Chapter Text
***
“Go on, then, Granger, tell us what you’d say,” Theo said, his gaze challenging as he smirked at her across the cluttered glass table.
Hermione sipped her cranberry martini and leaned back against the plush velvet banquette. “Oh, Theo, when are you going to evolve past needing me to ghostwrite your sharp little witticisms and banter? Shouldn’t you be capable of replying to texts on your own at this point?”
“If only that were true, Granger!” Pansy laughed, tossing her sharp-cut bob and, coincidentally, showing off her large sparkling diamond earrings—a recent gift from her fiance, Adrian Pucey, and Pansy was dead set against letting anyone forget it.
“Right, then, tell me what he said, again?” It appeared as though Theo really did need her assistance.
“He said, ‘I bet you’ve got a lovely Yule log.’”
Hermione tossed her shiny—and perfectly frizz-free—curls as she laughed. “Oh, Theo. And you really sent him a picture of your empty hearth? You truly didn’t catch the innuendo there? It’s not even Yule Log season yet!”
“We were discussing Yule decor!” Theo protested, the tips of his ears burning red.
Well, if he didn’t want to be embarrassed, he should do a better job at flirting, in Hermione’s opinion. “There are two clear directions you could’ve taken it, Nott. The first, of course, being a rather oblique reference to Dickens’ classic tale of Little Leander Lesenstrope and the Yule log that burned eternal. Something like, ‘and it’s got the same stamina as Leander’s magic log,’ with that winking emoticon I showed you.”
“A classic Granger response,” Draco said, smirking at her. His blond hair shone in the dim lighting of the newest, most exclusive private club in Diagon Alley. “Something that makes you laugh and feel a bit stupid at the same time.”
“Only if you aren’t familiar with classic literature,” Hermione said primly. But she couldn’t quite hide her own smirk. She and Draco had been circling each other the past few months, ever since he’d finally managed to break his betrothal contract with Astoria Greengrass. Now that he was a single man, his flirting has increased markedly.
“And what’s the other direction, then? Because I think we all know classic literature is not my forte,” Theo whinged.
Hermione leaned forward and tapped him on the nose with one elegant, perfectly-manicured finger. “Simple, Theo darling—a dick pic.”
Their raucous laughter caught the attention of most of the patrons; she could feel the attention of the bar shift, eyes and bodies turning to stare enviously at the young, posh elites of London’s magical society. And there she was, muggleborn Hermione Granger; one of them.
“Helga’s hippogriff! You’re a hard woman to pin down, Hermione Granger!”
She turned to see Ernie MacMillan, attache case in hand, looking disheveled and altogether out of place among the sleek, low-cut dresses and sharply-tailored suits of the club’s members.
“Ernie MacMillan?” She hadn’t seen the wizard since she’d left the Ministry, probably. After five years of unfulfilling drudgery, watching less-qualified wizards and witches get promoted above her simply due to their blood status, Hermione had left her role as a civil servant, working for the betterment of society, and taken a position at Serpentis Capital, a newcomer to the private equity scene but quickly established as a major player. It wasn’t exactly the sort of work she’d dreamed of doing as a child, but at least the Slytherins appreciated her for her intellect. It was miles better than the old-boys club of the Ministry.
“I’ve been trying to catch you at your office for the last week, you know,” Ernie continued, shoving aside their drinks to make room for his leather case on their table. Pansy squealed in protest as the contents of one sloshed over the rim, spilling onto her black silk minidress.
“I’ve been in France on business,” Hermione said, frowning as she waved her wand to clean Pansy’s lap and tidy up the table. “What’s this about?”
“Well, that would explain it. Don’t know why that witch at reception couldn’t have just told me that,” Ernie grumbled, oblivious to the mess and chaos he’d caused.
“Because we take our employees’ privacy very seriously.” There was a hint of menace in Draco’s sharp tone. “You could have scheduled an appointment. Gotten on her diary.”
“Ah, well… yes, could’ve done, I imagine. Anyway, here we are now. And…” He withdrew a thick roll of parchment and handed it to her with a flourish. “Here you are. The deed to your farm.”
“I beg your pardon?!” Hermione looked at the wizard in shock. A farm?! Her?! The last thing she wanted to deal with was agriculture.
Ernie chuckled awkwardly. “Look, the will got all tied up in court—spot of bother over some antique racing brooms, I understand—but now the estate’s all sorted and you’re free to take ownership of your farm.”
“But I haven’t got a farm,” Hermione protested.
“Whose estate?” Daphne perked up; as the in-house solicitor for Serpentis Capital, that would catch her attention.
“Minerva McGonagall’s, of course.”
“But her funeral was ages ago,” Pansy protested. “Wasn’t that last summer, Granger? You wore that gorgeous Issa London wrap dress and that clever little Lock & Co. fascinator.”
“I remember that dress,” Draco said in a low voice.
“Yes, as I said, spot of bother with the courts. But, nonetheless, you are now the sole owner of the Gloaming Hills Yule Log Farm.” Ernie shook the roll of parchment at her, prompting Hermione to accept it in numb hands.
And there it was, in thick black calligraphy: Hermione Jean Granger, sole owner and proprietor of Gloaming Hills Yule Log Farm, located in the woods of Devonshire.
