Six Years in a Nutshell (pt 1)

Six Years in a Nutshell (pt 1)

If Luna Lovegood had been with Hermione and Ron in the bath (which she most certainly would not have been--Luna was not that kind of girl), she could have reminded them that it's bad luck to toast with water. The Lockhart plan came down around their ears, and fast. The only place they ever visited was Australia. They didn't even go there together, and they definitely didn't learn Aboriginal magic or sample any of the local brews. Hermione went alone; she didn't want to take Ron away from his grieving family, and though Harry had volunteered to accompany her, she didn't want to be the cause of him leaving Ginny for the first time since they'd patched things up.

The Ministry had established wards against International Apparition to prevent any Death Eaters escaping, so George loaned her enough money for the plane fares. The Weasleys (and Harry, who practically was one) saw her off at Heathrow--Arthur still so shocked and grief-dulled that he barely expressed interest in the baggage claim and flight status monitors. Her heart broke a little at that, then beat feverish and fast when a green security light flashed in her peripheral vision, then felt banded all around with iron when she kissed Harry (on the cheek) and Ron (decidedly not on the cheek) farewell. And that was why she had to go alone--if she didn't let them out of her sight now, when everything was fresh, then she knew she'd never be able to, ever, even if she lived as long as Flamel. "I'll see you in two weeks," she promised.

Two weeks, fifteen minutes and forty-eight seconds later when she'd neither returned nor owled, Harry and Ron found an all-night Muggle travel agency. As Gringotts (with whom, Hermione suspected, their relations would be strained for about a century or so) had frozen Harry's account, he and Ron also borrowed from George, who said he was thinking of going Goblin and charging interest--a feeble joke, but his first without Fred. They tracked Hermione down to a Muggle jail cell in Queanbeyan. The New South Wales Police had not been best pleased with the frenzied girl who'd illegally entered the dental practice of recent immigrants Wendell and Monica Wilkins. She had brandished a stick at them, poor sooks, then insisted they sit still and listen to her recite Shakespeare. As Australia's wizarding community was considerably more protective of its Muggles than anyone in Britain was, it took two dozen Obliviates, a sizable chunk of the trio's political capital, and some impressive wheeling-and-dealing on the part of Minister Shacklebolt to secure Hermione's release.

No one in either hemisphere understood what had gone wrong. Australian Healers dressed up as Muggle dental patients and ran dozens of surreptitious tests. Back home, Metis Townsend, Head Unspeakable (who hadn't been seen in public since 1922), met privately with Hermione. Townsend looked over the younger witch's spell-work in a Pensieve for twenty hours straight and still couldn't figure out why the Memory Charm had gone pear-shaped.

Hermione had lived her whole life in fear of failure and rightly so: it turned out that when she failed, she failed spectacularly. She passed a drained and quiet week on the ratty sofa at Grimmauld Place, refusing even the comfort of a bed. She stared out of the window. Not talking. Not reading. Not even crying anymore. She felt skinless.

Ron and Harry's presence helped a good bit. George's, too, reminding her with his awkward, lonely stance that she was not the only one who had suffered an unimaginable loss.

And then there was Molly. "Not a word to Arthur, dear," she said, pressing a mug of cocoa into Hermione's hands, though it was summer now and much too warm to drink it, "but I don't believe anyone's completely Muggle, at least not so far as the deepest magics are concerned. Your Mum and Dad loved you--still do, even if they don't know it. They're intelligent people. They knew that Australia plan of yours was sound. They knew it was your family's best chance at coming out of this unscathed. What Dumbledore sent the three of you to do... alone..." She shuddered. "Well, from what Ron's told me, I hate to think what might have happened if you'd let your focus waver for even a minute, Hermione. And it would have done, if you were looking home over your shoulder. Your parents knew it. When you cast that spell, their magic, gut magic they didn't even know they had, was working hard, too. They loved you, and they wanted you safe. If I was a gambling woman, I'd bet my wand it was their extra willpower that made the charm stick like that. They'd say you did the right thing if they could--I know because I'd feel just the same about any child of mine."

Molly, Hermione realized, was a good deal wiser than anyone gave her credit for. A good deal stronger, too. A shame that as the War retreated from immediate memory, people began (affectionately and all in good fun, but still) to speak of her taking out Bellatrix Lestrange as if it were little more than an impressive display of her already famous temper.

