Dark Gods in the Blood

Chapter Five

In the street -- I don't know why -- a queer feeling came to

me that I was an impostor ... The best way I can explain it

to you is by saying that, for a second or two, I felt as though

... I were about to set off for the center of the Earth.

-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

"So, Hermione," Molly Weasley began pleasantly, spoon clattering against her saucer. "What have you been up to these past few days?"

She shrugged, still stirring her own brew. "Just poking around, mostly. Seeing what's changed and what hasn't. I was up in Hogsmeade yesterday, Diagon Alley before that."

"And has anything changed?" Françoise asked, bemused. In her lap, Alice chortled and continued to make a mess of her teething biscuit.

"Of course," she replied, taking a small sip of her tea and mentally pronouncing it correct. "I noticed a couple of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes shops that hadn't been there when I was last around," she said with a small smile in Molly's direction.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe how the boys' business has taken off," Molly said, taking her cue beautifully. "Why, they've got at least three shops now, in addition to their catalogue. They're talking about going overseas next, branching out into France." She shook her head. "Who would have thought? And they still set fire to the Burrow at least once a month with their 'research.'"

"It's nice to know that some people haven't changed," Hermione said wistfully, eliciting a small laugh from the twins' mother.

"And how are your parents doing, young lady?" Molly asked, switching gears. "Have you paid them a visit?"

She froze, knuckles whitening around the handle of her teacup. "I ... uh ... I am no longer on speaking terms with my family," she finally said, hoping against hope that the usually rather nosy Molly Weasley would know to let it alone.

"Ah," she replied uncertainly. "Erm ..."

"Have you made plans for your return?" Françoise inserted smoothly as Molly still fumbled for an appropriate response.

She accepted the effort gratefully and offered Françoise a rare genuine smile. "Not exactly," she said. "I was told to take as much time as I needed. I rather think I'll know when I need to go back."

"And you have been in ... China, you said?" Molly asked, obviously digging for information on what was apparently a less volatile subject.

"Tibet," Hermione corrected automatically.

Françoise chortled and extracted her necklace expertly from Alice's questing fingers. "I suppose you've taken up with a pack of monks, then, and you're learning their ninja ways from the lowliest cook, who speaks only in the most cryptic of metaphors?"

Permitting herself an inward smile, Hermione put on her best imperturbable face. "Master Xi is the gardener," she said. "And I am simply learning whatever he will teach me. Thus far, ninjas have not been mentioned."

Her jaw dropped. "You're joking."

"No, I'm not," she said. "The brothers are kind and their Path is a simple one, to hear them speak of it." Her expression turned rueful. "I am, unfortunately, finding it more difficult. I have, however, learned to tell the onions from the weeds and for that the entire monastery is grateful."

"What sort of things do they do?" Françoise asked, clearly unsettled by Hermione's admission.

She took another sip of her tea. "Good things. They pray and they chant and they meditate. They also take in lost souls when it suits their purposes."

"You sound like Albus Dumbledore," she grumbled, setting Alice on the floor to explore.

"I ought to take that as a compliment," Hermione said with a laugh, "but I know better."

"Ron and Harry did always say you were extraordinarily intelligent," she said.

Molly gave the pair of them an indulgent smile as she finished her tea. "Perhaps we ought to --"

But her suggestion was cut off as a loud knock at the door sounded. Before Françoise could even begin to stand, the door swung open and a thin blonde woman wearing a large smile sauntered in as if she'd done it every day of her life. "Françoise, darling," the woman cried, holding her hands out limply.

For her own part, Françoise only sighed minutely as she stood and smiled in kind. "Petunia," she replied, grasping the hands and allowing her cheeks to be pecked.

"How are you holding up, my dear?" Petunia asked. Hermione had a sneaking suspicion this might be the infamous Petunia Dursley and wondered what she was doing here.

"As well as I can," she said, returning to her seat. "We were just --"

"Oh, and you have company," Petunia continued, glancing around the room. "Molly Weasley," she said in a sweet tone, "how good to see you again."

