The next few days were spasmodic. The time crawled while she waited for the hospital to release her parents' bodies. It rushed when she met the funeral director as her mum had insurance and a service plan. She had braced herself for an excruciating afternoon that did not happen. Organising flowers was easy too. Native Australian wildflowers and white roses from the bungalow garden.
Hermione put a notice in the newspaper then sat down with two mobile phones, two day-planners and one glass of wine. She called everyone the Wilkins' had known, to cancel appointments, to break the news and to accept commiserations with a leaden heart. Those hours shuffled by like zombies.
Marcus answered the door, portkeyed back and forth to England to retrieve things and generally made himself useful. It felt good to do so, though he had no damn coherent reason why. After his mother had died, he had let his cousins fuss around arranging things while he took to his broom. Or shouted at his father.
Now he chopped vegetables in a Muggle kitchen. Granger wanted to clear out the pantry before the food spoiled. This involved making stews, that went into the ice-box to go back to England, and skewers to go on the barbecue. Marcus could make exactly one meal from scratch without magic; a sandwich.
"Why would mum have four cans of asparagus?" Hermione asked the cupboard as she levitated down the provender. "What would anyone do with four cans of asparagus?"
"Make soup." Marcus bisected a capsicum with a chef's knife. It was new and sharp. He missed sharp. "I had a creamed asparagus, cauliflower and Parmesan soup in Brussels. Delicious, unfortunately."
"Why unfortunately?" She put the cans on the counter, adding a container of grated Parmesan and a head of cauliflower to the stack. All through the kitchen were small heaps of ingredients ready to be processed. It was a reassuring sight, reminding her of a potions laboratory.
"Pucey was seeing the owner's daughter." He gutted the pepper the way Granger had shown him then cut it into chunks. "When he had seen every inch of her, he dropped her. We had dined there with him. The girl's father threatened to turn us all into casserole."
"He'll be on the receiving end of the marriage legislation. That should limit his sight-seeing." Hermione began washing potatoes, scouring them industriously. Marcus watched her as she scrubbed then put his knife down to intervene.
"They are clean, Granger." He caught her wrist and held it, turning her arm over to extract the denuded potato.
"Pucey is a bastard." She said crisply. "That sort of behaviour is unacceptable."
"Is this when you tell me why you do not want Weasley here?" Marcus spun her around slowly as though they were dancing then fixed her with a level stare. "I am not as green as I am cabbage looking."
"You were a Slytherin." Hermione reminded him of his House's colour.
"You were a Gryffindor." He reminded her of her House's salient attribute.
"I don't want to tell you. I don't." Even to herself, she sounded pathetically indecisive. She didn't, yet she did. He was so easy to talk to, and so easy to blame if this blew up in her face. "Ron left."
The silence filled the kitchen, disturbed only by the slow roil of the stew pots. Hermione had the distinct feeling Marcus would stand there waiting until dust settled on them both.
"When Harry, Ron and I were hunting horcruxes, through miserable months on the run, we all got low. The locket kept whispering foul things. It tormented Ron. And when we needed him, he abandoned us." She put her hands on Flint's chest to push him away but did not in fact push. "I don't want him to leave again when I need him. I couldn't forgive him again."
"It does not sound like you have forgiven him once." Marcus put his hands on hers. "Granger, you need someone with you. He will come if you ask. Doing this alone is shitty, believe me."
"I have someone with me." Hermione pointed out with a decent facsimile of calm. "You stayed."
"Do not make this about me. I do not need Weasley and Potter kicking down my door." Enough Aurors had tromped through his family estate this century. He did not want any more.
"This isn't about you. This is about my parents going to their rest without the circus. This is for me. I've been to enough funerals. I know what I am doing." She dropped her hands to her sides. "Please just take my word for it."
Marcus inclined his head in a bow and went back to the capsicum. Hermione stared at him. Stood there and stared, waiting for a sulk or a martyred sigh. He just chopped vegetables.
"Flint?" She hesitated. Using his surname was old habit. Everyone at school who was not her immediate friend, she had addressed by their family name. She had graduated six months ago. Perhaps she should leave Hogwarts behind, in this instance at least. "Marcus, what are you doing?"
"Taking your word for it." The smirk was audible. Even with his back turned, the witch knew. Marcus knew she knew and smirked harder. He could feel her watching him, her eyes heavy on his back. He started on a zucchini and mentally counted, barely reaching five before she spoke again.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Thanks." Hermione cleared her throat, quickly leaving the kitchen before she did something mortifying. She went into the living room where Marcus had dumped all her mail from England. And did something foolish.
But it would buy her time to think about things, important things, and to rain fire on the Ministry. Let them choke on it. She might even give an interview to the Prophet. Then heads would roll.
Hermione went to the bathroom, washing her hands and face to settle herself. Foolish, yes. But she had made a lot of promises to herself while lying in that tent trying not to listen to Salazar's locket. One of those promises had been to make sure no one ever, ever had to feel as helpless as she had felt.