*
“I know you’re dead set on this, but really, Granger—just sell the land and be done with it. No reason to live amongst squalor for two weeks, just to get a feel for the place,” Draco protested, his hand resting just above the small of her back as he escorted her to the portkey office. Her LK Bennet pumps clicked against the marble tiles, marking time.
Hermione shook her head. “I have to, though. For my own sake. For… closure, I think. Losing Minerva so suddenly like that… she was the closest thing I had to a Gran, you know.”
They paused together just outside the office, the halls of the Ministry quiet and still on a Sunday afternoon. “She was a wonderful woman,” Draco said softly, his eyes tender. “And you know we’ll support you, as long as you need. Unlimited compassionate leave for the brains behind Serpentis Capital, obviously. But I do hope you’ll hurry back. For… for many reasons, really.”
‘For me,’ was what she hoped he’d say. She searched his expression, wanting to see some indication that she wasn’t imagining things; that he really did feel something more for her.
Instead, he smirked. “Stay away too long and you might come back to find I’ve let Parks redecorate your office.”
Her heart sank a bit. He was keeping their relationship firmly in the context of work, it seemed. Work and friends, but nothing more.
“Try it and see how quickly I accept that open-ended offer from Cormac’s firm,” she said, forcing her mouth into a smile.
“The deepest betrayal, Granger,” he teased, hand over his heart in mock hurt. They laughed together, a soft, sophisticated chorus that faded into silence all-too quickly. “But do be expedient about things, won’t you?”
“When am I ever anything but the very picture of efficiency?”
“Whenever you get lost in a research spiral. When you’re on rant about justice and equality. When you’re lecturing us on global warming and our duty as stewards of the environment. I can keep going, Granger.” He arched an eyebrow and she pursed her lips to hide her smile.
Damn Draco Malfoy and his unparalleled attractiveness.
The sign next to the portkey office lit up, the number flipping to 1415.
Draco cleared his throat. “Well. That’s your reservation, isn’t it? I suppose you ought to get checked in and settled, if you don’t want to miss it.”
“Right,” she said, reaching to take her valise from him. He’d insisted on carrying it, which had given her heart a bit of a thrill, but then… that was simple pureblood etiquette, wasn’t it? He’d have done as much for any witch? “Well, I’ll see you at the Yule Ball?”
“Miss it and risk the wrath of Narcissa.” He raised his chin, grey eyes boring down into her very soul. “And Biccie. The elves won’t abide being deprived of the pleasure of your company, you know. They’ve been dead set on impressing you after all your effusive praise at the Beltane bonfire.”
“Couldn’t disappoint my favourite house elves,” she agreed. And she couldn’t, really—the Malfoy elves were dear friends who had supported her endless—and, crushingly, fruitless—efforts to secure some form of legislative protections for them when she’d still been at the Ministry. It had been the first tentative bridge formed with Draco; an offer of access to the house elf village at the Manor and as much time as either party desired for assistance and general support. He’d wanted her help securing a vote from the old Order contingent who still held seats in the Wizengamot as he petitioned to have the post-war freezing order lifted from his personal vault. It had been quid pro quo and an olive branch in one fell swoop.
The sign flashed again, and Hermione drew in a breath. This wasn’t going to be a romantic, soul-baring declaration of hidden feelings between them. It was two work colleagues and friends, temporarily parting but with firm plans to see each other again at the next social event. And it was only meant to be two weeks.
“Best be off, then,” she said with a firm nod of her head.
“Until Yule Ball, then, Granger.” He leaned down, his cheek brushing hers as he gave her a quick kiss on each side. “And bon voyage.”
Hermione smiled and turned, pushing through the door to the portkey office, smoothing down the folds of her sapphire wool coat dress.
How much could happen in two weeks, after all?
*
Cold.
Wet and cold.
Hermione screeched with the shock of the abrupt temperature change—had something gone wrong with the portkey?!—then looked about.
Instead of the generic, graffitied phone box where most Ministry portkeys landed, this one had dumped her right in the middle of a snow bank.
She high-stepped, trying to climb over it, but tripped and landed on her hands and knees in the middle of the muddy lane.
“I know it’s a foreign concept to you posh city-folk, but generally we simple-minded country bumpkins prefer to walk on the lanes, rather than crawl.” The voice was laughing and achingly familiar. Hermione accepted the proffered hand that stuck out into her field of vision and looked up into the smiling green eyes of Harry Potter. “Long time no see, ‘Mione.”
She wanted to cringe at the nickname, but smiled instead. “Harry. How are you? I didn’t expect to see you!”
He laughed. “No, I expect not. Of course, we’ve been awaiting your presence ever since the will was read. Took you long enough!”
“I had no idea—I never received an invitation to a will reading. I didn’t expect anything, you know.” And she really hadn’t. She’d seen Minerva as something of an adopted grandmother-figure, but the prickly professor had only just given Hermione permission to call her by her first name a few months before she unexpectedly died from an acute case of gnomonia.
“Well, probably would have been less of a surprise if you’d stuck around after the funeral. Tried to catch your attention, but you were whisked off by that posh crowd of snakes you had circling you.” There was something a bit accusatory in his tone, but Hermione ignored it. Grief did strange things to people, after all.
“I hadn’t been handling it well,” she explained, though she hated to reveal any sort of weakness to anyone. But this was Harry—if she could trust anyone, it was him, wasn’t it?
“Certainly looked well enough, by the sight of those posh togs you had.” Hermione turned at the sound of a different voice.
