Hermione slept in her clothes.
Blaise Zabini's home was perfect. The room was nicely sized, the mattress felt like a cloud, and the towels in the bathroom were soft and fluffy. Scorpius zoomed in and out at his leisure. Hermione put the sling away before making her way down to breakfast on Monday morning. It was a reminder of things she didn't care to think about.
In the kitchen, Blaise laid out an incredible spread of eggs, toast, jellies, and a variety of other things Hermione had no care for. Colin was dead. Any time she looked at food, all Hermione could think about was vomiting her last dinner onto the pavement. Dean was sitting on the opposite side of the counter from Blaise, munching away on a piece of toast with butter and cinnamon. Next to him was …
"Oliver?"
He waved at Hermione with his fork as he chewed then swallowed.
"Zabini, here, offered to make me breakfast. I swear these may be the best eggs and toast on the planet." Oliver pointed his fork at Blaise and said, "This man has a magical touch."
Hermione said, "I'm not hungry."
"Your loss," Oliver replied with a shrug. "Anyway, I'm not here for much." He said through his next mouthful of eggs, "Just want to take a look at your shoulder and the rest of your arm, ensure things are as they should be, then I'll be off to my regularly scheduled programming."
"Would you like to do it here?"
"Absolutely." Oliver turned to Blaise and said, "Whatever eggs you planned to cook for Hermione, you can put them on my plate."
Blaise slid another plate in front of Oliver, with a piece of toast and poached egg on top. Oliver looked at it, then up at Blaise to say,
"If you started a cult, I'd be first to sign up if you promised these eggs every morning." Oliver stood from the chair and said to Hermione, "Give me your hand."
Hermione offered it to him, and he began massaging the top of her hand with the pads of his thumbs.
"Do you feel that?"
"Yes."
He used two fingers to circle her wrist and asked, "Do you feel that?"
"Yes."
Oliver did that up her arm every few centimetres, ensuring the nerves in Hermione's arm were working as intended. He gently tugged her arm forward, lifted it to shoulder height, then began testing the lateral movement. Just like he was test driving a car to see if everything was still in proper working order. Oliver didn't press any further than he would have the previous week. He nodded and confirmed,
"Everything seems to be at least as it was before. I don't wish to push you further until after the funeral on Saturday. You'll be in my office next Monday."
"What am I meant to do until then?" asked Hermione.
"Nothing. Let your arm rest in the sling, do what needs to be done as you would have before, but nothing more than that."
"I can't feel the tips of my fingers." Hermione offered Oliver her hand once more and said, "Just on the ends, they are numb. I can't feel anything, is that normal?"
Oliver raised his eyebrows and said, "No, that is not normal. That is not good, but it might be nothing. Usually the numbness takes twenty-four hours to fully wear off, so if you can't feel them by this afternoon, phone me."
"It feels heavier."
"Your shoulder?"
Hermione nodded. Oliver gave her arm a gentle squeeze.
"It will take time to adjust to the new weight. Just as it took time to feel like the plate holding your clavicle together was part of you—"
"That's just it, isn't it? It was part of me, now I've lost it, and I've lost the muscle in my shoulder. It all feels so different, and it is heavier than it should be."
"Of course it is," replied Oliver, "it's not meant to be there. Your body must adjust to it, which will take a significant amount of time. That's why you have me."
"Right." Not the answer Hermione wanted. She forced a smile and said, "You can get back to your eggs. I'll go upstairs and rest."
She saw in Oliver's eyes that he didn't buy it, but what could he do? Hermione was feeling a lot of things all at once, had lost several important things all at once, and he couldn't bring any of them back. Oliver gave her arm one more gentle squeeze before returning to the barstool and talking Blaise's ear off about the benefits of protein.
.oOo.
Monday evening, Hermione stood in front of the bathroom mirror. The numbness had worn off in her fingers, which meant her body was healing … Right? Hermione was determined to look at her shoulder, but less certain she was ready for what she may find. The light was as flattering as bright bathroom lights could be. Looking at her reflection, it seemed like a different person looking back.
What did happy look like?
Hermione smiled at her reflection just to see it.
Whatever happiness was, it sure as hell wasn't the woman in the mirror.
Hermione wanted to pull that woman's hair back into a bun. She wanted that person to stand straighter. She wanted to wipe the sadness from every line in that person's face. If that was her? If the woman looking back was Hermione Granger? Then it was a portrait someone had painted wrong.
Hermione pulled her phone from her pocket and did the unthinkable: typed her own name into Google. "Hermione Granger professional photo" was the search. She quickly tapped on the Images heading to avoid looking at the news results. There was her first BBC headshot from 2007. Her skin was so smooth, her cheeks were puffier, and her eyes were alight with all the promise of a budding career in investigative international journalism. Hermione always saw herself unearthing large-scale government corruption, pouring through large files and data dumps, doing the reading everyone else deemed too boring.
Her next headshot was a photograph from the BBC studio in 2009. Her face was still young, but the light had left her eyes. People could say it was Afghanistan that took it away, but it was BBC. There was no investigative journalism in Afghanistan. Every day it was this is wrong. You are wrong. You're all killing people and you're all wrong. Both sides, one side, a government, a militia, they were all so wrong that Hermione quit journalism. Not just the BBC; she had been accepted to Cambridge. She'd get a law degree and become an international human rights lawyer. Padma was in school for international law already, so it wasn't too far afield from her personal network. Then BBC returned with an offer and Hermione couldn't leave what she'd seen behind. The woman in this photograph was relentless. Her hair was slicked back, she looked polished, the consummate professional.
The following photograph was her with the Home Secretary, the Prime Minister, the head of Amnesty International, and Ron. Hermione was in the centre, in a wheelchair, smiling through the pain. She was in a gorgeous dress, with long sleeves to cover the scarring and extra room on the backside so she could wear padding to cushion where they'd taken the latest skin grafts. She gave a speech at that gala. That was one of the nights Hermione wished she'd been blown up entirely, to escape the hell of being awarded for surviving.
The next image was from 2015. Her hair was bushy again because she couldn't tame it one-handed. Her makeup was a tad outlandish, with the thicker brows and matte lipstick and impossibly high contoured cheekbones. The makeup artist was fired soon after. Looking back on it, though, it was indicative of the time. It was what people expected her to look like as she took the co-anchor chair next to Cedric. Be beautiful, be smart, but be a bitch when you need to be. Hermione didn't hate that photo as she once had.
Her most recent headshot was from the previous year. She and Cedric were photographed together in a piece for Elle UK, as the cover feature: Journalism's Style Icons. This article propelled the romance rumours into the stratosphere and might have played a role in Cedric's girlfriend dumping him. Hermione wore a white button-down with a voluminous skirt that fell to just past her knees. It was black with large white polka dots, while Cedric was in a similar setup with a white button-down, black slacks, and a black tie with small white polka dots. It was so silly, they had a great time, and the stylist provided nylons that covered all the scarring on Hermione's legs. Perhaps she should find more of those, wear them to … to …
Hermione looked at her reflection and saw very little resemblance to the woman in any of those photos. She placed her phone on the sink and unfastened the sling around her shoulder. She pulled her arm free and began unbuttoning her blouse. The tension in her shoulder was uncomfortable. It felt like she could move her arm differently, but Hermione didn't trust it. The weight was unnatural, heavy, so different from her right shoulder that she wondered whether it could ever possibly feel like part of her. Hermione shrugged out of the right sleeve and tugged off the left by the cuff. The shirt folded in on itself and made the tiniest shuffling noise when it hit the floor.
