--Chapter 11--
It was the eve before Hermione's departure for the Burrow.
It hadn't been easy to convince Severus to visit her that evening; the more she pushed for it, the more he dug in his heels until she finally had to admit that she'd got him a Christmas gift and wanted to give it to him before she left.
If she hadn't been married for several years she might have missed the fleeting look of panic that crossed his face. Served him right; if he hadn't been so bloody stubborn she would have sprung the gift on him without his foreknowledge, and then he wouldn't have the time to worry about a reciprocal present. It wasn't a huge gift, after all; she considered it a nicely-judged compromise between uncomfortably intimate and coolly impersonal, and wasn't likely to offend him at all.
He arrived a full fifteen minutes after expected, which was a surprise; he was usually painstakingly prompt. Without a word, he unceremoniously handed her a wrapped parcel and swept past her into her front room.
"Good evening, Severus," she said.
"Just get it over with," he said in a thoroughly grumpy voice.
"Happy bloody Christmas to you, too," she said, matching his tone.
She unwrapped what was undeniably a book and scanned the cover, recognizing the novel as one she had had looked at previously and dismissed for being rather stupid.
"Oh. Really, what is it?" she asked, turning it over in her hands; the last book he had given her had been transfigured from a bottle of wine.
"It's a book," he said in a tone of voice that suggested she was being unusually dim.
"Yes, but which one? The non-fiction about the royal arithmancers in the court of Ivan the Terrible? Ooh, is it the new bio on John Dee? I love the Elizabethan arithmancers; so brilliant."
"No, it's—" he tilted his head sideways and read the spine, "— Ione, Queen of the Druids. The bookseller recommended it for a lady who's an avid reader."
"Oh." She looked again at the book, vainly hoping to see a different cover appearing over the garish illustration of the alleged Druid queen and her be-muscled supplicant. The cover didn't change, and Ione continued to simper stupidly up at her.
"You don't like it," he said, stating it as fact rather than as a question. "The man at Flourish and Blotts said it's practically flying off shelves."
"No, it's not that—" she began, pasting a quick smile on her face.
He put out his hand for the book. "Very well; I'll return it," he said.
"Just—" she said, as he whisked it out of her hands. "Hey! Let me give it a go."
"Don't patronise." He put it with his cloak; when he turned back to her his expression was even more cross than before. "It was a last-minute purchase."
"Oh, Severus, I should never have said anything about gifts; I just wanted to be sure to see you before I left."
"So you don't have a gift for me after all? How very devious of you." His eyebrow went up.
"Of course I have a gift for you." She pulled a parcel from the voluminous pocket of her robes. "I thought you might enjoy this."
It was wrapped in plain paper with a narrow blue velvet ribbon around it, and he peeled the gift open slowly.
"Quills? And ink?" he asked with a faint smile, looking at her uncertainly.
"They're special quills from Australia; I discovered them a few years ago. The tips are very springy and strong, so they stay sharp almost forever and you can write for hours without your hand going numb." She lifted a quill from the parcel, and pushed her fingertip against the tip of the pen, which bent and sprang back into place. "And the ink just melts onto the page without dragging on the paper; I find that so annoying, don't you?"
"You sent all the way to Australia for these?" he asked, horror dawning on his face.
"No, no, these are from my personal stock. I can't bear to run out, you see. I've spent years trying to find quills that write as smoothly as Muggle pens."
He relaxed somewhat and gave her a pleased sort of grimace. "Thank you. I'll enjoy using them." He wrapped the paper back around the parcel, securing it with the ribbon and placing it with his things.
"It's a small thing, but with as much writing as we do, I've found them to be a real luxury."
"I'll think of you every time I mark some dunderhead's paper with a 'T'."
"I hope you'll think of me often, then," she teased. "That's very sentimental of you."
"Don't tell anyone."
"Not a word."
"Ach, I'm a beast," he said, scowling at the wall beyond her right shoulder.
"I know," she replied. "You could have made things much easier on yourself."
"I don't much care for surprises."
"And I understand that; it's why you're still here and why I'm still speaking to you."
He acknowledged this with a nod of his head. "Happy Christmas, Hermione."
"Happy Christmas to you, too," she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him.
"When was it that you're leaving again?" he asked between kisses, pulling her closer.
"Planning to see me off?"
He nipped at her chin. "Much rather get you off, seeing that my gift was a cock-up."
"How did you know I wanted a cock-up for Christmas?" She palmed him through his trousers, and he hissed a breath through his teeth. "By all means, continue; the Portkey's set for nine in the morning."
Hermione came wide awake at a faint sound from her front room. The ever-vigilant, maternal part of her brain had recognized her child's step, and she sat bolt upright in bed.
"Blithe?"
"Mu-um?"
Severus stirred in his sleep, and Hermione plumped the covers around him, concealing him from view. "Shhh… go back to sleep," she whispered, kissing his ear; he settled himself more comfortably, and gave a tiny, contented grunt.
She got out of bed, quickly wrapping her dressing gown around her; the room was chilly and she shivered. She drew the hangings of the bed closed even as she toed into her slippers. "What is it, sweetheart?" she asked.
"I think I've got my period." Blithe's face was wan, and she was hunched over her folded arms.
"Oh, my poor sausage," Hermione said, laughing in relief. "You're going to have a wretched Christmas, aren't you?"
Blithe nodded, wearing the most pitiful pout Hermione had seen on her daughter's face in twelve years. She put her arms around her, still chuckling. "Come on, let's get you sorted," she said in a carrying voice; as lightly as Severus slept, he would surely know to stay still and quiet while they passed through the bedroom into the en-suite.
