"Crookshanks!" she sniffled, "Oh, how I've missed you! Did you miss me, too? How pretty you've become, big boy! Such lovely, soft fur, and you're so heavy!"
Pretty. Love did indeed alter people's perception...
"That's Crookshanks," she said, still clinging to the orange monster and giving Lucius a smile equal parts besotted and besnotted.
"I'd gathered as much," he responded mildly.
"Isn't he a pretty boy? Yes, my darling, you're such a pretty, big boy..."
The appearance of a middle-aged couple on the doorstep saved him the trouble of commenting. Lucius bent down and touched her shoulder. "Hermione, I believe we have company."
He'd obviously advanced from being a mere protector of war heroines to safeguarding their familiars; wondering how long his biceps would be able to withstand the combined pull of gravity and seven kilos of fat part-Kneazle, Lucius slowly followed Hermione as she walked the few metres separating her from the bewildered couple. He watched her as she blew her nose and carefully stored the used tissue in the back pocket of her jeans, and mentally awarded her points for self-control, when she held out her hand to her mother and said, "Mrs Wilkins, may I introduce myself? I'm Hermione Granger, and this is my friend Lucius Malfoy."
Friend.
Who would've thought?
Mum had cut and dyed her hair. The pixie-style cut made her look younger, more girlish. And she'd lost weight. She had a tan, too, and looked pretty fit.
Dad's bald patch had grown. Funny, the beard actually suited him. She would never have imagined he could look good with a beard...
Hermione let her eyes wander across the bookshelves – so they were still avid readers. Some things evidently didn't change. The tears came with the awareness that a lot of the titles were identical to those waiting back in Oxford. So Dad was still fond of detective stories, and Mum hadn't lost her fondness for Regency literature, or cooking...
"Are you okay, Miss… erm…"
Her nails digging into her palms, Hermione turned round to look at her father. "Yes, thanks. Perfectly all right. I really have to apologize, I can't even begin to imagine what you must be thinking of us, barging in on you like this on Christmas Eve."
"Well…" That smile on her father's face, that was new, too. So open and relaxed – he'd never been like that, not even when he was younger, the Dad of her earliest memories. "I kind of assumed that some of our friends back in England had given you the address? The Craigs, Michael and Heather that is, or maybe the Browns? Christopher and Eileen Brown, not Steve and Dorothy." He laughed, sharing a look of complicity with his wife.
Who was that man? This sinewy guy with the cleanly-trimmed beard and the Australian accent? This man who admitted a pair of strangers into his house and… A cigarette? He was lighting a cigarette?
And Mum, her Mum who had taught her that there was something good in everyone, you just had to trust people and keep looking for it to discover it, Mum who'd once guilted her daughter into sharing her birthday cake with a homeless guy she'd picked up on her way home, was she really the same person as this lady with the short, red hair, whose eyes suddenly became cold with suspicion? "You're not from one of those obscure sects?" she said.
How reassuring to see Malfoy, no Lucius, sneer.
"I assure you, madam, that neither of us belongs to a sect, whether obscure or not. We came here to…"
"The cat," Hermione interrupted him, shooting Malfoy an imploring look. If he didn't play along... But he was looking intrigued; he also lowered his eyelids a mere fraction, as if to indicate, Go on, I'll play my part.
Fully aware that she was a terrible liar, Hermione braced herself and prepared to improvise. "We were visiting some friends, who are..." Not patients, no. Maybe they'd started something else, a business, whatever. "...clients of yours," she finished her sentence. "They told us that you're not too happy with – what's the name again? Crooked? Crook-something, and..."
"His name is Crookshanks," her father said. "It was on his collar, but only his name, no phone number or anything. We call him Crooks – I have no idea why he chose to stay with us, honestly, considering that he doesn't seem to like us overly much."
"Nor do we like him much, to be perfectly frank with you," her mother added, frowning. "But I don't quite understand, what could you possibly do about his behaviour?"
"There is nothing we could do about his behaviour," Malfoy said. He was still holding Crookshanks, who seemed perfectly content, if his purring was any indication. That, and the amount of orange cat hair now adorning Malfoy's previously pristine white shirt collar. "This is a pretty special breed, though, and quite a recent one, too..."