My God.
They truly had ripped her arm off her body. Hermione stood there, looking at her bare torso, devastated. How could Draco ever look at this? The scarring was bad enough before, but this? Hermione used the tip of her finger to trace along the black X stitched at the top of her shoulder. Then the next one down. The next, the next, the next, the next … Hermione lifted her arm up so she could continue tracing the trail of stitches below her arm. She used the same finger to trace the X stitches making a tiny line across her left clavicle. Oliver promised this would help her career in the long run, but what career? Hermione grabbed her phone and pulled up Elle UK's photograph of her standing next to Cedric. She looked at it, then back to her reflection, then to the photo, then the reflection.
That's not the same woman.
This isn't me.
I'm not me anymore.
If I'm not Hermione Granger, who am I?
.oOo.
Cedric came to visit on Tuesday.
Hermione spent most of the day crying. For what? She couldn't say. For the loss of Colin. For the loss of herself. For having lost her place in the world. The moment she started to see a real future for herself, one that made her happy scars and all, the universe took something precious away. First it was her marriage, now Colin, what next?
Cedric stood at the foot of the bed while Hermione was curled up at the top, staring at the blank screen of her laptop. He said,
"I'd ask how you are holding up, but I can see the answer."
Hermione sniffled. She shrugged with her good shoulder. What was there to say?
"I came to tell you I am also delivering a speech at Colin's ceremony on Saturday. I can deliver your remarks for you, if you aren't up to it."
It was kind of him to ask. Truthfully, Hermione wasn't confident she would be able to see her speech through her tears. Every time she wrote words she deleted them because they weren't enough. How could she convey the depth of the sacrifice Colin had made? Not even for her life, but merely for her dignity.
"You know, in America when a disaster happens their first step in preserving a home is a 'blue roof mission.' They install blue plastic sheets using strips of wood that are secured to the roof. It's a temporary solution so they can focus on the rest of the infrastructure. Losing Colin?" Hermione sniffled and wiped the tears from her eyes. "It was like the roof caved in on me. Saying these things, laying his memory in one place, that's my blue roof, Ced."
"Okay." Cedric nodded. "If you need anything, I'm here for you. We may not be sitting in chairs together right now, but you are my partner one hundred percent of the time."
"What did you say to Ti?"
He raised his eyebrows and asked, "What?"
"She came into my hospital room after you'd taken her home. She was much more like herself, I was only wondering what you said to her."
"Oh." Cedric cleared his throat rather anxiously. "Well, she asked why I was there when we were broken up. I respect her choices, but I don't get to choose how my heart feels or at which speed it feels those things. When Bas's dad phoned me, I knew what she needed. People say all the time, you know, 'such and such is a strong woman.' I think most women are strong people, but it's the how. Pavi's a good translator because she is a funnel. Things come to her, she internalizes them and processes them externally. Words are easy, but it's the same for emotions. She takes them all in and feels them so deeply, I knew this would be difficult for her."
"I think that's true."
"I told her, 'Pavi, you feel what you need to feel, that's all fine. But you're only one gear in a watch and you can't count the minutes by yourself.' I told her to shower, she changed clothes, but eventually she started to see there was nothing she could have done. I told her that it wasn't right for me to ask her to reconsider my marriage proposal, but sometime later … I hope to do that."
"Truly?"
Cedric nodded.
"I'd been so focused on dating the people I thought were supposed to work. The women I was expected to be with. White, tall but not too tall, thin, pretty, career that's interesting but not superior to mine, whatever. I checked the bloody boxes over and over again, only to be left bored out of my skull. I met Pavi the first time at Bastien's elopement, but I had a girlfriend and she had stars in her eyes when she looked at Bas's dad. When we met again, she checked some of the boxes: tall but not too tall, thin, pretty. Check, check, check. She's Bengali and her career is way cooler than mine. I remember looking at her thinking, 'I'm going to have a great time with this woman, but I've got to keep my mind open to someone I might actually marry.' It took me ages to realize Pavi is that woman."
Hermione teased, "Your dad would be so happy if she was."
"Oh," Cedric groaned, "he'd be over the bloody moon. He's always been so proud of me. 'Look at my boy, so trusted across the country. One of the best journalists in the English-speaking world! That's my boy!' The moment he met Parvati, he knew, 'That's my daughter. I want that one for you.' I thought he was mad, then Pavi left me and I thought, 'What have I done? How could I let this happen? How could I not see how much I care for her?' Then she dumped me again and again and I took the beating every time because she said she loved me when she did it."
"I still think that was over the line—"
"No." Cedric shook his head and insisted, "No, it wasn't. I thought Pavi was my party girl. I knew I loved her in some way, but I didn't know it was this until she left me. Until my vision for the rest of my life fell apart. No one could compete with her, no one could be nearly as perfect, how was I meant to find someone to complement me the way Pavi has? I can't. Her parents didn't like me because I'm white and the love I have for Pavi isn't the same as what Bastien has for Padma. I get that they are twins, but they are very different people."
Hermione agreed, "Very much."
"After she ended our relationship again, I went on a date with Penelope Clearwater."
"Oh?"
"It was horrible; we spent the entire time commiserating about how much we loved people who had dumped us. We made out for a bit at her flat, but neither of us was into it because it felt wrong." Cedric paused before amending, "Not too wrong. Penelope is beautiful and once I turned my brain off I did have a nice time. I think she had a nice time, too, but we didn't have sex. We were too sad."
Hermione choked back a laugh.
"Honestly, Hermione, when I'm at BBC I am normal. I can be at work, do what I need to do, and I can carry the show until you're back." Cedric paused before asking, in a small voice, "You are coming back?"
"I don't know. I can hardly imagine leaving the office without Colin there in the BMW to take me home."
"Just as I can hardly imagine News at Ten without you sitting next to me."
Hermione's heart warmed a bit because Cedric was so sincere. She admitted,
"I want to come back, but it all feels rather meaningless to me. Reporting on things instead of making decisions. Politics is not in play because I'm tied to the Malfoys now. I look at my future and see nothing but grey gelatin I must wade through to get where I am meant to be."
Cedric frowned.
"Grey gelatin?"
"Like the world's most disgusting pudding."
"I don't think our show is bad pudding."
"No, Ced—"
"It's fine, Hermione." He shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I lost the most important woman in my life, I may as well lose the second."
"Cedric—"
But he was out the door before she could say any more.
.oOo.
Wednesday, just after lunch, Hermione sat on the end of the guest bed—Draco's unofficial bed in his unofficial room in his unofficial London home—while Blaise Zabini stood just off to the side. The bedroom door was closed, as Dean was watching Scorpius run around the house's back garden in his "vroom shoes." Blaise was wearing a plain blue jumper, white chinos, and a knit belt reading "I AM A LUXURY FEW CAN AFFORD." Hermione nodded to it and said,
"You're quite literal today."
"You are quite unwell today."
