Dark Gods in the Blood

Chapter Three

"I don't want to bother you much with what happened to me

personally," he began ..."yet to understand the effect of it on

me you ought to know how I got out there, what I saw, how

I went up that river ..."

-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

The house was immaculate. Sparkling clean, the sun glinted off the white countertops in the kitchen and shone on the polished hardwood floors peeking out from under thick rugs. Harry Potter had lived here and, according to Ginny Weasley, he had died here as well. Hermione suppressed a shiver as the front door opened.

Françoise Potter was, again, cold but polite, inviting Hermione in and offering her tea in a monotone, accepting Ron's perfunctory kiss on her cheek without expression. "I am so glad you could make it," she told Hermione in a tone that suggested the exact opposite.

"Thank you for inviting me here today," Hermione replied, pasting on a fake smile and accepting a teacup with good graces.

They sipped their tea in silence, Ron looking back and forth between the two women as if he was about to speak but deciding against it.

Oddly enough, it was Françoise who broke the ice, setting her cup down on the tray with only a small rattle. "So ..." she drawled, tucking an errant lock of hair behind one ear, "did you have a pleasant trip, Hermione? I can call you Hermione?"

"Oh, of course," she replied, disconcerted. "And I must confess, my trip was somewhat lacking. But that was my fault -- it i>was hastily planned and I had some difficulty getting into the country."

"Really?" Françoise asked perfunctorily.

Shrugging, Hermione found herself telling this woman far more than she'd originally planned. "One of my Portkeys took me through Russia and they've apparently got a bit of a quarantine in certain parts right now, so England was rather reluctant to let me in without complete documentation of my whereabouts."

"Russia?" she echoed. "Where were you traveling from?"

"Tibet," she said, hoping Françoise wouldn't pry.

She didn't. "Oh, how interesting," she replied blandly. "I've never been to Tibet myself, but we were in Italy a couple of years ago. I'd always wanted to see Florence, you know, and ..." Trailing off, a single tear trickled down her cheek as she collected herself.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, not knowing exactly why she felt the need to apologize.

Françoise waved a hand through her grief. "Everyonis," she said. "I am, too."

Ron coughed into the awkward silence, pouring himself some more tea. "How're the kids?" he asked her quietly.

"Still sleeping," she said. "I heard some rustling from Nicholas' room this morning after you'd already gone in, but I didn't want to bother him. He hasn't been sleeping well. But Alice should be up before much longer. She usually wakes up around nine-thirty."

"Late sleepers, your kids," Ron said, squeezing some lemon into his cup. "I remember when Ginny was little she used to wake us all up at the crack of dawn. That's an awful way to get up, you know -- some little brat jumping up and down on your bed, shouting. She still does it at Christmas."

Hermione smiled at her saucer. "I always thought she was such a quiet thing when we were young."

"Quiet?" Françoise asked with a raised eyebrow. "Ginny Weasley?"

"Well, she was always so nervous," she defended herself. "Around ... Har -- Harry." There -- almost no stumbling over his name that time. "Took her years to loosen up around him. He hated that. Always wanted everyone to treat him like a normal kid."

Ron met her eyes with a faint smile. "He did, didn't he?"

"Even though he wasn't," she agreed, sipping at her tea.

Françoise regarded their unfolding camaraderie with narrowed eyes, studying them intently, emotionlessly.

All three adults jumped, however, as an unmistakably young cry floated down the stairs. "Ah, that would be Alice," Françoise said, standing hastily.

But Ron beat her to it, already standing at the foot of the stairs. "I'll get her," he said. "You two stay put." And he was gone. Leaving Hermione alone with her, with Harry's widow.

They watched each other carefully, Hermione still sipping her now lukewarm tea, Françoise folding and unfolding her hands in her lap, not seeming to know where to put them.

"Why did you leave, Hermione?" Françoise asked abruptly, startling Hermione so that a fair amount of tea sloshed over the rim of her cup and into her lap.

