4 August 1997
Hermione was locked in a dance. A duel. An ongoing battle of both will and wit.
Or, in a far more likely turn of events, she was simply starting to go a little batty.
Nonetheless, every morning since that first day at Grimmauld Place, since she'd claimed a room on the second floor, she would wake up, get out of bed, walk to the loo across the hall, and make eye contact with a portrait.
Wake. Stand. Walk. Eye contact.
The Black family home had many enchanted likenesses, most of which would sneer or mutter unkind things when she passed by, but this portrait stood out not only because it was silent, but because she knew its inhabitant. And she knew where at least one other of its frames lie.
Wake. Stand. Walk. Eye contact.
It was after four days of this that she finally cracked, waited until the shower on the floor above turned on and she heard Harry clattering in the kitchen below, that she stomped to it, wearing a baggy t-shirt with her hair still in a nest atop her head, and drew her wand.
"Why haven't you sold us out yet?" Hermione hissed at the portrait of one Phineas Nigellius Black, whose only outward reaction was to slowly, and disdainfully, blink at her. She waited, gave him ample time to respond, but he didn't speak. "I know that you know who we are, and as a former headmaster of Hogwarts, you not only have another frame in the headmaster's office, but you are beholden to serve the acting headmaster. So why is it that, in the days that we've been camped here, Severus Snape hasn't yet come knocking?"
Hermione counted to five, staring so hard and so intensely that his face ceased to be a face and instead became a composite of small, drab brushstrokes.
"Alright," she finally sighed with feigned resignation. "Have it your way. Do you know what happens to an enchanted portrait when you burn it? I haven't the foggiest, but I'm more than willing to find out. Incen-"
"That's enough," Phineas Black growled at her, reaching a hand across the two-dimensional plane as if he could stay her wand.
"Brilliant," Hermione said, lowering it just a little and squinting sideways at him. "Are you going to answer my questions, then?"
"No," he replied scornfully, looking down his nose as best he could. "I'm going to leave."
He turned and began to walk down the corridor behind his shoulder, half disappeared into the shadows.
"Wait," Hermione said, and this time it was she who raised an ineffective hand to stop him. Phineas paused, his chin barely cheating over his shoulder as he glanced back toward her. "He knows, right? He has to know that we're here, guessed if you haven't outright told him."
He turned to face her and arched a thick, dark brow. "'He' being -?"
"Snape," Hermione snapped, her already thin patience fraying.
"Headmaster Snape –"
"He's not my headmaster."
"– has better things to do than make idle chit-chat with a portrait of someone long dead and hanging on his wall beside a coat cupboard."
"All the same," she hedged, "He knows you're part of the Black family, and he knows you have a portrait in this house. The Death Eaters lingering across the street might be watching the general area around the place, but the house itself is secret-kept, and Snape has been here before."
"Are you not supposed to be the intelligent one?"
Hermione huffed in annoyance. "What I'm saying is that – that if he were to decide to make idle chit-chat, you might perhaps pass along a recommendation."
Guilt coiled in her stomach like an asp, visions of a bloody, mangled ear dancing and flickering through her head, but… it wasn't conclusive. George had looked like Harry that night, the same as she did. The spell that hit him was one of a thousand fired into the inky sky. It could have simply been another line read in a seemingly endless script of deceptions and double crossings.
"Tell him that Phaedrus is all well and good, but that he might enjoy something slightly more contemporary. Churchill, perhaps; I always found his reluctant partnership with Roosevelt fascinating."
"Certainly more fascinating than this conversation," Black clipped, turning back to the corridor and disappearing without another word.
Hermione was still standing there, gnawing on her lip and contemplating if she'd just doomed them, when, down the stairs and to her left, the front door suddenly opened and her personal caterwauling charm went off. Fucking hell, Phineas worked fast. The cloaked figure barely had time to step inside before she was half down the stairs, firing a silent stunning spell and watching as the man crumpled to the floor in a heap.
Hermione kicked the door the rest of the way shut and silenced the alarm ringing and echoing around the foyer.
Harry ran out of the kitchen with a spatula in one hand and his wand in the other, hair still sticking up on one side from sleep. After a short delay, Hermione heard another set of footsteps thundering down toward them just as Ron appeared at her back. She crouched and shoved at the man's shoulder, rolling him over and unceremoniously tugging back the hood of his cloak.