Hermione turned her laptop toward Blaise so he could see the blank screen. She said,
"That's my speech." She ran her right hand through her hair and said, "All the things I knew and liked about Colin, but I can't find the words to say them."
"I'm not much for speeches."
Hermione countered, "You're not much for words at all."
"I have some to offer, should you want them."
"Yes," Hermione begged, "please. It feels so heavy, knowing this is the goodbye I never wished to give. I always thought I'd die on assignment. The first time you get blown up, you know damn well you won't be lucky enough to escape it a second time. Losing people I care for was never something I expected. Any help, any guidance is welcome."
Blaise said, "You told me weeks ago when you held hands with Death, your other hand reached out for hope. It seems to me you have seen much death in your career."
Hermione nodded and confirmed, "Far more than anyone should."
"Where were you?"
"The Arab League; primarily Iran, Egypt, Lebanon, Syria—"
"I understand. People tend to forget English is not my first language." Blaise said, "I've had twenty-five years to learn and practice, and while I think, speak, and dream primarily in Italian … Some things are English to me. Education is English in my head. Airports, somehow, are English to me. It may be the reason you cannot find the words to celebrate life, to mourn death, and to say goodbye is that those things are not English to you."
Hermione sat with that for a moment. Perhaps Blaise was right. She'd never said goodbye to a friend or loved one in English, but she had mourned more than one friend she made in the field. Hermione admitted,
"That was what I needed to hear. Thank you." She added, "You can wear your engagement ring around the house, by the way. I don't mind."
Blaise asked, "Does everyone know we are engaged?"
"No, but if you tell Ginny, she will tell Harry who will tell Ron who will tell me. We're not much for secrets."
"As I am beginning to learn."
.oOo.
Draco was late to collect her on Thursday afternoon. Late by well over an hour. When he finally arrived at Blaise's front door, it was Theo driving the car. Hermione watched through the bedroom window as he entered the house. She heard him greet Scorpius briefly before trudging upstairs, each footfall a thump, thump, thump louder as he closed in on the second floor.
He stepped into the bedroom looking like a mess. His hair was frizzy and knotted in places as though he'd been pulling on it. His shirt was wrinkled. His eyes were red like he'd been crying and there were light purple circles beneath his eyes. Hermione wanted to go to him, to hug him, to ask what's wrong. Instead, Draco fell backward onto the bed and sighed. His entire body slumped like the air had left it. The first words he said were,
"There's something I need to tell you."
"I really don't—"
"You know my aunt's in prison?"
"No." Hermione shook her head and said, "No, I didn't know that."
"Ah, you're not up on the Malfoy family tree, then, are you?"
"As far as I am concerned the Malfoy family is you, your mum, and your son."
"My mother's sister is Bellatrix Black, whom you may know as Bellatrix Lestrange—"
Sorry, what?
"Racist cult priestess in prison for murder?" asked Hermione. "That Bellatrix Lestrange?"
"Yeah." Another deep, heavy sigh from Draco. "That's Aunty Bella. She wasn't always like that."
"Racist?"
"No, no, she was always racist. You should've seen the way she looked at Blaise. She never minded that I was fucking another man, she minded that he's … God, what did she call him?" Draco frowned then chuckled. "I think she called him 'African-adjacent.' Which offended Blaise not because it's racist, but because he doesn't know whom his father is and resents being labeled as anything other than Italian. Blaise once stabbed a man with the broken stem of a wine glass because he said Blaise was English. At any rate, Aunt Bella went a bit mad when she met their cult leader. Something broke in her brain and she's devoutly loyal to him. Loyal enough to kill."
"Obviously."
"The people who did this to you, and to Colin, I got their records from Interpol. I won't tell you how, but everyone seemed to disregard the 'affiliations' bit of the form. They're Death Eaters."
Hermione couldn't put these pieces together. Draco's aunt was a high-ranking member of a homicidal cult. The people who killed Colin were also in the cult? What did any of this have to do with a watch?
"I visited my aunt in prison, I told her these people had stolen from me, and they needed to pay. It took some convincing because she does not care for you—"
"I would imagine not."
"—but I promised the people who did this would be held accountable. I wanted vengeance." Draco pulled something from the pocket of his trousers and offered it up to her. "Vengeance, I have."
Hermione stared down at the watch. The watch in Draco's hand. She gently bent his fingers so it was covered.
"I don't wish to have it."
"I understand." Draco placed it back in his pocket. He closed his eyes and said, "I had a bit of a breakdown a couple hours ago. Given how many people had their phones out, I imagine it's all over Twitter. I've been dodging calls from Penelope. Now that you're here rehabilitating my family's reputation, the House of Lords offered to lift the suspension of my family's peerage."
"I can't marry you if that happens." Hermione insisted, "I cannot have a title and be a reporter. Nobody's going to believe me reporting about inequity in the world if I am Lady Hermione Malfoy—"
"Duchess."
"Hmm?"
"You would be Duchess Hermione Jean Black Malfoy because you would be married to me, Draco Black Malfoy, Duke of Wiltshire."
Hermione paused. Draco said it with such ease, Duchess Hermione Malfoy. She'd never considered having a title before; they seemed so meaningless. High society was built on exclusivity and Hermione had been excluded from nearly everything. She'd fought her way into the best schools, universities, and then to the best assignments at BBC. It was strange to, theoretically, be part of something she needn't fight to get.
"What's happening in your head?" asked Draco.
"I don't hate it." Hermione conceded, "Considering what the rest of my life looks like, I don't think I wish to return to BBC. I don't think I wish to return to reporting at all."
Draco hummed, "I don't believe you."
"You don't need to. I know what I feel, and this is the second time I've cost someone their life because I was standing in the wrong place. I would rather be home with my family, enjoying life in a way I've forgotten the past eight years. Perhaps the rest of my life doesn't look like BBC journalist Hermione Granger, it clearly doesn't look like UN Ambassador Hermione Granger, maybe I am meant to be Duchess Hermione Malfoy."
"You don't sound like yourself."
Hermione admitted, "I think that Duchess Hermione Malfoy may force my mother to see me in a more favourable way."
"Compared to the Kleptobottoms, your parents are delightful houseguests. My mother invited Bas's dad to the manor so they could have a," Draco made a disgusted face, "dinner date."
"Oh?"
"Lancelot adores your mum, apparently. He's an excellent judge of character so I am curious as to why. Your mother has been quite bitter in her interactions with me, when, by all accounts, I am her only ally in England. My mother is quite impressed by your father, so I rather think your parents will be invited back whether you like it or not."
Hermione wondered, "Why is Theo here?"
Draco let out a low, steady groan of frustration. He closed his eyes, sat up, and let his head fall into his hands.
"I have to tell you something I probably should've told you before we started dating."
"Outside of your aunt running the deadliest cult in the country from a prison?"
"When I was younger and my father went to prison, I got really low. The sort of darkness that comes from rejecting yourself as you are. I hated that I had my father's face, his hair, his everything. I don't think I ever really tried to commit suicide overtly, I did dangerous things thinking that if I died, at least I wouldn't have to feel the darkness anymore."
"I see."
"At eighteen and nineteen, it came again. My sexuality was a nightmare. I didn't know what to do with it, and older men kept pressuring me to do things I did not want to do. I know people think I was whoring myself out, and I was, but I didn't want to do everything, you understand. I was so scared that nobody would ever let me learn at my own pace. That's why Bastien came with me to the clubs. He'd pull people off me."
