The Bermuda Trap

It was cool when James and I set out for the park. Unseasonably cool. But little could be done about the temperature, and Jamie was never shy of cold.

We walked through the same gate Draco and James had the previous afternoon. The smell of grilling hamburgers almost lingered. The grass was trampled where a pell-mell game of football had taken place. The goals, piles of sticks, were still visible, standing sort of like how Roman aqueducts stand as testaments to their great empire. A football game in the park wasn't exactly an empire.

Jamie made a bee-line for the swings. They were his favourite. He didn't shriek to be pushed this time, but I did provide a soft shove for my five-year-old, and then I sat down on the swing beside him.

Swing. Swing. Swing through space, through time, through lives, through minds, through hearts, through memories. Swing through my space. Swing through my time. Swing through my life. Swing through my heart. Swing through my memories. That's what he did. That's what he's doing. A never ending, swinging pendulum, motion, propelling gently forwards . . . and slowly coming to a stop.

"Mummy. Mummy. Did you hear me?"

I shook my head. "Wh-what sweetie?"

James rolled his eyes. "Push me Mum. Push me 'cause Uncle Draco isn't here. Besides, he can't push as well as you can."

I stood up absently and sent James swinging again.

Draco. Yes, that was an odd coincidence. The son of the boy (now man)-who-lived, finding solace, a father figure, and an uncle in his father's most favourite enemy. Odd indeed. Some would call it insanely backwards verging on obsessive and a possible lead for Voldemort's supporters to infiltrate the close-knit Potter family and crush their lives. . . or not.

It wasn't as though it didn't stress the hell out of all of those fighting against Voldemort. They were never very sure of Draco, given his past and his father (who was, at the time, openly supporting Voldemort). It was just . . . I always knew he would be loyal, when he came to tell me at the Ministry one night that he was switching sides, and would remain our informant for a few more days, as long as possible. Wednesday, it was. In June. About Eleven-thirty, I think . . .

"Hermione, you've got the report about Bethnal Green's recent raid?"

I looked up from my work, into the face of Bill Weasley, the senior undersecretary to the Minister. Not a job I'd ever picked Bill for, but he did what was necessary. "Yes I do, it's right here," I replied, patting a thick folder on the left side of my desk.

"Good. If you could drop it off with Darmidy before you go, that'd be great."

My face fell slightly. "Oh. So, I'm not assigned that one?"

Bill frowned and licked his lips, thinking carefully about what he was going to say. "No. Dumbledore's said that. . . ."

I buried my head in my hands as Bill trailed off. We remained silent for several minutes. "Why," I paused, choosing my words, "why am I singled out because I'm pregnant? Because I'm carrying a child I am therefore stuck here, on desk duty, pushing papers and feeling useless? It's not as though I couldn't fight with you! It's not as though I'm unable to help at the hospital, or teach at Hogwarts in replacement, or, or, do something useful! I just want to feel needed. And now," I started to slow down, glancing around the office. "Now I feel insignificant and unappreciated. I'm not some vegetable who can't hold herself together! I need something to do, something with a use. Something other than push bloody papers around this bloody office."

I remained staring at my desk after my outburst, thinking about how good it felt to let someone know that.

"Hermione," offered Bill quietly, leaning against the door jamb. "I know how frustrating it can be to just sit by and watch. I know what you mean about not being able to do anything. But-"

"I can't even watch!" I exclaimed, standing up and stomping my foot against the hardwood floor. "It's so unfair! I can't talk to Harry, write to him, let alone see him. What possesses people--"

Bill interrupted me with a motion from his hand. "Hear me out, Hermione." I nodded, and he continued. "Yes, you are carrying a child. But whose child? Harry Potter's child. This child is now the second-worst enemy of Voldemort. Did you ever stop to consider the complications that could arise if you were to be taken hostage? What about killed on the battlefield? Or, faced with an impossible task to choose whose life you would rather save: your child's or your husband's. Try to pick that. Better yet, put yourself in Harry's shoes. Think about how distracted he would be if you were to be there with him, fighting along side him. He wouldn't only be worried about you, he'd be worried about your baby too. Right now, he needs a clear mind in order to win this. He needs you to be safe, to be at home, to be something he can think about coming back to."

The silence echoed around the room. I finally looked up and met Bill's steady blue eyes. "I never thought of it quite that way. I never think of . . . of Harry . . . that way."

