There are times when even small beds feel too big, and it is hard when the one thing you want is the one thing you cannot have, the one thing you cannot admit to wanting to have, the one thing you’re not allowed to want.
Hermione hadn’t expected Blaise to be there when she woke up the morning after, and yet she had been disappointed not to find him there. Getting up, she had immediately noticed the items next to the breakfast tray “ the small piece of rope, the hourglass already turned, the letter and the wand “ the same length, wood and core as the one he’d taken from her.
She had read the note before even touching breakfast. It had been short and to the point, just what she would have expected from him. It had told her what she already suspected “ that the piece of rope was a Portkey, that the hourglass marked when it was set to activate.
It had been months since that day, and still she remembered the letter as vividly as if she’d read it a few hours ago “ the simple tone, the utter lack of wordiness, the ending, especially the ending. Every last word of his plea was etched into her memory: ‘I only ask of you, not to tell anyone about my role in your escape yet. It’s too dangerous while Voldemort is still alive. Wait for his death or for me to signal to you “ whichever comes first. Until then say nothing. Promise me that. Blaise.’
She wished he had been around for her to actually give him her word. Nevertheless, she had given it, to herself if not him. She wasn’t a fool “ she understood the need for secrecy and she would never do anything that could put him in danger. Grabbing the wand, her packing and the Portkey, she had waited for the sand in the hourglass to reach its target. She’d hardly touched her breakfast all morning and she had felt relieved when she had finally felt the familiar tug of the Portkey activating, removing her from the room that had been her home for the past two years.
Blaise had been as thorough in making these arrangements as he had in everything else, making sure she was safe, that no one would be able to follow her or find her. For that she was utterly grateful, but it didn’t stop her from wanting him to be there with her.
The Portkey had taken her to a small cottage “ nothing more than a table and another Portkey inside. That one had taken her to another one. For three days, she’d moved from Portkey to Portkey “ short visits first to empty cottages and flats, then to different members of the resistance. No one had known where she’d come from or where she would go, but all of them had been willing to help. Blaise had done his homework. He’d known where it was safe to send her.
She’d known she’d reached her final destination when she saw their faces, her knees buckling beneath her from completely different reasons than a clumsy Portkey landing. Molly and Ginny had rushed over to her the moment she stumbled to the floor, crying out in happiness and relief that she was alright. Feeling their arms around her, smelling the familiar flowery scent that belonged to Ginny, and the scent of freshly baked bread that always accompanied Molly, Hermione had allowed herself to let go, to cry at the injustice of the world in their arms “ knowing that Blaise must have worked hard to give her the only thing that would actually relieve the pain of not having him with her anymore.
She had been surprised to see that Fleur was there, too, and more so when she realised that not only was she there, but she was living with Molly and Ginny as well.
“This is Fleur’s house,” Molly had explained once Hermione was sitting comfortably on the sofa in the living room, a blanket wrapped around her legs and a cup of hot tea in her hands. “Fleur’s parents gave it to her when she got married,” she’d said, going on to explain that the house was quite safe, protected by more spells than even 12 Grimmauld Place had been, not to mentioned situated in France. Hermione had nodded, quite sure Fleur’s parents had never intended their gift to be used as a hideaway in a war no one really thought they’d win but fought anyway because they couldn’t give up.
She had wondered where Bill was, but not asked, having her suspicions about why he wasn’t mentioned. Later that night Ginny had proved her right, explaining to her that Bill got killed almost a year and a half ago and that Fleur had invited Molly and Ginny to move in with her after a few months.
“It wasn’t such a big step to take. We were nearly living with her already,” Ginny had said. “She didn’t take Bill’s death too well. Lost the baby she was carrying. She was restricted to her bed for weeks, would hardly talk to anyone. We were forced to take care of her. Staying felt natural, and when they burnt down The Burrow, there was really no reason for us to stay in Britain anymore.”
“They burnt down The Burrow?” Hermione had asked, shocked at how deeply those words affected her.
Ginny had nodded. “A year ago. That’s when we came here,” she’d said. “It’s not like home, but at least it’s safe “ and it’s an excellent place to plan our next moves.”
