Chapter Three

Disclaimer: It all belongs to JKR.

A/N: Again, my sincerest thanks go out to Snapeophile and sshg316 for their work on this chapter. Thank you for keeping me grounded and watching my commas. :-)

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A Month Later

...she awoke to the smell of basil and garlic assaulting her nostrils. Her senses went on high alert; she was not in her bed, as evidenced by the ridiculously firm padding she felt beneath her. She peeked an eye open. The sofa she was sprawled out on was sage colored, and it felt like a rock cloaked in satin.

Foolish girl, she thought. Where the hell am I?

She gently reached into her pocket to make sure her wand was there. She breathed an audible sigh of relief when she felt its familiar shape.

"Hermione?"

She shook her head. "I can get up."

"Hermione..."

She attempted to rise to her feet, but fell back on the couch quickly. He raised an eyebrow sardonically. "Are you sure?"

"Hermione!"

Hermione's eyes snapped open, and she bolted up off her desk, her back hitting her chair with such vehemence that she nearly toppled over backwards.

"What?" she asked to no one in particular, looking around her office until her eyes rested on the figure standing in the doorway.

"Hermione, are you alright?" Kingsley Shacklebolt asked gently, his large figure as authoritative and imposing as it had ever been.

"Yes, I'm..." she said quickly, rubbing her eyes and face. "I'm fine," she finished lamely, slowing her breathing. Oh, my God, I fell asleep at work. Dear Merlin. "Just dozed off a bit."

Kingsley's eyebrows scrunched together in concern. "Are you sure?" he asked as he crossed his arms. "I know you've been back for a month, but are you sure you don't need more... time? I'm more than willing to give it to you," he offered.

"Yes," she said, rubbing her nose. I am such an idiot. "I want to be here, I really do, and I'm almost done for the day." She gave a slight yawn. "I'm just a bit tired is all."

"Yes, well," Kingsley said in a chiding tone, clearly not believing her at all, "if this happens again, I am sending you on leave for a month, do you hear?"

Hermione nodded, feeling justly chastened. "Yes, Minister," she said with a bit of cheek. "I will do my best to stay awake at work."

"Do," he said, turning to leave. He paused in the doorway. "And if you call me Minister again, it'll be two months instead of one."

She chuckled. "Have a good rest of your day, Kingsley."

"You too," he said, giving a relaxed smile. "It's almost six o'clock; you should get out of here."

"Yes, well, no children in the house anymore." No husband, either.

Kingsley chuckled, amused. "I haven't had the pleasure."

"You've been too busy saving the country these past thirty years. I think the younger staff feels like they're all your children," Hermione said warmly. "I know I do sometimes. Especially when you catch me sleeping at my desk like a first-year."

He laughed heartily. "You're lucky I'm the one catching you then, and not Severus Snape. Say," he said, his face darkening a bit, "you are accompanying us to France to speak with his partners on acquiring their research?"

Hermione stilled in her desk at this confirmation. So he is in the group. "You know, I haven't given it much thought." Liar. "What with Ron and the funeral and all." I'm going to hell for this.

Kingsley nodded. "Of course. I'm sorry for rushing, but we are planning on meeting with them soon. We need to schedule a definite date, so I'd appreciate your answer within a few days." He paused. "I know there were hard feelings between the three of you and Severus when he was a professor, but I should imagine thirty years is enough to iron out the wrinkles, wouldn't you?"

You have no idea.

Beneath Kingsley's gaze, her hands bunched the fabric of her pant legs in nervous fits. First-year, indeed.

"My reticence to give you an answer has nothing to do with our feelings towards Severus. I agree with you; thirty years should be more than enough time to iron out any wrinkles." But what about twenty?

He nodded. "Right, then. I'll leave you to your work. Ahh." His eyes lit up as he gazed out the door and down the hallway. "You have a visitor."

A moment later, a black and white spotted owl flew in through the doorway. "Artemis," Hermione said softly, reaching out to her daughter's owl.

"Your children may not be at home, but you're still a full-time mother, Hermione," Kingsley said matter-of-factly. "I'll leave you to your work."

Hermione barely noticed him walk out of her door as Artemis shoved the letter into her hand. She examined the envelope before opening it. Rose's handwriting had always had a deliberate quality to it, but these letters were firmer than her normal shapes, as though she'd spent a great deal of time on them. Curious, she opened the letter.

Mum,

Rose

That's a surprise. Hermione automatically reached for a quill and penned a response on the same note.