"None of us do. But Voldemort does. And most of the population of the wizarding world does."

"But what am I supposed to do? I can't just be here, I'm bored out of my mind, my head hurts more than it ever has, I've had to avoid reporters left, right and centre because they dog me everywhere I go, it's just . . . just--" I trailed off, drained of emotions, my head spinning. "I'm sorry. That was selfish and unfair. I shouldn't have put you in the position to respond to that."

Bill continued to gaze at me for several moments. "We've all got to get it out sometime. Just keep truckin', Hermione. Just keep truckin'." He nodded his head in my direction, and waved slightly. I waved back, standing stiffly where I had stood up. Slipping my coat on, I scooped up the folder on my desk and hit the lights. I thought over what Bill had said as I walked down to Darmidy Mclean's office, one floor below mine.

That was the last time I saw Bill alive.

After dropping off the folder, I turned right and headed down the stairs to the elevator. There was a landing half way down the staircase, and the corner was thrown in shadow as all of the lights had been automatically turned off at 10:00. As my hand slid down the railing, and I prepared to step down from the landing, someone grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the shadow, muffling my mouth at the same time.

I saw a shock of pale hair and then I knew. Then I knew he was there for only one of two reasons: to switch alliances, or to kill me.

"Please don't shout," he began quickly, his voice very low. "I'm on your side now. But you must take me to see Dumbledore now. He has to know. He'll be the only one to believe me other than you."

Fear and astonishment still shone in my eyes as I gazed into his face, older, smarter, tired and strained. I pulled his hand away from my mouth.

"Come with me. I'll owl Dumbledore, and you can Apparate there after. But really, it's late and I have to go home quickly."

I turned back to go upstairs, and was at the top of the landing before I realized he wasn't following me. "What?" I hissed, beckoning for him to follow. "You'd better come quick, before somebody sees you."

He stood there, not moving. "Why'd you believe me like that? Why'd you just automatically accept the fact that I've switched sides? That my life is now at risk from everyone! Why--"

I sighed and shook my head. "I just did. Now, let's get going."

Draco loped up the steps and walked beside me, back to my office. That was the end. That was the beginning.

They were always protective. Of me. And of James. The few that saw me after my encounter with Bill smiled at me with more compassion. But they still couldn't understand. No, I was never there to see the blood, the death, the utter destruction. I was at home, waiting for word. I was at work, filing reports on Underage Wizardry and Muggle artefacts. They never understood what it felt like to be helplessly protected against something you weren't allowed to fight.

Not many of them came back uninjured.

Not many of them died.

But some did.

Some did, and I never even got to say goodbye.

Fred

Seamus

Lavender

Anthony

Hannah

Neville

Fleur

Bill

Angelina

. . . Harry.

James was still swinging. That damn swing. Every single swipe it took tore a little bit more of my heart out. I'd be lucky if I didn't die of premature heart failure at, like. . . thirty-three. But I was six years off that mark. I'd only be turning twenty-seven a little after James went back to school. Damn school. I'd be home all day long. All day long, in the house Harry and I bought together, in the house Harry had never lived in for more than two weeks at a time. I had fallen in love with it the moment I saw it.

As the swing came to a stop, James sighed, misery written across his face.

"What's wrong Jamie?" I asked quickly, kneeling down beside him and taking one of his small hands in mine.

He bent his head, staring into his lap for a moment. "It's just, well, you seem busy. Somewhere else. Ever since I asked you last night about Daddy. I don't want to worry you, and I know it's soon until he disappeared, and I don't want you to be sad about it anymore, so I was thinking up a way to make you happy. You like flowers, don't you? I thought maybe Uncle Ron and Auntie Ginny could come for supper, and we could play games, and watch a movie. You know, that silly one that Uncle Ron likes. The one with-"

I had stopped listening; here was my five-year-old, trying to come up with ways to make me happy. My throat was dry. I brushed a tear back before answering carefully.

"You--you noticed that?"

He nodded. "Mm-hm. And I don't want to hurt you, because I know that Daddy hurt you because he's not here, and I don't want you to cry about me like you cry about Daddy, so--"

"James, I will never cry about you. Never. Because you're never going to leave me like your Dad did," I answered with a false confidence, crouching down to his level so I could look into his eyes. "And your Dad never hurt me. He was best husband I could have ever had. He would have been a really good dad too," I finished, the image of Harry floating through my mind.