"What?" Apparently Françoise did not believe in pulling her punches.

She continued to regard Hermione as if studying her under a microscope. "I've always wondered about you," she said briskly. "The great unknown in the equation, you see. The little girl standing beside Ron and ... Harry," she choked out, "in all the school photographs. He talked about you," she said wistfully, surprising Hermione with her sudden warmth. "He told our son stories about you from school. He loved you," she said bitterly, again changing gears with an abruptness that left Hermione breathless.

"And I loved him," she admitted. "But we were never in love."

"Of course not," Françoise said matter-of-factly.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding. At least that wasn't it.

"But he loved you and you left him," she continued. "You left him like so many other people he'd loved. You see, Hermione, I always wondered. I always wondered how you could do that to him."

Bewildered, Hermione didn't think before she let a reply tumble over her lips. "I didn't leave because of him. Or because of Ron, either."

"Then why, Hermione?" Françoise pressed. "Why did you leave? Harry never knew -- he never understood, Hermione."

Stop saying my name, she wanted to shout. "I left because I needed to," she settled on, wincing at the inadequacy of it.

"I hated you for it," Françoise said in a harsh voice. "I hated you because he couldn't. But now, Hermione, now that I meet you and now that I can look in your eyes, I don't hate you."

If she had known this was the conversation she was to have this morning, Hermione would have probably tried harder to sleep last night. "Why are you ...?" she began, unwilling to finish the question.

Françoise laughed shortly, a grim little smile flitting quickly across her lips. "Why am I telling you this?" she asked. "I don't want to hate you. Maybe one day, I can even forgive you. But I just wanted you to know about the look of hurt in his eyes whenever he thought about you."

Breathing in sharply, Hermione was surprised at how that cut her. Eyes widening, she was certain Françoise could see the pain in her expression.

And in that moment, she knew. She knew what Françoise was trying to do and she knew what she had done. "I am sorry," she said. "I am sorry for the pain I caused him and," she added after a slight pause, "I am sorry for the pain that I caused you through him. But I cannot be sorry for how I have lived my life. If I had stayed here, I would have caused far worse damage. I would have come to resent everyone around me, hated them, even, for imprisoning me. There would be no fond memories. Can't you see that?"

Françoise sighed. "There are always two types of sight. I can understand your meaning, Hermione, but it will be a long time before I can bring myself to believe it."

Bowing her head, Hermione accepted the closest thing to forgiveness she would be offered. "All I can ask is for understanding."

"Perhaps, Hermione, we may someday be friends," Françoise offered.

"You would be a formidable ally," she said with a hesitant smile. After a pause, Françoise returned it and Hermione allowed herself to believe that they might be able to reach an understanding after all.

"She is," Ron said from the stairwell, "a formidable woman. The only one I know, in fact, who successfully tells Harry what to do."

"For-mud," Alice chirped in Ron's arms. "Mummy for-mud."

"That's a bright girl," he told her, setting her on her unsteady feet. "As long as you keep that in mind, you and your mum will get along just fine."

Alice tugged impatiently at the little dress Ron had put her in, lifting the hem as she tottered toward Françoise. "Dress," she complained with a frown. "Itchy."

"You look cute, though," Ron told her. "And you picked it out your own self, young lady."

"Itchy," she repeated, pulling harder. "Wuh!"

"Oh, all right," Françoise told her daughter, efficiently stripping off the dress and leaving the toddler clothed only in a diaper. "You little nudist," she said fondly, watching Alice take off toward the kitchen as fast as her feet could carry her. "She hasn't been wanting to wear clothes lately," she told Hermione apologetically.

"That will change soon enough, I'm sure," she replied.

To her surprise, Françoise chuckled and then stood up to follow Alice, carrying the a tray. "I should fix her some breakfast. And Nicholas will be down as soon as he smells the bacon, I'm sure."

"Do you need help?" Ron offered.

"Since when have I needed assistance with bacon and eggs?" she tossed back, disappearing through the doorway.