"Breed?" Her father snorted. "That's a mongrel, if ever I saw one."
Malfoy gave a theatrical sigh that expressed indulgence as well as exasperation. "A very common error, I assure you. As I said, the breed is very young; having it recognized by the CFA will probably take some more time..." He ignored Hermione's look of bafflement. "We would be very happy if you consented to let us buy this magnificent specimen off you – I'd been worrying he might be castrated, but since he is not, he will be leading a very... how to put this inoffensively..."
"He'll get laid on a regular basis," Hermione supplied. She was beginning to get a little anxious – her parents had never paid much attention to money, so maybe Malfoy was making a mistake, offering them to pay for Crooks. They might become suspicious.
"Oh no," her father said, "That's really not necessary. He's not ours to begin with, and-"
"We've been feeding him for a year and a half," he was interrupted by his wife, "Besides there've been vet bills. Not to mention the chair he destroyed."
"Well, yes. If you put it like that..."
For a moment Hermione felt angry with Malfoy, no Lucius, because he was smiling in a way that made it all too clear that he'd had low expectations, and he'd been right. Then again, she mused, while a substantial wad of dollars was changing hands – Crookshanks had been shoved into her arms, much to his evident pleasure – she'd expected to find her parents unchanged, and she'd been sorely disappointed. Because of her, they had lost most of their memories and thus much of what had made them how and what they were; unhindered by a past that had been wiped out, they'd taken a different road, so who was she...
Well, she was their daughter.
Was she really, though? Biologically, yes, that was a given. As far as upbringing, conditioning, character-building went, though...
No. She was reeling from the impact of the realization, and accepting it would probably take a long time, but she had to face the truth: Monica and Wendell Wilkins were two strangers, similar to her parents in some aspects but different in many others. She wasn't these people's daughter, and even though she wanted nothing more than to right the wrong she had done them, reversing the Memory Spell was not the way to do that.
She'd known the moment she'd seen them on the doorstep, Hermione realized. It just had taken a bit of time to sink in, but she'd acted accordingly right from the beginning.
She had to leave and go back to England, where she had no family.
Tears were tickling her eyes, and she hid her face in Crookshanks' fur, listening absentmindedly to Lucius who'd turned on the charm while he was profusely thanking the Wilkinses and saying their goodbyes. With her arms otherwise occupied, she could only nod a polite greeting to the couple, and then they were once again standing in the front garden.
Lucius pulled her behind a dense shrub and conjured a carrier basket, then grabbed her left wrist. Puzzled, Hermione looked up at him.
"Nine-thirty," he said and cocked his head. "That's what, ten-thirty back home? Just the right time" – he dug into his pocket for the Portkey – "for a little light supper, don't you think?"
"I don't need to eat," she muttered, "I need to get drunk. Plastered, smashed, totally shit-faced, take your pick."
"Mmh, yes, that does seem appropriate somehow. I wouldn't want you to do so on your own, though. Why don't you come to – or, erm, maybe not."
Hermione sighed. "It's ok. Going back there seems pretty harmless compared to the fact that I've just lost my parents, don't you think?"
His expression was perfectly bland, but his eyes gave him away. "I would feel honoured, truly, to have you as my guest. And of course, erm, Crookshanks."
"The new breed." She giggled, surprised that was even possible while tears were still running down her cheeks. "That was quite brilliant, you know? And how on earth do you know about the CFA?"
Even more than by his unexpected familiarity with the Cat Fanciers Association, Hermione was surprised by the mischievous smile he gave her. "I am a man of many facets, Hermione."
Since he was Lucius Malfoy, he didn't explicitly invite her to discover them, but the unspoken hint was nonetheless there, hanging between them enticingly. It was a bait, she knew it, and she was pretty sure she was going to take it.
It was research, wasn't it?
She was quite good at researching, if she said so herself.
THE END
A/N: The title and plot aren't in any way related to Mother Goose of nursery rhyme, pantomime or Perrault-ian fame; the title simply occurred to me when Hermione was thinking of herself as the grey goose chick imprinted by the first moving object it sees after hatching.
Also, I've never been to Sidney, so I admit to having based the description of Glebe on nothing but the results of a Google search. My nephew, who currently lives in Sidney, told me about the summers being moist and hot, so that's pretty reliable information I suppose.
