Chapter 8:
September 3rd, 1999
"George? Anyone home?" Hermione called out to the seemingly deserted flat. She generally brought soup over to George's once a month, just to keep up with him and make sure he was staying afloat. After Fred had died, George had tail spun into depression and Hermione had more than once caught him eyeing the balcony of his flat with more than interest in the scenery. She was worried about him to say the least. She wasn't sure how to handle it, but also knew that the Weasleys wouldn't be able to handle another death or tragedy in the family. With Percy back in the fold, the family had begun to heal itself, but George was left without his normal coping mechanism and for the first time in his life was having to learn how to be alone.
Hermione could relate to that. She was an only child, and even with Ron and Harry she was often the odd-woman out. Therefore, she took it upon herself to check in on George every so often, just to ensure that he was alright.
She glanced around the parlour room and noticing the light on, she walked into the kitchen. She set the miniature crock-pot on the stove and placed her autumn coat on one of the kitchen chairs. She tugged her oxford polo to straighten it out and stepped out of her clogs; padding around in her fuzzy socks and jeans was the norm for her.
Glancing around again and calling out for George once more, she wandered into the back area of the flat, where George's bed and bathroom were along with Fred's old room. Hermione had tried to persuade him to move out, but she couldn't convince him to leave the last of Fred's memory behind.
She knocked on George's door and not hearing an answer, opened it softly. "George?" she called out softly. She felt a slight breeze and noticed the drapes shifting in the wind from the open balcony doors. Gasping slightly, she hurried across the room. She heard a crinkle of paper and stopped, bent down and picked up a piece of parchment with a scribbled poem on it …
Droplets of water
Fall like rain.
They twist and slide
Along the roundness of my cheek.
Droplets of water
Reflecting the inner soul,
The sadness,
The madness within.
Droplets of water
Leaking out;
Attempting to
Purge away the pain.
Droplets of water
Pour out.
An inner attempt to
Purge the agony and ache.
Droplets of water
Enclose the
Weary face and eyes
Hiding the need to say, "Help."
Hermione felt a tear roll down her cheek and slowly walked out the balcony door, the parchment held loosely in her hand. She walked out onto the marble balcony and found George Weasley curled into fetal position in front of Fred's balcony door and fast asleep. His eyes were puffy and his forehead warm, so Hermione knew that he had been crying for a while before finally drifting off to sleep.
She drew out her wand and softly lifted him into his bedroom onto his bed. She prayed that this was a turning point for him. George had been stoic for a year since Fred died, and Hermione hoped that this meant he was finally mourning his lost twin. She tucked the parchment of what she recognized as George's handwriting into the side table's drawer and slipped out of the room.
Maneuvering her way into the kitchen, she began heating up the soup so it would be ready any time George woke. She also began to boil some water for a few cups of chamomile tea that she felt would come in handy for the headache George would be sporting.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, she groaned slightly and walked over to the Floo. Flooing her flat, she called out "Ron?" With no answer, she flooed Harry's flat, "Harry?"
"Hermione?" asked Harry in a puzzled tone. She didn't normally floo him, preferring to either telephone him or simply apparate in.
"Yes. Is Ron there with you?" She hated floo calling, it always gave her a crick in the neck.
She could see Harry glanced backwards and then flicking his eyes to her face once more, "Er, yea … d'you need to talk to him?"
She sighed in relief, "Oh no, I only wanted to tell him I'd be late 'cause I'm making up some soup for George here and I'm running a bit behind. Were you two planning on eating out?"
Harry nodded, "We were about to pop over to your place to pick you up. You don't want to go, then?"
Hermione shook her head, curls bouncing in the flickering firelight, "No, I think I'll stay and eat with George tonight, he could use some company. Night, Harry. Tell Ron I'll see him back at the flat." With that her head disappeared and Harry turned back to his red-haired friend.
"Well, mate, I guess its boy's night out!"
Ron rolled his eyes, "See she doesn't even care anymore. I could bloody go to a strip club and she wouldn't notice. Wanna try?"
Harry felt his eyes widen slightly, "Er Ron, you do remember I'm dating your sister, right? I don't think she'd appreciate that. Why don't we just go to the pub?"
Ron shrugged and the two popped away.
Back at George's, Hermione was setting out place-mats and soup bowls for the two of them. She heard a rustling in the bedroom and knew that George would soon be out and ready for food. Ladling out the soup into the bowls, she levitated them onto the table and began to pour the tea. There was nothing she liked more than hearty potato chowder with chamomile tea.