*

Money was a problem. The full contents of Harry's vault (which the Goblins confiscated shortly after the trio's return from Australia) covered less than a fifth of the damage to the bank. Hermione's savings were completely spent. Ron had never had any money to begin with (and it took a whole lot of convincing on Bill's part to stop Gringotts from taking the other Weasleys' savings). The Ministry offered to negotiate with the Goblins on behalf of the heroes, to which Ron said, "Good luck." When that failed, it offered the trio a sizable payment for services to the community, which Harry declined on their behalf, as it wasn't right to accept money for that kind of thing (when Ron objected, Hermione pointed out that as soon as they got word of it, the Goblins would confiscate it down to the last Knut. Better be skint solo than skint in the Ministry's pocket, after all).

At that point, the Daily Prophet, in a decidedly pro-Harry phase for the moment, called for a wizarding boycott of the bank. Hermione quashed that right away, insisting, in a rare interview, that the peace they'd fought so hard for could only endure if they worked together to create a culture of respect between all Magical Beings. Perhaps that helped their cause with the Goblins, who finally stopped insisting on immediate payment in full. Instead, they agreed to a fifty-year repayment plan. It wasn't ideal (especially as they would have to conduct their banking in the Muggle world, depending on friends to change money for them; as part of the deal, none of them were permitted within one hundred feet of Gringotts or any of its subsidiaries), but it was a compromise. As Harry had said--they couldn't go about acting as if they were above the law simply because they were clever and powerful. That's what got Riddle started to begin with.

Thank goodness for Grimmauld Place.

Some Black ancestor had charmed the house so it could only be owned by wizards, which meant the Goblins couldn't take it and that they still had a place to live.

A sprawling, run down place to live.

They had plenty of friends, too. Friends who were fresh out of school and just starting careers. Friends in need of a place to hang their hats. And if they paid their rent in Muggle money, the Goblins would have no legal claim on it. Percy assured them on this point, twice, and in great detail. He'd been more than happy to assist them with the bank contract. Ron told the others he wondered if he was actually related to Percy, who appeared to prefer fine print to sex.

Hermione borrowed Molly's books on Household Charms (if she'd known how complicated they were, she wouldn't have turned her nose up at them for so many years) and Arthur's Muggle toolbox. The boys helped. Harry was pretty reliable with the hammer and nails. Ron, who'd kept hitting his own thumb, did his part with the wand-work. They left the kitchen and library as they were, added fourth and fifth bathrooms, and converted the rest of the house into bedrooms. Harry took the master suite. Ginny, Hermione imagined, would share it, at least unofficially, after she left school. Ron (they'd promised his parents they'd at least pretend to have separate bedrooms) took the converted drawing room where they'd slept on the floor that first awful night of their quest. ("Why would you want this room?" Hermione asked. He shrugged and said, "That night... you let me hold your hand.") Hermione took Sirius' old bedroom. (Not because of that old crush; she cringed a little just thinking about it. Then Dumbledore's forget--it must have been one whammy of a Memory Charm to be that specific and to endure so long after his death... If she'd only had that Dumbledorean finesse, things would've gone right with Mum and Dad--dissolved for an uneasy hour or so. She mulled over how sad it was that Snape had died before they could even thank him and how strange it was she kind of had a dead fiancé. Hermione didn't fight when she felt the forget roll in again. Of course she was sorry he'd died. But Severus Snape's was just one tragedy among far too many. She'd wind up on the Closed Ward if she didn't let herself forget a bit.) No, she took Sirius' room out of her trademark practicality. No one could un-stick those bikini photographs, so the room would be harder to rent out.

The remaining five bedrooms went to Pavarti, Hannah, Susan, Justin, and Dean; Dean had begun an Apprenticeship in Magical Portraiture, and his ability to add or subtract painted luxuries from her frame made negotiations with old Mrs. Black so much easier that they gave him a discount on his rent. They played a lot of Snap and drank a lot of Firewhisky and stayed up late most nights. Other friends were always coming and going, and the house seemed full of life, like it had never even seen a War. The boys said it was kind of like being back at Hogwarts again only without Houses or homework or Quidditch.