"It's Remus," she exhaled unnecessarily, their former professor's slack, scarred face staring up at them.
"What in the bloody hell is he doing here?" Ron murmured, sodden hair dripping onto the shoulders of his t-shirt.
Hermione glanced at Harry and saw the conflict shining in his eyes. The concern over what was possibly important enough that he'd risk all of them to come here.
"Help me sit him up," she ordered, grabbing Remus beneath the arm and, with Harry's help, pulling him into a slumped, seated position against the door. Then she reached into his pocket and removed his wand.
The slightest tremor went through her hand as she pressed the tip of her own against his throat, just beneath his jaw. Not hard, but enough that he would know it was there upon waking.
"Is that necessary?" Ron asked uneasily, but Hermione ignored him, steeling herself for what she'd need to do if this in fact wasn't Remus at all.
"Ask him a question, Harry. Reneverate."
Lupin started, hazel eyes flying open as he looked up at them. Though she'd already taken his wand, he didn't make any move toward his pocket.
"Erm… what flavor was my birthday cake this year?" Harry asked him, glancing at Hermione. She didn't look back, arm rigid and looking at him almost frantically, searching for any hint of uncertainty or outside influence in Remus' face.
"You didn't have a birthday cake," Remus answered levelly, gaze flicking to the three of them in turn and then back to Harry. "You asked Molly to make a treacle tart instead."
Hermione finally, slowly, lowered her wand.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, sitting back on her heels and pushing her hair away from her face.
"I was hoping you could tell me that," Remus said. A half-smile quirked his lips as he took Harry's extended hand and got to his feet, groaning a little. "Fred sent me."
It was a short time later that they were seated in the kitchen. Harry and Ron were holding cups of tea, but Hermione and Remus had steaming mugs of coffee in front of them, made with the small, familiar coffee pot and tin of grounds that Remus had brought along with him.
It had taken everything in her not to start crying when he'd removed that, as well as an ivory envelope with her name on it, from his robes and set it on the table.
They'd just finished exchanging their respective retellings of the events following the wedding.
"And Charlie is okay?" Ron asked for the third time, making no effort at all to hide the unease in his voice.
"Yes," Remus confirmed again, endlessly patient. "He managed to get a portkey back to Romania before the borders closed."
Hermione silently mused, wondering if he'd take her advice about flying back via muggle methods if the need arose, when Harry's next query jolted her from her stupor.
"You said that Fred sent you?"
Ron, in a move that surprised as much as it heartened her, reached over and silently squeezed her hand, the unread letter burning a hole in the tabletop between them.
"He did," Remus nodded, once again looking curiously at Hermione. "He was rather convinced that you had something important to tell me, though oddly enough he didn't seem to have any idea what it was."
Understanding struck her all at once and a disbelieving laugh slipped through her lips. Her contingencies, the conversation she'd planned to have with Remus after the wedding.
"He remembered," she muttered, shaking her head. "Gods, of course he remembered."
Harry and Ron both looked profoundly confused, so she turned to them and briefly explained. "Remus is a werewolf and, as such, his mind isn't susceptible to legilimancy. Right, Remus?"
She turned back toward her former professor who, though still obviously puzzled, nodded. "That's correct; came in handy a few times during the first war."
Ron made a sound of understanding but, in her periphery, Harry's expression silently darkened.
"No," he said adamantly after a pause, literally shaking his head at her. "No, we aren't doing this. We aren't putting him at risk."
She bristled. "Harry, his mind can't be searched. The risk is minimal, as minimal as it could possibly be."
"Minimal isn't nonexistent, Hermione," he argued, hands curling into fists on the table. "They could still – there are other ways to extract information."
Hermione turned to Remus, who'd been watching the exchange silently, eyes darting back and forth between them. "It's your choice; I want to tell you everything. What the plan is, where we're going and what we're hoping to do. If it goes wrong, if something happens, somebody outside of the three of us should know. Someone has to know."
"If Dumbledore wanted other people to know he would have told them," Harry said, interjecting before Remus could respond and half-standing from his seat. His chair made an unpleasant scraping sound against the floorboards.
