Scotch Eggs

Hermione woke promptly at six o'clock, just as she had most of her life. She sat up in bed. Ron was sprawled out on his back, softly snoring. She smiled. Waking up next to him was brilliant. She took a moment just to watch him before slipping out of bed.

"Hey," Ron said sleepily as she was pulling on her dressing gown. "Where're you off to?"

Hermione sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm going to have breakfast with my Dad."

"What?" Ron said, blinking. "But it's so bloody early."

"That's the point," she said. "He and I are early risers. It's a bit of tradition to let Mum have a lie-in on Saturdays, while we go down to the pub and have Scotch eggs."

"You don't eat Scotch eggs."

"I do when I'm home, and it's Saturday, and I'm with my Dad."

Ron scrubbed a hand down his face. "But, I'll miss you," he pouted.

Hermione leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. "I'll be back."

She showered in her own room, cast several drying charms on her hair and was dressed and downstairs by six-thirty. Her father was drinking a cup of tea and reading the paper in the kitchen. Hermione was relieved to see it was the Times and not the Prophet.

"Hermione?" he said as she walked into the kitchen. There was a note of surprise in his voice.

"Morning, Dad. Fancy a Scotch egg?"

He folded the paper and set it on the table. "I was just thinking that very thing."

"To the pub then?"

"I'll follow you."

They were half way to the pub before her father said, "I guess I was expecting you to want to eat breakfast with your young man."

Hermione wrapped her arm around his. "I eat breakfast with Ron all the time. Today, I wanted to eat breakfast with you."

He smiled at her and patted the hand that was on his arm.

Despite the fine mood on the walk to the pub, breakfast was painfully quiet. Without Ron there to break the silence, Hermione finally yielded and broke it herself. "So, Ron tells me you're reading The Daily Prophet."

Her father looked up from his egg. "For some time now, yes."

"I wish you weren't doing that, Dad. They don't have the best reputation for getting the news right."

"Even flawed news is better than no news at all. It's not like I can count on you to tell me what's going on," he said with a slight edge to his voice.

Hermione set down her fork. "I just don't want you to worry."

Her father frowned at her sternly. "It's your mother we try not to worry, not me. You always used to talk to me. You used to send such lovely long letters from school, but no more. When we get a letter now, it's written on what could best be described as a scrap, just a note really, with nothing of importance in it."

"I'm sorry, Dad." The uncomfortable silence descended again. She pushed the greasy sausage around on her plate and let out a frustrated sigh. Her father's stony silence continued. "Fine," she relented. "What is it you want to know?"

"What really happened to you at the end of last term?"

Hermione took a deep breath. She knew that was what he would ask. "A man named Dolohov, a Death Eater, cursed me in a battle at the Ministry of Magic." She took a drink of water. "Only I had hit him with a silencing charm, so the curse didn't have its full effect. Thankfully, he never mastered nonverbal spell casting."

"So, it could have been worse."

She nodded. "I'm sorry for not telling you, but I was afraid you wouldn't let me go back if you knew the truth." She bit at her bottom lip waiting for his response.

Finally, he said, "Quite right." He was quiet for a moment and jabbed angrily at his egg with his fork. Finally, he set it down and looked up at her again. "And Ron? How long have you two been a couple?"

"Since the end of the term." Hermione closed her eyes, knowing what was coming next.

"Your mother tells me you're sleeping with him?" There was no accusation in his voice, just resignation.

"Yes," she said without shame.

"And you're being careful?"

"Of course."

Her father nodded at her soberly. "Of course." He shook his head. "When did you grow up so, Hermione?"

She covered his hand with hers. "Pretty much when you put me on that train."

Her father let out a long sigh. "I should never have consented to that."

"Don't be ridiculous. You couldn't have kept me here. I don't belong here. Besides, you know what Dumbledore said was true: raw, untrained magic is dangerous. Look what happened to poor Penny, and she was only teasing me about my hair."

Her father rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his face with his hand. "I know, but still, what you're doing now seems so dangerous."

She leaned in closer to him. "But I'm not alone. I have good friends. I know good people. We'll win in the end. I know we will."

"Need you be so directly involved?"

"Weren't you the one who gave me Camus to read? Didn't he say 'in such a world of conflict, a world of victims and executioners, it is the job of thinking people, not to be on the side of the executioners'?"

Her father sighed and patted her cheek. "What a mind you have my dear, what a mind."

She held his hand against her cheek. "You and Mum have given me so much. It's my time to give back now. I have to do what I can to protect my world and yours."

Her father's eyes held volumes of sadness, but he kissed her hand. "Let's go home."