Dark Gods in the Blood

"I understand," she said, a reassuring hand on Ron's arm once more. "And that's true. She should be surrounded by her friends at a time like this."

"A time like this," Ron said mockingly, but without cruelty. "Why is it there aren't any proper words for what's happened? 'A time like this.' A time like bloody what?"

Hermione pulled him unhesitatingly into an embrace as his face crumbled and he began to cry in great heaving sobs. "Shh," she clucked into his ear as he wept into the crook of his neck.

"He's dead, Hermione! He's dead and there was nothing I could do! Nothing anyone could do," Ron cried into her shoulder.

"I know, Ron," she whispered. "I understand."

"You don't," he said disconsolately, lips moving across her now wet skin. "No one does."

Hermione remained silent at this, heart crumbling at the little boy timbre in his voice.

"Bloody hell, Hermione, my best friend in the whole world is dead! It's like ... I don't know what it's like!" he roared, finally lifting his head from her neck and giving her a little shake. "A part of me is missing and I keep looking around for it. If you understand, Hermione, please, for Merlin's sake, explain it to me!"

Still quiet, she allowed herself to be pulled into another hug.

As it was, Hermione very nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt a small tug on her robes somewhere in the vicinity of her knees. "Unca Ron?" a tiny voice asked.

Sniffling, Ron released Hermione immediately and dropped into a crouch, hands on his knees. "Yes?"

A little girl of no more than two years old, with blonde curls and round blue eyes, gazed adoringly at Ron. Hermione wondered who this china doll of a child was. "Unca Ron," the girl repeated. "Mummy want. Bus gone."

His tears were mostly gone. "All right, sweet," he told the girl, tapping her nose and picking her up in one practiced motion.

The girl stared at Hermione with a wrinkled little nose. "Who?" she asked bluntly.

"That's Hermione, sweet," Ron told her softly, tickling her belly and eliciting a babyish giggle. "And Hermione, this beautiful little girl is Alice Potter."

Eyes wide at the thought that this was one of Harry's children, Hermione offered the girl her best smile. "It's very nice to meet you, Alice," she said.

Nodding, the girl buried her face in Ron's chest, apparently overtaken with sudden shyness.

"She gets like that sometimes," Ron said apologetically. "But she's usually a chatterbox, once she gets to know you."

Hermione grinned as Alice shouted indignantly into Ron's robes, "Am not box!"

"Oh, yes, you are, you little monkey," Ron teased. "But come on, we've got to find your mother."

"Consider your goal accomplished," a tired voice said from behind Hermione.

Turning around, she saw a pale woman with hair that was slightly more blonde than brown and swollen eyes. "Françoise Potter?" Hermione asked carefully.

With a short nod, the woman scooped Alice out of Ron's arms and frowned at Hermione. "I am. Who are you?" she asked in a tone just short of accusing.

"Françoise, this is Hermione," Ron replied. "Hermione Granger. You remember --"

"I remember," Françoise said coldly, giving Hermione what could only be described as a jealous look. "It's ... it's nice to finally meet you, Hermione."

"Likewise." There seemed to be nothing else she could say. Why don't you seem to like me? didn't seem to be a good thing to ask at the moment.

"Ron." Turning away, Françoise seemed to be ready to ignore her. "I told Albus that I'm planning to take the children back ... back home this evening. Would you ... I mean, do you mind ...?"

He smiled sadly at her and gave her a sideways embrace. "Of course not, Françoise. I wouldn't let you stay there alotonight at any rate and I'm glad I don't have to bully my way in now. Would you like to leave right now?"

Her trembling lip belying her calm, Françoise Potter nodded once jerkily. "I just have to collect Nicholas -- he's got away again. Albus was kind enough to provide me with a Portkey."

"Where did Nicholas get to, anyway?" Ron asked, shoving his hands in his pockets and scanning the cemetery.

With a frown, Hermione began to survey their surroundings as well. Quite possibly, Nicholas was Harry's son, but she wasn't about to ask this cold, falling apart woman about it. But a slight movement around an older, crumbling headstone caught her eye. "Is that him?" she asked cautiously,pointing.

