Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling; I'm only visiting her universe for nonprofit fun and edification. (No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended).
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It's four o'clock in the morning; through the windows open to the predawn darkness, the birds are making themselves known. Hermione nurses her morning coffee, wondering if she will ever return fully to daylight life. She sleeps better than she did, but the jet-lag has been extraordinarily hard to shake, and then there's the excursion to take place that day, the return invitation to Malfoy Manor. Her father is uncommonly excited about the chance for a tour of the grounds at a stately home, even one on the other side of the border.
She never has told them what happened to her there. What's the point, after all? Neville knows, of course; oddly enough, one of their first times together, it came up… in this very place, in fact, one day after reception duty at the clinic. They sat in this kitchen, with the afternoon sun slanting in, and had tea, and then… and then kissed, or rather he looked at her in that sweet inquiring way, and she stood up and leaned across the table to kiss him, to say that yes, she'd meant that first impetuous kiss in the hallway at the clinic.
She still remembers the strain in her back and legs, because that kiss from an awkward angle lasted a very long time. When he reluctantly released her, she drew back and touched the livid scar across his cheekbone. He read that caress as a question, and told the story of it in more detail than she had expected.
When in return he stroked her cheek and neck, he chanced to touch the fine line on her neck, silvery she would suppose, where Bellatrix had drawn her knife across the skin in threat (under that barely visible thread of scar beats the carotid artery). Her torture at the Manor was so long ago, and she'd had months of counseling, so it ought to have been safe, but in the course of the telling, a full-blown flashback overtook her, of which she was miserably ashamed afterward.
Neville asked her if she expected that she ought to be stronger than other people, and she answered without hesitation, "Of course."
He came around to her side of the table, sat beside her, and with his arms about her and his cheek against hers, he told her how he'd played that role—the tower of strength—for the better part of a year. In Harry's place. By the end, he'd forgotten it was a part; it felt more like an expectation. They'd all forgotten who Harry really was, for they'd turned him into a fictional character, an icon or idol of defiance, that asked of them unyielding heroism.
Now that the war was over, it would be safe to re-learn how to be merely human… which thought he concluded with a kiss on her forehead.
ooo
She startles, and sets down the cup. There's an owl pecking at the glass. To be expected, of course, because she's removed another layer of defensive charms, and now she's on the Owl Post once more. She opens the window and starts at the huge wingspan of the creature, and its ferocious expression; it's an eagle owl of rather majestic appearance.
It isn't until she feeds the owl its treat—actually, a double or triple ration—and it relents sufficiently to let her untie the letter from its leg, that she sees the seal on it, a complex device of heraldic serpents, green with a netting of silver scales, on a black ground. Very pretentious and likely hereditarily Slytherin, ah yes, so it is, for the letter is from Draco.
She drinks the last of the coffee as she reads the letter and the owl waits, glowering, for her reply. At least he isn't showing up unannounced at four o'clock in the morning, but politely asking if he may pay a social call some hours later. It isn't her he means to meet, of course, but her mother, who is still asleep upstairs.
Given the events of the last few weeks, Hermione is confident enough to extend the invitation in her place.
ooo
Their correspondence had begun with the garden party, at which Narcissa fell into pleasant conversation with Hermione's father about rose bushes (which still strikes her as surreal). After the meal, she expected that her mother and Neville's Gran would talk, leaving her and Neville and Draco to entertain the baby as they had before dinner.
It had turned out quite differently. She fell to talking with Gran about some point of occult engineering—impolite, she knows, to talk shop over dessert, but sometimes she can't help herself.
In her absorption, she lost track of the conversation about her, and when next she paid attention, she heard Draco asking her mother's advice about babies, Hypatia in particular, and whether she might be teething; she seemed fretful of late. They were fully as absorbed in their colloquy as Narcissa and William had been in the discussion of rose breeding.
At length, Elizabeth told him that it couldn't all be explained in one go, and he followed her to her study, to accept the loan of some popular books on child development. Elizabeth said she expected that much of babyhood was the same on both sides of the border. "Until the wild magic starts," she added, "which of course isn't covered in our standard references. I expect you'll be hard put to keep up with her then, but I suppose you're prepared for that sort of thing. I must say it took me by surprise."
(In all the years she's known him, Draco Malfoy has never smiled as he did at her mother's, her Muggle mother's implication that his baby sister was going to be a formidable witch. That genuine, incandescent smile made him briefly beautiful.)
He asked if he might forward further questions by Owl, and Elizabeth said that she would be more than happy to answer them.
It took more than a few of those letters for Hermione to understand the situation. Narcissa puts on a brave face, but it's Draco who's caring for the child, and feeling increasingly frightened at the task he's undertaken. Hermione only recently has come to understand that Narcissa is seriously depressed, which realization was substantially delayed by the role she plays in Hermione's nightmares.
She can't help comparing Draco's situation to Harry's, but Harry isn't raising Teddy alone; he's helping Andromeda, and for all her losses, Teddy's grandmother is in better spirits than her sister. Andromeda Tonks is that rarest of all creatures, the practical-minded rebel, and she has extensive experience in living on slender means. Teddy has an official godfather in Harry, and an unofficial godmother in Ginny, and a whole crowd of unofficial relations in the Weasley clan. As Molly Weasley's first grandchild, he is fussed over more than any child in wizarding Britain, Hermione would be willing to wager. He is a cheerful, curious child who charms everyone he meets…
… well, with the possible exception of Crookshanks. Teddy Lupin is in love with Crookshanks, but the passion is not reciprocated. Crookshanks hides as soon as Teddy puts in an appearance.
