Dark Gods in the Blood

Chapter Twenty

And in the hush that had fallen suddenly upon the whole

sorrowful land, the immense wilderness, the colossal body

of the fecund and mysterious life seemed to look at her,

pensive, as though it had been looking at the image of its

own tenebrous and passionate soul.

-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

"Hallo, Hermione," Nicholas said shyly as he opened the door. "Mum said you were coming over for supper. She and Uncle Ron are in the kitchen. He's trying to add peppers to her spaghetti sauce."

"Is he?" Hermione asked as she stepped into the foyer. "Well, he always did like spicy food. I hope your mum yells at him."

As if on cue, a loud crash emanated from the kitchen and Nicholas giggled at Hermione's grin.

"Perhaps I ought to stay out here until supper is ready ..." she told him thoughtfully.

"We could play Soulblade," he said, excited.

She tried very hard not to grimace. "Erm ... that is ... maybe we could just ... I don't know. How's school, Nicholas?"

"Okay," he said, glancing down at his bare feet. "My teacher's really nice this year, even if she does give us too many problems in math class."

"Math problems ..." she said, delighting in the memory. "I haven't done any math problems for a long time."

He brightened and grabbed her hand, pulling her into the den. "Really? Mrs. Daniels says that we'll always have to do sums."

"Well ..." she began, wondering how to put it. "Wizards don't use as much math as Muggles."

Grinning, she could see he was trying very hard not to jump up and down in delight. "Really?"

"But we do have to use some," she said. "After all, we have money and banks and Quidditch scores and things."

His face fell comically. "Oh."

She attempted not to laugh at him and mostly succeeded. "Other than eternal math problems, how do you like school?"

"There's this girl ..." he said in a stage whisper.

Hermione blinked, surprised. Wasn't he only seven or eight? "A girl, eh?" she prompted. "What's her name?"

"Lydia," he said dully. "She chases me around at recess and tries to kiss me." He made a face of disgust. "And she tells everyone that she's going to marry me."

Unable to hold it back, a snort escaped her. "Oh, really? Well ... I think you're a bit young yet for marriage."

"I don't want to marry old Lydia," he said with a frown. "She smells like flowers all the time, and her lips are really, really slimy."

If she wasn't able to laugh soon, Hermione was certain something internal would explode. "Give it a few years, Nicholas."

"Maybe," he replied, but there was doubt in his voice. "You never got married, though."

"No ..." she said, mood sobering. "No, I didn't."

"Was there ever a boy you wanted to marry?" he asked. "Like Uncle Ron?"

She finally managed a laugh, but it sounded fake even to her own ears. "I already told you about him," she reminded him. "But no. I never found anyone I wanted to marry. Or anyone who wanted to marry me, for that matter."

"I would," he said stoutly. "You're nice and you play video games with me."

Her laugh was more genuine this time -- startled, but genuine. "I finally meet a man who's got his priorities in order. Thanks, Nicholas."

"So ..." he said slyly. "Want to play?"

"You little prat!" she cried, giving his hair a teasing tousle. "You think you can charm me into playing video games? You're a handsome little devil, I'll grant you, but not quite that handsome."

He pouted mockingly.

"Hey ... Nicholas?" she asked after a long pause.

Looking up at her inquisitively, he swiped his bangs out of his eyes. "What?"

"Do you ... do you know where your name came from?" Hermione found herself surprised at her own question, not knowing where it came from.

Nicholas frowned, sensing her puzzlement. "My name? I think Mum just liked it. My middle name's Christophe, after her father."

With a sigh of relief that she wasn't aware she was holding in, Hermione glanced away from the question in his eyes. "I just ... I once knew someone named Nicholas. And I wondered if your father ever ..."

"Oh, Papa told me about him," Nicholas said dismissively. "That ghost. Nearly Headless Nick. Did you really go to a party celebrating the day he died?"

"We did," she said with a nostalgic smile. "One Halloween, actually. It was ... interesting."