"Petunia," Molly said tersely, lips tightening. "You're looking ... tidy."

Petunia finished her survey of the room, ending up staring squarely at a suddenly fidgety Hermione. "And who is this charming young lady? I don't believe we've ever met."

Standing reluctantly, Hermione was shocked when the woman actually pulled her into a quick embrace. "I'm Hermione Granger," she said once she'd been released.

"Oh," Petunia said, giving Hermione's shoulder a little squeeze. "You must be one of Har ... one of his school friends. I'm Petunia Dursley, and I'm very glad to meet you, my dear."

Before Hermione could properly collect her wits about her once more, Petunia Dursley was seated in a nearby chair, tea in one hand and Alice in the other. "I just wanted to drop by, you see," the woman was saying, "and make sure you didn't need anything."

"No, no," Françoise replied, settling back in her own chair. "We're fine, as you can see."

"Where's Nicholas?" she asked abruptly, shifting Alice on her lap so that her earrings were out of the little girl's surprisingly long reach.

"He's in his room," answered Françoise gamely, keeping a blank face. "He's not been very ... sociable for the past few days. I've been taking his meals up to his room, in fact -- he doesn't seem to want to come down. Albus feels that he'll come around when he's ready to." p>

"Oh, yes," Petunia said with a sage nod. "He's got to grieve, after all. And he's always been such a sensitive boy ..."

Blinking at the woman's prattle, Hermione struggled to recall all that Harry had told her about his aunt through the years. It seemed to be the same woman physically, at least -- bleached blonde hair with gray roots at the temples, a long, thin neck, and a rather horsy-shaped face, complete with large teeth. She also remembered something about a nasty temperament and such blatant favoritism toward the repugnant Dudley (who she'd thankfully never met) that she'd struggled to even mentally justify the woman's actions.

Where, then, did this lady come from, chatting with Harry's widow and casually bouncing his daughter on his lap? This couldn't be the same person who served Harry cold, canned soup through a cat flap for nearly half of the summer after his first year at Hogwarts. This solemnly smiling, tea-sipping woman had imprisoned her only nephew in a cupboard under the stairs for the first ten years of his life.

Hermione hated her on sight, wanting nothing more than to snatch Alice out of her arms and order her out of Harry's home.

Glancing furtively over at an increasingly thin-lipped Molly Weasley, it appeared as if she shared Hermione's sentiment.

Fortunately, however, Petunia Dursley had only planned on spending half of an hour with the Potter family, finishing her tea and putting Alice back on the ground with a pat on her curly little head. "Well ... I'm sorry I can't stay and chat any longer, Françoise," she said, smiling apologetically, "but I've got bridge at Marie Chambers' in a bit and it wouldn't do for me to be late."

"Of course not," Françoise agreed. "It was good of you to drop by, Petunia." She gamely underwent another smiling embrace with Harry's aunt before escorting her to the door and through it, closing it with another one of those polite little sighs. "She means well," she said to Hermione's confused gaze and Molly's frankly disapproving one.

"I never," Molly harrumphed. "A cat could have raised poor Harry better than that awful woman. He happens to turn out well and she's right there to claim all of the credit."

"Now, Molly," Françoise admonished, sitting down again and pouring herself another cup of tea from what Hermione was beginning to suspect was a bottomless pot of sorts. "Petunia Dursley was nearly as much of a victim of that awful husband of hers as Har -- as he was."

Shaking her head, Molly's face looked as if it were set in stone. "She could have intervened," she persisted.

"Not in the pattern of behavior for abused women," she argued placidly. "Vernon Dursley ruled his family with an iron fist -- she would no more have intervened on Harry's behalf than she would have flown to the moon. All in all," she concluded, turning in her chair as Alice toddled out of her line of sight, "it was probably for the best when he ran off with that young chit and left her high and dry."

Hermione idly noted that she spoke Harry's name without a tremor for the first time since she'd met her.

"She did change after that," Molly admitted grudgingly. "I remember -- it was right before you and Harry met. That boy of hers was still in university and there she was with no job and with that horrible husband threatening to throw her out of the house so he could sell it. Harry actually took her in for a bit, let her live in his flat while she got the divorce straightened out. That's when everything changed between them, I guess."