Hermione had smiled faintly, not really knowing what to do with the information. She’d missed so much “ both being on the run and being in hiding in Blaise’s dungeon. How could she not have known that Bill was dead? That The Burrow was burnt down? A thought had struck her then “ and looking at Ginny she hadn’t been able to refrain from asking.
“Your father “ and Percy “ are they, too…?”
The question had hung in the air as Ginny had averted her eyes and nodded slightly, saying her goodnights and leaving the room shortly after. Hermione hadn’t pressed the matter, not with Ginny nor with anyone else. The pain was too obvious for them all “ and for Molly especially. In just a few years she’d lost not only her husband but all of her sons. Hermione had been “ and was still “ sure that there was nothing she could possibly say or do to make that pain any smaller. Just as there was nothing anyone could say or do to make her miss Blaise any less. She kept her promise, not talking even when Ginny or Molly asked “ they were clearly disappointed, but accepted her decision not to talk. Hermione didn’t have to ask to know they took her silence to mean something other than it did, but she didn’t care. At least she hadn’t cared then.
It had taken a while for her to get used to her new environment. Too long had she lived cooped up in a single room to comfortably move in an entire house and village without feeling as if she was doing something she wasn’t supposed to. The first time she’d gone outside she had trembled and hesitated to even leave the garden, but Ginny had assured her that the charms she’d used had worked and that not even her parents would be able to recognise her.
“It’s alright, Hermione,” she’d said. “The village is a Muggle one “ no one has even heard of Voldemort there. And they already think Mum is just another Muggle woman living here with her two daughters. We’ll tell them you’re a cousin moving in,” she’d finished. Hermione had nodded and gone with her, learning with every trip to relax a bit more and enjoy the freedom that she could suddenly afford herself.
Still, in spite of everything, Hermione had a hard time adjusting. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the house, or being able to walk outside or being with Molly and Ginny “ she did, but things still didn’t feel right. She was constantly tired, probably from the complete lack of sunlight she’d been forced to endure during the last couple of years, and she felt the burden to smile when she couldn’t feel any reasons to. Her appetite came and went as it pleased, and even being with Molly and Ginny wasn’t the same as it was supposed to be. They weren’t who they were supposed to be. They had changed, as everyone had.
She missed them, the way they had been. She missed Molly’s heart-warming smiles when she served them breakfast, or the way she would nag and yell only to break up into a smile towards someone else a moment later. Molly now was quieter, calmer, sadder. Hermione could hardly blame her for that. She’d lost nearly everything that mattered. But she missed the old Molly.
She missed the old Ginny too. She missed the Ginny she’d known to be her best female friend. She missed the pranks and the cockiness and the easy smiles. She was harder now, colder somehow. It wasn’t something as easy to note as the lack of Molly’s smiles, but there was a bitter tone to her voice that hadn’t been there before. A harshness that just wasn’t Ginny. Hermione guessed she had that as well. The tone that said “ I’ve lost everything I wanted and I’m pissed off about it, now leave me alone, I don’t trust you! Would anyone leave this war without a hint of it?
It was the rows that were the worst, however. Hermione had never heard Molly and Ginny row like that. Molly had always been good at shouting at her sons, but things had been different with Ginny. They argued “ of course they did. They were both too hot-headed not to “ but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t Molly shouting at her daughter that she was not allowed to leave the house to fight or Ginny shouting at her mother that she was old enough to make those decisions herself and then slamming the door behind her as she went looking for battles to fight. It wasn’t Molly sinking down in her chair after she was gone, crying because she couldn’t protect her last child from the war, because she was terrified of losing her too. The first time Hermione went with Ginny “ eager to finally make a difference. The second time she stayed with Molly, holding her as she cried. Molly seemed grateful, but also worried. Worried that Hermione wasn’t herself, that she wasn’t feeling well. Even when assuring Molly that she was fine, Hermione knew she wasn’t.
Two months had passed before she’d figured out what was wrong with her. The fatigue that just wouldn’t leave her no matter how much time she spent in the garden soaking up the winter sun, staying out until Molly demanded that she’d head inside so that she didn’t freeze herself. The shifting appetite, the light headiness from time to time, the sudden waves of nausea that could come any time of the day but were most prominent in the mornings.