"It's nice to feel needed," he said, grinning as Hermione raised her eyebrows at him. "How are you holding up?" he asked her seriously, switching gears. "I heard raised voices."

"We had a surprisingly frank discussion," she said. "I think it helped her."

"Did it help you?"

"I'm fine," she lied, knowing he was not convinced. "I will be," she amended at his frown, more truthful this time. "I'd known but it still hurts to be told."

"We can talk about it later," Ron said placatingly.

Hermione accepted his offering with a grateful nod, leaning into the hand he placed on her shoulder. "It's harder than I'd ever imagined."

"It will get harder yet before we are through," he said cryptically.

It was her turn to frown. "Since when did you begin prognosticating, Ron Weasley?"

He grinned. "That's not a prediction. That's just truth. Would you like to see the rest of the house? I know François would give you the grand tour, but she's busy feeding the starving masses."

"I know about the parlor," she said, glancing around the room. "And I'm sure you were dying to tell me all about the sconces in the foyer."

"The staircase was just repaired," Ron told her. "Harry always preferred to say 'refurbished,' but that was because he didn't want to admit that his house was falling apart."

Standing, she continued to look around at her surroundings. "It's not falling apart," she retorted. "It looks ... comfortable."

"You should have seen it right after they moved in," he said. "Françoise was pregnant with Nicholas and she fell in love with the place, so Harry bought it for her. If I remember correctly, the realtor called it 'a fixer-upper with potential,' which is real-estate babble for 'old, crumbling antique.'"

"It's Victorian," Hermione defended. "And they've done a lovely job with it if it was that run down."

"After Nicholas is up and about, you should go up and see the kids' playroom," he said. "Harry got Dumbledore to help him put charms up so that the walls look like whatever game the kids happen to be playing that day. Although it gets confused when both of them are in there -- a few months ago, I remember Alice having a tea party in the jungle with a handful of lions and elephants because Nicholaswas trying to play safari at the same time."

Hermione giggled. "It sounds like a kid's paradise."

"Oh, it is," Ron agreed. "It was one of the first rooms they finished -- right after Nicholas was born."

"I wish ..." she said. "I just wish ..."

"I know," he said to her unspoken thought. "But there's no sense in regrets, love."

Sighing, she allowed him to wrap a comforting arm around her shoulders. "I try not to regret," she replied. "But I find it an increasingly difficult battle."

"Battles have a nasty way of doing that," he replied, squeezing her shoulders in an achingly familiar gesture from her childhood. "When you start to fight and you see the whole battlefield spread out in front of you, it looks quite easy -- endless possibilities for victory. But the closer and closer you come to the end, the worse everything looks."

She wrinkled her nose up at him and pulled out of his loose embrace. "I can certainly tell that you grew up playing chess."

"Shut up," he said amiably. "We find our metaphors where we can."

"Well ... I believe that you have a staircase to show me," she said, moving to stand by the doorway. "And some sconces. If I'm going on a house tour, I absolutely insist on sconces."

Ron followed her nearly sheepishly. "You might be disappointed there," he answered. "Harry and Françoise are a bit too modern for sconces. There might be an old painting or two, though, that I can pacify you with. Although I don't know a damn thing about them -- Françoise dredged them up from somewhere. Apparently they're very artistally significant, you see."

"Lay on, then," she said, allowing him to sidle past her in the archway.

They were standing in front of what Ron thought was an old Vermeer** copy, the only part of which Hermione found remotely interesting was the large, gaudy gilt frame, when there was a loud knock at the front door. She gave him a questioning look and he shrugged in response.

A few moments later, however, Françoise called out Ron's name from the front of the house. Abandoning the Vermeer copy with something akin to relish, they made their way back to the parlor, where Albus Dumbledore sat complacently on a sofa, cradling a teacup in one hand and balancing Alice Potter on his knee with the other.

"Ah, Ron," he said airily. "How are you holding up, my boy?"