"Dumbledore isn't here," Hermione said sharply, rising to meet him and planting her hands flat on the tabletop. "And I don't much care what he did or didn't want. He tasked us with this gods-damned crusade, and I'm taking that as permission to use our discretion in how we see it through."
"He didn't task us, he tasked me –"
"And what's your plan, then? If we're all murdered next week, what happens? We hope someone else parses it out in the next decade or two? How many people die before then?"
The silence grew tight as Harry looked at her, anger casting a paper-thin veil over the real reason he was arguing this so thoroughly. Over the fear simmering in his eyes because, besides her and Ron, Remus remained one of the most important people in his life. A symbol as much as a person, the last of the Marauders.
"Tell me," Remus said, looking toward Harry and then back to her with resolution. "You're right. Somebody should know, and it makes sense that it should be me. James and Lily were my best friends, Harry. I owe them that much and more."
Harry just stood there, staring at them with a tortured expression, before he finally, wordlessly, took his seat. It wasn't agreement, but it was the closest they'd likely get.
Hermione took a deep, steadying breath and began.
"Last autumn, Dumbledore began to show Harry a series of memories about a boy, a boy named Tom Riddle…"
When it was all done, Remus quietly got up and went about making another pot of coffee, refilling her mug and then his.
"I'd heard mention of horcruxes before, theoretically speaking, but what he did… to make seven of them…"
"Seven is just a guess," Hermione admitted. "An educated guess, but a guess."
"And we're certain it wouldn't be something innocuous? A pebble in the woods, or a seashell that's been chucked into the ocean?"
"That's what I said!" Ron exclaimed, brandishing a hand in the air.
Hermione pressed her lips together in a suppressed smile, but she shook her head. "No, I think Dumbledore was right about that much; he's too vainglorious. Taking something from each of the founders is purposeful, the ring and the diary were purposeful. He wouldn't pick something common, much less discard it like rubbish"
"Can it be something living?" Remus asked, directing the question to her. It took everything in Hermione to keep her eyes forward and not look at Harry, who'd remained uncharacteristically silent since his outburst.
"I don't know," she said slowly. "Nothing in the scarce literature I was able to find indicated one way or the other. To do so seems like it would be foolish, irresponsible, but when there are so many of them…"
"I don't know about the other houses, but I can't think of a significant artefact of Gryffindor's besides the sword."
"Which we know isn't a horcrux – in fact, it's one of the only things we can use to destroy the bloody things."
"To that effect, I've also never cast fiendyre," Remus admitted. "But Dora has put it out more than once during her time with the aurors, same with Kingsley. It's difficult, but not impossible."
"I've done a little reading," Hermione offered half-heartedly, "But let's keep that as a last resort. It won't do anyone any good if we're all burned to a crisp because I try a spell that's out of my depth."
They drifted silent again, each reckoning with everything they'd just discussed and the monumental nature of it all.
"How's Tonks?" Hermione asked, sitting forward and doing her best to take advantage of this small window to the outside world. After all, she had no idea when they would get one again. "Or does she go by Lupin now?"
Something in Remus' expression shifted, lightened, and he smiled almost boyishly. "She's good. She's – she's pregnant, actually."
Hermione's mouth literally dropped open, and Harry sat forward sharply.
"What?" he blurted, eyes wide.
"I know, I could hardly believe it myself," Remus admitted. "We aren't telling people yet, it's still so early, but all things considered…"
"Remus, that's brilliant," Hermione laughed getting to her feet and rounding the edge of the table to wrap her arms around his shoulders in a tight, and only slightly awkward, hug. He reciprocated, chuckling as he did.
"Congratulations, mate," Ron said, gamely shaking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder after Hermione released him.
It was once he drew away that they collectively turned to Harry, who hadn't moved or spoken.
"She's pregnant," Harry said quietly and none-too-warmly, almost as though he were speaking to himself. "Tonks is pregnant and you still – you still let us tell you everything?"
"Harry," Hermione started, reaching a hand toward her friend as realisation dawned.
"No," he said, jerking his shoulder away from her touch. "No, you've said more than enough."