"'s not funny," Blithe growled.
"Of course it's not funny; I was just remembering my first period. I think they're meant to be dreadful."
Blithe squinted up at her mother in the bright light of the bathroom. "What was so dreadful about yours?" she asked in a flat voice.
"I'd managed to turn myself into a great black cat, and no sooner had I got over the hairballs and shed the fur, I got cramps and diarrhoea the likes of which I'd never before experienced. Madam Pomfrey was so worried; she thought it was an unexpected side-effect of the potion until the blood appeared. I think I would much rather have kept the fur and whiskers, at that," she said.
Hermione spent half an hour transfiguring and showing her daughter a variety of sanitary napkins and tampons and telling her about the relative advantages and disadvantages of each. Blithe wasn't quite ready to try anything more involved than a napkin, and she screwed up her face in annoyance. "Isn't there something magic you can do?"
"You've had the pain relief potion; that's pretty much the extent of it. That and tea."
"Tea's not magic."
"Bite your tongue, miss. My mum always said that a good cuppa can cure anything, especially cramps. Want me to call down for a pot?"
Blithe nodded, and burrowed into her mother's side.
Hermione hugged her and pecked a kiss on her forehead, which Blithe tolerated with better-than-usual grace. "I'm glad you came to me, rather than going to the hospital wing," Hermione said.
Blithe shrugged. "Madam Pomfrey's nice, but you're Mummy."
Severus was dozing in her bed when she returned from walking Blithe to Gryffindor Tower. She curled next to him and started when he awoke enough to pull her arm around his waist. "That was a close one," he said.
"Mmm, you heard all that?" she asked.
"Bits of it."
"You won't say anything to Blithe?"
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"No, of course you wouldn't," she said, patting his hand sleepily.
He snorted, and she jumped, already half-asleep. "Strange; I was peripherally involved in your first period, too," he said.
"Mmmwhat?" she asked, her voice slurring.
"Poppy kept interrogating me about all the known side effects of Polyjuice and cross-species transformations, but your symptoms didn't fit anything to do with the potion. I finally gave up and asked her if it might not be first onset of menses instead, and off she went to check on you; I heard back later."
Hermione went perfectly still. "What? You knew?" Her voice rose alarmingly.
"I guessed." His voice took on a smug tone. "And I was right."
"You knew about my first period?"
"Oh, yes," he said, yawning.
"Wish I'd never heard that."
"Why? It didn't bother you that I knew about the period you had a few weeks ago."
"We were sleeping together then."
"We're sleeping together now."
She made an exasperated noise. "I meant that we weren't sleeping together when I had my first period."
"Of course we weren't; what sort of man do you think I am, anyway?"
"Oh, never mind. Go back to sleep." She rolled to her back and lay looking at the ceiling. She sighed. "When did this happen?"
He made an annoyed sound in his throat. "What's that?"
"When did I get this old?"
"About twenty years after I did."
She sniffled and giggled at the same time. "Somehow that doesn't make me feel better."
"I didn't realize that was expected."
"It would be nice."
"Very well." He cleared his throat. "Despite the fact that your daughter's uterus has begun to slough off its lining on a more or less monthly basis, you are nevertheless a vital, and, dare I say it, sexual being. Is that sufficient?"
"Yes. That's wonderful."
"You're easy to please, aren't you?"
"That's not what you said earlier; you do know you could have asked the bookseller for my wish list, don't you?"
"I was being discreet. Go to sleep," he said, rolling over and taking most of the blankets with him.
The following morning, Hermione, the twins, Jim-James and Wulfie caught a Portkey to a wood near Ottery St Catchpole. Harry had arranged all of the Portkey travel for the wedding through his contacts at the Ministry. While Hermione generally looked askance at Ministry-arranged special treatment, it was a relief after her late night to arrive at the Burrow within minutes rather than the hours the trip would have taken via the Express.
It was somewhat warmer in Devonshire than it was in Scotland, and, despite the chill in the air, the weather was pleasant enough for a good walk.
Harry and Ginny met them at the other end of the Portkey and walked with them the short distance to the Burrow; Jim-James' younger siblings, Arthur and little Daisy, flew at their brother and cousins, chattering excitedly about Christmas and the wedding. Jim-James gave quick hugs to his parents before chasing Arthur ahead on the path.
Harry greeted Hermione, and turned his attention to casting Locomotor on their bags, sending them on to the house.
"How are you, Hermione?" Ginny asked, looking deeply into her eyes, as if watching for tears.
Hermione winced; she hated that question, asked with that nuance. No one had ever used that inflection with her before Ron died. "I'm fine, thanks, Ginny; how are you?"
"We've hit the ground running this morning; I hope you're ready to be put to work."
"Didn't George hire a caterer?"
"Oh, yes," Harry said. "But Molly insists on cooking all of her specialities as well, as a special treat to George."
Ginny snorted. "More like, she couldn't bear to cede her kitchen to the caterer."
"So we've been set to work mixing, chopping and running interference between Molly and the cook," Harry said.
"You'll probably wish you had gone to stay with your parents after all, Hermione," Ginny said cheerfully before looking aghast. "Oh, no, I'm so sorry; how is your father?"
"He's as well as could be expected; the doctors are keeping him comfortable," Hermione said.
"What a terrible year this has been," Ginny said, linking her arm through Hermione's.
"I wouldn't want to repeat it, that's for sure."