"She realized that he wasn't some sort of changeling babe dropped on her doorstep after all," Françoise agreed with a small chuckle. "Freshen your cup?"

"Oh no, dear, I'm fine."

-- -- -- -- --

Ron shot Hermione an apologetic look as he strapped a protesting Alice into her high chair. "It seems as if we might not get to supper, after all," he said.

"I don't see why it's so important to her that -- what's his name, again? -- he comes down," she replied, rather taken aback by the sight of Ron battling a small child and losing miserably.

"Nicholas," he supplied. "And neither do I, really. If he wants to sit up in his room, doing whatever it is he does up there, who cares?"

She sighed. "There's probably some parenting principle at work here that I don't know about."

Ten minutes later, Ron finally snapped the tray in place on Alice's chair. "Not fair," the baby pouted adorably, lower lip jutting out.

"It's not going to work on me," he warned, handing her a cup with a lid on it. "I know you too well."

"Gah!" she cried, throwing the cup on the floor.

"Apparently both Potter children are pissy this evening," Ron grumbled, eliciting a small snort from Hermione. He scooped up the cup and put it on the table out of Alice's reach.

Grunting with frustration, she reached for it, curls shaking slightly as she strained. "Want!"

"Are you going to throw it this time?"

Alice put on what Hermione suspected was her most innocent look. "No, Unca Ron."

He picked the cup up and shook it at her. "You throw it and you're not getting it back again. Deal?"

"Deal!" she cried sweetly, pitching it halfway across the room as soon as her tiny fingers wrapped themselves around it.

"Alice!" Ron shouted, fetching the cup again. Hermione smothered her laughter with no small effort.

Eyes sparkling, she held her arms out again. "Want."

"No," he snapped, shaking his head. "I'm not playing this game, Alice."

"Want," she repeated, more frustrated.

"No." Ron crossed his arms over his chest and glared down his nose at her in an uncanny imitation of Professor Snape.

"Want!" she wailed, fat tears swimming in her eyes.

Ron was silent, shaking his head as Hermione gave him a questioning look.

Mere seconds later, the tears were tumbling down her cheeks and Alice was beginning to cry in earnest.

"Erm ... Ron?"

"No, Hermione," he said firmly. "She's just doing it to get what she wants. Believe me -- I've spent more time babysitting this kid than I have all of my other nieces and nephews put together."

Alice continued to wail, Hermione's ears beginning to ring in protest. "Ronald Weasley," came a stern voice from the doorway. "Why is my child crying?" Françoise moved swiftly to Alice's side, making soothing noises. The child soon quieted -- Hermione sworeshe shot Ron a victorious look as Françoise put the cup in her outstretched hands.

"Françoise ..." Ron tried.

Shaking her head, she gave Alice another little pat and straightened. "Let's just have supper. Everyone's here and the table is set. Hermione, I forgot to ask, do you eat meat?"

"When it's offered, yes," she said cautiously.

"Oh, good," she replied. "I fully intended to have Ron inquire as to your eating habits, but I forgot and I didn't want to offend your sensibilities. We're having ham. It's Nicholas' favorite. You're not Jewish or Muslim, are you?"

With a small laugh, Hermione shook her head. Where had this slightly worried, rational woman been hiding under the exterior of the cold, angry one she'd encountered a few days ago?

"All right, then," she said definitively. "Let's sit, then. You too, Nicholas."

Blinking, Hermione turned her head and saw the same little boy she recalled from the cemetery studying his shoelaces. He moved automatically to the table and took what she assumed was his usual seat, not looking her way once.

Françoise sat down beside her daughter and Ron took the seat at the end of the table not butted against the wall, leaving the chair beside Nicholas empty. The boy froze as Hermione took it, still not looking at her -- she realized instantly that this was Harry's chair. She tensed and Françoise gave her a curious look. "I --" she began, not knowing what to say.