Hermione's heart ached to hear that. She had heard of Draco back then, snippets of every bisexual stereotype there was. It was a passing mention that never merited much thought until now. Draco didn't have anyone he could ask, nobody in his life who lived as openly as he wanted to. When you are forced to learn about yourself in the dark corners of nightclubs …
"I turned to cocaine, and when I went to school for my master's I was dating Blaise. He said he would give our relationship a real go if I gave up the cocaine and committed to dating him. That was my first relationship, and Blaise taught me how men have proper sex. Before then, I didn't wish to experience it. I didn't trust anyone else not to hurt me. So …" Draco cleared his throat rather anxiously. "At any rate, Blaise is a huge part of me and my life. He dumped me shortly after our first anniversary and said I was ready for a marriage-minded partner."
"I still find it hard to believe." Hermione said, "He loves you so deeply, how he knew Dean was out there …"
"Astoria was great about it. I loved her, as you know, to the point of wonder. She had no care for my sexuality at all, she loved me. When we had sex, it took whatever form we wanted. Nothing kinky, she didn't like anything, except she knew I got off a certain way and wanted to be part of it. Tori understood me and when she died …" Draco shrugged. "Cocaine again. With alcohol that time. Again, I didn't try to kill myself, but I didn't try to stay alive either. I killed my wife, in my mind, and I could let my son down the same way. Best to stay away then, I thought."
"Grief makes you do stupid things, I see."
"Then Bas got engaged—"
"And you had a breakdown."
Draco shook his head.
"It wasn't a breakdown, I was perfectly sane. I knew the darkness had settled inside of me, which is why I didn't put Scorpius in my car when I drove to London. I knew, inside myself, I knew Blaise would say no to my ill-thought-out offer of marriage. It broke my last bit of resolve. I unfastened my seatbelt, shifted gears, slammed the accelerator and drove myself into a tree because I was trying to commit suicide, Hermione. The darkness won out. How the hell I stayed in the car is beyond my comprehension."
"So you …" Hermione didn't know what to say. "Was it … The darkness, you called it?"
"I'm sure psychologists have a name for it." He paused before adding, "Or several."
"When we met …"
"Yes, it lingered. I told you, Hermione, you helped me to hear the music again. I haven't been present for my son because I quite literally did not intend to be present on this planet. I've lived with that guilt, and your friendship reconnected me to the parts of myself I'd lost."
"What does this have to do with Theo?"
"When I received word the Carrows were dead, the darkness settled inside of me again." Draco looked at Hermione and said, "It's different this time. Something inside of me changed when I saw you on the ground, as though you were nothing more than a stray cat on the streets of London. Nobody makes you feel that way, not as long as I am on this planet. I wanted them dead, I made it happen, and I didn't feel bad about it. I thought I would, but this darkness …" Draco smiled. "I'm happy in it. When I got into my car after screaming at one of the few friends I still have in the House of Lords, I knew something wasn't right inside of me. I called Theo to drive."
Hermione asked, "You are happy in this darkness?"
"I am." Draco confirmed, "I'd do it again. I'd do it myself. It has taken me thirty-four years to realize all that time I was ashamed of myself, it was because I thought I was destined to become my father. This is my mother's darkness and I feel like I've knitted all the parts of myself back together. The rage, it's all her. This is what it means to be the patriarch of the Malfoy family and I see it now. I see it through my love for you."
"Good, then."
Draco looked up at her, shocked. He asked,
"Good, then?"
"Yes. I'm glad you know who you are, Draco, because I haven't the faintest clue who I'm supposed to be anymore. Perhaps you can help me find that, too."
.oOo.
Friday morning at Malfoy Manor, Hermione found herself at the edge of the pond in the private gardens holding a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Wrapped in a thick cardigan, she needed to escape the chaos of inside. The kitchen was prepping for a reception of well over two hundred people in the ballroom after the funeral. Draco was out in the public gardens with event staff. The valet was running through the entry plan along with the contracted security team. Dennis Creevey and his wife would arrive later in the evening, so a guestroom was being prepared. So much was happening that Hermione needed this stillness.
What she did not need was her mother to appear at her side. Hermione tightened the cardigan around herself and tried not to bristle at the proffered,
"Good morning."
"I like to watch the light glint off the pond." Hermione sipped her glass and said, "It looks like static on an old telly."
Her mother crossed her arms and said, "It's beautiful."
Hermione blurted out, "Blaise doesn't want you in my son's life." She paused before saying, "I'm inclined to agree. I'm not certain I even want you in mine."
"I'm not surprised. You and your friends seem to think I abandoned you."
"You did."
"You only see it that way because you've never carried a child, Hermione. You can't know what it's been like—"
"That doesn't excuse—"
"Your father and I tried for a child for years before you, and we were so excited. The pregnancy was fine, you were a good baby, and the moment you began to read it was like we didn't need to do much except buy you books. You were such a great child, but then you were bright, as well. The brightest student amongst the brightest." Hermione's mother smiled. "Your father and I were always proud. You went to one of the best universities in the world for your bachelor's degree, then the best journalism school in the world for your master's. Then right out of the gate you excelled in Brazil—"
"Ruining Ambassador Umbridge's career will always be near the top on my list of personal achievements," quipped Hermione.
"As it should be. Your father and I were so proud. Then …" Mrs. Granger shook her head. "They sent you to Afghanistan in the middle of a war. You are so small, seeing you hiding from bomb blasts on the telly night after night was nearly unbearable. But my baby girl was out there, known on several continents as one of the best, most committed journalists. And then you went to—"
"SHH!" Hermione waved for her mother to stop talking. "There are ears everywhere. I wasn't meant to tell you where I was."
"And I told you not to go, didn't I?" she said, in the way only a mother could say I told you so. "Because there are some places young women just shouldn't be."
"I don't think the bomb cared I was a young woman, mum. I don't blame them—"
"I blame them, Hermione! I blame them! This is what I mean, you cannot understand. A man does so little to create a child while a mother carries you from the moment you begin to grow until she dies. Your father doesn't live in you, Hermione, I live in your blood. When you were at Death's door, I felt it in my bones. My baby girl was half-gone and I couldn't do anything but pray. Did I not stay with you through every step of recovery?"
Hermione conceded, "Yes, but—"
"Did Ronald go with you to the support group?"
"No, but—"
"Who found the yoga group?"
"You did, but it was yoga for amputees and I never fully felt like I belonged there—"
"Did I not drive you to therapy while your husband was at work? Was I not there for every surgery? Did I not make you lunch while you stayed at our home? Did I not find the makeup artist who specialized in hiding actors' scars and tattoos for film and television to teach you to properly cover the scars on your neck and hands so you could go back to the career you loved?"
Hermione didn't say anything. She couldn't say anything, really, because her mum had done those things. Hermione always assumed Ron was the reason she got through recovery because he was there at night, changing the bandages, being her best friend and promising it would all be okay. Her mum was never much for emotional support, but when it came to the practical … The yoga group for amputees was a great resource. She couldn't move her arm, might as well not have had one. It helped her adjust to the limitations in an environment free from judgment. Hermione hadn't considered it to be so monumental at the time, but looking back …
"It wasn't your return to Libya that made me leave. By the time you arrived, you were doing investigative journalism because the attack was over. It was when you went to Damascus in the middle of a civil war that I couldn't take it anymore. There's my baby girl on the telly reporting as a massive pile of chemical weapons was being handed over to the UN. No bomb, no gas will ever respect the sanctity of press vests, Hermione."