Squinting, Ron nodded and began striding across the field, an awkward silence falling between the women, disrupted only by Alice's few noises as she toyed with her mother's hair. Soon, although not soon enough for Hermione's tastes, Ron came back carrying a sullen little black haired boy of indiscriminate age. There was a visible distance between the two, quite unlike Alice's previous clinging. Nicholas Potter kept as much space between himself and his Uncle Ron as he could possibly manage. "Ready to go?" he asked Françoise, who just nodded again. "I'll see you at Mum's, then?" he asked Hermione awkwardly. "For a bit, at least."

"I'll be there," Hermione promised as she watched Ron and the remnants of the Potter family place their hands on a stone that proved to be a Portkey.

She watched the empty space that they'd occupied for some time before Disapparating herself.

-- -- -- -- --

"Yes?" the petite redhead asked with some confusion as she opened the door.

Hermione squinted unbelievingly at her. "Ginny? Ginny Weasley? My God, you haven't changed a bit!"

Clearly surprised, Ginny narrowed her eyes. "And you are ...?"

Grinning, Hermione resisted the urge to sweep her in her arms. "If you have to ask, Ginny, then maybe I should just leave."

It clicked, then, and Ginny's eyes widened as a smile spread across her face. "Hermione, is that you?" she breathed.

"In the flesh."

The two women exchanged a laughing embrace as Ginny pulled her through the door and into the familiar Burrow. "I can't believe it," she chattered. "Mum will be so surprised."

"Surprised at what?" came Molly Weasley's voice from somewhere near the kitchen. "Ginny, are you taking in strays again?" she asked as she walked into the hallway, dusting off her floury hands on her apron as she took in her newest visitor.

"Mum," a grinning Ginny began, "you're not going to believe this --"

"Yes, yes," Molly said impatiently. "Well, Hermione Granger, as I live and breathe, I never thought I'd see you here again. Maybe you two wouldn't mind getting your hands dirty and setting the table?"

And some things never change, Hermione thought wryly as she found her hands suddenly overflowing with forks and knives as Ginny struggled with her pile of plates.

"I've no idea how Mum recognized you," she said. "You look so different, Hermione. So ... I dunno, grown up, maybe."

"It has been a while," Hermione agreed, arranging her handfuls of silverware in what she hoped was an acceptable fashion around the tables. "How many people are going to be here tonight, anyway? Ron didn't say."

"Oh, so you talked to Ron, then," Ginny said, distributing her plates with a wand flick.

"Cheater," teased Hermione. "Yes, Ron's the one who invited me, actually. He wanted to get Har -- erm, Françoise and the children settled at their house."

Eyes rounding, Ginny actually stopped folding napkins long enough to stare at Hermione. "You mean, they're going back?"

"Why not?" she asked, genuinely confused.

"Boy, I could never go back to the place where my husband died. Not to live, I mean," Ginny replied. "I always knew that Françoise had a backbone, but Merlin! It would give me nightmares." With a little shiver, she resumed her work on the napkins.

"Oh," Hermione said in a small voice. It occurred to her as she borrowed one of Ginny's carefully folded napkins to wipe one of her thumbprints off of a spoon that she actually knew very little about the whole thing. "Hey, Ginny?" she continued in that same little voice.

She grunted noncommittally, beginning to distribute the napkins and grimacing as she came up one short.

"How did ... how did Harry die?"

Ginny's eyes closed. "I don't know," she admitted. "No one will talk about it, to be honest. Françoise knows, of course, and Ron, too, I think. Maybe Dumbledore, even. He was at their house right after ..." Clearing her throat after the long pause, she continued in an even quieter voice. "It was so sudden, Hermione."

Hermione blinked at the fear in Ginny's tone.

"I mean, if he'd been sick or something, maybe ... but all of a sudden, there Ron was, standing in the kitchen, all covered with soot and Floo powder. 'Harry's dead, Gin,' he told me," she said, eyes still closed. "In a sort of scary, quiet voice. Not like Ron, you know? He's usually so loud and happy. And that's all he would say, over and over. 'Harry's dead.'"

She remembered Ron from the funeral sadly.

"Anyway ..." Ginny straightened up and opened her eyes. "The papers just said he 'died at home,' whatever that means," she said briskly. Matter-of-factly, she folded another napkin and laid it by the last plate.

"Doesn't that usually mean ... suicide?" Hermione asked.

With a little shrug, she began fiddling with a corner of the tablecloth. "Come on, Hermione. Harry Potter went to hell and back without killing himself."