Rose,

Mum

She re-folded the letter and sealed it shut, gently putting it in Artemis' mouth before the owl took off. She sighed. What to have for dinner? She hadn't cooked a full meal in a while; her friends had kept the Granger-Weasley residence supplied with delicacies and treats for the last month and a half or so. And she only had herself to cook for now, too. What to eat, what to eat...

What about... grilled shrimp over linguini with garlic bread? And a nice Chianti wine to accompany. She gave a deep sigh. Well, her subconscious was good for something. Perhaps it was developing some Divination-like qualities, what with predicting what would come from what had been.

Severus. His name came to her mind like a searing fire. She leaned back in her chair. He'd sent her his condolences – and just his condolences – a month ago. That was the first time he'd sent his Patronus to her in years. She breathed deeply. The thought of seeing him in the flesh was enough to entirely unsettle her. You'd think I was twenty-four again, not forty-six... I can't see him. It's too soon.

Or am I just... terrified out of my bloody mind?

She willed the thought out of her mind and set about finishing the memos she'd been writing before she fell asleep. Stay awake, she chided herself. You'll see Rose tonight.

Her hands stilled.

And don't think about him, she ordered her subconscious. Don't you dare.

*

7:59 PM

Rose arrived on the lawn of her parents' house with a huge sense of relief. I didn't splinch myself. Thank Merlin.

She put her hand on her stomach and took a few deep, calming breaths. She was entirely nervous and, to be honest with herself, was scared shitless.

No need for honesty. I know what I feel.

This was the dinner she'd been working herself up to for the past month. Rather funny it had taken her so long, as she'd spent countless hours dwelling over the letter, her conversation with her Uncle Harry, and the presumed contents of that mysterious box. She pulled her jacket tight around her body and shivered, partly from cold but mostly from nerves.

2000. 2005. Five years were missing in the timeline of her mother's life. Five years she'd been gone – in Paris working with Arithmancers, Harry had told her – five years she'd been engaged to Ron that Rose hadn't known about.

Rose hadn't asked anyone else about her mother, but had rather put her money where her mouth was and done the legwork herself. That day in Harry's office had been more than enough to tell her she wasn't going to get any help from her parents' friends. Hell, if the letter was to be believed the only ones who had known something was immediately amiss were her father, Uncle Harry, Ginny, and Auntie Luna.

Well, Uncle Harry had been no help (alright, a little help, she acknowledged), and her father was gone (she gulped), Ginny (who detested being called 'aunt' by her adult nieces and nephews) was far too busy with Wizengamot work to be bothered with such questions, and Auntie Luna... well, getting a straight answer out of her was like finding a flock of Nargles in Devonshire. Bloody. Fucking. Impossible.

She smiled slightly. That was what she and James always said when they heard their Auntie Luna going off on some theory or another. She wasn't quite as loopy as her father, Old Man Lovegood, but she was still capable of saying things that even Merlin would have a difficult time deciphering. One time when they'd been visiting Dean and Auntie Luna, Luna had gone off on a lecture on the characteristics of one of her favorite species' of Nargles, a lecture that had ended with a fourteen-year-old Hugo getting into a debate with Luna over whether they really existed. Rose hadn't seen her parents laugh so hard in ages; usually her mum was quick to defend Luna's eccentricities, but the Nargles had been a source of humor among the Granger-Weasley and Potter clans for years. Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione had practically been rolling on the floor in laughter as Hugo and Luna's debate got louder and louder, and Dean had pulled out his wand just in case his wife made something explode (as she had been known to do), and James had whispered to Rose whether she thought Luna would capitulate or, better yet, pull a cage of Nargles out of thin air. "Bloody fucking impossible" had seemed the logical answer to both questions, but James hadn't been expecting that, and had burst out laughing along with the rest of the family, albeit for a very different reason. Rose flushed a little. She wasn't a potty-mouth, so James had been absolutely shocked that she knew, let alone could say, the F word. Naturally, it had become one of their favorite things to say for absolutely no reason at all.

She sighed again. James. It had been seven months now, and no one had heard a word. Rose had been hurt by Albus and Lily's insinuations – that it was just one of many elaborate tricks he'd pulled in order to get attention; that he was just off on holiday having a good time shagging Italian beauties, or something of that ilk.

She swallowed hard. James had pulled many tricks on his family in the past, to be certain, but this one was different, and it hurt her deeply that he felt he couldn't confide in her the reason for his absence. She was his best friend. He was her best friend. And best friends told each other everything... or most everything. Besides, they were closer than that. Like siblings.

Well, cousins. She snorted. Close enough.