Ron sat down himself in a chair opposite from their old headmaster and folded his hands in his lap. "I'm fine," he replied. "As fine as can be, really."

"Good, good," Dumbledore said. "I just wanted to drop by and make sure that everyone was all right. And, of course, to take a cup of Françoise's excellent tea. Quite exceptional, really."

Hermione found herself blinking back tears as childhood memories of this man came washing back over her. He'd always been in the background, strong and gentle. Apparently, he'd never left. The adoring look on Alice's face as she gazed up at him told Hermione that he'd continued to be a strong presence in the life of Harry Potter, at least.

But was that so surprising? Albus Dumbledore played such an integral, paternal role in Harry's youth -- it was probably inevitable for them to extend that relationship through Harry's adulthood.

Short though it had been.

But Dumbledore's wandering eye had finally settled on her. "I see you have company," he said mostly to Françoise, sharp gaze transfixing her own, freezing her in her stance.

She inclined her head. "Good morning, Professor Dumbledore," she said. "It's good to see you again."

A single eyebrow rose and he let Alice scramble out of his lap to tug impatiently at Ron's trouser leg. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," he replied politely.

Permitting herself a small smile, Hermione sat down in the empty chair beside Ron's. "It's Hermione Granger, sir," she said, wondering what his reaction would be.

Typical Dumbledore. If she'd thought Molly Weasley was nonplussed upon seeing her standing in the hallway, it was nothing to Dumbledore.

"The indubitable Miss Granger," he said, eyes now picking up a decided sparkle. "How good to see you again. I'd been led to believe that you were out of the country, though."

"I have been," she admitted. "But I came back, when I heard ..."

He sighed and sipped at his tea. "Ah, yes."

They were silent for a few moments as Dumbledore continued to drink his tea. Alice sat demurely in Ron's lap, occasionally reaching up to fiddle with his robes, searching his pockets with the matter-of-factness that only the very young possess.

"And where is young Nicholas?" he asked abruptly, eyes swiveling to fix on Françoise.

Her eyes went down to her lap. "Sleeping," she replied shortly. "Or, in his room, at least."

Dumbledore's gaze was sad. "He has taken this much harder than anyone else."

"He hasn't spoken since ..." Ron said, twirling a finger through Alice's hair. "It's been a week at least."

"Unfortunately, I think there is little we can do," Dumbledore replied, setting the cup back in its saucer. "Nicholas must come to terms with everything in his own time."

"What a despicable sentiment," Françoise said abruptly, sipping at er own tea. "Coming to terms ... if I live a hundred more years, I won't ever be able to ..."

Dumbledore gave a wry little shrug and Hermione could swear that a small grin crossed his face. "Perhaps my ... choice of phrasing was inappropriate, then," he said by way of apology.

With a snort, Ron plucked his wand out of Alice's curious hand with an expertise that suggested it to be an action that occurred with great frequency. Françoise herself grimaced at the old wizard and put her teacup back on the tray. "You do enjoy playing the impenetrable bastard, don't you, old man?"

Hermione bit back a loud splutter as the tea she'd been in the process of swallowing was threatening to escape throgh her nose. Laughing outright, Dumbledore leaned over to give Françoise's cheek a fatherly sort of pat. "I never tire of your candor, child. Most refreshing in a world full of obsequious, pretentious folk."

"Another meeting with Cornelius Fudge, then?" Ron asked knowingly.

Hermione found herself rather stunned at the sense of kinship between the other occupants of the room. A connection between Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter was not beyond the stretch of the imagination by any means, but one between Dumbledore and Ron? She tried to quell her rising amazement as the conversation continued.

"That ... that," Dumbledore sighed. "I understand the necessity of politicians, but one could ope for an ounce of competence."

"You and my dad need to chat about Fudge over a cuppa one day," Ron replied. "Fortunately, I don't have many dealings with the Minister myself. We're allowed more of a free license than you Order chappies."