Ron and Harry began their Auror training. Hermione accepted a position on Shacklebolt's new Committee for Legal Reforms. She spent her weekdays in business robes and her weekends in overalls, keeping up with household repairs. The repair work (on the pipes and ducts, especially) often required her to contort into odd positions, which meant that Ron was always around to help, and that the pair developed a (not at all undeserved) reputation for public displays of friskiness.

She spent very little time in her own bedroom, but eventually she discovered that the bikini pictures were only bikini pictures in the eyes of people who hadn't figured out Sirius' leanings. For those in the know, the bikini-clad women dissolved to reveal dark-eyed, wiry, petulant, shirtless men. As those models, more often than not, had stern mouths and sharp noses, Hermione wondered if Sirius' hostility to Snape was, like the bikini girls, meant to mask other yearnings entirely. She didn't share her theory with Harry; if you considered Snape's thing for Harry's mum, Lupin and Sirius' open secret, the fact that Tonks was Sirius' cousin, the poorly rhyming sonnets to Lupin (scoopin', troopin', regroupin'... that wretched rat should never have been let near a quill) that the Aurors found amongst Pettigrew's effects, and that mysterious photo of a drunk and ill-clad James nuzzling a drunk and (thankfully) still-clad Pettigrew, even without a Sirius yen for Snape in the mix, that whole generation began to look entirely too incestuous. Instead, she developed a Mirror of Erised-like spell for the pictures, so that they would display images appropriate to the viewer's interest and mood. To Hermione, they generally showed the current weather in New South Wales.

When the International Apparition ban was lifted, Hermione returned to Queanbeyan to get her teeth cleaned.

And so the first year passed.

*

In their second year of Auror training, Ron and Harry took an exam in Gobbledegook. The test was the first of three basic language exams (as full Aurors, they needed to be able to communicate at least minimally with all manner of Magical Beings), and to everyone's surprise, Ron, whose Hogwarts-era (lack of) study habits were largely unchanged, outscored the other candidates (Harry included) by a wide margin. Indeed, his scores were perfect. "Must be Bill's influence," Ron said, shrugging it off. "He was always around The Burrow when he was learning this stuff. Taught me the best swear words." Everyone, landlords and tenants, sat gossiping in the kitchen, tucking into Kreacher's latest stew. "If you ever want to really make a Goblin mad, tell him Na dnob noi tcefnis tin. Means 'my bladder's fuller than your purse.'"

Ginny, who was in town for a rare two weeks in a row between Quidditch matches (which was probably to blame for Harry's abysmal Gobbledegook scores), snickered. "Good to know, Ron. Especially since some people have such a hard time pissing off those easygoing Goblins."

Harry and Ron looked chagrined, and Hermione could feel herself blush. Everyone else laughed. She squeezed Ron's hand and told him she was proud.

She had another dental appointment in Queanbeyan the day of Ron's Mermish test. She didn't bother giving a fake name as her parents' memories had been thoroughly wiped of the Shakespeare incident. Mum said she had a lovely smile. Dad said it was good to hear a home accent and asked how recently she'd immigrated. The Drs. Wilkins were alarmed at the tears in their patient's eyes, and Hermione lied, inventing a dentist phobia. "But you two are the best I've ever been to," she assured them. They beamed, and Hermione made an appointment for her next check-up.

She got home late. She went straight to Ron's bed like she always did when she felt shaky or fretful. He sat up with her late into the night. In the morning, she realized she hadn't even asked about the Mermish test. She watched Ron sleep. At rest, he still looked very much like the boy she knew in school; awake, he was too on edge for that. Not that he didn't relax; they all (except poor Justin, who was still all potions and nerves) were able to unwind at least a bit, now. But even at his most comfortable, his ease seemed like little more than an old school cloak: familiar, but only a surface layer and all too easily cast off.

She remembered him on the Quidditch pitch, inconsistent with the Quaffle. No way would he let a single one in, not now; the War had honed his reflexes too much for that. Not that either of them would know. He'd only been to one match since the War (when Ginny's Harpies made the finals), even though the Cannons kept offering freebies. The noise got to him. The crowd, too. The players and balls zinging around like errant curses. Hermione felt a sore tightness salting her throat. They were safe and at peace and together. Still, it hurt knowing how much they'd changed and why they'd had to. She looked at his dear face, his long, almost (though she'd never tell him so) spidery eyelashes. She remembered the grin she hadn't seen since school, his unabashed joy on the day the crowds changed the words to 'Weasley is our King.' She still felt terrible about missing that match, though she'd had, well, a sizable excuse, and he'd stopped giving her a hard time ages ago. She hummed a few bars, and his eyes opened.