Hugo didn't especially care about James' absence, Rose knew, but he put on a concerned face for his big sister. She smiled. Hugo was a dear; she was very grateful for the brother she did have. And her parents... her parents had been unusually quiet on the subject. Her father hadn't said anything when James first went missing, and her mother...

Rose inhaled sharply. Her mother had said that he would come back when he was ready; that no one was to take it personally if he had things to do that he couldn't confide in them. She had said James was on a personal journey and that he would be an improved version of himself upon return. She'd said it with such confidence that Rose had stared at her, utterly gobsmacked, until her father had told her to pull her chin up and not say another word about it.

Come to think of it, her mother had a rather uncanny understanding of the subject of extended absence.

Absence. Her mother's absence. Rose massaged her throat, thinking of the few details she'd been able to come across. Her mother hadn't started working for the English Ministry until the spring of 2005 – the date was unclear, though she was certain it was after Molly Weasley's death. She'd found a backissue of the Prophet with her parents' engagement announcement that June, and their wedding pictures had been in the paper that August. Harry said her parents had been engaged for the duration of her mother's absence, but why then hadn't it been announced until... until she got back? Rose thought. Maybe they weren't... officially engaged.

She'd attempted to find a list of Arithmancers working in Paris twenty years ago but had been unsuccessful; the French were a private lot, and the work her mother had been doing – if it had dealt with Arithmantic probability and law enforcement, as Harry implied – was probably not on public record. And the French were loath to talk to the English, anyway. Load of sodding idiots. The clerk she had contacted at the French Ministry had been absolutely no help at all; said she should just ask her precious mummy for details if she wanted them so bad. Rose had stalked out of the building without looking back.

As a last resort, she'd asked Lee Jordan to let her in to the Prophet's Archives. The Prophet, for its occasional crap reporting (Rita Skeeter, bloody woman), had become a peon in journalistic integrity... for the most part. At the very least, it had kept up with the lives of the War Heroes – and the lives of the Golden Trio in particular. It had faithfully documented every relationship, engagement, marriage, birth, death, career move, and promotion of every family member Rose had. She'd searched painstakingly through the two hundred plus copies of the Prophet published during those five years using every charm she knew, every possible word she could think of – Hermione Granger, Golden Trio, Mrs. Weasley, Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter, Ministry of Magic, War Hero, Department of Magical Law Enforcement... and she'd turned up nothing. Nothing. There'd been no mention of her mother for five years... no mention until she was listed among the guests who had attended Molly Weasley's funeral in March of 2005.

Rose had also learned another interesting fact. Her mother hadn't been in Harry and Ginny's wedding party as she'd assumed for so long. She hadn't even been listed among 'notable guests' in the article the Prophet ran. And this was an instance where the Prophet would have been dead accurate in its reporting...

Mum wasn't at Uncle Harry's wedding.

She shook her head, clearing her thoughts, bringing herself back to the task at hand. Buck up and get your arse in that house. Mum's cooking, and there'll probably be wine.

Rose gathered her courage up to herself and walked up the steps and through the front door.

There had better be wine.

*

"In here!" she heard her mother's voice call from the kitchen. Rose shrugged her sweater off as she walked into the surprisingly warm kitchen. Come to think of it, she'd been warm all the way through since she walked in the house. That was an uncommon occurrence. She sighed in sad realization. Her dad had been like a furnace, and as such liked to have windows open and fans going even in the dead of winter. Her mum, on the other hand, could be counted on to keep the fireplaces lit.

She walked into the bright kitchen and smiled at the fact that little had changed. Her mother, ever productive, had set about renovating and re-decorating the house these past two months; the kitchen, however, remained as it had always been. It had been modeled after the Burrow's kitchen, and she figured that her mother probably couldn't bring herself to change it.

Her mother, the subject at hand, was at the stove cooking in Muggle fashion. There were some meals that her mother inexplicably insisted on cooking the Muggle way. This – let's see – linguini, shrimp, ah, excellent, we'll be having the Chianti wine – was one of them.

"Mum?" she asked, amused.

Hermione whipped around from the stove, her face beaming. "Rose, darling!" She walked over to her daughter and wrapped her up in a big hug. "It is so good to see you. Your owl brightened my day, let me tell you."

"You were still at work when you got it?" Rose asked, eyes accusing.

Hermione looked at her with a saucy grin. "How did you know?"

"You're still in your pantsuit."

"I rarely change out of my work clothes."

"I also told Artemis to go to the Ministry first. It would have taken her an extra half hour to return if she would have needed to fly here to find you."