His brown eyes were very serious. "I know Mum, I just--"

"I know sweetie. I know," I said softly, interrupting him. "I know what you mean. And I think it's time we went home."

James nodded silently and took my outstretched hand.

I had planned to go and see George this afternoon, but those plans quickly fell aside. James wanted (needed, he claimed) to visit his grandparents. He hadn't seen them for well over a month. We lived in the same city. Almost the same neighbourhood. But neither of us made the effort to visit.

To put it mildly, I had severed all ties with my parents after Harry went missing. Of course, I saw them regularly in the beginning. I needed support. Hell, I still need support with raising a child. But for some reason I shut them out, and locked that door. I stopped answering their phone calls, deleted all messages, didn't pick up my Muggle mail, avoided any family at all cost, the whole denial episode, really. But as the saying goes, whenever a door is closed, a window is opened. I was starting to find that window very comforting.

It was warmer when I pulled the car up to my Mum and Dad's house. They lived in a two storey, golf course like lawn. The lawn was exactly (how they managed it without magic I had no idea) two inches high. The pear trees on either side of the front walk were identically shaped, each with a large sphere of foliage. The door, however, was guarded by two enormous rose bushes (though nothing compared to my hedge) that were blooming with a sharp overabundance of red blossoms. They were trimmed into (what else?) spheres. Red, a stark contrast against the pristine white siding that ran along the bottom half of the house, followed by red once again on the second storey. It really didn't look as odd as it sounded.

Although I walked up to the house full of mingled dread and guilt, James skipped happily up to the front step and rang the bell several times.

"James," I scolded, frowning at him. "You know it's not polite to do that! You only ring once-"

The door swung open, cutting me off. "James! Hermione! How nice to see you! You received our invitation, I take it?" gushed Mum, bending down to hug Jamie after kissing me on the cheek.

Invitation? What the hell is she talking about? I don't remember any invitation . .

"Uh yes, Mum," I answered, stepping in on the front mat.

"Wonderful! I just know you're going to love Ian. He's just what you've been looking for," Mum prattled, forcing me forward with her arm. She surveyed my clothing and frowned slightly. "But your clothes, dear, they're far from acceptable."

I looked down at the worn-in pair of jeans and oversized Rugby t-shirt. "Wait a minute," I began.

"But you can change those," she continued.

"What-"

"And don't worry, he'd in the study with your father."

"Mum."

"There'll be a lovely lunch-"

"Mum."

"-very light, of course,"

"What is going on?" I nearly shouted, stopping in the middle of the hallway, next to a set of Muggle pictures of James and me.

A look of surprise washed across my mother's face. "You--you didn't get the message?"

I shook my head. "No. You know I never check phone messages, Mum."

She pursed her lips and almost glared at me. "This was a . . ."

"Coincidence."

"Change your clothes, then." Her arms were crossed.

"But what for?" I insisted, throwing my hands up.

"Because Ian Gineger is a colleague of mine and your father's and you and James are here to meet him this afternoon."

I closed my eyes. Partly to shut out the pictures of James and me without Harry, partly because I was developing a severe headache. "You're setting me up again."

Mum looked uncomfortable. "Well, not, not quite. I merely think you need to be seeing other people. Expanding your horizon. We'll see what happens," she compensated, shrugging her shoulders. "But until then, you're simply here to meet him. No strings attached." Mum wrinkled her nose. "I remember when my mother used to try and set me up with air cadets. Not a pleasant experience."

I opened my eyes and with a flick of my wand (handily tucked into the bottom of my t-shirt) traded my jeans and t-shirt for a white tank-top and cardigan with a black skirt. James wanted to look more appropriate as well, so I changed his Manchester United football sweater (a gift from Dean for his fifth birthday) and rather dirty pants into a green and khaki outfit.

"That'll do." Mum continued down the hall, turning the corner left into the kitchen. I followed her after taking a deep breath and grabbing James' hand. He followed somewhat unsure.

"Go and tell your father lunch is ready," instructed Mum as she slipped an apron over her head and grabbed a pair of oven mitts. The smell of roasted chicken wafted through the kitchen. The table had been set already; the pale yellow dishes were placed around the perfectly polished cherry table, which was now partly hidden by a tablecloth.