Hearing a soft grunt from behind her, she turned and smiled at the sleepy-eyed burly red-head. She motioned to the table and sat down without waiting. She knew he wouldn't be ready to talk, but she would be there nonetheless, just in case he was.
He shuffled over to the table and sat down at the chair, avoiding her eyes. He dug into the soup eating a few large mouthfuls before realizing how hot it was. Hermione watched under her eyelashes as he scrambled for the mug next to his placemat and gulped down the even hotter tea. She stifled a giggle when she saw him wince and looked away quickly when he put down the mug, scowling.
"Who in their right mind would put two scalding hot dishes together and not remember something to cool it off." He grumbled, getting up to look for a pitcher of water and his wand to heal his burnt taste-buds.
Hermione started laughing, "I never did understand why Mrs. Weasley had so many children, all those hotheads in one house." George looked back at her sheepishly. She grinned up at him, "Plus I know potato is your favorite, whether you'll admit it or not, even if it doesn't have any meat in it. And I thought the chamomile would do you good, something to soothe a raw throat?"
George sat back down and looked at her with gloomy eyes, "Soothing is good. I've denied for too long, but I'm not ready to talk 'bout it Hermione, if that's ok."
She waved her hand at him, "Of course it is. Never said I needed a story. Everyone's entitled to a good cry once in a while. Hell, I've been a regular rain cloud the past month." She glanced over at the stocky, one-eared man and wondered how he still managed to pull off being nonchalantly handsome. She knew girls were still after him, and while she thought of him as a brother, she could see the appeal of the former beater.
"A rain cloud, eh?" George took a sip of water, "What's up? Ron being an arse again? Need to fire him for you?"
George stared at the witch across from him. She was in casual comfort like always, not one to wear anything beyond what was necessary; she had an oversized oxford button-up on with straight-leg jeans and her favorite fluffy socks. Her hair was pulled up into a knot and her face was devoid of make-up, the maturity showing through. He couldn't understand what she saw in Ron, but figured that it was up to the two of them to decide things. He knew that they had practically been shoved at each other, and while there may have been a spark or two, he was surprised it hadn't shriveled up by now.
Hermione rolled her eyes, "No, don't you dare. He'd never forgive me for one. I don't know, we're just a little strained, go figure. I can't tell what he wants. I know he wants to make us work, but it almost seems like he feels we don't need to work at it, that it will just come. Even I know relationships don't work like that."
George nodded, "Ron's a right prat. You knew that going in. He'll learn if you tell him though." He waved his spoon at her, "My advice, shag him stupid and then tell him you want to work on the relationship, after. He'll be susceptible to anything then."
Hermione grinned, "You know that might just work." They set back into their potato soup and launched into a winded discussion on how to limit a Wingardium Leviosa to an object other than a carpet or a broom.
At the end as they were cleaning up the kitchen and drying off the dishes manually, Hermione felt that magicking them always left streaks, George brought up working with Lucius Malfoy.
Hermione shrugged, "I mean, he's Malfoy. It's not like I can get out of the job, but he isn't horrid either. He's obviously had a bad time of it, with his family fleeing to France and everyone in Britain hating him." She glanced back at George's understanding face, "He didn't fight in the final battle and ultimate Narcissa saved Harry, so the Ministry really had no grounds unfortunately."
"You could have sent him away, you know," commented George quietly.
Hermione paused, staring out the window above the sink, and replied softly, "I know. He didn't, couldn't do anything. He was as much a prisoner as I was. The old witch was dead by then and I honestly just wanted to ignore what had happened." She took a deep breath, "But we're learning to coexist. I learn about pureblooded culture and I make sure he learns about mine. It's only for a year or so. If I can handle Harry and Ron through six years of school, I can handle Lucius Malfoy for one year of work."
George grinned at Hermione's back and wondered how many times he would get to remind her of her words before she was free of the idiot pureblood.
Ron drunkenly stumbled into his and Hermione's flat around 2am, faltering slightly on his own feet. He flipped the muggle light switch on, a feature he rather enjoyed compared to the flickering quality of Lumos, and noticed a very asleep, but nearly nude Hermione curled up on the couch. He couldn't help but groan slightly at the sight of her bared flesh in the silk gown that she favored for sleep. Had he not had a good snogging with that blonde at the bar, after Harry left, he probably would have been on top of the sleeping witch in moments.
He didn't notice the make-up present on her face, showing that perhaps an effort had been made just for him. He didn't notice the up-do of her usually unkempt hair, nor did he notice the smell of his favorite perfume for her. He was too inebriated and self-pitying to see the efforts she was putting forth. He would see later that it was a time of mixed signals … really a relationship of mixed or missed signals.