“Ginny,” she said hesitantly, uncertain what sort of reception she’d get from the youngest Weasley. Things hadn’t exactly ended poorly between Hermione and Ron, but Ginny had always held a grudge longer than any of her brothers.
“Wouldn’t want to be accused of not showing proper deference to Miss High and Mighty,” Ginny scoffed. “Best get her in the Burrow and tidied up before she perishes from the mess of it all. And you’re not exactly dressed for the weather, are you? Would’ve thought London had access to the weather, same as anyone, but I suppose it’s hard to see beyond the Big Smoke from the inside.”
Hermione wanted to protest—she’d consulted the weather, obviously! And it had predicted a sunny 9 degrees celsius for the day, making her wool coat dress and stockings entirely appropriate—but that was the exact behaviour that had caused Ginny to start rolling her eyes at Hermione while they were still at Hogwarts.
“Come on, ‘Mione, we’ll get you sorted. Molly’s got a room set aside for you.” Harry jerked his chin at her valise. “You’ll want that, I imagine.”
“Oh, I—I booked a room at the inn, just in the village,” Hermione protested. The last thing she wanted to do was encroach on Molly Weasley’s territory.
“Don’t be daft,” Harry said with a smile. “Molly wouldn’t hear of it. This’ll make it convenient to get to the farm, you know—really see how things operate, get a sense for the beauty of it all. And we’ll have more time to catch up. You can tell us all about your naff life these days.”
Hermione swallowed further protest. She didn’t want to come off as thinking too highly of herself. She certainly didn’t want to imply she was too good for the Burrow. That was absolutely no way to begin her two weeks at Gloaming Hills.
*
Staring down at the natty quilt spread over the toddler-sized bed, Hermione reconsidered the ramifications of insulting Harry and the Weasleys.
This was, she supposed, Molly’s way of ensuring Hermione knew her place (in the cellar of the Burrow) and knew exactly how Molly saw her (utterly unworthy of any consideration or care).
“Cozy, yeah?” Harry asked, flicking his wand at the bare, single bulb suspended from the wooden support beam that functioned as both the ceiling to Hermione’s temporary accommodations and the foundational support for the entirety of the Burrow. Harry toed the rag rug on the floor (or, rather, ground) of the cellar. “Molly’s always got an eye for making things seem homey. She was working on this last winter, I think. Needed something to brighten up the space down here. Usually she has Percy move down here when they need a room for a guest at the farm, but I reckon she wanted you to know you were one of the family.”
“Erm… I’m sure, yes,” Hermione said, turning away from Harry to hide her eye roll. She was absolutely certain that was not at all what Molly wanted Hermione to know, but for Harry’s sake, she’d hold her tongue.
“Right, well, best get changed into your wellies and country togs. Wouldn’t want you to spoil that smart outfit more than you already have.” Harry gestured to her still-sodden dress and soaking wet pumps. Apparently, Ottery St. Catchpole mud was impervious to typical cleaning charms. Exactly the sort of magical mystery Hermione would usually delight in, but today it was just another disappointment and frustration.
“Right, yes. Certainly, I will.” She was feeling awkward and out of place and she always overdid it on formality when she wasn’t comfortable. And of course, being uncomfortable with how stiff and cold she came off only made it worse, a cycle of standoffishness that perpetuated itself. And exactly the sort of behaviour Molly always bristled at and delighted in calling Hermione out on.
She had to get a grip on herself or this would be two weeks of utter misery.
*
Changed into her well-loved but still spotless Le Chameau wellies—a gift from Narcissa ahead of Hermione’s first visit to the ancient Malfoy estate in Bayeux—and the Barbour coat Lucius had given her for their niffler-hunting trips at the Black estate in Scotland, Hermione climbed the rickety steps from her cellar room, emerging into the bright warmth of the Burrow’s kitchen.
Or she would have done, if the trap door had opened. She knocked on it, calling out to whomever was standing on her only exit.
“Oh, sorry, ‘Mione, didn’t know you were down in the rat hole!” George said cheerfully, lifting up the door and offering her a hand up. Hermione scrambled up and onto solid flooring, grateful to escape the claustrophobic space.
“George Weasley! How dare you imply there are rats in my home! You know very well I’ll not stand for that sort of pest, and I’ll have you dragged out by the ear if you persist in telling lies and falsehoods!”
“Wonder what she’d drag me out by if I sliced the other one off, too?” George whispered to Hermione with a wink.
Hermione smiled at him, grateful for the levity and his easy banter. George had been her favourite, and they’d actually kept in touch, more or less. Hermione dropped by his shop in Diagon from time to time, whenever one of the other partners went by for a visit. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes had been an early investment for Serpentis, though Hermione wasn’t entirely convinced the rest of the Weasley family was aware that George only just escaped bankruptcy by an injection of cash from the Slytherins.
“From what I’ve heard, the only other appendage she could easily get her hand around would be your nose,” Hermione shot back with a teasing grin. “Going to slice that off as well?”
“Oh-ho, must have spoken with one of my former paramours to have heard that sort of tale.” George jerked his chin at her. “Go on, tell me. Who was it that couldn’t keep quiet about the biggest Weasley Wheeze of them all?”
Hermione laughed, feeling much more at ease. “Might’ve had drinks with Justin Finch-Fletchley a few months back. Could’ve also been Pansy’s hen do, with Milly Bulstrode. You are a busy man, aren't you?”