"Come on, enough of that," Harry said, taking Hermione's other arm. "It's Christmas, we've got a big family wedding tomorrow, and none of us has to be at work. I've never seen a better excuse for getting completely pissed in my life and we'd better not waste it."
"Harry, it isn't even noon yet!" Ginny exclaimed.
"I'll need to sneak off to Diagon Alley for a few things," Hermione said, lowering her voice and looking significantly toward her children as they walked up ahead. Blithe had just shoved Wulfie into the hedgerow, and he retaliated by putting her into a headlock and rubbing her scalp with his knuckles as she howled in outrage.
"Need any company?" Harry asked.
Ginny gave him a dirty look. "He'll do anything to get out of the kitchen, that one."
"I think I will need a hand; I'm getting some rather bulky items that don't take well to shrinking. Both of you are welcome, of course," Hermione said.
"Oh, no, Mum's got me too busy for that. The two of you should go. Harry's wanted to spend time with you for ages." Ginny smiled at her husband and sister-in-law.
"When does everyone arrive?" Hermione asked.
"Fred won't arrive until tomorrow morning since Fred's running things alone in George's absence, Angelina will be here later this evening to see Wulfie, Bill and Fleur and their kids will arrive in about an hour. George will be here tonight, with Portia and her family Portkeying in just before the wedding," Harry said.
"Any word from Percy?"
Ginny grimaced. "Same as ever. Sent an owl with his felicitations. Congratulated George on finally putting an end to 'those pesky rumours of his homosexuality'."
"He didn't, really?" Hermione laughed out loud. "Typical Percy, isn't it?"
"I swear it's a form letter he sends; I got one just like it before I married Ginny."
"Oh, you did not!" Ginny protested, giggling.
"Ron got one, too, didn't he, Hermione? I think Percy protests too much, if you know what I mean," Harry said, as Ginny flew at him and cuffed him on the bicep. He ducked low and scooped her up and over his shoulder; Ginny landed with an audible "Ooof!"
"Put me down, you reprobate!" Ginny shrieked, pounding on his back.
"Molly told me to help Hermione with the baggage," Harry said, winking at Hermione as he smacked his wife on the bottom. "I'm just hauling the baggage."
Ginny protested, alternating between laughing and gasping whenever Harry would hit an uneven patch in the road. The children, drawn by the noise, ran back to them and bounced gleefully around Harry and Ginny, while the teenagers, embarrassed by their elders' high spirits, doubled their speed, putting even more distance between them.
"Me, Daddy! Me up!" Daisy shrieked, raising her arms.
Harry jumped up and down, laughing at Ginny's resultant squeals, before bending and lowering her feet to the ground. He was breathing hard, but not as hard as most men his age would be.
"You'll pay for that later," Ginny said in a low but ardent voice, giving Harry a burning look.
"Promise?" he asked with a roguish grin before noticing Hermione's averted eyes and pink cheeks. He cleared his throat. "We'd best get moving, then."
Ginny nudged his hip with hers; it was a "this isn't over yet" sort of nonverbal communication.
"Daddy's in trouble," Daisy sang in the tattletale tone beloved by children the world over.
"Daddy stays in trouble, my Daisy," Harry said, scooping the toddler up and tossing her over his shoulder.
Daisy pounded on her father's back like Ginny had done, shrieking and squealing. "Down! Down!" she cried, but when Harry bent to let her down, she said, "No, Daddy! Bounce!" Dutifully, Harry bounced.
Ginny and Hermione exchanged amused looks; Harry was owned, body and soul, by his toddler daughter.
They rounded the last bend in the path, and the Burrow in all its mad magnificence came into view. They could see Molly in the front garden, exclaiming volubly over her newly-arrived grandchildren and hugging them tightly.
Arthur, long bored with what his little sister and parents were doing, ran ahead. "Oi, Gran's made biscuits!" he shouted behind him.
Still on Harry's shoulder, Daisy began to wiggle and protest in earnest. "Daddy, down. Gramma gots biccies."
"'Has biccies,' darling," Ginny corrected as Daisy scooted up the path on chubby legs.
"Hullo, Hermione," Molly called, waving.
"We're here, too, Mum," Ginny chided in a carrying voice as Hermione waved.
"You lot left ten minutes ago, didn't you? I haven't seen Hermione since August."
"She always did like you best, didn't she?" Ginny muttered from the corner of her mouth before grinning at her sister-in-law.
"What rot! I've been persona non grata with Molly before. It's Harry who's always been the blue-eyed-boy hereabouts," Hermione said.
"Hey, leave me out of it, you two," Harry said.
Bill and Fleur and their youngest son Denis arrived while Hermione and Harry were in Diagon Alley; their two older sons were working, one in Paris and the other in Mumbai, but they had sworn to both their mother and their grandmother that they would arrive on time for the wedding.
Hermione had long since stopped wondering where everyone would stay. A small city of tents was springing up around the property, each complete to stovepipe, lavatory and full kitchen. Every few minutes someone would rap sharply on a door or a window, and another member of the Weasleys' huge extended family or another of the family's seemingly endless stock of friends would walk into the house, to shouts of greeting and back-pounding embraces.
Even after years of friendship and then marriage to Ron, Hermione didn't know half of the people who were arriving and setting up camp. She must have met some of them at her own wedding or at Ron's funeral, but she couldn't begin to identify them. Ron had seemed to know everyone at this sort of family gathering, and it had always been easier to rely on his seemingly innate knowledge than to try to keep everyone straight herself. To be sure, a good number of them now seemed to be business associates of George's, but as to the rest… it was safest simply to paste a pleasant smile on her face, greet all newcomers with a cheery hello and try to puzzle out their identities later.