As it was, he flicked the lights off and shuffled into the bedroom, not even bothering to get his girlfriend a blanket in his hazy desire for sleep.
September 25th, 2017
"You realize my dear that the announcements are going to be made within the next two months. We aren't going to be able to hide any longer." Lucius and Hermione were curled up on the large duvet, in front of a roaring fire, nursing glasses of firewhiskey.
Hermione sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, "I know, I know. I just … it's not like we've really hidden it. I mean, purposely not told people … yes; but, if someone does ask, it's not like we lie."
Lucius smirked and Hermione swatted his arm, feeling his lips move against her hair. He drawled, "My dear, it's not as though we can live in solitude forever. It isn't fair to those who do know to have to keep it a secret from those who don't." He massaged her right bicep with his large hand. "Unless you don't want to admit it because you're scared of what people will think. Of what they'll say and do to you …" He held his breath slightly.
Hermione turned towards him, "Lucius, you know that isn't true. Yes, I care what Harry and Ron think, but that's it! Everyone else can be damned. Bill and Fleur accepted us for what it was, and if everyone else is my friend, they will too. The day Bill found out and did nothing was the day I stopped caring. I love you, Lucius Malfoy, whether you choose to believe it or not." She leaned up and kissed him soundly on the lips.
A motion he deepened, pulling her towards him and reveling in the feel of her still supple body against his own. She pulled back slightly, eyes glazed, "How is it that you still kiss me breathless after all these years?"
He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her, "I still can't believe we have what we do. Who would have imagined? Well, I suppose what comes, comes. As long as you don't denounce me in front of everyone, we'll be fine." He grinned to show her he was teasing.
She punched him on the arm, "Hey, you. I don't see what you're worried about. I'm the one who should be worried. Women still swoon over you, I'm just a frumpy old nobody." She pouted out her lower lip, the fact that women still liked to chase her man ruffled her feathers.
His eyes darkened, "Do you know what I see when I look at you my love?" She shook her head, "I see hair the color of caramel and honey with hints of chocolate and well some white chocolate too running through." He avoided her indignant smack, "I see eyes the color of soothing peach tea, ready to be at my side whenever I should need them. I see a caring face, willing to take care of anyone in need of a little help. I see a beautiful, fit body, perfectly suited for my own desires. Breasts that fill up my hands," he took one in each and squeezed lightly, Hermione's head rolling slightly, "hips that flare out and let me have purchase when I'm slamming into your tight heat." He ran his hands down her torso and hips, causing her to shiver slightly. "Thighs that are as muscular today as they were when you were in your twenties, ready to clench me to your body at a moment's notice." He ran his hands down her legs and then stopped.
He brought his hand up to her chin and pulled it so she was looking straight into his eyes, "But most of all, my witch, I see a heart," he placed his hand just below her collarbone, over her heart, "a heart that beats just for me. A heart that was willing to put prejudice aside and accept new growth. A heart that gave me a second chance at love, something I never thought would happen."
Hermione felt a tear roll down her cheek and raised a palm up to Lucuis' own firm cheek, "Oh my husband, you are too much. How did I ever end up with you?"
A voice drawled from the doorway, "As poignant as this scene is … that question seems to be a lovely place to start with explanations."
September 8th, 1999
Hermione had just signed into the medi-wizard's office and was being led to a private curtain when she heard a slight sobbing from another examination curtain. She flicked her head towards it and strained her ears, but couldn't hear anything.
"Miss Granger, right this way please," said the young trainee who had led her in. The woman was probably a year or so older than herself and was wearing the traditional green robes of healers.
Hermione nodded and sat behind the curtain, changing out of her midnight blue work robes and dress into the ward robe and settling into the bed. She kicked off her blue pumps and sighed in relief. Her feet ached from all the standing she'd been doing at the meetings, and she couldn't wait until she wasn't an intern and actually merited a chair at the table – despite the fact that she was the one doing all the work. Groaning, she lay back into the familiar healer's bed and looked up at the ceiling.
She was once again in for a meeting about the curse Dolohov had hit her with in the fourth year. She found that her cramps had been particularly bad during her period and she wondered if it might have something to do with it. However, the Healers had been so elated at finding someone who had survived the curse she had been coerced into a monthly check-up so they could examine her torso.
She heard a curtain be pulled back slightly and the sniffling became a little louder, "I'm sorry Miss Brown, but the test results don't lie. You're pregnant."
The young healer that cam back to check on the famous Miss Granger, the one she read about in all the Prophet articles, found her on the bed in a dead faint.
A/N: The poem is mine, I wrote it, I own it.