“You’ve got to give the people what they want, you know. Come on, Mum’s got dinner just about ready. You can sit by me; I’ll protect you from any stray projectile missiles, shall I?” He offered his arm gallantly, if ironically. She liked George well enough, but none of the Weasley children ever stood up to their mother. They loved her and, at the end of the day, saw everything she did as harmless fun.
And that was something Hermione knew to be true beyond a shadow of a doubt.
It was what had broken her and Ron, in the end.
*
The table nearly groaned with the weight of Molly’s Sunday roast, and all present dug in with alacrity.
Save Hermione, of course.
She hesitated, wanting to cast her allergen-detecting charm before serving herself, but knowing how very offensive Molly would find such an action.
“Well?” Molly demanded, staring Hermione down from her place at the head of the table. “Don’t tell me you’re too good for a traditional meat and veg!”
“Oh, no, of course not, Molly. And it looks delicious, really,” Hermione said quickly. “It’s just—well, I’m sure you don’t remember, but I was diagnosed with a tree nut allergy? And it’s gotten rather severe, so I’m just a bit hesitant whenever I eat food I haven’t prepared myself.”
“And you expect me to believe you’d hesitate if a house elf made your food? Never heard such a thing in all my born days. Tree nuts! What’ll be next, all root veg gives you spots?” Molly scoffed. “If it’s not good enough for you, just be good enough to say so, won’t you? Wouldn’t be the first time one such as you’s turned up her nose at my good home cooking. Won’t be the last, either, I can promise you that much.”
“I assure you, Molly, it wouldn’t matter who had prepared the meal,” Hermione began, hating how formal she was already sounding and knowing it would only get worse. “And as we hadn’t spoken about it, I didn’t want to assume—“
“What’s this then?” Ron entered the kitchen, interrupting Hermione with his loud voice and even louder presence.
He’d grown.
He’d grown a lot.
Gone was the tall, lanky boy she’d dated after the war. He hadn’t been at Minerva’s funeral, either—at least, not that Hermione could recall.
Maybe she simply hadn’t recognised him.
Ron Weasley was tall and wide, in the way any rugged outdoorsman would be after hours and hours of swinging an axe and hauling giant logs. Or whatever it was Yule log farmers did. It certainly looked as if that was how he spent his time.
He dusted the snow off his deerstalker cap and flashed a wide grin at Hermione. “Don’t tell me you’re already giving Mum trouble, ‘Mione! Can’t have been here long, yeah?” Ron leaned over to kiss Molly on the cheek, then sauntered over to the empty chair next to Hermione. He leaned in close—really rather close, in Hermione’s opinion—and laughed a low, husky laugh she hadn’t heard in years. “Always did say you fit in like one of us, you know,” he said quietly, just in her ear.
He straightened up and slid off his coat and hat, tossing them into the furthest corner of the kitchen and plopping down into the chair, his arm brushing against Hermione’s as he sat. “‘Sides, Mum’s never been the type to cook with tree nuts. Not like those blue bloods you hang about with these days. If it doesn’t grow in the garden or get shot at in our fields, it’s not likely to be on Mum’s table, now, is it?”
Hermione blushed, hating that everyone had paused to witness this first interaction with Ron and the terribly awkward disagreement with Molly.
And now she’d look ridiculous if she insisted on checking, just to be certain.
Ron elbowed her and passed her a platter of roast parsnips. “Tree nut allergy. That one of those new-fangled muggle conditions we hear about all the time? Like those nutters that won’t eat bread?”
“Gluten!” Ginny scoffed. “Who’s ever heard of such an absurd thing?!”
“Well, now, Ginnykins, if they’re eating that muggle bread with all those preserves and whatnot, there’s no telling what sort of nonsense they’ve snuck in there. Too clever for their own good, those muggles! Always trying to improve upon what was good enough for my father, and his father before him.”
Hermione’s cheeks burned as she quickly dished out a serving of whatever she could reach. She’d had this conversation with them before. Loads of times before. And it always ended the same: Hermione quoting study after peer-reviewed study, citing facts and explaining science; the Weasley’s scoffing and dismissing and ignoring whatever she said, insisting that tradition and a dab of dittany and a cuppa would fix up anything that ailed her.
Including anaphylaxis.
Something the wound-healing dittany most certainly had limited efficacy on, and tea, as much as Hermione loved a perfectly-brewed cup, had never shown much promise at sorting out.
So she held her tongue and straightened her shoulders and did what she found most effective, when caught in similar such situations: she changed the subject.
“Ronald, I’d like to go over the financials for the farm first thing tomorrow. Could you arrange it?”
Ron leaned back and laughed, slurping down his pumpkin juice to wash out the bits of food stuck in his teeth even as he kept chuckling. Truly a talent. “Yeah, sure, ‘Mione. I’ll arrange that. Gin, call my secretary and have her mark that down in my diary, would you? Pencil it in or something.”
The Weasleys laughed as Ginny fumed about being relegated to Ron’s secretary’s secretary, and Hermione wistfully thought about her friends back in London, no doubt just wrapping up a boozy Sunday brunch without her.
Just two weeks.
She could certainly survive that.
*
Hermione woke with a start, her body shivering violently in the root cellar. She tried to stretch, but even her 5’6” frame was too long for the child-sized bed Molly had given her. Hermione wondered how Percy ever managed, come to think of it.