"When Papa ... right after he ... sometimes I wish he'd become a ghost," he admitted in a near-whisper, sounding very young. "That way he wouldn't be gone forever."

Something tugged in Hermione's chest. "Oh, Nicholas ..."

But he shrugged. "I know it's better the other way, though. If he was a ghost, that would mean he ... regretted something. That maybe we hadn't loved him enough."

If she didn't find some way to change the subject soon, she was going to start crying.

"He called me 'Nick' sometimes. Not a lot, but sometimes. I don't like it when anyone else does."

A breath hitched in her throat.

"I got in trouble for it at school," he continued, not meeting her gaze. "Tommy, in my class, called me that when we were playing football, and I hit him. Mrs. Daniels kept me in at recess the next day, but she didn't tell Mum. She said I couldn't hit people for giving me a nickname, but when I told her that I only let my papa call me that, she got all quiet."

I would, too, Hermione thought, wanting nothing more than to take Nicholas in her arms and hug him forever.

"It's all right, though," he concluded evenly, oblivious to her internal struggle. "And I didn't get into too much trouble."

"Well, that's good," she replied, grateful to find her voice again.

Nicholas was still for a moment, seeming to study his hands with great intensity. "I'm thirsty," he told her abruptly. "I'm going to get a drink. You want one?"

Blinking at the non sequitur, her reply was automatic. "No ... I'm good, thanks." As soon as the words were floating through the air, she became suddenly aware of the dryness in her mouth, but Nicholas was already gone -- jumping off the sofa and running into the kitchen, allowing the door to swing wildly in his wake.

"Nicholas!" she heard Françoise scold.

"Sorry, Mum," he replied less than contritely, and Hermione watched the door still as if of its own accord.

Left momentarily alone, she found herself looking more closely at her surroundings. Two months ago, she'd asked Ron teasingly about finding sconces in the Potter home, and he'd replied that Harry and Françoise had been far too modern for such things.

But taking a second look, she realized tt Ron was wrong. Sconces would be quite at home in the subtle blend of antique and new that greeted her eyes. All of what she assumed had been Harry's technological Muggle toys were neatly arranged in a clearly Victorian wardrobe cleverly modified to hold them all and somehow tuck the cords mysteriously out of view. The furniture was obviously of a more modern age, but Hermione dimly ascribed that to the presence of two small children -- she recalled an incident from her own childhood involving an antique ottoman in her grandmother's home and suppressed a slight shudder. It was clear, she decided as she contemplated the delicate ivy pattern actually carved into the chair rail circling the entire sitting room, that Françoise and Harry both had put a lot of effort and love into making their house a home.

"If I recall, Albus actually chose that particular shade of green paint under the rail there that you're staring so hard at," Ron's voice said dryly from out of nowhere.

She jumped in her seat. "Jesus, Ron!"

His expression was bland, but she could see the bemusement dancing in his eyes. "Françoise wanted this butter yellow stuff and Harry wanted some ludicrously dark burgundy sort of thing. To compromise, they asked Albus to choose, but he decided on a completely different color. Fancy a drink?"

"I told Nicholas ..."

He held out a wineglass. "I doubt you thought Nicholas was offering a particularly nice Riesling. He's currently got his nose buried obediently in a mug of milk, by the way, probably wondering how his cleverly wrought plan to obtain a soda failed. Sometimes I forget to give Françoise her due, you know."

Laughing, she took the glass and cradled it in her left hand. "Does spaghetti go with Riesling? I can never remember."

With a shrug, he slumped into the chair nearest the kitchen door. "Who cares? I've always thought they tasted just fine together. 'Course ..." he trailed off thoughtfully. "I can't stand red wine. So maybe I've been doing it wrong all along."

She toasted him mockingly. "To wrong wines, then."

"Here, here!" he cried, saluting her in kind. "May we all only drink the wines we like."

They sipped from their respective glasses quietly, Hermione periodically giving hers a contemplative swirl, watching the amber liquid twirl around the rim.