She should have been more careful. They both should have been. This was hardly the time or place for a baby. Nevertheless, she was pregnant, and that was that “ no need to beat herself up about being irresponsible. It wouldn’t do anyone any good, and it wouldn’t change things. Besides, as much as she tried to look at matters from a logical point of view, the feeling of a life growing inside her had brought hope to her heart “ and hope she’d realised was what she needed most right now.
Molly had been the first one to figure it out, coming into her room one evening and plainly asking her if she was pregnant. Hermione hadn’t been surprised “ Molly had had seven children after all. She knew the signs when presented with them. Hermione hadn’t even tried to deny it, but she had refused to tell Molly that Blaise was the father. How could she tell her that without telling her everything? She couldn’t. And as much as she ached to tell, she’d given her word. So she’d shaken her head and said she didn’t want to talk about it. The words had become her mantra after that “ repeated again and again to questions and curious glances.
“I don’t want to talk about it!” meaning: “I can’t tell you because I promised I wouldn’t,” understood: “I don’t want to talk about it because I was raped and the memory hurts me too much.”
She could see it in Molly’s tears when the woman she’d grown to love as a mother threw her arms around her and rocked her gently, as if her pregnancy was something to be sad about. She could see it in the way that Remus “ the few times he visited “ avoided to meet her gaze, averted his eyes, and looked at her with pity when he thought she didn’t see. She’d seen it in Ginny’s poorly hidden look of disgust as she’d glanced at her tummy the first time, asking her if she was actually going to keep that. That “ not the child or the baby “ that. Three months later and Ginny still refused to call it anything else, just as she refused to understand why Hermione hadn’t ‘done something about it’, as she put it when she argued with Hermione about her decision to keep her child.
“It’s just a thing Hermione “ you don’t have to keep it! There are spells“”
“The baby hasn’t done anything wrong. He or she is mine and I’m not doing some spell to“”
“You’re putting a “ that “ in front of fighting against Voldemort! You don’t even try to go anymore, Hermione.”
“I do what I can, Ginny! I have worked out more things about his next move“”
“Studying isn’t fighting, Hermione! It doesn’t count. You’re not out there risking your life like the rest of us are!”
“Studying does count! You wouldn’t even know where to go or what to do if there weren’t people working out Voldemort’s next move! I do what I can “ but I won’t risk my baby’s life!”
“You’re putting a Death Eater baby ahead of all of us Hermione!”
That was usually when Hermione left the room, slamming the door to the stuffy small library where she took her refuge from the others. She found herself spending more and more time in there, hiding from Ginny’s angry glares and Molly’s pitying glances. It didn’t help that Molly thought Hermione did the right thing to keep the child. Her going on about the bravery in her decision was almost worse. It felt like a lie. After all, no matter how much she hated it, Ginny was right. She was carrying a Death Eater’s baby. The fact that Blaise had saved her life and helped the resistance didn’t change the fact that he was, and more importantly, that he had been, a Death Eater. She loved him with all her heart, and she never hesitated for a moment to put his child’s “ their child’s “ safety before anything else “ Ginny wasn’t wrong about that either. But Molly was wrong, and Hermione didn’t deserve the pity and the encouraging words “ and she didn’t know how to pretend to be sad about a child that brought her so much hope and joy.
Yet in spite of it all, it was Fleur’s reaction to her pregancy that bothered Hermione the most. The jealous glances, the hateful stare as Hermione’s belly grew “ reminding Fleur of what she’d lost. Of what she might never have. With Fleur, Hermione knew her feelings didn’t come from a belief that she had been raped. They came from the pain of losing her own child “ the feeling of injustice about it all. Hermione could shield herself against the pity and the resentment, hoping against reason that things would work out for the best “ that she would be able to tell them the truth before the child was born. There was no shield against the angry stare from a mother that lost her child, however. Hermione was a living reminder of what Fleur lost and Fleur hated her for it. How could Hermione even ask her not to? She couldn’t. And so she retreated as much as she could. Finding refuge in her books while rumours about her spread.
And the rumour did spread “ Hermione the hero back from her miraculous escape from Voldemort “ but raped and defiled. Somehow the house seemed busier the further along she got, more and more people from the resistance finding their way to the small house to see for themselves. Hermione the hero “ carrying a Death Eater’s child.