Amid the sea of unknown-yet-strangely-familiar faces, it was something of a shock finally to see a face she recognized beaming through the window. Angelina Johnson, Fred's on-again, off-again ex-wife and mother of Wulfie, had arrived.
"Angelina!" Hermione kissed her erstwhile sister-in-law on the cheek. "Look at you! I can't possibly be related to someone this chic."
"What, this old thing?" Angelina said, and tossed her hair, before laughing bawdily and putting her arm around Hermione's shoulders. "You're looking very smart yourself, kid." She spoke out of the corner of her mouth. "I'm pleased you consider me a relative; Molly's still pissed off at me."
"What, the divorce? That was years ago; I thought she was over all that."
"You hadn't heard? Fred and I are sort of shacked up again."
"How can you be sort of shacked up?"
"I still have my flat and he has his, but we generally spend our nights at one place or the other."
"Oh." It sounded rather like her arrangement (for lack of a better word) with Severus and she was hard-put to remain neutral. "How is that working for you?"
"It's better than living together full-time ever was. He's not destroying my things any longer, and I don't feel the need to pick up after him." Angelina ducked her head a little, only partly concealing her silly grin. "We can have sex and fun, and when he starts to get under my fingernails I send him to his place or return to my own."
"It sounds as if you've got it figured out, then," Hermione said, struggling to keep her own silly grin at bay. "I've hated to see you two struggle so."
"We're certainly having more fun this way. The only dark spot has been the, ah, considered opinion of our august mother-in-law. Molly had Kneazles when she found out."
"She was so upset when you divorced, I should think she'd be delighted. What more could she want?"
"Naturally, she wants remarriage, one household, preferably with additional grandchildren forthcoming." Angelina ticked the list off on manicured fingers and snorted. "Not bloody likely; Wulfie's going to be 18 this year, and my baby years are well behind me, thank God. Portia is keen enough to start churning them out, anyway; Molly will be ankle-deep in grandbabies within three years, I guarantee it."
"What's she like, this Portia?"
Angelina paused, chewing her lip. "She's… well, I'm going to sound like a snotty old bitch, but she's so young, Hermione. Thinks George shits rainbows. She actually walked him around at the Ministry Christmas party, gushing about the fact that 'these hands' created the thingummy that helped Harry defeat Lord Voldemort."
Hermione and Angelina exchanged one of those raised-eyebrows, bitten-lips sorts of looks.
"Oh, dear," Hermione said. "Still, she's young and in love; she'll get over it."
"Here's hoping." Angelina shook herself. "Oh, she's a nice girl. Just a bit too earnest for my taste; in small doses I wouldn't mind so much, but as she's marrying Fred's twin brother and business partner we're thrown together rather frequently."
Molly came into the sitting room from the kitchen, and her expression, already strained from proximity to Fleur, hardened visibly. "Oh, it's you. Hello, Angelina. You'd probably like to know that Wulfric is upstairs."
Angelina smiled sweetly at her mother-in-law. "Thanks, Molly; I'm just catching up with Hermione here."
"It's so wonderful, how weddings bring families together, isn't it," Molly said. "Pity we haven't had one in such a long time. We're so long overdue."
"Oh, it might not be too long before there's another one," Angelina said.
Molly's face brightened. "Oh, really?" she asked in a noticeably warmer tone than she had used before. "When might that be?"
"Well, Wulfie's close to leaving school, so he might well be next. Or Bill's Gabriel might surprise us all and make an honest woman of his, ah, petite amie."
Molly narrowed her eyes. "Those boys are far too young to get married just yet. There's others around here who should consider becoming honest women."
"I think we have plenty of honest women around here, don't you, Hermione?" Angelina turned a bright smile on Hermione.
"I, ah, I think I… I need a Firewhiskey," Hermione said, earning her a smirk from Angelina and an approving nod from Molly.
"In the cupboard over my grandmother's china, dear," Molly said, although Hermione knew perfectly well where it was kept. Molly looked at Angelina expectantly.
"I'll go see Wulfie, then, Molly. Hermione, I'll catch up with you in a bit."
By the next afternoon, dozens of small children ran shrieking around and through the house, and the teenagers escaped the chaos to enjoy the carnival atmosphere brewing outdoors among the tents.
Of course, that wasn't all that was brewing, which was an even bigger draw to the teenagers. A Wizarding wedding was one place where Hogwarts-age-and-up children could have all the butterbeer they wanted, not to mention the place where they most frequently had their first glasses of ale or even Firewhiskey.
Hermione remembered walking from tent to tent with Ron as a girl at Bill and Fleur's wedding, drinking glass after glass of whatever was offered them. Getting gloriously, giddily drunk and kissing him for the first time. And the second and third. It was pretty much a blur after that, until they woke up the next morning, cuddled together like puppies on a fat cushion in one of the aunties' tents. The auntie had cooed over them, how innocent and sweet they looked, and Ron so protective of her even as they slept. "Could there be another wedding in the works, love?" she had asked, cackling. Ron had blushed furiously, and Hermione had avoided his eyes, and they had sworn that they would never get married, ever, whoever heard of such a thing, honestly, they were only Seventh Years, after all.