"That is a risk I have always been willing to take."
"Well, I never agreed to watch you."
Hermione nodded. That was a fair point. She sipped more juice, unwilling to vocalize her agreement. It felt like handing her mother too much of a win.
"However you feel about me, don't blame your father. I decided to move our business to Brisbane. Jack wanted to stay here, but I told him I was moving regardless. If he stayed behind then my wedding ring and our marriage would stay with him. It seems unfair to deny him the opportunity to get to know the boy you consider a son simply because you wish to deny me."
"Blaise told me what you said to Dean. I know you didn't mean it, but Blaise has worked very hard to make sure Scorpius doesn't grow up with the traditional views on sexuality."
"I've never understood the traditional views." Hermione's mother waved her hand as if to dismiss the entire notion of sexuality. "All these new names now for things which are so natural. Sexuality is simply you have a preference or you do not: all, some, or none. Your boyfriend, he's an all. You, you're a some. Then there are people who aren't much for sex at all. Why should it be any more complicated than that?" Mrs. Granger frowned and admitted, "I said what I said to Dean because he hurt me. When you are in peril I become a person I don't like at all, but I can't control it. Losing you makes me lose my mind, so I said something I knew Dean's stepfather had said which hurt him."
"You don't like Draco," said Hermione. "That's a problem for me."
"He's fine. This house is incredible. That young man loves you, I know, but he loves his son so much. Every holiday away from you I ask God, give her a reason to love herself. Give my daughter a reason to stay safe. If the little Malfoy is your reason, then I support you being with his father."
Hermione wondered, "If I stopped reporting would you move back to England?"
Her mother didn't say anything. She continued to stare out at the pond, as though Hermione's words hadn't been spoken. Hermione repeated,
"If I stopped—"
"Would I return to England if you gave up your career?" Her mother rolled her eyes. "Hermione, I left so you could keep it. I left so you wouldn't have your mother telling you not to go places and I wouldn't have to see you do an incredibly dangerous job. Why would you give up what you've worked for your entire life?"
"Because I have a son—"
"The Malfoy boy loves you because you take risks, Hermione. He loves you because you tell stories that need to be told, humanizing the people our government considers extraneous. That's what you do, I am proud of you, and I have never not been proud of you. The little Malfoy needs a mother, I agree, but why does he love you? Is it because you buy him trainers, or is it because you ask him questions that make him think?" She smiled softly and said, "Children love to think. They love answering questions and you've made a living on asking them."
Hermione couldn't hide the surprise in her voice when she asked, "You don't think I'll be a bad mother?"
"Of course not. You have a large hill to climb, but I have no doubt you are able."
"Oh." She sat with that for a long moment before repeating, "Oh."
"Then you will need to discuss with your husband how to care for your second child when the first has a separate connection to a woman he never met." Mrs. Granger said, "I do wonder what that child's hair will look like."
Hermione laughed.
"You think I will marry Draco and have a child with him?"
"You must marry him, Hermione. That little boy considers you his mother so the decision has been made. You cannot turn away from it—"
"You did."
Mrs. Granger once again dismissed Hermione with a wave of her hand.
"If you choose to see what I did as abandonment, that is your decision. I won't quarrel with you on it. That boy is the eldest Malfoy, heir to this estate and a substantial peerage. His life will lead him to this, and it is your responsibility to be part of it as the woman married to his father."
"That doesn't necessitate having a child of my own."
"You both want to." Hermione's mother shrugged. "You can't see it, but everyone else can. Hell, even your father can see as much. Draco Malfoy loves being a dad. He's always talking about his son, carrying folded-up drawings in the pocket of his trousers. He loves you, and you love him very differently from how you loved Ron."
"Draco and I have been together well over two months and I think we've had sex four or five times."
Mrs. Granger shook her head and insisted, "He is gorgeous, Hermione. You should be riding him so often you get frequent flyer points."
"MUM!" Hermione's eyes were wide in horror. "I cannot believe you just said that."
"Why? So many women settle for men who barely know how to dress, let alone floss. That young man has excellent teeth, dresses well, and he's got a certain femininity to his face that quite suits him. An absolutely beautiful man you've got, and you need to appreciate your luck."
"Is that why you married dad?" teased Hermione. "Because he dresses well, flosses twice daily, and has aged nicely?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"Most men are swine, Hermione. Dean's stepfather is the best example. Journey doesn't love him, she doesn't like him, she likes his pocketbook. He likes that she gave him seven children. Seven. In addition to the one she'd already given birth to, whom he loathes because Dean is a constant reminder that Journey loved someone before him. Journey's just too weak of a woman to be on her own for long, let alone as a single mother with a three-year-old son. She has been in a loveless marriage for thirty years, which is why her son stayed with someone who no longer wanted to be married to him. She set the example, and men prey on women like her."
"I don't think Dean sees it that way."
"It wouldn't be the first time we've disagreed. Dean sees his mother very differently from who she is. When I met your father, I found a man I knew would not leave me if I became gravely ill. I found a man who truly wished to be a father, who wanted a wife to love, and a few other things I ought not to mention about Jack because there are things a woman does not disclose."
Hermione made a disgusted face and said, "Thank you."
"He deserves a chance to meet the little Malfoy."
"Do you want to meet him?"
"I will respect the decisions you make for your child, as I expect everyone to respect the decisions I made for mine."
Hermione huffed, "You didn't answer the question."
"Of course I want to meet your son, Hermione," Mrs. Granger huffed, "but I don't want to cause tension for him, either."
Hermione spun the glass of orange juice between her fingers. The morning air was quite chilly, still, and she wondered whether she knew what was best for Scorpius; he'd only been her son a week or two. Her mother made valid points, and she yearned for her mother's approval more than anything else in the world. Hermione would never admit it aloud, but what good was any bit of her career when the woman who gave Hermione life didn't deem that life worthwhile? Hermione asked,
"Do you need a pedicure?"
"Come again?"
"I asked if you need a pedicure."
"Yes, I could use one."
Hermione sipped her orange juice and wiped it from the corners of her mouth.
"I don't want Scorpius to be at the funeral. He has such sadness in his life, I don't need this to be another cloud over him. Why don't you take him for a pedicure tomorrow?"
"Are you certain?"
"I am."
"Thank you."
Hermione looked over to see her mother staring out at the water. She wouldn't say anything more, but the light bounced off the tears in the corners of her eyes. Hermione said,
"I don't want you to stay in London long. Return to Australia with dad, and I will let you know when I'm ready to receive you here. I just …" Hermione shook her head. "I must get through the grief and figure out what to do with my career before I can focus on you."
"We will come back when you ask." Mrs. Granger said, "You're building a new life for yourself, and I am excited to see what it looks like."
Hermione offered, "Hopefully it will make you proud."
"Do right by your little boy, Hermione, and nothing will ever make me more proud of you."
.oOo.
"Here's how this will go."