Harry and Ginny brought him over the other day, and Crookshanks disappeared upstairs as soon as he heard Teddy's voice. Teddy is passionate in his affections, and flings himself on what he loves; his approach to his great-aunt Narcissa in the waiting room was quite typical. He's fascinated by hair and spectacles; when he's holding Teddy, Harry still has to take his spectacles off and hold them out of range.
Ginny has cut her hair short, claiming that it gets in her eyes less when playing Quidditch, but given that she wore it long through her entire career as Seeker in their sixth year, Hermione suspects that the real reason for the new coiffure is her impetuous godson.
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Hermione's mother is the first one down the stairs, dressed already for their expedition in sensible but elegant clothes, loose long sleeves and light fabric to keep off the sun. She sets about preparing breakfast, a substantial one by the look of it; she's always believed in feeding up properly before an expedition.
"There was an Owl, mum," Hermione says. "Malfoy wanted to know if he could stop by early, so I told him you'd be in."
Elizabeth Granger smiles wryly at her daughter. "I've been meaning to ask why you still call each other by surnames."
It isn't the question that startles, so much as her mother's sharp dark eyes on her. She realizes that Neville's Gran has the same sort of eyes, as does Minerva McGonagall, which may be why she's never been very much intimidated by either of them—well, no more than she is by her mother, which is to say, that she's been surrounded by female Powers all her life.
She shrugs. "I don't know. It's what we've always called each other, when he hasn't been calling names." She pours herself another cup of coffee. "It just seems… safer, somehow. We're not friends, exactly, but he isn't an enemy anymore."
"He calls you Hermione when he talks to me."
"I suppose it would be odd for him to call me Granger, given you have the same name." She frowns. "I think I don't understand."
"Your father and I had lunch with Arthur Weasley at the Leaky Cauldron last week. He showed me the press clippings."
She puts down two earthenware plates laden with breakfast. "I know you already ate your notion of a breakfast, but you ought to have a bit more. I suspect the Manor grounds are rather more extensive than you'd think."
Hermione says that she wouldn't know, not having walked them, but nonetheless obediently picks up her fork and starts to eat.
"There are some things you didn't tell us, it would seem, not that I quite blame you. Arthur Weasley talked quite a bit about how well you've borne up in the late unpleasantness; I suppose he thought we knew what had happened to you at the Manor. He said the Minister was considering a commendation for you, for your work in the relief efforts. The Healers at St. Mungo's are quite impressed with the things they're learning at that clinic."
Hermione shrugs; it isn't her doing, really, so much as Kingsley's.
"He says that it sent the right message, that you put Mrs. Malfoy on the list for the clinic. All sorts of people are coming forward for help now, he says, the ordinary people who were on the other side for practical reasons, and it's looking as if they might actually have something like peace this time."
"I heard her testimony at the trial. She had a bad time of it," Hermione says. "And she did help Harry, at the end." After a pause she adds, "And Malfoy didn't identify us when we were at the Manor. But really, it was a matter of fairness. People who are suffering shouldn't be denied help because they were on the wrong side."
Her mother sits down opposite her. "Draco told me just how it was he came to ask for help. That he came here, and you weren't afraid of him, and that made all the difference. And he's quite grateful for the help you gave his mother." There's a pause, and she adds, "I don't think I've ever met a young man quite so devoted to his mother. He isn't much on general principles, I think, but if you're kind to him and his, it goes a long way."
They eat breakfast in silence, and then Elizabeth says, "I mention it because he trusts you completely, but he isn't quite sure what you think of him."
Hermione flicks her wand and sets the breakfast dishes to washing themselves. "It never occurred to me that it made a difference." She feels an odd twinge in her chest, thinking about the notion that she's trusted completely by Draco Malfoy of all people. It makes him seem warm-blooded, even human.
Some of that twinge is shame, because she really never did think that he might have feelings about the matter. She had reacted to his pain—yes, that desperation on his first visit had been sufficient to override his fear and hatred both—and done her duty, nothing more.
Now, she's not quite sure how, he's something like a family friend, or at least a member of the circle. He shows up unannounced from time to time, sometimes with Hypatia in tow. He asks her mother for advice about baby care, and before long it will be child-rearing. He's apologized to Neville, and to her: to Neville, for making fun of his disabled parents, and to her, for publicly wishing her dead and for his obscene remark (so he put it) at the Quidditch World Cup. Particularly the latter, as he had quite consciously set out to shock and offend her.
She supposes that she ought to say something to him, if it is worrying him what she thinks of him. It's a tricky matter, though, because she's not quite sure what she does think.
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Author's note: This fic is updated at the will of the Muse, and for some reason the Muse is finding this Independence Day weekend particularly inspiring.
Thanks to all of its faithful readers for your loyalty to this tale in spite of its intermittent posting schedule. My deepest gratitude to those who took time to respond with signed or anonymous reviews.