Once the word "wedding" was said aloud, though, it seemed that their marriage was at the forefront of everyone's mind, and it had only compounded by the end of the war; the press loved a good story, and having not one, but two, adorable young couples made up of decorated war heroes was irresistible. Harry and Ginny succumbed almost immediately to the pressure to marry, and Ron and Hermione escaped the clamoring for the dreaded double wedding solely by virtue of Ron's new position with Gringotts and their subsequent escape to Egypt.
They had married a few years later in April, on a soggy, chilly day. The weather had been so miserable that Fred and George had threatened to serve Pepper-Up Potion in place of punch at the reception, and by the end of the day, Hermione had been ready to take them up on it. Still, once the requisite wedding was over, they could get back to being simply Ron and Hermione together, just with less racket from the in-laws.
George, it seemed, had learned from the debacle of Ron and Hermione's wedding. Winter weather wouldn't detract from his party one bit. The largest tent on the property was a huge purple marquee, under which the wedding and the reception would take place, and a fleet of hired wizards stood every few feet, casting heating charms to banish any cold draughts rude enough to sneak through the canvas walls.
(This wasn't an unqualified success; more than one menopausal witch drew her wand on the wizards, threatening to hex them if they didn't stop overheating her.)
The ceremony was mercifully short, the reception less so. It was a difficult thing, being in the bosom of Ron's family without him. Harry himself looked a bit lost, and from time to time he would look across the marquee, ostensibly to check on her. She wondered if he, too, would catch himself looking for Ron's copper-bright head in the crowd.
They had grown accustomed to missing Mr Weasley and Charlie after so many years, and Percy had never been missed, as such; he still visited only infrequently and Fred and George took the piss out of him mercilessly each time. But Ron's so-recent loss had created a glaring hole in the Weasley warp and weft.
As if to compensate, the men were even louder and more expansive than usual. Bill and Harry claimed Hermione for several dances, and Fred escorted her to the table for dinner, a beaming Angelina trailing behind; only George seemed to be exempt from Hermione Duty as he attended his bride.
While the kindness was appreciated, the attention left Hermione feeling rather like an elderly maiden aunt: a fussy, delicate person to be pampered and cosseted. She could imagine her pre-teen and teenaged nephews being under strict orders to ask Auntie Hermione for a dance, and all the groaning and eye-rolling that this would provoke.
Unbidden, an image blossomed in her thoughts of herself dancing with Severus. Clearly a fantasy, the image had much more skill at dancing than either could possibly exhibit in actual life. The image was also more fashionably—and daringly—dressed, and, strangest of all, delighted to put on an exhibition for the assemblage: as they danced, they enacted a blatant simulation of sex, full of tangled limbs, burning gazes and shared breaths. The shocked faces of the imagined assortment of guests and Weasleys nearly made her giggle out loud. Elderly maiden aunt, ha!
"What's funny?" Harry asked.
Startled from her reverie, she missed a step in their foxtrot. "Whoops! Ah, nothing."
"It's the dancing, isn't it? Ginny said I was doing better at it."
"No, it's not your dancing." She paused. "How long do you all intend to keep this up?"
"Keep what up?"
"The 'Dance Attendance on Hermione' scheme. It's very sweet, but—"
"Why would you think there's a scheme?"
"Well, you've all been very gallant."
Harry looked at her expectantly, waiting for further examples. When none was forthcoming, he grinned. "Yeah, that would point to some scheme or other, wouldn't it?"
"It would seem to," Hermione said, laughing at his sheepish expression.
As usual when in the midst of her sisters-in-law, Hermione felt the sting of being a sparrow in a flock of tropical birds. Angelina was tall and shapely, with regal features and café-au-lait skin, Fleur turned otherwise rational men into stammering idiots, and Ginny's fiery hair and athletic figure were undimmed by years and three children.
George's new wife, Portia, was a tiny, delicate young woman; with her golden hair and bright blue eyes she resembled nothing so much as a very expensive porcelain doll.
"Welcome to the 'Merry Wives of Weasley,' Portia," Hermione said, handing George's new wife a glass of champagne.
"Oh, thank you," she said breathlessly, sinking into a chair next to Hermione. "Who are you married to, again?"
"He—it's—Ron. I'm married to Ron," Hermione faltered.
"I thought Ron was the dead one," Portia said, her pretty brow wrinkling.
Ginny blanched, and Fleur shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Angelina shot Hermione a look of sympathy.
Hermione's smile grew strained. "He is."
Portia's face fell, and she blushed from her throat to her ears. "Ohh… I'm so—"
"Ah, Portia, it is confusing, but Angelina and 'ermione make up ze, ah… auxiliary, per'aps you say, of the wives," Fleur said quickly, smiling at her sisters-in-law to encourage them to help her smooth over Portia's stumble.
The effect was rather the opposite of what she had intended.
Angelina's eyes widened and she bristled visibly. "Auxiliary? As in 'second-class'?"
"Does that make my mother an Auxiliary Weasley because she's a widow?" Ginny spat, her eyes flashing dangerously.
"Please don't—" Hermione began.
"Have another glass of champagne, Fleur; you can't stick your foot in your mouth if it's full of alcohol," Ginny said. "Surely you've figured that out after so much practice."
"I was trying to put Portia at ease, Ginevra, so it is natural zat you would not recognise it."
"Really? She looks beautifully at ease now; well done there," Ginny said, sneering.
Three heads turned in Portia's direction; the bride looked as though she wanted nothing more than for the ground to open and swallow her whole.