She wanted to scream, to rant, to shout out the truth. She didn’t of course “ keeping a promise she’d never been able to make but yet saw as binding. Hoping for her child’s sake that something would change “ a sign, a word, anything that would allow her to tell the truth. And while she waited she did what she’d always done when she didn’t know what to do “ she studied. Locked up in the only room she could find some peace she read. She read the Quibbler, searching it for clues. She read reports coming to the house by owl or in the shape of a Patronus. She studied texts about Dark Magic, and did Arithmancy calculations “ trying to predict a mad man’s moves. She was fairly successful, but sometimes that didn’t make her feel better. The more successful she was, the more confrontations were possible. Each and every one could mean an end to Voldemort or at least to a few of his followers “ but they could also mean the end to Ginny, who refused to stay away even when Molly begged her to, or “ which she feared the most “ to Blaise.
It became easier when her belly grew bigger. Not even Ginny suggested that she’d go out to fight a war when she could barely move properly. But that didn’t keep Ginny from resenting the baby. She still refused to think of it other than a thing, and she didn’t forget that Hermione had actively chosen to have the child. Sometimes Hermione wondered how much Ginny’s resentment had to do with the thought of the child as being the result from a rape, and how much her resentment had to do with the fact that it wasn’t Ron’s.
Molly didn’t seem to care though, and a part of her normal nurturing nature returned as the months progressed. Somehow, the idea of a new life cheered her up “ and for Hermione it was a blessing to be with someone that didn’t always talk of war and death and vengeance. She kept her hope. With every message that came that wasn’t from Blaise she still kept hoping that somehow he would contact her before their child was born. Somehow she kept hoping that their baby wouldn’t be born into a world where his or her father was considered to be evil. And as spring turned to summer, Hermione started to talk to their baby. Walking around in the garden she tried out names while still hoping that Blaise would have a say in the matter. When she was sure no one heard her she told him or her about the way things really were. It was silly and illogical “ but it made the feeling of hope grow stronger, so she kept on doing it, not caring about the worried glances from Remus or Molly as they saw her talking to herself.
Dorian Granger was born at the end of summer “ crying angrily at the injustice of being forced out from such a warm and comfortable place. He had dark skin and high cheekbones and warm brown eyes “ just like his father “ and Hermione loved him the moment he was placed in her arms. Others were worried, however. No matter what Hermione said “ or didn’t say “ it was now plain for everyone to see exactly who the father of her child was. Whispered comments and worried glances at how much the boy looked like his father accompanied them both, and so Hermione kept their son close, bringing him with her to the places where she knew they’d be left alone. Places where she could sit and marvel at the miracle he was, telling him in a hushed voice about his father, about what he had done to save her “ making sure no one was ever close enough to listen to what she said.
Molly was the first one to overlook the boy’s appearance, revelling in the joy of having a little boy to care for again “ pampering both him and Hermione until Hermione forced herself to stop eating to keep at least the resemblance of a figure. Although in all fairness, nursing proved quite efficient in that respect.
Ginny and Fleur were harder to convince. They both stayed away from Dorian, although for different reasons. Hermione could understand Fleur but she still had a difficult time understanding Ginny. Sometimes when she sat in the small library watching Dorian sleep comfortably, his chest rising and falling with his every breath, she wondered if things would ever get back to the way they were between Ginny and her. As much as she wanted them to, she didn’t think they would. Even if Ginny learned about Blaise “ even if she understood that Dorian wasn’t the result of a Death Eater rape, she wondered if Ginny would ever forgive Dorian for not having red hair and freckles. If she would ever forgive Hermione for moving on with her life while she still insisted on keeping the memory of Harry alive, refusing to let the past rest, refusing to move on without Harry in her life.
It was on one of those occasions, when she was sitting in the library with Dorian sleeping next to her, that Remus came to see her. Looking up from her papers, she smiled at him as he walked into the room. He was one of the few people that visited her in here “ and as long as she ignored the occasional pitying glances, Hermione didn’t mind his company.
He greeted her softy when he came in, glancing over at Dorian, keeping his voice down so he wouldn’t wake him.
“He’s growing,” he said softly, clearly to avoid talking about why he was really here.