Hermione chuckled, capitulating. "Ever the clever one, Rose."

"I just don't want you to get too busy," Rose said, walking over to lean against the counter next to the stove. "You've had so much work to do since Dad..."

"Coping mechanism, or so your Auntie Luna tells me," her mother said matter-of-factly, staring at the stove. One hand deftly turned the shrimp over, checking their darkness, and the other was placed firmly on her hip.

"Well, Auntie Luna is right, for once."

Rose was not surprised by the glare she got in return. "Luna, though she still believes a few of her father's hair-brained theories, has a remarkable ability to read people and situations accurately. I have never known her to misjudge a person or to give faulty advice. She's even better at it than your Uncle Harry," Hermione said, smiling as she started to pull the shrimp off the pan.

Rose nodded and fell silent.

"Ahh, the pasta's ready," her mother said after a moment. "Be a love and grab me a strainer, will you?"

Rose rolled her eyes and pulled out her wand. "Accio strainer!" A drawer opened and a strainer flew into her hands. "Simple," she said, grinning as Hermione took the strainer from her, not so much annoyed as amused.

"There are some meals I prefer to cook..."

"Without magic, I know. One of your more endearing qualities," Rose said, teasing.

"Funny, your father always called it one of my more annoying eccentricities," Hermione muttered as she walked to the sink and strained the water from the linguini.

Rose snorted. "Well, Dad never lived with Muggles."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Not one of your deepest observations, dear, but it'll do under the circumstances."

Both women chuckled in amusement as Hermione fixed the linguini up in a bowl and carefully poured the steaming Alfredo sauce over it.

"Would you open a bottle of Chianti while I grab the garlic bread, please?"

Rose automatically went for the wine bottles held in the vine-like iron carrier. "There are two Chiantis here, mum. What year would you prefer, the..."

"1985, please. It's the best Chianti vintage; the 80s were when Chianti quality improved dramatically, and the 1985 is positively magnificent."

Rose shrugged and grabbed the particular bottle. "I've no idea how you got to know so much about wine, living with Dad. The Weasleys have absolutely no taste in liquor," Rose noted, flicking her wand to take the cork out.

"One can acquire a taste as time passes, I suppose," Hermione said a bit stiffly.

Rose practically felt her stomach drop. What an opening.

"I guess I'd pick a few tips up if I lived in France for... oh, say five years," she said in what she hoped was a casual tone.

Her mother slowly put the bowl of pasta and shrimp on the table and turned to face her daughter at an even slower pace. Her face held no expression.

"Who told you?" she asked flatly.

Rose gulped. "I saw Ginny's letter," she said softly.

Her mother's eyes blazed. "Did you break into my room, Rose?"

"No." She shook her head and crossed her arms. "It was over a week after the funeral. The night Hugo went back to school," she offered. "I went to your room because I needed to talk to you and you... weren't there," she said lamely. "The door was open," she added.

Hermione paused and looked down at the floor. Rose was certain her mother would start tapping her heels at any moment.

"Is that why you wanted to have dinner tonight?" she heard her mother say in a soft, slightly broken tone. "You... didn't want to see me?"

Rose gaped at her mother. "Of course I wanted to see you. Dad's gone, and I missed you!" she said loudly. "We're both a bit more private and can go a while without seeing the other, but I don't have to have a reason to want to see you, Mum!"

"Well, you clearly had one." Hermione crossed her arms, glaring.

"Sweet Merlin, Mum! Why are you so defensive?" she exclaimed. "Yes, I have a reason! I have questions! I have tried to find anything – anything – proving you were in England during that time, and I haven't found one whit of evidence to suggest you were here between June 2000 and March 2005." She paused, breathing heavily.

"You knew I was in France," her mother said after a moment. "There are... precious few people who knew where I was."

Rose slumped against the counter. "I went to Uncle Harry."

Hermione's nostrils flared. "Rather than coming to me?"

"I rarely get a straight answer from you, Mum! And I was scared, okay? Scared out of my godforsaken mind that I was wrong and that you'd be insulted that I accused you of going missing when you hadn't, and I was just as scared to have my suspicions confirmed!"

Silence descended on the room.

Hermione opened her mouth as if to speak and closed it again just as quickly, collecting her thoughts. "I'm grateful you went to Harry first, I suppose," she said slowly, arms crossed, staring at the floor. "The two of you have always been close, which pleases me greatly," she added. "But you had no business being in my room without my presence, regardless of whether the door was open, and you certainly shouldn't have gone through any – items – I had laid out. What else did you see?" she asked, her eyes piercing her daughter's.