"Oh, shit," Hermione said; no one heard her as Fleur launched into a part-English, part-French tirade about rude, ignorant, red-headed provincials. Beside her, Portia sniffled miserably into her lacy bridal handkerchief. "It's not your fault, Portia; they've been jabbing at each other for years."
"What's all the—" Bill said, apparently drawn by the increasingly electric atmosphere; his head swivelled take in both his wife and his sister. It would have been of no use for anyone else to try to claim responsibility for the spat. Fleur, normally pale, was positively glacial in her fury, and Ginny's ruffled hair and posture suggested nothing less than an enraged ginger cat about to attack.
Fleur crossed her arms and tossed her head becomingly, muttering loudly enough for onlookers to hear. "Il y en a qui ne se prennent pas pour de la merde!"
"Fleur, love, calm down. I'm sure Ginny didn't mean it—"
"The hell I didn't! She has the nerve—"
"Cette petite prétentieuse—"
As if on cue, the rest of the husbands turned up. George took in Portia's tears and miserable expression, and, shooting a furious glance at the other wives, ushered her away, protected within the circle of his arms. Harry backed Ginny up towards the house, trying to soothe her even as she gesticulated angrily towards Fleur. Fleur scowled (still becomingly) at Ginny as Bill tried to coax the story from her.
Fred and Angelina walked off, heads together, already gossiping about the controversy; of all the couples involved, they would have the most fun with it.
That's what she and Ron would have done, Hermione realized. They would have joked about it privately, comfortable within the cocoon of their long relationship.
The quick decampment of her sisters- and brothers-in-law had left her alone in her little corner of the marquee, and suddenly the idea of finding her bed had never been so appealing. She stood, pulling her cloak around her in preparation for venturing away from the warmth spells, and ducked through two flaps in the marquee fabric. This party could continue without her.
It was late morning the next day before there was much activity at the Burrow. Most seemed to be sleeping off the effects of too much Firewhiskey, too much food, too much dancing, or all of the above. Hermione had the kitchen to herself for an hour or two, and she relished every peaceful moment of it, drinking several cups of tea and reading the Daily Prophet.
Before long, however, there were stirrings both within and without the house. The kids were eager to get up and play, and breakfast must be got for them, however ill the parents felt at the prospect. Since her own children were old enough to find themselves a bowl of muesli or a plate of beans on toast when they got hungry, Hermione left the kitchen to those who really needed it.
Harry was in the sitting room, looking cross.
"Sorry, Harry; should I leave?" Hermione asked, taking an involuntary step back.
"Nothing new; just Jim-James and I starting in on it early." He grimaced. "I'm not an image-obsessed old wanker, am I?"
"Of course you're not old," she said, waiting a beat for him to shoot her an indignant look. "Well, you're not. You're almost a year younger than me, and I'm not the least bit old. Or so I keep reminding myself."
"I never thought that just being my son would be such a burden." He frowned, running a hand through his hair. "You try to give your children the things you needed as a child, good things like a loving family and security. And you still manage to fuck them up in entirely new ways."
"Jim-James is a good kid, and you're too hard on yourself. You haven't fucked your children up; look at Arthur," Hermione said, indicating the serious-looking redheaded boy, apparently engrossed in a book.
"Arthur's still in primary school, and he doesn't have the same disposition. He'll end up in Azkaban or as Minister of Magic, or both, that one; he's rather like Fred and George in that way. Does what he pleases, doesn't much care what anyone else says. Jim-James has always needed to prove himself."
Hermione gave him a significant look, and he shrugged. "Yeah, I know. But I was content to live up to what I thought my father achieved. Jim-James considers himself a failure if he doesn't surpass me."
"He's not competing against you, Harry."
"No, he's competing against me, and his uncles, and his cousins. What is he reading?" Harry mused, almost to himself. "Excuse me for a moment." He crossed the room. "What's that, Arthur?" he asked.
Arthur shut the book with a snap. "Nothing!"
"Give over, son," Harry said with the near-deadly seriousness he affected when one of his sons misbehaved.
Hermione approached the two; whatever else, Arthur's antics usually had the benefit of being entertaining, and she was Arthur's aunt and godmother. She might need to intercede with his father on his behalf.
Hanging his head, Arthur gave his father the thick leather-bound book, with The Compleat Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle: 1950-2000 tooled on the cover. "What's wrong with this?" Harry asked, confused. "You're allowed—"
The book fell open to the title page, which read, The ALL-NEW Postures of Aretino: Fully Charmed for Your Pleasure.
Harry went white and red at the same time, and his lips twitched. Hermione looked at him in some alarm as he began to cough. She took the book from his hands and flipped the pages forward.
There, in glorious photorealistic colour, a very enthusiastic, well-endowed, naked woman magically rode her equally well-endowed male partner's crotch. Hermione watched in dawning horror as the moving illustration focussed closer and closer on the pertinent points of contact, before she slammed the book covers shut.
"Dad, it's Wulfie's! I was looking for something to read, and I found this, and I thought it was Martin Miggs, but it wasn't, and—"
"Outside," Harry said in a strangled voice. He pointed towards the door.
Arthur looked from his father to his aunt with frightened eyes, and bolted outside, barely pausing to grab his coat.
"Is he gone?" Harry growled.
Hermione nodded.
He made a low keening sound, followed by a pained cackle. "Oh, shit. That boy is going to be the death of me." He laughed in an unhinged manner until tears ran down his face, and Hermione couldn't stop herself joining in.
"Should we tell Fred that Wulfie's got a load of porn, cleverly disguised as children's literature?" Harry asked when he could summon the breath to speak again.