"Wazzat?"

"Sorry. Just thinking."

"Always thinking." It was an observation, nothing more. Sleepy. Mellow. Back at school, it would have been a gentle (or not-so-gentle, depending on the drama of the moment) tease. Even in the tent, it would have been. She kissed him.

"I'm a bad daughter and a bad girlfriend," she said. "Where's Harry? Let me pick a fight with him. Then I can be a bad friend, too."

"What are you talking about?" Ron propped himself up on his elbows.

"I didn't ask about the test last night."

"First time you ever forgot about a test."

"Well, it wasn't my test. How'd you do?"

"I beat Harry."

"So, good then?"

"The best. I beat everyone."

"Again? Ronald, that's wonderful."

"I think it's because of the Triwizard, you know? When we were underwater all that time. Maybe the Merfolk were talking, and some of it kind of stuck in my head."

"But I was underwater, too, and I don't know a word of Mermish."

"You weren't under as long. Krum came and got you." Another measure of how much things had changed. Not a whiff of envy there. They'd all grown up, she supposed.

"But Harry was there the whole time."

"Yeah, but he was busy with his strong moral fiber. And they spoke to him in English."

"Then it's English you'd have heard, not Mermish."

"I suppose."

"Can't you just accept that maybe you're good at languages? Mum called it 'the ear.' My Granddad Hugh had it."

"Is that one of those Muggle things with the batteries? 'Cause Dad was working on one and kind of got it wedged in."

"That's a hearing aid, Ron. Entirely different."

When he got top marks on his exam in Banshpeak--thank goodness that test was over--the boys' practicing had the other residents very jumpy, particularly Dean, who missed Seamus like mad and remembered his friend's Banshee Boggart--Ron said that George must have got Percy to fudge the results as a joke.

The Ministry doubted that. Percy resented the very idea. Official examiners spent a fortnight testing Ron in the thirty-two known magical languages. Their results were startling but conclusive: Ronald Weasley was a Morphmouth.

"But those are really rare," Ron said. He'd Floo'ed her office moments after the revelation.

Hermione looked it up. One every few decades. Dumbledore had been the last.

"Wouldn't someone have noticed?" Ron asked.

Hermione felt a sad little tug at her heart for the boy she'd grown up with, who wasn't the smart one, wasn't the predestined one, wasn't the oldest or youngest or cleverest or most rebellious or most troublesome; the boy who, nevertheless, was in the thick of things. It was criminal how they'd missed it. How she'd missed it. He might be right in wanting just two kids, though she'd like to think they'd never let one of theirs feel adrift in the middle.

She read a bit more and told him, "It's not quite like being a Parselmouth where you know so innately it doesn't even seem like a different language to start with--which makes sense since you didn't hear the pipes second year, right? Morphmouths need to listen a while before knowing how to speak." Which, considering how rarely he listened back at Hogwarts, may have put off the discovery a few years. She didn't say it aloud; he was so pale beneath his freckles. He needed her to be gentle. "It explains a few things, actually. You've always done spot on imitations. And don't forget the way you were able to open the Chamber... No one else could ever have picked out the right word in all Harry's hissing."

Maybe if Ron had been with them in Godric's Hollow, he'd have noticed something off about Bathilda. Maybe he'd have heard it, somehow, in the sounds she made when she didn't speak. Then, maybe Harry would've had his own wand when the Snatchers came, and maybe she wouldn't wake nights with Cruciatus heat echoing in her blood. Maybe, maybe, maybe. She remembered her Mum's saying: May bees sting worst of all.

Ron shook his head. "It's weird. You'd think at least Dumbledore would have noticed."

"Perhaps he did."

"C'mon. He'd've got me training."

"And lose his monopoly on information in thirty-two languages?"

In the two years since the War, Hermione had gone considerably off Dumbledore. Minister Shacklebolt gave her unfettered access to the Ministry archives; still hoping to restore her parents, she dedicated the majority of her lunch hours to researching Memory Charms. In the course of her investigations, she'd uncovered the file on Ursula Barret, Muggle primary school teacher. Ms. Barret had been subject to no less than five Obliviates. One was at the behest of the Ministry, on the occasion of Harry turning her hair blue. The remaining four were down to Dumbledore, who'd interfered at wand-point every time she went to the authorities with concerns about how the Dursleys treated that quiet, skittish, Potter boy.