Saturday, the sun was high in the clear sky as Hermione stood in the public gardens. She wore a black turtleneck, black trousers, and black flats. There was no need for her to be tall; she could hardly feel any smaller. About twenty people had already arrived and taken seats in the hundreds of chairs set out in front of a microphone and a large box of flowers. Draco said,
"Dennis will say some things, then you will speak, and Diggory will follow."
Hermione gestured to the large patch of sod in a previously unremarkable part of the public gardens and asked, "What is that?"
"Ah." Draco pulled one of the terribly named 'party favours' from the box. "We cultivate endangered plant species here on the property, and Colin's life needs to live on, needs to keep helping. I had the gardener procure five new species of endangered flowers. We had 217 RSVPs, five of whom are here solely to support you, so we have 212 flowers in individual plastic containers. The soil in those containers contains a bit of Colin's ashes, and the containers themselves are made of biodegradable plastics which only take a month to fully reintegrate into the soil. Everyone gets one of these."
Draco handed Hermione the gardening trowel, a tiny metal shovel with a solid wood handle. The handle was engraved: Colin Creevey 17 May 1986 – 3 August 2019.
"Everyone gets to select a flower and plant it in one of the premarked squares in the sod. I figured it may help all of us if we get to literally be part of laying him to rest. Colin gets to keep giving new life and it's an opportunity for me to try out a bit of the sustainability portfolio."
Hermione wiped tears from the corners of her eyes.
"He would've loved this. It's perfect for him."
"I never got to lay Tori to rest, so I promised Dennis I would do right by his brother. So often people end up as little more than a corpse beneath a rock. Colin's sacrifice will be remembered as long as the manor stands."
Hermione grabbed Draco's hand and said, "You've done the perfect job."
"Thank you." He leaned down to kiss her cheek before walking her over to the large book on a stand at the front of the cordoned-off space of the public gardens. "Perhaps you should add something of your own."
It was a medium-sized guestbook with some of peoples' favourite things Colin said to them over the years. There were well over twenty entries already, scribbled in quite varied penmanship. Each one sounded precisely like something Colin would say:
If you're not looking at your drink, put the cocktail napkin over it. I can't always see if someone sneaks something in, but I notice when someone moves the napkin.
I bartend here because I have a lot in common with gay people. When I'm chauffeuring people around, I'm in the driver's seat eight to ten hours straight. Seems to me we're both getting our arses chapped from a rough ride.
Getting dumped is awful, but you know what it means? It means you're too good to be kept on the side. You're a main course, man. An entree you can't just keep warm in the oven. So go out there and find the perfect plate.
Hermione added her own at the top of the next page: Anything for you, boss.
She fiddled with her sling while people talked around her. Draco did not wish to leave her side, and she was grateful for it. Bastien and Padma arrived. Cedric arrived with Parvati. "Carpool," she said. Ron arrived with Harry and Dean, each of whom shook Draco's hand before giving her a gentle hug. Ron placed his hand on the sling and said,
"I'm sorry you've got to be in one of these again."
"Me, too."
Then a voice with a thick accent shouted from several metres away, "HERMIONE!"
She'd know that voice anywhere. Viktor was walking toward her and she managed a slight smile, even with the disgruntled mumblings on either side of her.
"Bloody hell that's …" Draco cleared his throat and his voice was unusually high when he said, "That's Viktor Krum."
"Yeah, it fucking is." Ron groaned, "I fucking hate that guy."
Hermione playfully nudged him with her good elbow and said, "Be nice."
"I'm not going to be nice, I don't like the way he touches you."
"Then you shouldn't have divorced me, darling," Hermione snapped.
Ron's mouth fell open a bit as she opened her one good arm wide to allow Viktor to hug her. Instead of a hug, he leaned down for a quick kiss then wrapped his arms around her waist the way he had at the beginning of their date. All the tension left Hermione's body for a moment. Just a moment, but it was easier to breathe in Viktor's arms than anywhere else.
"I am happy you are okay. This Colin, he was a good man. He protected you always, and I need to support you and him. So I am here for you and him."
"Thank you." Hermione felt the weight of the world on her chest once again as Viktor stepped away. "Colin would have appreciated that."
Viktor gently squeezed her hip before greeting Harry. They gripped forearms as Viktor said,
"Good to see you, brother."
"Too long." Harry smiled one of the biggest smiles Hermione had seen from him since the incident. "Thank you for coming. I know Hermione needs as much support as we can give her."
"Though she will never ask for it," replied Viktor.
Harry agreed, "Never."
Viktor and Ron shared a quick, adversarial glance before Viktor turned his attention to Draco. He offered his hand and said,
"You are caring for Hermione now?"
Draco looked down at Viktor's hand, then up at Viktor's face, and blinked. He went completely quiet, and Hermione thought it was rather adorable. She leaned over and whispered in Viktor's ear,
"He's had a massive crush on you for fifteen years."
Viktor's eyes went wide and he smiled.
"I see." He clapped Draco on the shoulder and said, "I am always happy to be in the thoughts of beautiful women. And now, I am happy to be in the thoughts of a beautiful man."
Hermione was shocked Draco managed to stay upright. He squeaked out,
"Thank you."
Viktor turned to Hermione and placed his hands on her waist.
"You are strong. This hurts, but you will get through this. I promise. You know I keep my promises. I will sit at the back; I do not want to be a distraction. This Colin deserves a good goodbye."
Hermione confirmed, "He does."
Then Viktor left for the seats. Hermione watched him walk away and wondered when, exactly, she had collected so many men willing to protect her; Colin chief among them. Her heart was heavy with the realization that her life had cost so much.
"I still don't like the way he touches you." Ron grumbled, "He's not your boyfriend, he shouldn't be doing that."
Hermione said, "I don't think my boyfriend minds. Do you?" she asked Draco.
"That's Viktor Krum." Draco bent forward and placed his hands on his knees and repeated, "That's Viktor bloody Krum. Fuck. Viktor Krum called me a beautiful man. Dear God, I may have a heart attack, bloody hell."
"I think Draco is fine with Viktor touching me the way Viktor chooses to touch me." Hermione said, "I'm going to sit and wait for this to begin."
Hermione didn't remember leaving them. She couldn't recall trudging to her chair, sitting next to Cedric, nor Dennis introducing her to his wife. His very pregnant, beautiful, supportive wife. It was because of Hermione that Colin would never get to meet his niece. She turned around to see the seats had filled up with loads of … Well, she hated to be stereotypical, but more than half the seats were filled with what had to be gay men. Padma leaned forward to whisper,
"Colin worked in a gay club, The Silver Snitch. They took buses out here and made it an event."
"I see."
Colin had been taken away from an entire community, and for what? Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger's watch. Hermione Granger's shoulder. Hermione. Hermione. Hermione.
"Whatever you're thinking," Draco plopped into the seat on her right, "stop it. This isn't your fault, this is your day to say goodbye to a good man."