"Fred probably gave it to him," Hermione said darkly.
"Yeah, you're right," Harry agreed with a grimace. "That's where Ron—" he began, and stopped, blushing even more vividly. He pulled off his glasses and wiped them on his jumper. "I should, ah, at least tell Wulfric to make sure the little ones can't get at it." He reached for the book.
"Not so fast, Harry," Hermione said, chuckling and holding the book behind her back. "I haven't seen this one before." She turned her back on him and began turning the pages.
"It wasn't in colour, the version Ron had; the same pictures, but they were just line drawings," Harry said from over her shoulder. He laughed, self-consciously scratching his jaw; his nails against his shaved face made bristly noises, which momentarily distracted her. Despite abundant evidence to the contrary, she was always a little surprised to find him an adult with children, a career and a need to shave regularly. "Neither of us had seen a naked woman before," Harry said. "We have a lot to thank Fred and George for, actually."
"It sounds as though Ginny and I do, as well," Hermione said, her voice artificially high.
He looked closely at her, as if inspecting her for something. "You know that it was always you for him, Hermione. Until the day he died, he thought he was the luckiest guy in the world. God, I miss him."
Hermione felt the familiar prickling in her eyes. "Me, too."
Ginny's voice called from the kitchen. "Harry, would you go outside and check on the little ones? James is supposed to be looking after them, but I don't see him anywhere."
"He's probably on his broom; sure, I'll go," Harry called. "Join me?" he asked Hermione, who nodded and, on afterthought, reduced the book, slipping it into her pocket for later study.
They put on their coats and went outside. The day was a pleasant one for winter; it was a bit overcast and there was a chill in the air, but there was little wind.
The older kids were, indeed, on their brooms, playing at Quidditch. Wulfie and Blithe bickered good-naturedly over the position of the makeshift goal hoops and foul zones.
Arthur saw his father come out the door and made himself scarce; Hermione saw him head toward the far side of the broom shed, to watch the game unobserved. She made a mental note to herself to talk to him later.
Daisy ran headlong into Hermione, hugging her knees tightly. "Auntie-miney, sing 'Daisy Daisy.'"
"Oh, not the 'Daisy' song again," Harry said, groaning. "She ran around the house for weeks after we saw you last, singing 'Daisy, Daisy, Daisy…' over and over." He bent to ruffle the toddler's caramel-coloured hair.
"No, Daddy, Auntie sing now." Daisy shrugged off her father's touch, and stuck her chin out determinedly.
Hermione swept up her youngest niece and settled her on her hip. "You want me to sing?" The child nodded as if her head were attached to a string. "You're going to have to help me. Ready?"
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do,
I'm half crazy all for the love of you,
It won't be a stylish marriage
I can't afford a carriage
But you'll look sweet
Upon the seat
Of a bicycle built for two!
Daisy sang loudly and tonelessly, stumbling over the words in the middle, but shouting the words at the end of each line. For her part, Hermione was no born singer, but she could carry the tune to the toddler's standard, which was all that mattered.
Daisy held up her chubby little arms in triumph at the end of the song. She looked stonily at Harry, and stuck out her chin again. "See, Daddy. 'Daisy Daisy' song." She nodded decisively, and looked at Hermione. "Down," she said, in a voice that brooked no argument. Hermione put Daisy back on the ground, and she scampered off toward the Quidditch pitch.
"That looked like a challenge to me," Hermione said, giggling.
"You have no idea. I had this belief at one time that raising a girl would be easier than the boys."
Hermione hooted. "Even after watching Blithe all these years?"
"I chalked that up to her being a Weasley twin."
"More fool you."
"Don't I know it," Harry said sheepishly.
"It sounds as if you'd better be able to produce the 'Daisy Daisy' song the next time Her Ladyship requests it. Would you like me to write down the words?"
"That'd be helpful, thanks." He stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. "How is it, at Hogwarts? No trouble from anyone?"
"No," she said.
"Colleagues treating you well?" He was being elaborately casual, looking down the hedgerow.
"Oh, yes, they've all been wonderful. Welcomed me with open arms, you might say."
"Really?" he asked with an odd look on his face.
"Absolutely. They drink toasts to me each night, and kiss my arse each morning. It's a perfect situation."
"Hermione…"
"What do you want to know, Harry? You're dreadful at beating 'round the bush."
"Is Snape being decent to you?"
"Yes. He is being completely decent to me. He's even been something of a mentor."
"I had some worries, especially after Bill told me about his trip to Hogwarts."
"Severus was just looking out for me; he heard me yelling at Bill."
"Severus, is it?"
Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "How else should I speak of a colleague? I call Minerva by her name, and you don't even bat an eye."
"You've mentioned him a few times today," he said. "I don't think anyone else noticed, but I did."
Hermione's face froze.
"When I add to that an interesting rumour that I heard a month or so ago, it makes me think that there's perhaps more going on than meets the eye." He smiled at her with one corner of his mouth, looking as if something were dragging down the other corner.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, blotting out the grey midday light and the field and the flying children. "Do you hate me? I can stand almost anything but that."
"It's true, then," he said shortly, and snorted a bitter laugh. He sighed heavily. "No, I don't hate you. It just makes me sad."
"Do you think it's too soon?" Icy tears rolled down her cheeks, and a sudden sharp breeze licked them away.