"Sure thing," I answered, snatching a carrot stick from the table, leaving Mum to fuss about the vegetable arrangement, and exiting the room.

I walked into the study from behind Ian and Dad; they were deep into discussion about something trivial, the preferred kind of tooth-whitening procedure, I believe. I came round the wing-back leather chairs to kiss Dad on the cheek.

"Hi, Dad," I said as I pulled away.

James jumped into his lap to hug him. "Jamie!" he exclaimed, hugging him back "Lovely to see you, dear," Dad said over Jamie's shoulder. I smiled weakly.

"And you must be Hermione," said a rather rich voice, directly behind me.

Ian was just as I expected. Medium height, a little on the tall side. Sandy, brown sugar coloured hair. Early thirties. Pale blue eyes. Perfect teeth (my parents have teeth issues). Black jeans. Striped, light blue cotton shirt.

I turned to address him. "Yes. You must be Dr. Gineger."

"Ian, please," he replied, standing and offering his chair to me. I politely declined with a wave of my hand.

"I just came in to let you know that lunch is ready," I said promptly, making eye contact. They were very blue. "We'd better go. It's best still hot."

Ian smiled and motioned for me to exit the study first, Dad and Jamie followed at a slightly subdued pace.

* * *

"And that was the last time that cat ever climbed the tree!" roared Dad, laughing profusely at his own joke. He was retelling the time Crookshanks scaled the fifteen foot evergreen in our backyard. I never found that story amusing.

Ian was laughing, a little on the hard side, just to be polite. I knew he didn't understand the length of amusement Dad was able to pull from it. I pushed the broccoli around in the cream sauce, rearranging the broomstick I had previously created with three leaves of spinach, a chicken bone, two cucumbers, and a crust of hardened garlic bread.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ian smile at my current occupation; he was bored as hell too. Good. At least we'd have something in common.

"I'll just clear the dishes, Richard, if you wouldn't mind helping?" said Mum, raising an eyebrow.

"Can I help too?" asked James eagerly, shoving the rest of his carrot into his mouth and pushing his fork and knife onto his plate.

"Of course sweetie. Just take your plate over, and then you can help with the washing up," replied Mum, balancing mine and Ian's plates on top of hers. All three of them left within seconds of each other.

I didn't wait for the awkward silence. I picked up my white wine glass by the stem and looked at the pictures on the living room wall. There was one of Mum, Dad and me on vacation in France. Me and Gin, two days before my wedding, arranging flowers in the kitchen. Harry, Ron and me at our Hogwarts Graduation. James, when he was three days old. James, when he was a year and a half, sitting with me and Ron. Ginny, pulling James in that red wagon when he was four.

"Is he your only child?" asked Ian, leaning on the corner of the wall, watching me watching the pictures.

Even though I was startled, I tried not to look it. "Yes," I answered, not leaving much of a bridge for conversation.

"Looks like both of you," he started, taking a sip of his own wine.

I drained my glass. It was too sweet. Harry never liked really sweet wine. I hated it. "Yes he does," I replied, pointing the base of my wine glass at the solo picture of both Harry and I.

"How long?"

I swallowed, a grim smile across my face. "Six years."

"James is . . "

There was a pause.

"Five."

Another prolonged pause.

"What happ-"

"Missing person. Suspected homicide. Police never had any clues."

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry." Too quickly.

"Everyone is."

Now, a stunned pause.

"Not meaning to be intrusive, but you've not seen anyone since then?"

I closed my eyes. God bless you mother. You do find the most irritating ways to infiltrate my life. "No, I've been living the single parent life ever since."

"It's hard, isn't it?"

I turned to face him, slightly shocked by the compassion in his voice. "Yeah, it is. Tough. Really tough. I just - I just explained to him what happened to his dad. Tomorrow's the sixth anniversary. Not much cause for celebration."

Ian shook his head. "No, but a chance to move on. I know what it's like to feel like you do right now--my wife died four years ago."

My face must have betrayed what I was thinking.

"Car crash," he returned. "Killed instantly. I'm not sure what would have been worse though. Having her hooked up to a machine, or never being able to see her again."

I thought in silence for a moment. "I don't even have a place to visit," I said softly, tears welling in my eyes.

His mouth formed into a reply, but I brushed past him and sat down at the table, just as Mum, Dad and James returned from the kitchen, bearing dessert.

Dessert was rather quiet.