Hermione caught herself fidgeting with the spoon she'd been polishing and willed herself to put it down. "I know," she replied. "I know. It's just ..."

"Frustrating," Ginny completed with a sad smile. "And you, dropping into the middle of it all, not even knowing the pitiful amount that I do. Why did you come back, anyway, Hermione? It's been so long."

Shaking her head, she wondered how to answer such a question. "I had to."

Ginny studied her with narrowed eyes. "I'll let it pass," she told her. "For now. But only because I know Mum will be setting out supper in less than ten minutes. I can smell the bread baking. Want to go roust everyone out of their hiding places and give them a good surprise?" she asked, mood shifting abruptly.

Hermione allowed herself to be pulled along good-naturedly. This was certainly the Ginny Weasley she remembered -- perceptive and exasperating all in one breath.

The Burrow was far more full of people than she'd originally thought. All in all, she and Ginny laughingly dragged nearly a dozen people out of various rooms with the promise of a Molly Weasley feast. As Ginny had surmised, nearly every single person they saw was absolutely floored by the sight of a shyly grinning Hermione announcing the meal. The few that were nonplussed simply hadn't known Hermione very well previously -- Charlie Weasley and his small family, and Bill and his new bride.

Neville Longbottom's reaction was by far the most hilarious -- he didn't speak a word for a full two minutes, mouth and eyes growing increasingly wider. "Come on, Neville," Hermione had chirped. "It's not like I'm a ghost or anything."

"You might as well be," Neville replied faintly, letting Ginny take his arm and lead him out of the sitting room without another word. Arthur Weasley had followed him, flashing Hermione a jovial grin.

And now the entire group was seated in the dining room, platters of food clattering loudly as they were passed back and forth and silver clinking against plates as people began to eat. Hermione frowned at the empty chair on her left as she sipped at a glass of water.

"Oh, Ron will be along shortly, dear," Molly said, catching her look. "I know he wants to make sure the children are ..." Trailing off, she sighed forlornly, tearing a piece of bread into crumbs on her plate.

"Oh, Mum," Fred said tenderly, patting her arm.

Her eyes were suspiciously bright. "I can't help it, dear," she replied. "One minute, I'm fine, everyone's fine, and then it just comes crashing back down. That poor, beautiful boy."

"It was a lovely service," George tried. "Even the Muggle bits."

"And the flowers were nice," Fred continued, picking up his brother's train of thought. "Even those ridiculous daisies that Dursley fellow carried in."

"I wonder," Molly said, ignoring her sons' efforts, "I wonder if those babies will ever know how much their father loved them."

"Of course they will," Ginny exclaimed from Hermione's right. "Mum ..."

Bowing her head for a few moments, Molly finally emerged tear-free but sniffly and picked up her fork again. "I'm sorry," she said to the table in general. "It comes and goes, like I said."

"Nothing to apologize for," Arthur told his wife gruffly, causing Hermione to suspect that he was fairly near weeping himself. "Perfectly natural."

"Well ..." Molly said sternly. "We shouldn't be talking about such things, in any case. We should be happy. Harry would want us to be happy."

Personally, Hermione thought that above all things, Harry would want them to be honest, but she wasn't about to say that out loud. It would be better to simply allow Molly her own convictions.

"Hermione," she said suddenly. "I'm sure you've got an interesting story for us."

Coughing into her water and uncomfortable with the sudden attention, Hermione tried desperately not to fidget with her napkin. "Not much to tell, really," she stammered. "I was gone for a while and now I'm home for a bit." She offered Molly her best smile.

Ginny nudged her childhood friend. "Come on, Hermione, there's got to be more to your life than that. You've been gone for what, ten years?"

"Thirteen, actually," said Ron's tired voice coming from the kitchen. He came into the dining room with a self-deprecating smile and slouched down into the empty chair. "Well, nearly at any rate. Sorry I'm late, but Alice wanted a story."

"How is everyone?" Molly asked.

Shrugging, he began piling food on his plate. "As well as can be expected, I guess," he said. "I'm a bit worried about Nicholas, though. He hasn't said anything all day."

"He hasn't said anything all week, Ron," Ginny corrected gently. "But we've all been rather busy, I think."

"I don't like it," he continued through a mouthful of potatoes and ignoring his mother's warning cough. "He looks so angry."