"You're going to spill that in a minute," Ron warned.

"Thanks, Dad," she retorted with a sarcastic glare.

His smile was only slightly apologetic. "I spend the better part of my evenings with a seven-year-old boy and a two-year-old girl. It's becoming a habit. Go on, then. Spill wine all down your front and see if I so much as fetch a towel." Leaning back in his chair, he affected nonchalance.

Wrinkling her nose at his antics, she tapped the base of her wineglass with a single pointer finger. "Hey, Ron?"

He rolled his eyes. "Merlin's ass, you're going to get all serious, aren't you? I get enough gravity at work, Hermione."

"Just one question," she pleaded.

"It's never just one," he said good-naturedly. "But I fall for it every time. What?"

"Did you tell Kingsley Shacklebolt what I told you?" she asked hurriedly. "About Weaver and everything?"

With a sigh, Ron started to swirl his own wine as he began to consider his words with greater care. "I did," he admitted. "And he's ... dubious."

"Dubious?" she echoed, doubt creeping into her voice.

"Actually ..." He looked directly at her and grinned cheerfully. "He said it was the biggest load of bollocks he's heard in ages. But I thought I'd gloss over that bit."

"Thanks," she said sarcastically. "Did he happen to say why?"

With a laugh, Ron crossed an ankle over a knee, grin broadening. "Didn't I say that it would be more than one question? Well ... as it so happens, my radiant Butterfly, he did say why."

She watched his grin stretch even further as her impatience became increasingly visible. "Ron ..."

"What?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"What reasons did he give, then?" she asked through gritted teeth, grounding the words out painfully.

"Well, the complete and total lack of a connection between Weaver and the other victims, for one," he pointed out.

Hermione sighed. "Please explain the connection between Harry and that other one, Bones, then."

Shifting in his chair, she could tell he was not thrilled with what he was about to say. "It's not exactly a connection, per se. But they were both in fairly prominent social positions. After all, Bones' mother is on the Wizengamot. So they're natural targets."

"For the same group?" she asked incredulously.

His fidgeting increased. "We're still working out the connection, okay? It's not rock solid yet. But there has to be one."

She pounced. "Why?"

"Huh?" he grunted, clearly taken aback.

"A connection," she enunciated. "Why does there have to be one?"

"Well, they were victims of the same group, weren't they? Same M.O. and all that. It's peculiar enough that there's got to be a connection of some sort that we're just not seeing at the moment." Ron relaxed visibly, apparently in more comfortable territory.

"Alisander Weaver was killed in the same way as the two you're claiming are connected, Ron," she said, exasperated.

He stiffened. "You can't prove it, Hermione. Weaver's dead and buried and St. Mungo's didn't do any paperwork beyond 'Could not resuscitate, cause of death unknown.' They didn't even bother to call us. The only thing you've got is half a rumor from the Herbology professor at Hogwarts, who is not, by the by, an expert in exotic murder cases."

"Still ..."

"And what's more," he interrupted her, voice gaining volume. "At least poor Harry and that other fellow, Bones, were potential Death Eater targets by some stretch of the imagination. Alisander Weaver was a potions maker up in Scotland with no affiliation to either the Death Eaters or to the Order. It makes no sense!"

"Death Eaters," she repeated scoffingly. "Not every Dark wizard is a Death Eater, you know."

He stared at her, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. "What do you mean, Hermione?"

She spoke slowly, carefully, keeping her voice even and unemotional in hopes that he would listen. "You've insisted all along that a Death Eater is responsible for this ... for these mur -- deaths. But when I told Snape about it, he said there wasn't a Death Eater alive in a position to do such a thing. Ron, what if it's not a Death Eater?"

"Snape?" he echoed. "You talked to Snape about ..."

"About Harry," she confirmed steadily. "And don't get that awful look on your face, Ron. I know you don't mind Snape as much as you used to."