"Maybe he thought it'd distract me. My place being pretty much with you and Harry," Ron said.

"Maybe," she replied. It was rather futile railing against the late Headmaster. After all, his scheming worked in the end, which the apologists were quick to point out. Ron was right when he said she'd drive herself mad tallying the cost.

"It would've been dead useful with that old Lockhart plan of ours, though," Ron said, smiling.

Hermione smiled too. It had been ages since they spoke of it. Their life together was a good one, even if it hadn't gone as they expected. They'd travel someday, she was sure. When money was easier, and she'd found a way to track her parents from afar on the offhand chance they shrugged off the spell at random. Until then, she had to stay near London. She didn't want them coming home to find she wasn't there.

"Bet you Lockhart couldn't even learn to speak troll," Hermione said, though she felt nostalgic discussing the plan, even as a joke. She missed that bathtub feeling, drunk on relief and each other and the future at once. "Not if he studied for ten years."

"Troll's easy."

From his expression, she guessed Ron felt nostalgic, too. But not quite in the same way, she'd bet. More for the plans they never followed through on than the high spirits they had when they made them.

"So says the Morphmouth." They'd made it through the War. They loved each other. That was plenty.

"I'll say it in thirty-two languages, if you ask nicely."

"What do you say we head home, and you can whisper thirty-two sweet nothings in my ear?" So many people lost lovers in the War. So many people lost friends. They were lucky, and they knew it.

"Now, that's what I call nice asking. What language do you want?"

"Anything you like, so long as it's not Banshpeak."

*

The third year was the year of weddings, which had them down a few tenants. She and Ron stood up for Harry and Ginny and for Hannah and Neville. She threw rice for Oliver Wood and (of all people!) Millicent Bulstrode and daubed on henna for Pavarti Patil and Marcus Belby. When George married Verity, the fireworks went on for hours, and he did without a best man.

Only Ron knew that Hermione took a strong Calming Draught before each celebration and a dose of Dreamless Sleep after. That terrible year began at a wedding (for the rest of her life, she'd never once forget to Floo Fleur and Bill on their anniversary), and even dancing with Ron, she was a twitchy, jumbled mess, certain that every swish of silver dress robes was Kingsley's Patronus again.

When their turn rolled around (everyone, it seemed, got a kick out of asking them when, exactly, that would be), it was going to be the Registry Office and the pub and not a single frill more. Once they had money and time for a proper honeymoon--Ron wanted to hit the Forbidden City at the very least--they'd do it. No rush. They were barely into their twenties. A whole lifetime stretched ahead.

*

She ran into Rita Skeeter at Flourish & Blotts four years after the war. It was almost enough to put Hermione off the bookshop for life; Skeeter was working behind the tills, and judging from the number of times her name was listed on the store's employee of the month plaque, had been doing so for some time. However, as she appeared to be selling books now instead of writing them, Hermione was civil. The (ex, Hermione presumed, unless she was working on an undercover expose on the lives of shop-girls) reporter wore her hair in fat sausage curls, teased into a painful looking topiary. Hermione kept an eye on the Witch Weekly headlines for the next few months on the chance Skeeter somehow spun a scandal from their interaction. No story appeared, but there was an article on Curling Charms, another promising Heroine Hair in Ten Easy Steps, and a list of the top salons to go to for a Granger. On the society pages, Narcissa Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson could hardly hold their heads up under the weight of their ringlets.

For the first time in years, Hermione broke out the Sleekeazy.

A few weeks later, she dropped by Percy's office to invite him over for a round of drinks (Susan, heaven help her, had developed a bit of a thing for him and had promised to take Hermione's turn doing dishes for the next three weeks if she'd pretty please just have him over). Percy's new secretary informed her he was out for the afternoon being very busy and very important at a top secret meeting. Would she care to leave a message?

Hermione couldn't breathe. She couldn't fucking breathe. She turned around without a word. Because his secretary's sproinging curls outweighed his secretary by half a stone. And his secretary, having somehow hem-hemmed her way out of Azkaban, was Dolores Umbridge.