Hermione nodded. She should focus. Once everyone was seated, Cedric to Hermione's left, Dennis Creevey stepped up to the microphone. He said in a strong, clear voice,
"Thank you all for coming. My brother, Colin, was not much for tradition, so we've decided to do things a bit differently. All of us have things we love and remember him for, and I will be grateful to have them in our guestbook as a piece of my brother that can live on. I want to thank Draco Malfoy and the County of Wiltshire for allowing us to place this memorial to my brother on their property. He wasn't much for speeches, so we'll keep things brief here. Hermione Granger is going to say a few words, followed by Cedric Diggory, two of my brother's colleagues and friends. Then you will have the opportunity to plant a flower in what will become a permanent fixture of these gardens before making your way to the ballroom at Malfoy Manor. It is a gift to see that all of you cared so deeply for Colin." Dennis looked to Hermione and gestured for her to take his place.
Her heart stopped for a moment. This was goodbye. She had to stand up in front of all these people and speak about her friend. Her dead friend. Hermione didn't tell her body to stand, nor to walk to the microphone. Dennis Creevey gave her arm the same gentle squeeze that everyone seemed to take as the default. He lowered the microphone a bit before tilting it down toward her. Hermione nodded her thanks and unlocked her phone with shaking fingers. She had typed it all out in her Notes app, and her thumb trembled as it hovered over her screen. Hermione blurted out,
"I talk to four million people every week, you'd think I'd be better prepared for this."
There were some mumblings conceding that was, in fact, both true and funny. Hermione said,
"We are here because of me, and I am so sorry for that. Colin was my driver at BBC, but he was also my friend. We spent many hours each week together in his BMW X5. I know how much he enjoyed being around all of you because he spoke often of his friends. The past seven days, I've been numb and confused as to how all of this has happened. Someone very close to me has been under the waters of grief for many years. He said the person he lost took bits of him with them when they died. I would like to say all the pieces of me which will rest in this garden, the first of which is my love of Escape to the Country."
Hermione paused for the small outburst of laughter. Some nervous giggling, some anxious chuckles, no one quite sure which noises they were permitted to make.
"Colin has driven me for a year-and-a-half, and I'd bring up Escape to the Country every four months or so. I travel so often abroad but rarely find myself travelling through my home country. The show was my way of skipping through Britain, one country house at a time. Each time I mentioned the show, it was as though I'd never mentioned it before. Colin always approached things with the same level of interest, even if he wasn't interested at all. I'll never watch another mystery house without thinking of Colin's insistence that a thatched roof doesn't look all that hideous."
More nervous laughter. Hermione's fingers were shaking, causing her phone to ask whether she wished to make an emergency call. She swooshed the prompt away and continued with a sure, if slower tone.
"Another piece of me Colin took with him is subtlety. I snogged my boyfriend for the first time in the back of Colin's BMW."
The laughter from the audience was more confident, then. Good, that was good.
"He pulled into my building's car park and I asked him to do a," Hermione pantomimed quotation marks with her right hand, "'security sweep' of my flat. Understanding what I was about to do even before Draco did, Colin asked, 'Should I walk slowly?' Now, every moment I have with Draco is, in a way, a gift from Colin, who knew when to give me the safe space to do something incredibly stupid."
"For the record," Draco turned to face the crowd and half-shouted, "I didn't think it was stupid!"
More confident laughter from their audience. Hermione's heart settled as she looked up at Draco. He gave her a subtle nod, meaning you can do this. He is listening.
"The final piece Colin took with him, is 'You jump, I jump. You leave, I leave.' When Cedric organized the strike of our team, I have no doubt that Colin was among the loudest voices in the room. He was a man who believed in doing the right thing because the universe is filled with so many wrongs. I loved that about him more than anything else."
Hermione sniffled as she prepared for the next section of her speech. This was the hardest part of it all: getting to the end.
"To the things I loved and will miss most about Colin, I must say his smile. You could tell that he greeted the sun with a smile every morning. He always found the happiness within himself, within a given situation, within a job …" Hermione wiped a tear from her eye. "He told me once that it is an honour to drive me, and I want him to know that it was a far larger honour knowing he chose to take the gig. The privilege it was to know that not only was a man I could trust in the front seat, but a man who believed in what I have always tried to do as a journalist. A man who never judged me, who never asked questions I didn't wish to answer, and always opened the door."
She shrugged her good shoulder.
"When you only have one good arm, opening the door matters. Colin made everything easier just by being who he was. The last thing I remember is Colin telling me everything would be okay. And …" Hermione could barely see the screen of her phone through the tears. The words were blurred but she'd stared at them long enough to remember, "And he's not here to tell me that anymore." Her voice shook as she said, "I can't help but feel the sun will never shine as bright again without Colin here to help it along. إِنَّا ِلِلَّٰهِ وَإِنَّا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعُونَ – Be at peace, my friend."
Hermione wiped her eyes as she walked toward her seat. Halfway, she was pulled into a hug by Dennis Creevey. Her shoulder twinged a bit, but Hermione didn't care. Neither said anything. The silence was a shared sadness.
Cedric stood and placed his hand on Hermione's lower back as he passed. Hermione took her seat just as Dennis returned to his. Cedric looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept since Hermione saw him on Tuesday. Cedric looked like he was about to cry before he even began to speak.
"I met Colin at BBC five years ago, shortly after my mum died. When you lose a parent, you go through the motions because the world is so different and terrifying without them in it. The only thing you have is routine. I had just been offered my own show, anchoring BBC News at Ten. Every day I showed up to work, when I should have been overjoyed that I'd finally gotten to where I thought my career was destined to go … I'd spend an hour on a bench in the lobby. I would sit there and watch people coming in and out of the tiny shop, buying hats and t-shirts with the BBC logo on them. I wondered where their mums were. Sometimes I'd see a mum with her son and I wanted to rip my heart out just to make the pain recede."
Cedric adjusted his tie, pausing for a moment to breathe.
"Two weeks I did that before this bloke plopped down next to me. He handed me a photograph he'd taken, of me looking all glum on that bench with this giant BBC logo on the wall behind me. Anybody who was around Colin back then knew he walked around with a proper camera 'round his neck. He said to me, 'I don't know you, but the man in this photograph is carrying a heavy load on his shoulders. I'm happy to carry it for awhile, if you need.'
"So I told Colin about my mum, and he nodded along. He sat there for a minute, fiddling with his camera. Then he said, 'I lost my mum and dad more than ten years ago. Sort of had to figure out how to raise my brother and myself. What I do know is that a mum's job is to prepare her son for the realities of the world so you can survive after she's gone. And to do that with love. The way I see it, your mum's done such a good job that now you get to tell the whole country about the realities of the world. And you do it because you love it. Maybe the best way for you to not feel so sad is to know that every time you get in front of the camera you're not just doing your work, you're doing hers, too.'"
Cedric sniffled, shrugged, and shook his head.
"It was the perfect thing to say and he disappeared after he said it. I wouldn't see him for months. When I did see him, Colin was waiting for some other talent to get into his car. I told him how much I appreciated what he said, and Colin being Colin, he insisted, 'If you listen to God, you know what to say.' And that sat with me because he didn't strike me as the religious sort. That's the thing about Colin, he always knew what to say and how to say it."
Cedric paused and looked up at the sky, willing the tears back. Hermione ached for him. He shouldn't have to be doing this—none of them should have to be here. It wasn't right.