She’d been down here for ages, and her bladder was screaming for relief, but she wasn’t quite prepared to go upstairs just yet. Her stomach, with a ridiculously loud growl, equally protested her situation.
The rest of the afternoon had been awful. She’d had to stop eating when she’d suddenly noticed something that looked suspiciously walnut-shaped in the beetroot salad. When her tongue had gone a bit muzzy, she’d suddenly proclaimed a burning desire to walk the farm and commune with Minerva as an excuse to leave the table.
And she’d managed to pull it off, wandering aimlessly in the thick woods until she finally plopped down on a large stump, feeling a bit sorry for herself as she watched the sun sink slowly behind Minerva’s Gloaming Hills.
“Thought I’d find you out here,” Ron said, tromping through the woods until he stood before her. He gestured around them at the trees. “Pretty impressive, yeah?”
“It is,” she admitted truthfully. “I didn’t realise you’d been managing it.”
“Going on seven years now,” Ron said proudly. “Got tired of the Ministry life, needed something to get me back in nature, you know? Feel the wind in my hair, do something good and honest with my hands. It’s the kind of work I can be proud of.”
She swallowed, wondering if she could say the same about her work for a private equity firm.
“Reminds me of simpler times, too, being out here. That year we spent some time camping?” He waggled his eyebrows at her, and Hermione tried to hide her grimace with a smile. “It was nice, being in the tent with you and Harry. Easy, you know?”
Hermione didn’t quite recall it being easy—she mostly recalled the stress so severe her hair fell out in great clumps, the way she obsessed over the food they had and the money that was left. But there had been moments, she supposed… hours spent reading, wrapped up in one of the boy’s jumpers, her nose cold but her tea piping hot. Watching the snow fall as she ate a third of a tin of beans, huddled up with Harry (even with Ron gone, she still only got a third, as Harry was ‘bigger’ than her and ‘required more fuel’ which, if Hermione thought on it, would only incense her further, as Hermione’d had at least half an inch on him that year).
Perhaps there had been something easy about it, if anxiety and worry and obsession weren’t her constant companions. She hated the part of herself that could never just relax, couldn’t just let go.
And maybe there was something peaceful about the woods, if she could just shut that part of herself up.
The silence was cut—suddenly and horrifically—by Ron slowly snorting, hacking up something that sounded all-too similar to a hairball, and spitting wetly on the ground.
“Come on,” he said, offering her a hand that she rather awkwardly ignored, “let me show you my favourite part.”
Hermione tried her very best to ignore the judgmental side of her mind, the part that was utterly appalled by Ron’s hocking of a loogie, but no matter how stunning the view was over the wild landscape of Devonshire, that little voice just wouldn’t shut up.
And from there, things hadn’t much improved. They’d entered the Burrow to catch Molly lecturing Ginny on how family-planning spells were an affront to nature and Morgana herself—although what the infamously child-free witch (to wizards, at least; muggles seem to have gotten confused somewhere along the way) had to do with it, Hermione couldn’t quite ascertain—which was interrupted only by Percy interjecting his (very male) opinions on women working outside the home.
Hermione had quickly excused herself to her root cellar, claiming grief over Minerva’s death.
And thus, she awoke, hungry, thirsty, and desperate for the loo.
Though judging by the sound of footsteps thundering up and down the stairs (and the dirt shaking loose and falling into her face), she wasn’t the only one.
Why Molly and Arthur had never chosen to build a second bathroom, Hermione would never understand.
She ran through her best waterless-cleansing spells for hair and body, grateful for Pansy and Daphne teaching them to her, and quickly changed into clean clothes, her teeth chattering all the while.
When she finally pulled herself out of the cellar and climbed the two flights of stairs to the single loo, she found herself in the rather unfortunate position of following Ron’s exit.
“Maybe fiendfyre would help,” he said with a guileless shrug.
Hermione cast a bubbleheaded charm.
She missed home. She missed her lovely flat with the recently renovated bath and the wainscoting and the elegant, soothing wall colours. She missed her thick feather-stuffed duvet and the professional-line espresso maker Blaise and Draco had given her after her first year at the firm.
Harry gave her an understanding smile when she slid into her seat at the table for breakfast. There was no coffee, only a mostly-empty box of PG Tips and Molly’s sharp eye monitoring sugar consumption.
It wasn’t even expensive; she just thought it was some sort of moral failing, to want sugar in tea.
Or perhaps she was hoping to avoid dental charges for her numerous offspring. Hermione had never quite determined which it was.
Her stomach growled as she surveyed the offerings with a sinking feeling.
Not a single fruit or veg to be found. Nothing probiotic or even high in fibre. It was a monument to brown. White bread toasted until it was nearly charred, a rasher of bacon swimming in grease, fried eggs somehow swimming in different grease… she could feel her face breaking out in spots just from looking.
“Dig in, ‘Mione,” Harry said with a grin, a bit of egg falling out of his mouth. “This is exactly what you need, put a little pink back in your cheeks.”
“Could do with some meat on your bones,” Molly sniffed. “Not many would be encouraged by a figure like that—how exactly are you meant to carry a child, flat as a board! It’s these muggle beauty standards, convincing every witch she needs to slim down, get on some hare-brained regime. Wizards won’t give you a second glance, not like that, they won’t.”
“Now, Mollywobbles,” Arthur said gently, “to be fair to the muggles, it’s not all of them. That Nigella Lawson could catch any wizard’s eye, I’d wager!”