She couldn't think of a more fitting punishment for the evil old hag--both the position (every pot had its lid) and the hair. Better practice Rennervate because Ron and Harry were going to keel over cold when she told them. She missed Colin Creevey more than anything. She'd gladly swap her well-thumbed copy of Hogwarts, A History, her Order of Merlin (first class), and her Prefect's Badge for a photograph of this.

Hermione marched into the first salon she saw and asked for a 1920s style bob. She'd been thinking of trying one since first meeting Metis Townsend. She was sure she'd made the right decision when the beautician cooed and asked, "Are you sure, dear? You know, if you just rinsed out that Sleekeazy, you'd have a perfect Granger."

"I still will," Hermione muttered. The new style suited her, framing her face instead of overwhelming it. Her eyes looked bigger, her features almost delicate. As a bonus, fewer strange witches and wizards stopped her on the street with Chocolate Frog Cards for her to sign. She hadn't realized before just how recognizable her hair had been. Harry laughed when she told him and said he might go in for some Muggle scar reduction surgery. Ron just nibbled deliciously at her newly exposed neck.

At her six-month cleaning, Dad said she looked sharp. Mum said the style really suited her. "You have such a pretty face. No sense hiding it with all that hair."

Hermione smiled. "My Mum said the exact same thing hundreds of times when I was growing up."

"Wise woman, your Mum."

"She is that."

Oddly enough, she felt happy after. She Apparated home. "It was just so good hearing them say something normal like that," she told Ron.

"Just glad you never listened to them sooner," he said, and tousled her hair. "You look so good, I'd never've had a shot." He slung an arm around her shoulder.

"I don't know. I'm told I have exceptionally low standards." She winked.

"Who the hell told you that?"

"Gin 'n George, for starters."

"Traitors!"

"And Professor Slughorn tells me he could introduce me to plenty of quality fellows who'd be honored."

"Hermione, McLaggen was in the Slug Club."

"And I'm sure Cormac would agree wholeheartedly that he's quite the superior specimen."

"Indeed. If I could only eat Doxies like he could, the War would've been won in two weeks. You coming to bed?"

"In a bit. I've got some thoughts to sort out."

"About your parents? You need me to sit up with you?"

"Not at all. Just daydreaming about McLaggen." A lie, actually, but she wasn't about tell him what she'd just realized: they never fought. Never. Never, ever, ever. After years of fighting like cats and dogs. Fighting about cats and dogs. Weird. Weirder still that she missed it. Not the fights, exactly, but the zinging, swooping rush feelings that went along with them. The tumult that had always been a part of her and Ron. She never used to hold back with him, and she knew damn well he never did with her. But now she was so careful. He was, too. Tender. They were in love, after all. Maybe the long peace between them was natural.

Maybe. But Harry and Ginny fought. Her parents had, too. And, good God, Bill and Fleur. Who would have thought that teeny blond could rival Molly's temper?

She had a sudden, horrible, wartime feeling deep down in her gut. Fear.

Hermione Granger, whose beaded evening bag was the most visited display in the British Museum's subterranean Wizarding Wing, who'd drowned child-Riddle (he'd taken the form of a wet-eyed orphan, first whimpering that he was lost and afraid and in need of saving, then railing that her goodness was all for show, that she'd never really help anyone, ever, that her very breathing was a waste) in Helga Hufflepuff's cup, whose hair, apparently, was the envy of straight-locked witches the world over, was afraid. Not of Ron. No, never that. But afraid of fighting with him. Of poking too mercilessly at his sore spots. Part of it was how close they'd come to losing one another in a War that made even casual acquaintances dearer. Part of it was that they weren't children anymore. But part of it was that dark thing best left in silence.

Ron had left them.

They didn't speak of it. Never had, if she discounted the screaming on his return. They never would, she supposed. They'd go on as they were, as they had been, come to think of it, ever since the Forest of Dean--Ron at her side, Ron taking her side, and she'd never know how much of it was for what they had together now and how much was to make up for what he'd done then. The lion's share was for their here and now; it had to be. Just as the lion's share of her tenderness towards him was because he was Ron, who she'd heard screaming for her even above the volume of her own retching at Malfoy Manor; Ron, who wore socks to bed rather than give her a hard time about stealing the covers.