With a minute shrug, Dumbledore managed to convey his utter contempt rather effectively. "I cannot explain often enough to Cornelius that the Order is simply out of his jurisdiction. The funeral business was the absolute last straw. Your father agrees with me on that."

"I wrote a letter when I saw his 'official request,'" he said with a nod. "And work be damned -- Kingsley will cover my back to the Earth's end. I'm just glad that he didn't get word of the location. When that prat Malfoy showed up, I thought our cover was well and truly blown."

"Malfoy?" Françoise asked, obviously confused. "Who --"

"Draco Malfoy," Ron amended. "I guess you wouldn't know him. He runs in entirely different circles these days, but we all went to Hogwarts together. I do wonder how he found out where to show up -- we kept it out of every official document."

"I told him, of course," Dumbledore interjected mildly.

Ron's look was incredulous and somewhat wild-eyed. "You what?"

"His motives were not circumspect," he continued, calm in the face of Ron's rising anger. "While young Malfoy has not always been allowed to operate under his own moral guidelines, he has improved considerably with age. His request was genuine and heartfelt and if I recall correctly, Ron Weasley, he caused no trouble." This last statement was said in a deceptively gentle tone that totally belied the steel underneath.

"Well ..." Ron hedged, clearly dissatisfied with Dumbledore's explanation. "Alice," he said, switching his focus to the little girl still in his lap, taking the wand from her yet again. "I said no!"

Discontent with her uncle's recalcitrance to bend to her will, the child screwed up her face, probably in preparation to cry. "Unca Ron ..." she tried, with wet eyes and trembling lips.

"You manipulative little devil," Ron sighed. "It won't work on me this time. Here ... go back to your Uncle Albus -- you can play him like a violin, I'd bet."

He passed the toddler back to Dumbledore and the girl brightened considerably. "Bus!" she cried, tugging on his white beard with aplomb.

Permitting her ministrations with good graces, Dumbledore just gave her little hand a pat. "Ah, the glories of youth," he said.

"Oh, good," Françoise said sarcastically. "Now he's gone all batty again. I've always wondered about your 'cheerful old man' bit, Albus. Every inch the powerful wizard one moment, a tottering old fellow dispensing gnomic wisdom the next. 'Fess up -- you enjoy every minute of it, don't you?"

"I admit to nothing," he said serenely, bouncing Alice on his knee, causing her to giggle with delight.

Bravely, Hermione threw out her own taunt. "At least he hasn't resorted to offering 'roud little candies. I do remember he used to do that all the time. Whenever tensions were mounting at Order headquarters, he would always interrupt the argument with a handful of sweets."

"Now, how would you know about that when you were supposed to be tucked into bed like good little children?" Dumbledore asked with a knowing smile.

Both Ron and Hermione reddened slightly but remained gamely silent.

"And as for that little tactic," he continued, still smiling at their discomfort, "I have been told by many of my colleagues that I look my least imposing when proffering candy. It has, through the years, become a little joke, you see. My way of putting people at ease. With varying degrees of success, of course."

"It never worked on Snape," Ron said with a short laugh. "I remember he would always just say something horrible to you and then keep on shouting."

"Fred and George Weasley must have had their Extendable Ears working admirably well far earlier than I'd originally thought," he commented.

To perhaps distract Dumbledore from Ron's ever-deepening blush, Hermione spoke quickly. "How is Professor Snape, anyway, sir? Still terrorizing students down in his awful old dungeons?"

An awkward silence fell over the room -- Ron became very interested in the patterning of the rug under his feet and Dumbledore studied the top of Alice's head intently. Françoise, of course, looked serene as ever and began collecting their teacups back on the tray, disappearing into the kitchen.

"Of course you wouldn't know," Ron said quietly. "Thirteen years." He laughed bitterly.

"What?" Hermione wondered.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore aid with sorrow in his voice. "Severus is ... not himself."

She did not understand. "What do you mean?"

His eyes were cheerless as he elaborated. "He's been a resident of Perkins Mental Institution up in Yorkshire for these five years past."