Hermione narrowed her eyes, feeling rather sniffy over the fact that Arthur still couldn’t manage to get ‘electricity’ correct, but Nigella Lawson was apparently no issue.
“Merlin, Mum, will you stop banging on about children?!” Ginny whinged, spearing a fried egg with her fork straight from the platter and dropping it into her open mouth, runny yolk dripping down her chin. “I told you, Harry and I will get there when we get there.”
Hermione glanced at Harry, his mouth frozen in an empty-headed sort of smile even as he’d gone a bit green about the gills. Apparently, quite a lot had changed from that night in the tent when he’d confessed his attraction to Dean Thomas, and miserably sobbed on her shoulder about how he couldn’t get a stiff willy with Ginny.
Or perhaps, she thought, watching the way he flinched from Ginny’s touch, nothing at all had changed, and that was precisely the issue.
“You were after the financials this morning, weren't you, ‘Mione?” George asked, giving Harry a quick wink that somehow escaped both Ginny’s and Molly’s notice.
Furiously slicing up his blood sausage, Percy scoffed.
“Something to add, Percy dear?” George asked, delighting, as usual, in provoking his brother.
“Just don’t see how you expect me to get any work done, if I’ll have to spend the entire morning explaining what a balance sheet is to that one,” Percy scoffed, stuffing the sawed-up sausage in his mouth. Hermione’s stomach churned. What she wouldn’t give to be seated across from Pansy, who was on a hare-brained slimming regime and would only eat fruits before supper, or Daphne, who’d gone vegan after coming to Hermione’s flat to watch Coronation Street and accidentally catching the last ten minutes of a BBC expose on industrial dairy farms, or Draco or any of the Slytherin boys, really, who’d all had their little wrists rapped with a wand when they’d learned table manners as children.
“She got her Arithmancy NEWT, same as you,” Ron protested. And while Hermione did appreciate Ron standing up for her—albeit to Percy, his least-favourite brother, and therefore no great sacrifice—Arithmancy really had very little to do with understanding a profit and loss statement.
“And I got a BA in Philosophy, Politics and Economics from Oxford,” Hermione added, sotto voce. This crowd wouldn’t be impressed, but it had been an enjoyable two years, funded entirely by Serpentis, who wanted all of its employees to have muggle uni degrees. Draco had so enjoyed his time at London School of Economics that he’d blood-oathed all his friends into going as well, though they’d all chosen different schools and degrees that matched their interests. Even Pansy had excelled at St. Andrews, becoming altogether concerningly close friends with Kate Middleton, until Pansy’d slept with Prince William and effectively ruined that friendship for good.
“‘Mione’s always been bang on with numbers,” Harry said, slurping his very milky tea as he dodged an eggy kiss from Ginny.
“Well, and why wouldn’t she be, always counting up the faults of others like she does,” Ginny said with a roll of her eyes. “I’m off to practice. Back after dinner—remember, we’ve got a media do this afternoon.”
“Have someone do a glamour spell on you if they’re taking photos!” Molly shouted even as Ginny was throwing Floo powder into the hearth. “That girl. Would it kill her to put in a bit of effort? I’m telling you, she got it from those mu-muggleborns on the team. Always dressing like boys, cutting their hair short. It’s against nature, it is.”
“Ah, Harry’ll get her focused on the right things before too long, won’t you, my boy? Be good to have another grandkid running about, especially one closer than Bill’s lot.” Arthur reached over to clap Harry violently on the back. “I know you won’t let us down.”
“No, sir, of-of course not,” Harry stuttered.
Hermione wanted to roll her eyes, but instead she sipped at her terribly bitter tea and took the least-burn piece of toast she could manage, wondering if jam would count as a fruit if she slathered enough on.
*
As much as she’d wanted to delve into the financials, Hermione was relieved to escape the cramped office and Percy’s utter disdain for—well, she wasn’t entirely certain if it was disdain for muggleborns, or women, or just Hermione in particular. Regardless, it had made something Hermione normally loved to do, tracing the expenses and profits and figuring out where a business excelled and where it fell short, and it turned it into something she wouldn’t even wish on her worst enemy.
Which, at the moment, was Percy.
She eagerly accepted Ron’s invitation to go into the forest and mark the trees to be cut for this season’s Yule logs. And it was nice, wandering about, watching him confidently cast the circumference and height-measuring spells needed to determine which trees were ready. They didn’t talk much, though, and Hermione found herself curious about Ron’s life these past years.
Not curious enough to breach the companionable silence that grew between them as they wandered through the woods, but curious enough to ask George about it later as they played a round of exploding snap.
“So, Ron’s been managing the farm since he left the DMLE?”
George snorted. “Er, yeah. That’s accurate enough.”
“I didn’t see how long Minerva had owned it. I don’t remember hearing about the farm when I’d come here on holiday from school.” Had that been the woods they’d tromped through to meet the Diggorys on their way to the quidditch world cup? Hermione couldn’t say for certain.
“Oh, no, she just bought it when it, er… became clear Ron wasn’t cut out for the life of an auror,” George said quietly. “Bit of a favour to Harry, I think? He’d been all worried about Ron, showing up here for breakfast then Flooing in to the office with him. Then Harry’d gone to meet McGonagall for tea one day and then a week later, Ron got a letter asking if he’d be interested in a career change.”