She thought of the Riddle-boy she destroyed in the Chamber. He was scrawny and underfed, like Harry was first year. He wore ill-fitting clothes, like Ron in his hand-me-downs. How fast that child changed his tune. ("It's not real," she remembered Ron's voice. "Hermione, don't listen. You've got to fight it--fight him.") From You'll never hurt me; you can't; you're all sweet; you want to help. Please, Miss, I'm afraid; please help to You're nothing, worthless; everything in you that's not like me is just pretend in less than an instant. Riddle's power had come as much from seeing to the guts of people as it did his magic. She wouldn't go so far as to say he was right, but he did see. What the boys never once acknowledged, though she suspected Dumbledore knew from the beginning: there was real ruthlessness within her. It stayed quiet most of the time, or cloaked itself as competitiveness, or burbled to the surface as righteous indignation. But if it ever erupted in full force... no. She could banter with Ron. They could share gentle jibes. But they could never, ever, have another knock-down-drag-out. The damage she could do him. The Riddle-things she could unleash.

Best go to bed. Ron's sleeping warmth could almost always calm her. She shivered and told herself that her fears were pure foolishness. After all, she had drowned the wretched guttersnipe, forcing his dark head into the cup until he thrashed himself to steam. She'd won out over him; she could certainly govern herself. Their world was at peace. She had nothing to fret over. No cause for complaint: she was respected, had plenty of friends, a decent and challenging job, a fabulous new haircut, and a handsome boyfriend over whom she had the permanent moral high ground.

Hell, no wonder so many ex-adversaries wanted to be her.

*

Ron proposed later the next year. Hermione accepted.

He bought the ring at Romilda's. The proprietor, Romilda Vane (for the moment--formerly Romilda Sloper before Jack came to his senses, briefly Romilda Smith before she came to hers, and currently angling for Romilda Boot), gave him a bit of a discount when he referenced a certain Chocolate Cauldron incident. Romilda had surprised them all by learning from her two failed marriages and channeling her general frivolity into a hugely successful business venture. The rings she made (through a secret formula involving Veritaserum, silt from the Danube and Amazon Rivers, the sting of a Fat-tail Scorpion, and the cream filling of American Muggle snack cakes) were designed to alert the wearer if for any reason her prospective marriage was ill-advised. The ring Ron chose was pretty, if understated (after all, the discount wasn't all that generous, and they still had Goblin repayments to consider). The band was silver because Romilda hadn't quite worked out the formula for any other metal (something about Twinkies and platinum didn't quite mesh). The stone was a single pearl because, Ron said, their love was rather pearl-like: beautiful, luminous, and built up through years of perpetual irritation.

Molly got weepy. Arthur got Floo-happy, which resulted in a bit of an impromptu party at The Burrow. In another life, Hermione might have given her future father-in-law a crash tutorial so they could phone her parents with the news. She sighed and helped herself to some Firewhisky. And then to some more. And just a titch more. Ron and Harry kept pace; Ginny went home early as she had a five a.m. training session. At one point, Harry taught them a depressing dirge about some dead wizard named Odo, which somehow led to Harry and Ron spilling (theoretically confidential) details of their latest corruption case (it had involved knitting patterns, Slughorn, Gwenog Jones, and a half dozen pregnant Niffflers), which somehow led to them owling Slughorn an invitation to a non-existent fete in his honor to be held next Thursday at Malfoy Manor, which somehow led to an elaborate plot to smuggle a dozen red and gold ferrets into Draco's bed, which somehow led to the perfectly logical conclusion that Draco was, without question, a were-ferret. Then Ron and Harry passed out, and in the space of the two or three seconds before she joined them, Hermione looked at her shiny, pretty ring and at her boys' shiny, pretty drool and thought how nice it would have been to have grown up in peacetime so they could've had fun like this more often.

She didn't even notice the hangover when she woke up.

She didn't notice because her bloody-fucking-finger hurt so bloody-fucking much.

Let us now praise Melusin and Bloo, my most excellent betas, who put up with my spelling, cannon, and grammatical dunderheadery so you all don't have to. They are patient, witty and wise; I strew virtual rose petals in their paths.

Thanks to all who reviewed and all who ("Imperio!" says madqueenmab) are going to review!

The characters aren't mine. The concept is not mine. If you think any of this is mine, you belong in St. Mungo's, which is also not mine.