"Colin wasn't much for church, but he was a spiritual young man. I asked him, once, how he ended up in so many different jobs. Many of you knew him from his days as a bartender at the Silver Snitch, best gay nightclub in London by all accounts—"
A hesitant din of applause rose for a few seconds, acknowledging Colin's contribution to making it the best gay nightclub in London.
"—others from his various gigs as a photographer, and still yet those of us at BBC who were gifted the best transport manager we could've asked for. Colin told me, 'The universe puts me where I need to be. I call it God, some others may call it destiny, whatever the hell it is … Usually, it gives me words for what needs to be said, and reasons for me to be where I need to be.' Cedric took a deep breath before adding, "Whatever it is, I'd really like an explanation as to why God, destiny, or the universe has decided Colin doesn't need to be here anymore. That he belongs to the earth. That he belongs to a God who has taken him so early, so cruelly from those of us left to wonder what happened to the shining star in the night sky we once looked to … How it has now dimmed to nothing."
How it has now dimmed to nothing.
Hermione didn't bother wiping the tears away anymore. Why bother when they would continue to come? Draco took Hermione's good hand in his as if to say, I'm here for you. She was grateful for him, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn't bring Colin back, couldn't make the pain of loss hurt any less for her, for Cedric, for Dennis, for any of them.
"I am angry, hurt, and a number of other things. Unlike Colin, I have not been given the gift of the universe's words. I have no idea what to say; not to myself, nor to all of you. I read this speech over and over to Parvati each time I rewrote it because I never got the ending right. How do you say goodbye to someone whose loss is unexplainable? Colin wasn't family to me. Colin was not a lover, not a mentee nor an overwhelming presence in my life. His absence this past week has been felt in the smallest ways to me. It is how you never notice the ticking of a clock until it stops. The whirring of electrical appliances, the din of conversation on busy London streets outside your window … It's as if all of that suddenly stopped. I am sitting in this indescribable silence."
Cedric shuffled his papers, so the one in front was at the back.
"After the thirty-fourth re-write of this, Pavi sat me down. She looked me in the eyes and said, 'Not everyone can grow flowers, Ced. Some of us need a florist.' She was right, of course. I don't have the words to say goodbye properly. At my mum's funeral, I read a poem because I couldn't keep myself together long enough to say something meaningful of my own. Pavi translated this poem for me, by Rabindranath Tagore, and I think it is the best way to say goodbye to a man who found the light in the darkest of times for me."
Cedric steadied himself and stepped into his broadcast voice.
When God finished his work of creation
In the vast blue sky
All the stars began to shine.
In the Milky Way
With this new world in their front
All the gods sat in rows and began to sing,
'O what joy! What perfection!
A great piece of music, in perfect rhythm -
These planets, this moon, and this sun!'
But someone from the assembly
Suddenly recognised,
'From this string of lights
A star seems to have fallen down!'
The strings of the lyre snapped
And the music came to a stop,
A quest began to find
Where the lost star had gone.
Everyone said,
'It was the star which brightened the heavens most
It was the biggest and the best.'
From then on has been
This quest for the star which has been lost,
Day and night there is no rest.
Everyone says,
'Among all the stars
We must find
This particular star.
Without it, the entire world has become dark.'
But in the dead of night the silent stars
Smile silently yet say among themselves,
'This search is useless
For all the stars are here!'
"The heavens have retrieved their lost star. Colin Creevey, may your light shine down forever upon us, my friend."
Cedric sat down on Hermione's left, and that was it. It was time to say goodbye and put their eyes toward the days and weeks to come. It felt wrong, though, to leave Colin behind.
A group of four men made their way to the front, next to what would soon be a garden filled with freshly-planted flowers. They were each in black suits with matching silver pocket squares. The tallest one of the bunch, with bright blue hair, stepped up to the microphone.
"My name is Kenneth Towler, and I'm the house DJ for the Silver Snitch an' part of our club's four-man singing group. Colin and I star'ed working 'round the same time, and we were mates immediately. On behalf of all of us at the club, our condolences to you, Dennis, and to e'fryone else affected by this loss. Years ago, Colin chose the song we use to signal the club's closin' for the night: Move On by George Michael. In his honour, the Quaffle Quartet will sing a collection of George Michael songs whilst you all plant your bits of Colin in the garden. Peace be wif you, bruv."
They began from the back rows, each person coming up through the aisle to choose a flower from the box. Each guest, clad in black, picked up a trowel and dug out one of the portioned squares of sod. The quartet was excellent, singing solemn songs that added an ethereal quality to the procession. Viktor was one of the first to plant his piece, a somber look on his face as he dug out a place for the flower in the sod. Hermione hadn't seen his brow crease like that since they'd ended their relationship fifteen years prior. This hurt him deeper than he let on.
Dennis's neighbors came. Three of Colin's primary school teachers were there. Luna Lovegood was there, for some reason. Hermione supposed her energy was not entirely disparate from Colin's. Perhaps they were friends. There were some people even Dennis didn't know. A few MPs whom Colin used to chauffeur and used as references to get the job at BBC. Journalists and writers from the papers and magazines Colin photographed for.
Looking at all of it, Hermione wondered whether she had done anything to merit this herself. Whom had she ever helped enough that they would drive two hours for her funeral? There weren't hundreds of people who cared about her personally. Her journalism, perhaps, but personally? Who was she? Hermione certainly wasn't this well-respected. Hell, she'd just been Frankensteined back together again.
By the time she looked up, everyone had gone. Even the Quaffle Quartet had disappeared. There was only one flower remaining in the box. One open square right at the centre of the garden. Hermione couldn't move. She saw her friends in her peripheral vision, off to the right, waiting for her before they walked back to Malfoy Manor. Draco was there, along with Dean, Ron, Viktor, Harry, Cedric, and Bastien. So many men willing to protect her, and for what? So they could end up next to Colin?
Hermione looked at the garden, two hundred and eleven flowers planted to hold one body. All that was left of Colin was there in those stems and petals. Everyone else had made their way to the reception. Later, someone would take down the large photograph of Colin and put it in the rubbish. Dennis would take home the book of Colin's best sayings. His final photographs would be published in next month's magazine, and then there would be nothing. There would be no more of Colin left to give and it was Hermione's fault. She should have been more careful, should have told Colin to take care of himself, should have met up at her flat—
Hermione fell to her knees and screamed. She couldn't take this, not again. Not because she was standing in the wrong place at the worst time. Hermione forced the sling off and over her head before tossing it away. She screamed until her throat was raw. She wrapped her left arm around her waist as she leaned forward and braced herself against the ground with her right hand. Hermione dug her nails in; this was the closest she would ever be to Colin. Snot was dribbling out her nose, but Hermione had no care. The world was spinning too fast when it shouldn't have been turning at all.
A pair of arms wrapped around her and Hermione tried to push him away, but he grabbed her more forcefully and pulled her into his lap.
"I've been here before." Draco kissed the top of her head and tightened his hold. "I know it all, all the feelings, I will hold you through them. I promise, golden girl."
Hermione believed him. Her chest stuttered as she sobbed, leaning against him, desperate to stop feeling this heartache and the overwhelming guilt accompanying it. Draco shrugged off his blazer and wrapped it around Hermione as if to shield her from the rest of the world. They were sitting there, little more than a tangle of limbs on the ground. The questions, the guilt, the grey pudding—
"I'm here for you as long as you need me, I promise."