That was certainly… odd, and something Hermione would need to look into further. She wondered if this had been some attempt at matchmaking by their former Head of House, trying to bring Hermione and Ron together again one last time.
She studied the man who’d been her crush for so many years, and her boyfriend only briefly. Had she been too harsh in her judgment? Had she dismissed him, solely for not meeting her very middle-class standard? Was there something about Ronald Weasley that required a closer look, perhaps?
If that was what Minerva wanted—if Minerva thought there was something there—then perhaps she really ought to give it a fair shot, just for Minerva’s sake.
*
After another cold night in the root cellar, another noxious turn in the loo after Ron, and another gut-churning breakfast courtesy of Molly, Hermione agreed to spend the next three days deep in the furthest reaches of the farm with Ron and Harry, who seemed to be nebulously employed by the farm somehow.
“Right, Harry’s got the tent and the camping supplies, I’ve got the food, and Hermione’s got herself, then,” Ron said, displaying a latent talent for organisation and planning that Hermione hadn’t known he possessed.
“My woodsman boy, off to the wilds of Devon!” Molly wailed, dabbing at her suspiciously dry eyes with a threadbare handkerchief. “You’ll send a message, won’t you, if anything goes wrong? Or if you need more food? Oh! Don’t forget to keep an eye out for any muggles lurking about! Put up your wards!!”
Hermione shivered at the reminder of wards. Draco had insisted on putting up the wards at her flat, saying they needed to be a bit illegal to be truly effective, and he’d never ask her to knowingly break the law.
It was a task Hermione had been glad to hand over, finding the focus and concentration necessary for ward-casting difficult for her in the overwhelming press of memories it inevitably brought back.
PTSD, Daphne had said solemnly, but Hermione had declined Serpentis’s generous offer of private mind healer sessions. She hadn’t really had it so bad, after all; it wouldn’t be right, wasting a resource when she managed well enough on her own.
“All set, ‘Mione?” Harry asked with a sad smile and a knowing glance at her very light satchel. She’d wanted to stuff it full, exactly as she had the last time she’d gone into the woods, but Ron had said he’d take it as a personal insult, like she didn’t fully trust him to do the job he’d been doing for years. And she hadn’t wanted to start the all-too brief escape from the Burrow off on the wrong foot.
So her hand twitched on the strap and she resolutely ignored the impulse to ask to see Ron’s packing list, and told herself she could always just apparate back, if things got so dire.
And, actually, she hadn’t quite understood why they needed to camp at all? After all, apparition was nearly instant, and even the furthest reaches of the farm weren’t all that far from the Burrow. But Ron had glared and huffed and stomped off when she started to ask, and she’d very quickly understood that this was simply how he managed the farm, and she could get on board or kindly see herself out.
She’d chosen to get on board. After all, she owed to Minerva, didn’t she?
Of course, that was when Ron had chosen to reveal their mode of transportation to ‘the far reaches of the farm.’
Broomsticks.
Bloody broomsticks.
He handed one to Hermione with a grin. “Never tell me you’re still scared of flying,” he teased.
Hermione scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She absolutely was.
“Ride with Ron,” Harry encouraged. “His broom’s fast enough to handle two.”
Hermione looked at the broom Ron was holding, then, and furrowed her brows. It wasn’t one she recognised at all. It didn’t look like any broom she’d seen—it had a polished coat of laquer covering the entire stick, and the twigs were much more natural than the nearly perfectly-carved twigs on modern brooms.
Not that Hermione was any sort of aficionado, really, it was just that the blokes of Serpentis appreciated a good broom as much as any other wizard, and Hermione had picked up a thing or two. And, well, there had been a few nights when they’d all gone out, and she’d ride on back of Daphne’s lady’s broom or even, when she was feeling quite brave, behind Draco on his slick racing broom, and he carefully ease their way through trees and reach a hand back to squeeze her thigh when she inadvertently opened her eyes and squealed in terror. And she’d managed that well enough, hadn’t she? As long as Ron kept the speed down, and didn’t do any sharp turns or, heaven help her motion-sick stomach, barrel rolls, she’d manage just as well behind Ron, wouldn’t she?
“It’s just I get motion sick,” she hedged, “and sometimes it comes over me even if I’m just flying straight and slow, so I can’t always be counted on to keep my eyes open. But as long as there aren’t any sudden movements and we don’t go too fast, I’ll be perfectly fine.”
Draco hadn’t even needed that much of an explanation, having seen her hesitancy and sorted it out himself. But Ron, she knew, always fought the urge to go faster and cut sharper, and he might need a bit more of an explanation. Just to make certain he understood.
“Motion sick! On a broom!” Ron laughed a bit, and even Harry chuckled, leaving Hermione feeling uncomfortable and very, very uncool. “Right, well, we can sort that out, no problem.”
“Just to be quite clear,” Hermione began, not wanting Ron to interpret this as some sort of immersion therapy, “it’s a problem with the inner ear—“
Ron laughed even harder at that. “Inner ear! Ought to call Luna over, you know? The two of you would have just heaps to talk about!”
Hermione bristled. Luna Lovegood was an ultra-radical conspiracy theorist who insisted Dumbldedore still lived and muggles were actually aliens from another planet and didn’t really need oxygen to survive. If oxygen even existed—Luna had written a regrettably lengthy op-ed that Hermione had suffered through reading, detailing her claims that, actually, the entirety of the periodic table of elements and, in fact, all of muggle science was a complete fabrication, meant to keep wizards and witches subjugated.