Rose capitulated. "A blue box. I didn't see what was in it."

She saw visible relief on her mother's face, and her curiosity was peaked ten fold. "I don't see what the problem is, Mum. You were gone for a few years, I'm your daughter, I'm curious about your past, I want to know where you were and what you were doing and why you left. Why you weren't at Harry and Ginny's wedding, for one thing," Rose continued, refusing to back down. I've come too far to lose my footing now.

"Ah, the Prophet," Hermione said. She stared in Rose's direction but Rose was certain her mother was looking through her.

"It's honestly none of your business to know where I was or what I was doing," Hermione said simply. "There are many things parents don't tell their children about their pasts, and this is something that I have held very private. Like I said, precious few people knew where I was and what I was doing during that time. I can count them on one hand." She held up a hand and started ticking her fingers off. "Harry – you've talked to him already. It's not in him to deny you information, but from the sound of it, he didn't give much to go on. Ginny," she continued, ticking off another finger as she gave a wicked smile, "who would defend me to the death – she wouldn't give anyone information even if you put her under the Cruciatus. Luna would be kinder about it but would insist you come to me. And your father is gone," she finished in a matter-of-fact tone that sent chills down Rose's spine. "And now you know that I was gone for nearly five years, that I was in France, and that I did some work with Arithmancers that led me to my eventual career in law enforcement. That is all, yes?"

Rose nodded dumbly. The two women stood in a silent battle of wills for several moments.

"I just want to know, Mum," Rose said finally, in a quiet voice. "I want to get to know you as an adult, as a friend, if you will. I'd like to think I'm grown up enough to want to do that," she said defensively. "And Dad's gone, so I won't get the chance to sit down and have this conversation with him. Though his past probably isn't nearly as enigmatic," she said, moving to sit down at the kitchen table, pouring herself a glass of Chianti.

Hermione snorted as she followed suit. "There are a lot of things you wouldn't like, Rose – a lot of things you'd be insulted by."

"I think I'm adult enough to handle them."

There was more silence as Hermione heaped servings of the cooling shrimp and linguini onto their plates. She waved her wand, and the food warmed up again.

Rose sat there, not eating, for several moments. What if...

"Is it that you don't want me to know, Mum, or is it that you don't want to remember?"

Hermione's hand stilled on her wine glass. She looked into her daughter's eyes.

"Astute," she said at last. "Very astute." She sipped some of her wine, her face softening as she savored the taste.

Rose followed suit and sipped some more Chianti.

"Please tell me, Mum. Don't you want to talk about it to someone?" she asked softly in a last ditch attempt, suspecting that her mother hadn't spoken of this subject in many years.

Her mother's face hardened and remained so as they began to eat their pasta. Rose, mired in dejection, was nearly half-finished with her plate when Hermione spoke.

"It's not so much a want as a need, for reasons which will... soon become apparent to you," Hermione said slowly.

"Thank you," Rose replied, her countenance automatically lifting.

Her mother merely raised an eyebrow. "Just remember, you're the one who's getting yourself into this mess. Don't blame me when it's your bloody curiosity that's at fault here."

Rose guffawed. "Why would I blame anyone for anything?"

Hermione's eyes darkened. "You'll see." She paused. "I presume you want to know why I left first."

"It'd be a good place to start."

Hermione lifted an eyebrow. "Are you absolutely sure you want to know?"

Rose nodded.

Hermione sighed. "Very well. It's not an especially dark secret, at least it doesn't start out as one, and there's no particular moral to the story; there's not a real rhyme or reason for me to tell you, save your insatiable curiosity. Well, perhaps..." Hermione whispered the last bit so softly Rose could hardly hear her. She met her daughter's eyes. "And I'd appreciate it if you don't burst out in indignation on your father's behalf."

Rose lifted an eyebrow quizzically. "Why would I do that? You were engaged the whole time, were you not?"

Hermione sighed. "Harry told you that?"

Rose nodded.

"Were we engaged?" Hermione murmured, resting her chin in a cupped palm. "In theory, yes. In practice, no."

Rose gaped but quickly recovered. "Is this why I can't be indignant?"

Hermione nodded. "I suspect you'll have great reason to be."

She drew her wand and lit the sage candle centerpiece that lay between them.

Rose looked at her mother, questioning.

"To ward away bad spirits... bad karma... bad anything, really" Hermione said matter-of-factly. "Sage is frequently used in ceremony as a purifier, and it's known to have healing properties. Besides, the smell relaxes me. Now," she said. "As to why I left England..."

And so the story began.

*