"For Merlin's sake, Ron, his dad just died," Fred exclaimed. "What, d'you want him to be pirouetting 'round the house?"

"He hit Alice right before I left," Ron said dully. "She asked where Harry was and Nicholas just hauled off and slapped her in the face."

The table was momentarily silent as everyone processed this.

"She's ... she's all right?" Neville finally asked.

"More stunned than hurt," he replied, taking a huge bite out of his freshly buttered slice of bread. "They've had their squabbles before, but he's never just hit her out of the blue like that."

"It will take time," Arthur told his son with a jerky nod of the head. "It always does."

For a good while, the only sounds in the room were the usual eating noises -- forks clinking against plates, a few quiet requests for dishes, and Fred's typical slurping as he gulped down glass after glass of his mother's apple cider.

"That's disgusting, you know," George said to him, frowning.

"Why, George, I never knew you cared," Fred retorted sweetly, deliberately slurping more loudly and wincing as Molly abruptly slapped the back of his head.

"Stop it," she scolded. "There will be none of that tonight." She did not, of course, elaborate.

Supper was a surprisingly solemn affair. Hermione wondered at the lack of the usual Weasley rambunctiousness. Even at the darkest moments of their strange childhoods, the Weasley clan could always be counted on to keep everything in proper perspective. Perhaps it took this -- the death of a beloved son -- to bleed that life out of them.

The silences -- and there were many -- were strained and the conversation deliberately light. Hermione heard all about Wimbourne's Quidditch prospects (courtesy of Ginny, who apparently worked with the team in some way that Hermione couldn't figure out) and all about some interesting new project development in the twins' ever-burgeoning shop. By the time Molly brought out dessert, all safe topics seemed to be exhausted. Arthur timidly asked his eldest grandson how he felt about entering Hogwarts this next term, but the table fell ominously silent as everyone probably considered in unison that Harry had attended Hogwarts.

Hermione was once again cajoled, over blueberry cobbler, to regale them with tales of her mysterious adventures, but she demurred again. It was curious, but she found herself rather surprised at her sudden belief that it was none of the Weasleys' business where she'd been and what she'd done. She allowed them to pry out of her the fact that she'd spent most of the past decade in Tibet, but nothing more. Ron had raised his eyebrows at her, a blueberry husk between his teeth catching her attention for no apparent reason, but remained silent.

All in all, Hermione bid farewell to Molly Weasley and her clan with something much like relief, allowing Ron to walk with her to the front gate.

"Françoise would like you to come by the house tomorrow," he said with no preamble.

She was glad for the darkness masking her awkwardness at the thought of encountering thatwoman once again. "Really?" she asked skeptically.

Ron sighed -- she knew, even though she could not see it, that he wore his familiar look of exasperation. "All right, fine," he replied. "I want you to come by the house tomorrow. I think you ought to talk to her. Besides, I'd like to spend some time with you, you know."

"I don't know what we have to talk about," she said. "But I'll come."

"Excellent." His teeth flashed in the starlight. "Come by the main Ministry building tomorrow morning around, say, nine? I'll meet you at the front and we can Floo on over."

"The Ministry building?" she echoed, curious.

She felt a finger tap her nose playfully. "My goodness, you have been gone for a long time," he retorted. "You do remember where it is, don't you?"

Falling back into old habits long forgotten, Hermione grinned at him. "Shut up, Weasley. I'll be there."

"I know," he replied earnestly.

And then he was gone. Probably gone back to Harry's widow -- he'd already said he wasn't going to leave her in the house alone for the night.

Wondering at what she'd stepped into, Hermione Disapparated herself, regaining her balance quickly as the contents her hotel room came into view. She told herself that she should go to sleep, that today had been very emotionally draining and tomorrow was not looking to be any better, but her eyelids simply refused to close.

Somewhere around one AM, she simply gave up on the notion of sleep and threw off her blanket with a huff. She turned on the television, marveling at herself, falling into childhood habits so rusty from disuse that it took a moment for her to recall how to operate the remote. It had been a long time since she'd been around Muggle technology, after all.

Settling on an old black-and-white sitcom whose name she could not recall, Hermione tried to lose herself in the mindless banter. Trying to forget why she was back in England for the first time in her adult life and utterly failing.

-- -- -- -- --