"Soon, what's soon? Twenty years would be too soon for my liking, but you can't live according to my timetable, can you, however much I'd like it. I've got the woman I love with me every day; I get to kiss her and hold her and argue with her." He ducked his head, but not before she saw his chin wobble. "I've tried to imagine what I'd do in your place, and I can't."
"You don't mind?" she asked, her voice choked off by the knot in her throat.
"Oh, I mind. I mind one hell of a lot."
"Then… I don't understand."
"I was hoping that, when it happened, it could be Krum, or someone like that. Someone I might be friends with, who'd fit in with the family," Harry said. He sniffed hard, and his green eyes were brighter than usual. "You won't be married to my best friend ever again."
Hermione sighed. "Oh, Harry, I won't be married to anyone ever again."
"He won't take you away from us, then, will he?"
She shot him an offended look. "What makes you think he'd be able to? And why would he want to, anyway? We don't live in each other's pockets. We see each other privately maybe… a few times a week."
She saw Harry's eyebrows rise, comically impressed. "A few times a week?" he asked. "I'd underestimated the old bas—boy. Does he use any special potions—"
She elbowed him in the belly. "I like my privacy and having my own space, and he… he doesn't like to be dependent on anyone."
"And you're okay with that? You and Ron…"
"I know. Yes, this suits me."
"How does he feel about you?"
"He cares in his way," she said. "He doesn't say it, but then he rarely says what he really means. With Severus, I usually have to look at his actions and disregard what he says."
"That sounds like fun," Harry said dryly.
"He comforts me when I'm feeling overwhelmed or sad. He might do it by teasing me or pissing me off, but I'll feel better afterwards. He came to fetch me from Hogsmeade after I'd spent the day in hospital with my father. He cares, and he shows it; not everyone would see it, but I can, and it's... lovely."
Harry nodded, almost absently, and Hermione just had to smile at the absurdity of it all. "You're taking this rather well. I thought you hated Severus."
"We came to an understanding a few years ago, thanks to Minerva. I would never have sent Jim-James to Hogwarts if I thought Snape would treat him like… well, he's been good as his word. He's no tougher on my son than he is on anyone else, and that's good enough for me." He shook his head in puzzlement. "I understand that the kids rather enjoy his classes, but he always did like the Dark Arts."
"He's good at it. Remember sixth year Defence?"
Harry snorted again. "How could I forget it?"
"Look, Harry, I'm going to tell Molly before I go back to Hogwarts. I wouldn't want her to learn of it from anyone else," Hermione said. "I expect you'll want to tell Ginny… would you wait until after I've told Molly?"
"I'll wait until we're back in Spain; you'd be less likely to hear the shrieking." Hermione winced, and Harry patted her shoulder. "Why didn't he come here with you? If there's music to be faced, he should face it, too."
"It's not his music to face. There's no declaration of everlasting commitment here. It's just me, telling my late husband's family that I've started seeing someone."
"Still. It's not very… decent of him." His expression was growing truculent, and she sighed inwardly.
"He did offer. Can you imagine me showing up with him at George's wedding, though? It would be so rude, as if I was trying to steal Portia's thunder. I don't want to rub anyone's nose in this. It's my business, and his, and I'm only telling those people who would be hurt by not knowing."
"Were you going to tell me, then? Or should I be grateful that I was able to make Sickles of your precious few Knuts?" His eyes narrowed, and she could see his fists clench.
"Of course I was going to tell you, Harry. Right after I told Molly. I wouldn't keep something like that from you."
After a moment he nodded, albeit a little tersely. "What about the twins? What are you going to tell them?"
She sighed. "I keep going back and forth on it. They have as much right to know as you or Molly, if not more. But they're kids, and it's a lot to saddle them with; what child wants to hear about his parent's love life?"
"If you don't tell them, they'll only hear about it in the worst possible way."
"They already have, sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Right after the term started. Peeves stirred up a racket when Severus and I left Minerva's office together, and a student heard it. He repeated it to Fabian, and Fabian decked him."
"Our Fabian? Decked someone?" Harry whistled.
"And then Blithe joined in. Knocked the wind out of him."
"Well, that's entirely in character," Harry said, nodding.
"Severus said that Jim-James was the lone voice of reason amongst them."
Harry laughed out loud, and several heads turned their way. "That must have narked him off a good one. That's my boy."
A/N:
Special thanks to foudebassan for French idiom and translations.
"Il y en a qui ne se prennent pas pour de la merde!" Literally: "someone here doesn't think they're shit." Idiomatically: "someone here thinks they're God's gift to humankind."
"Petite prétentieuse" - that little arrogant missy who thinks herself above me.
I first heard about The Postures of Aretino as a mention in shiv5468's very excellent PWP, "The Bookshop". She didn't invent it, as it was an erotic picture book lost to history, but I wouldn't have used it without her. My version is a modern "update" of the classic, designed to sell as many copies as possible (probably published in the US).
Is there anything worse than getting a book as a gift from someone who doesn't know your taste in reading? Severus doesn't have a whole lot of experience buying gifts for a lady-friend, bless him. It's just my little snark on the cliché of Severus and Hermione always giving each other the perfect gifts. Or if the gift is the wrong gift, it's cute à la "Gift of the Magi".
The Harry Potter Lexicon places Ottery St Catchpole in Devonshire, based on the location of the real-life town, Ottery St Mary, located on the Otter River.
Thanks to my readers, for being so enthusiastic about my quarterly offerings. I honestly mean for the updates to be more often than this, but…
Finally, thanks to my dear selened, for being my beta, my boot and my Britpicker extraordinaire. Mwaahhh!