“Yes he is,” Hermione answered. “He’s a big little boy,” she said with a smile as she glanced over at her son.
Remus nodded, biting his lip in thought before he went on. “Isn’t it hard, Hermione. I mean…” he nodded towards Dorian, not finishing his sentence but leaving enough hanging for her to understand. Isn’t it hard to raise a child that looks so much like the man that raped you? Hermione wondered what he would say if she simply told him the truth?
“If you’re talking about dirty nappies and lack of sleep “ I’ve been through worse,” she answered, pretending not to understand. Remus frowned. “He’s mine Remus,” Hermione added, looking him in the eyes. “He’s my little miracle. It’s as simple as that.”
Remus nodded, although Hermione wasn’t sure he understood at all. How could he possibly know what it was like to carry a person inside you for that long?
“I trust that that is not why you came in here,” Hermione continued.
Remus smiled again, and shook his head. “We’re getting stronger Hermione, now I know you know that, but I don’t think we’ve ever been this strong before. Not in this war and not in the last one. If we will ever have a chance to defeat Voldemort “ now would be it.”
“You think we can even without Harry?” Hermione asked, knowing that many people didn’t.
Once more, Remus nodded. “Harry did kill him, when he destroyed those horcruxes he killed him. Voldemort doesn’t know they were destroyed “ as far as we know, he haven’t made any attempts at creating new ones. He still thinks that he’s invincible; he still thinks he cannot die. We need to hit him now, while we’re still this strong.”
“You need to find out where he’ll be so you can attack,” Hermione filled in, finishing his train of thought.
“Yes we do. And you’re the best shot we have at finding out.” Remus answered. “How long do you…”
Remus trailed off as Hermoine rose, walking over to one of the bookcases and pulling out a book and a piece of parchment, handing them both to him.
“This is where I think he spends most of his time. I still need to do a few calculations to see if it’s the best place to strike or not. That’s what I’m working on now,” she said.
Remus smiled. “I should have known you were ahead of us already,” he said, looking impressed. “How long have you been working on this?” he asked.
“Since a few weeks before Dorian was born,” Hermione answered, surprised at how much your life became before and after once you had a child. “It’s taken a bit longer than I expected, but I kind of got sidetracked there for a moment,” she said smiling, reaching out rubbing her fingers soothingly on Dorian’s tummy.
Remus watched her quietly. “You look… happy,” he said, sounding as if that was something to marvel at.
“Happy?” Hermione smiled at him. “I’ll be happy when this is over. I’ll be happy when I can live a normal life again. When I can take my son back to Britain and live as I want to, as a family. When I can show my parents their grandson,” she said, wondering what Remus would think if he knew that she in the word family included Blaise as well.
Remus, however, only nodded slowly. “Then I’ll better let you go back to work, so that we can at least try to put an end to this.”
Hermione watched him leave, then she watched her baby boy sleep, before she went back to work.
The row had been worse this time. Molly had cried openly, begging Ginny “ pleading with her “ to stay at home and not join the fight this time. Ginny had ranted and raved and talked about betraying Harry. She had left, shooting angry glances at both Molly and Hermione “ Molly for trying to stop her from fighting, Hermione for not coming along herself. Fleur had gone too, the two of them closer in their grief than they had ever been able to be in their happiness.
And now they were waiting. Waiting for good news or bad “ scared and hopeful at the same time. It felt wrong to leave Molly feeling like this, and so Hermione sat patiently waiting with her, playing absentmindedly with Dorian while he was awake, rocking him slowly when he finally fell asleep.
She wondered if Molly could see how scared she was, but then Molly seemed too wrapped up in her own fears to notice hers. She wondered how she would feel if it was Dorian out there “ risking his life. The knot in her stomach rebelled and she forced herself to stop before she’d throw up. And here she was thinking she couldn’t be more worried than she was.
Using Dorian as pretence, Hermione got up and left the sitting room, needing to get out before she the tension suffocated her completely. Walking back to her room, she put Dorian down in his cot, not wanting to hold him when she was feeling like this. He noticed her worry, she could tell by his breathing and movement. He calmed down once she put him down, relaxed in safety “ not knowing what was going on in the world tonight.