"Harry, that's not fair –" Remus began to defend her, but before he could finish Harry was on his feet again and walking out the door of the kitchen, headed toward the hall and the back garden.
Hermione made to follow him, but Ron intercepted her. "I've got it. Go ahead and finish your coffee, yeah?"
She stared for a long moment at where Harry had gone and then looked back at Ron as she nodded, his face earnest. "Yeah, alright. Thanks."
He squeezed her shoulder once and then also left the kitchen. Hermione turned and sank slowly back into her seat.
"I didn't think – it didn't occur to me that he might not see it as good news," Remus murmured.
"Parallels," Hermione replied, her mind racing. "It's not that he's not happy for you, Remus. It's just… newlyweds with a baby on the way in the midst of a burgeoning war? Bit close to home."
Remus swallowed hard and nodded. "I'm excited but –"
"- but terrified?"
Remus bobbed his head and then cast her a sidelong glance. "I'd probably feel that way with or without the war, though."
"Probably." Hermione couldn't help but smile a little, before it faded and she addressed the other thing he'd had to have worried about. "Lyncanthropy isn't genetic, you know. There was a squib doctor years ago in The States that proved as much. I can probably find you the article if I dig about a little."
"I've already read it," Remus admitted a bit sheepishly. "Now I just have to worry about all of the perfectly human ways that I can be a bad parent."
"You won't be a bad parent," Hermione told him with certainty. "You were one of my favorite professors, you know."
Remus just softly snorted and shook his head, his brief time teaching at Hogwarts feeling like a dream within a dream that took place a lifetime ago. Hermione silently warmed her coffee and took a drink.
"I can wait if you want to write him back," Remus said after doing the same.
Hermione looked at the envelope beside her mug with a jolt, having nearly forgotten it in the chaos and discourse.
"You don't mind?"
"Of course not. Dora has been nearly bed-ridden with morning sickness this week, and I think I should probably talk to Harry again before I leave, anyway."
Hermione nodded and got to her feet, picking up the letter and making toward the door that led back into the parlor and across to the drawing room, wanting for a bit of privacy.
"Hermione?" Remus said suddenly, giving her pause. "I'll see what else I can find about horcruxes, and about – about whether or not they can be living."
She could have sworn that as he said it his eyes flickered toward the back door, where Harry had disappeared, but she couldn't bring herself to voice what they were both obviously thinking.
"Thank you," she said solemnly. "I trust that I don't need to tell you to be careful. Fred can get me a short message if there's something dire to relay, but I don't want him – that is to say, I would prefer that he not – "
"I won't tell him anything that might put him in danger," Remus finished gently. Hermione, a lump having risen rapidly in her throat, stood there for a second longer before she nodded and left the room.
Yes, Remus would most certainly make a good father.
Hello love,
I hope this letter finds you… well, maybe not well, but as good as it possibly can. I also hope you were still needing to speak to Remus and I didn't send the poor bloke purely as my personal owl.
He said he had an idea where you might be, but I tried not to dwell on it. Probably better not to think about that sort of thing, yeah?
I know it's only been a few days, but things are… different here. The ministry has announced they'll be instituting a commerce committee, responsible for the oversight and regulation of magical businesses. No idea what it entails yet, but it's a safe bet that it'll be unpleasant and inconvenient.
Don't worry, though, George and I have it handled. He says hello, by the way. Same with Angie – she's waving vigorously from across the room as I write this, with your exceptionally capricious cat sleeping in her lap.
I trust Remus filled you in on what happened after you left, so I suppose I'm mostly writing to tell you that… I'm sorry.
I'm so bloody sorry that we didn't get that last night together, darling. But I promise when this is all said and done, I'll make it up to you. Whisk you away for a couple weeks in France or Italy – maybe Greece. There's so much of the world that I haven't seen, haven't had the opportunity to see, and I've been thinking lately that I'd really like to see it all with you.
It's easy to think that this war is going to last forever, that we'll never have a chance to live normal lives, but thinking that way makes it feel a little bit like we're giving up, doesn't it? Like we're letting them win without even putting up a fight. So, while you're out there, saving the world and raking in all of the fame and glory, I'll be right here waiting for you and keeping the home fires burning.
And I am going to continue making plans for us, Hermione Granger.