Nevertheless, Hermione reluctantly climbed on behind Ron, who grinned at her over his shoulder before kicking off from the ground. Her stomach lurched and she went to bury her face in his back, trying to give her body some sort of constant to grip on to, only to discover that Ron had returned to nature in many ways, including in basic hygiene. Deodorant, it seemed, had no place in his daily routine.
She coughed discreetly, breathed through her mouth, and hoped they’d at least get there quickly.
*
Hermione spent the first three hours of their camping trip being sick behind a bush and laying sprawled out in the dirt in some sort of desperate thanks for having been returned to solid ground.
Ron had scoffed and stomped off into the woods when they’d landed and she’d immediately thrown up; Harry, at least, had stuck around looking vaguely apologetic and also like he might be sick himself.
“Guess that wasn’t an exaggeration, then,” Harry said when she finally sat up again. He offered her a flask of water and she slowly sipped at it.
“Not in the least.”
“You could’ve said, you know. That you’d be sick. We couldn’t… I don’t know, gotten Arthur’s magicked car, perhaps.”
Hermione frowned. “I did say. And it would’ve been fine, if he hadn’t done exactly what I asked him not to do.”
“Well,” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck, “who’s to say, really? Maybe you’d have been sick either way?”
“I’m to say!” Hermione retorted, feeling her temper rise. “Especially as I’ve ridden behind others without a single issue, plenty of times! Only they were considerate enough to not go too fast or take any sudden turns. And they certainly didn’t botch a Wronksi Feint whilst I clung to the backs of their brooms!”
“It’s a new broom,” Harry offered weakly. “Hard to resist trying out a new broom. And… you know… probably had something to do with it going all pear-shaped there at the end.”
Hermione scoffed again, and decided it wasn’t worth arguing about. Was it ever? “Well, it’s done now. I’ll be apparating myself back to the Burrow, you can be certain of that.”
“Just… don’t mention that in front of Ron, will you? It’s a touchy subject.” Harry stood, brushing dirt off the seat of his trousers. She knew Ron had never been particularly adept at apparition, but a touchy subject? That seemed a bit odd. “Come on, he’s probably got half the trees marked already. He’s bloody fast at it, I can tell you that much.”
Hermione certainly hoped he was. The spells were insultingly simple; if it took him much longer than a second to have a tree assessed and marked, he probably oughtn’t’ve left Hogwarts.
She gave herself a mental shake. That had been rather elitist of her, hadn’t it? Poorly done, if she were truly attempting to give him a fair shake. And digging into whatever his issues were with apparition, well… that certainly wouldn’t help matters.
“Come on, then. Which direction is he?” Hermione tugged Harry into the woods, determined to do her best to put the awful broom ride—and any lingering memories of Draco Malfoy’s clean, masculine, deodorised scent—entirely out of her mind.
*
Hermione hadn’t thought it was possible to get worse sleep than she’d managed in Molly’s root cellar, but the tent was… worse. Much worse.
It hadn’t helped, of course, that she’d gone into the little room that had been hers during the war and found her own hair tie, hidden beneath the mattress of the cot. And then she’d laid down, and a cloud of the perfume she’d worn—the one she’d immediately thrown out, the moment that awful werewolf had smelled it—had enveloped her, closing in around her like a fog of trauma.
So she’d spent the night tossing and turning, waking with her heart racing and deep sense of unease.
The tent didn’t seem to affect Harry or Ron similarly, though. They were awake and raring to go while Hermione was still desperately sipping down tea, hoping it would miraculously transform itself into her morning espresso.
“Come on, ‘Mione! You used to be the early riser, ‘member that? Now look at you! Yawning like you just went to bed!” Ron laughed, throwing open the door to the tent and letting the brutally cold wind whip through the space. Hermione squawked in protest, and Ron only laughed harder. “Breathe it in, yeah? That’s good, Devonshire air, right there. It’ll fix up what ails you, I promise you that. No need for those bollocks mind healers or bloody muggle therapists—just sunshine, a brisk wind, and good, honest work.”
Harry laughed at that and nudged Hermione. “Gotta be some truth to that. I mean, just look at him,” he said, gesturing at Ron, who’d decided to not only forego any sort of coat or jacket, but was now removing his flannel shirt entirely. “Does that nearly every day. Says hard work keeps him warm.”
Hermione eyed her ginger friend. He did look… well, rather fit, if she were being honest. And he certainly seemed happy and well-adjusted. Maybe… maybe there was something to it, then, being out in the fresh air and away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Perhaps she was just detoxing from her city-slicker life, and what she really needed was to get it out of her system.
Maybe then she’d be the happy, carefree girl Ron and Harry seemed to remember. The one who’d… well, to be honest, Hermione couldn’t really remember ever being that sort of girl, but surely they couldn’t both be wrong.
“Come on, ‘Mione. Grab your wand—I’ll even let you cast a few spells today!” Ron teased, jogging away from the tent and into the woods, his thick, ropey muscles bunching as he moved.
“How can you turn down a challenge like that?” Harry asked with a laugh. “It’ll be like Hogwarts, yeah? Back when we were kids and all?”
And maybe she could get it back, that forgotten version of herself, the one they seemed to remember and miss. Maybe that was what Minerva wanted her to do. Find her old self. Get back to her Gryffindor roots.
Be the girl she used to be.
***