Feeling obligated to return to Molly, Hermione cast a monitoring spell and left the room, taking her time walking back. She knew it wasn’t fair, but she needed to breathe “ to try and think of something besides the crippling worry of what was happening tonight. She wondered if Blaise would be there too. She was fairly certain he would “ being under suspicion before, he would probably have to prove his loyalty. If he wasn’t there, he’d be summoned. If he didn’t heed the call and Voldemort won, he’d be dead. If he did heed the call, the resistance might very well kill him. Ginny certainly would if she got a free shot “ if she wasn’t killed first.
Feeling the nausea come over her again, Hermione forced herself to take deep breaths. Merlin, this had been easier when she was fighting herself. At least then she’d been too busy to think of all the what ifs.
Neither she nor Molly slept at all that night. Jumping at the slightest noise they sat together in the sitting room, neither talking and both trying not to think of what was going on, neither thinking of anything else. When the first Patronus brought a message they both shrieked in fear before they realised that no Patronuses would be sent if their side had lost.
It all happened very quickly after that. The people Apparating outside and storming into the house. The fireworks that filled the sky around the house, making Hermione put a sound proofing charm on her room to protect Dorian’s sleep.
Fleur came in with a huge smile on her face, proclaiming that she had killed “ze monster zat ‘ad killed ‘er Bill.” It was the first time Hermione had seen her smile since arriving in the house at all.
Molly, however, wasn’t smiling. Even with the small house packed with people, Ginny had not returned. Hermione, too, was worried. About Ginny and about Blaise. She didn’t know how to ask if he was alright or not without it sounding odd and out of place.
Molly shrieked in rejoice when Ginny finally came through the door, limping and bleeding slightly, but with a look of pride on her face as she leaned on Remus for support. Smothering her with hugs and kisses, Molly held on to her while Hermione moved closer, hoping to be able to ask Remus who was alive “ and more importantly, who had been killed.
“Hermione!”
She heard, Ginny’s voice calling out before she had any time to reach Remus, and turned to smile at her.
“I’m so happy you’re safe, Ginny,” she said, smiling at her as Ginny untangled herself from her mother, limping over to Hermione.
“You’re safe too, Hermione,” Ginny said with a big smile. Hermione looked at her, not quite sure what she meant. “He can’t hurt you again,” she added, and suddenly Hermione felt her nausea return to her gut. Instinctively she covered her mouth in fear of throwing up. “Didn’t you hear me?” Ginny asked gaily. “Zabini can’t hurt you again “.ever!” she said, throwing her arms around Hermione, holding her tighter than she had in months.
Hermione felt sick and she could taste blood inside her mouth. She wanted to throw up, to cry, to rant and rave at the injustice of it all. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be! This couldn’t be the end “ it wasn’t allowed to be. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t right! This was the time when they were supposed to start their life together “ not the time she was supposed to mourn his death. What good would her story and her books do him now?
“Hermione.” Somewhere in the back of her mind she felt Remus’s hand on her shoulder. She wanted to cry. She hated that she couldn’t. “Ginny’s right. He won’t hurt you again. With your testimony he’ll never leave Azkaban.”
Azkaban? Had he said…? “You mean he’s not dead?” Hermione whispered, unable to breathe let alone talk properly. Somewhere she registered someone laughing.
“No, I’m afraid he’s not Hermione,” Ginny said consolingly, letting go of her enough to look at her.
“Surely it’s enough that he cannot hurt you anymore, that he’ll be punished for what he did,” Remus added, his hand never leaving her shoulder.
He reached out and grabbed her as her knees gave way beneath her. Feeling a wave of relief wash over her she couldn’t possibly stand on her own any longer. Tears were streaming down her face and the only feeling she could master was an all consuming sense of gratitude and hope. She felt Remus’s and Ginny’s arms around her and in the back of her mind she registered their words of comfort and reassurances. Azkaban! He was sent to Azkaban. He wasn’t dead “ he was alive. Azkaban meant life, not death. She could help him there “ she could change things, tell things, make a difference. Things would be alright again. Maybe not at once “ but some day. Some day they’d be together “ the three of them a family as they were supposed to. Some day “ all she had to do until then was hope. She was good at hoping.
~ The end ~