"It's fine, Hermione," she replied with a slight tremor in her voice. "It's fine," she repeated more firmly, focusing on Nicholas sternly.

Relaxing minutely, she took the bo full of string beans that Ron pushed at her and began filling her plate with food, tension easing more fully as forks began to clatter against plates. She allowed her mind to drift.

"Anything interesting at work today?" Françoise asked Ron conversationally. And then, to Alice, "No, dear ... let me cut that for you."

"Nah, not really," Ron said, swallowing a mouthful of food. "I went over to the Academy for a half-day and gave a self-defense lecture. Those new recruits are awfully scrawny -- I wonder what they're feeding them at Hogwarts. You know, someone asked me something that might interest you, Hermione."

"What?" she asked, startled out of her haf-listening by his off-handed comment.

He chuckled and she knew she'd been caught out. "One particularly soft looking fellow asked me what it was like to have Potions classes with the old bat Snape. Apparently he's transcended into somewhat of a legend at school."

"Not surprised," she replied with a slight snort. "He was rather brilliant at inspiring terror."

"This man seems to come up often lately," Françoise said blandly. "I hadn't heard his name more than five times in my entire life before I met you, Hermione. And now he's mentioned at least once a day. Who is he?"

"Just an old professor," Hermione said carefully. "But he was a memorable character, you see. I just find it strange that he wound up at an institution, is all."

"I find it strange that you took it upon yourself to visit the old bastard," Ron said, chewing on a roll thoughtfully.

"Ron!" Françoise scolded. "Language!"

He shrugged. "Sorry ... kids, don't say 'bastard,' all right?"

Nicholas remained firmly focused on his plate -- Alice grinned at her uncle. "'Tard!" she crowed, clapping her hands.

"Oh, good," Françoise said faintly, putting a handful of string beans onto Alice's tray. "Ron, I don't think I'm going to allow you around my children any more."

"Great Merlin, Françoise, who's going to teach your children to swear and cheat at Exploding Snap if I'm not around?" he teased. "Especially since you've banned at least two of my brothers from entering your house."

She rolled her eyes. "I didn't ban them ..."

"But you did hex them and throw them out ... Fred and George are right terrified of you, you know."

"Ron," she exclaimed. "They turned my son into a puppy!"

"They changed him back," he argued. "And I'm sure he didn't mind much -- right, Nicholas?"

Nicholas glanced at Ron briefly -- Hermione could not see his expression -- and then returned his attention to his plate.

Argument forgotten, both Ron and Françoise were giving the boy a concerned look. Even Alice, sensing the change in mood, gave her mother a perplexed frown. If he noticed (or cared), Hermione could not tell.

"Nicholas," she said quietly, pronouncing his name for the first time, "would you please pass me the rolls? I can't reach them." She wondered for a moment if he would comply.

As if in slow motion, Nicholas' hand drifted lazily toward the basket, fingers taking their time in wrapping around its edges. She watched in curious fascination as he pushed the basket toward her plate, still not looking at her.

Deliberately, Hermione let her hands close over his as she took it. "Thank you, Nicholas," she said demurely, aware that both Ron and Françoise were watching this bizarre interchange avidly.

Startled by her touch, the boy finally looked up into her face. The blood drained from his cheeks as he stared with horror into her confused eyes.

Hermione idly noticed that Françoise actually jumped with surprise as Nicholas flung himself out of his chair wildly, knocking it over in his haste and backing into a corner, lips curled into an unconscious snarl and frightened eyes still locked with her own.

Françoise started toward her son, a single hand outstretched. "Nicholas, what on Earth ...?"

He didn't even blink, just kept eye contact with Hermione. Reminding her more of some sort of feral animal than a little boy, he tucked himself further into the wall, still sneering.

Hesitantly, she reached out her own hand. &quo;Nicholas ..."

Nicholas opened his mouth and began to scream -- long and loud and wordless.

As the chilling cry shivered its way down her spine, the rational part of Hermione's brain that was still functioning noted that this was the first sound he'd supposedly uttered in nearly two weeks.

-- -- -- -- --