"It's not that," he said calmly enough. "It's just ... Hermione, Snape's not the most stable fellow in the world any more. And he's never been rational where Harry was concerned. I don't know if I'd take his word to be ... ironclad, if you catch my meaning."

"Ron." She gave him a pointed look. "He didn't get angry or anything when I told him. Just treated it like some sort of puzzle to solve. He was ... interested. And he said that there wasn't any way for a Death Eater to be responsible."

He was clearly unconvinced. "I don't know ..."

"Okay, then, Ron Weasley," she said, finally beginning to get angry with him. "You answer me this one thing. What possible reason could a Death Eater -- a member of a defunct organization who's most likely in some sort of exile, mind -- have for killing not only the son of a prominent political official, but one of the most famous wizards in all Britain? If he's caught, he'll be publicly flayed alive at the least and for what? Martyrdom to a cause that's been dead for at least a decade?"

"Death Eaters are --"

"The ones that are still alive who could hope to pull off a deed of this magnitude are far too intelligent to risk it, I should think," she said, cutting him off.

He glared at her, but behind it, his eyes were simply tired. "That leaves us with nothing, then, if you're right, Hermione."

"Not nothing," she corrected. "Someone killed three men who had no other reason to die. And didn't use a spell to do it. I asked Snape about that as well -- he can't think of one that would do such a thing, either."

"Your theory has a hole, then, Miss I-Know-Better-Than-The-Entire-Aurory," he retorted nastily, a bitter glint in his expression. "Wandless magic. What you're proposing is just impossible."

She shrugged. "You've got no connection, I've got no method. No theory is perfect."

Horror blossomed on Ron's face, his lips curling up in a grimace. "You also realize that if you're correct, there could be any number of other victims that St. Mungo's hasn't reported. The only ones they would bring to our attention would be for political reasons. Merlin, this could have been going on for ..." He controlled himself with visible effort. "No," he said decisively, more to himself than to her. "That can't be true. If it had been going on for a long time, someone would have noticed. Right?"

"Hopefully," she replied with a shrug. "One would think so, at any rate."

"I don't know whether you're right or not, Hermione," he said after a long pause. "I'd hate to think you are, actually. But we can't afford to ignore any of this. The problem is, I don't know how to go about looking into it."

Chewing on her lip, she frowned. "I don't either."

With one last sigh, Ron drained his wineglass and offered her a faded version of his usually cheerful smile. "Well, there's not much we can do tonight, in any case. I'll talk to Kingsley in the morning and see if he's got any ideas. Best to just relax and go about our business. I'm sure Françoise is nearly done with supper back there. We should go see if she needs any help."

Hermione found herself standing along with him, her feet automatically carrying her toward the kitchen door. "Ron?"

"What?" His expression gentled at the obvious confusion in her stance.

"How do you deal with this?"

Even more gentle. "Deal with what?"

"This ... this knowing that the world could unravel about your ears," she said, not knowing how to put it. "That there really are monsters in the shadows."

He focused his eyes on the oak door. "Mostly, I don't think about it. I look Charlie's kids and Harry's kids and at people like Fred and George and Ginny who live in the sunshine, and I know that it's important that someone knows what's in the shadows, to keep them at bay. It's just a part of it. Not being alone helps. If I was alone ..."

Hermione waited through his pause patiently, wondering if he would complete his thought or simply walk into the kitchen and become good ol' Ron, charming friend and bumbling uncle.

His hand on the door, Ron's eyes suddenly swiveled to meet her own. "If I was alone," he repeated thoughtfully. "I think I'd wind up in the darkness where your buddy Snape is right now, Butterfly."

The moment shifted as he flung the door wide -- the cacophony of bubbling pots and laughing children overrode it. And Hermione was drawn into it, taking the forks and plates Françoise handed her with a smile, grinning as Nicholas tugged on her robe sleeve, trying to garner her attention for some reason or another. She set the table as Ron poured more drinks and Françoise stirred a very large pot.

And the shadows ebbed back into the corners of the room, where they belonged.

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