All I Wanted

All I Wanted

by Keelie

Chapter Three.

She was jolted awake by the sound of high-pitched yowling and faint shrieking.

When Hermione opened her honey-colored eyes a fraction of an inch after her rather dramatic faint in the kitchen, a haphazard scene greeted her. Albus Dumbledore, looking rather ruffled, was standing over her. Chantall Larson-Delgado was shrilly rebuking him and holding Hermione's cat, Roxy, who was the source of the meows.

"Herm!" screeched Chantall, nearly dropping Roxy. The sleek Siamese decided to jump out of Chantall's arms before she was forced to exit and landed, claws sheathed, on Hermione's chest. "You're okay!"

"Erm--" Hermione rubbed a hand across her forehead. "I guess. Damn. I feel like a freight train ran over my head."

"Probably the effect of your head hitting the hardwood," pointed out Albus Dumbledore sensibly, conjuring up an icepack with a flick of his wand and sending it flying in her direction. Seconds later, a cool sensation alleviated some of the pounding.

Chantall knelt next to Hermione, carefully removing a hostile Roxy from the front of her robe. "Herm, are you all right? I came by because you left your sunglasses with me yesterday, and I figured I'd drop them off and snag a cup of coffee. When I came in here, you were lying on the floor and he was standing above you!" She thrust a finger at Dumbledore.

Hermione made a valiant effort to get up but resigned herself to sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor. "Oooh. That hurts." She poked the icepack gently. "Chantall, you've met Albus before, haven't you?"

Chantall glared at Hermione's ex-headmaster suspiciously. "Maybe."

If her headache hadn't still been overwhelming, Hermione would have rolled her eyes. "Chantall. He didn't hurt me. He just gave me some-- ah-- surprising news."

"Oh sure, I faint all the time when someone gives me surprising news," scoffed Chantall, tossing her immaculate French braid pertly. Once again, she was in all black-- three-quarter length, fuzzy black sweater, knee-length black corduroy skirt with a front slit, and black platform loafers with chunky three-inch heels. Tiny, metallic black hoop earrings-- three in each ear-- were her only jewelry today.

Hermione shifted the icepack. Ooh. . . . that feels better. . . she set it down and picked up Roxy soothingly. The cat snuggled into Hermione's arms and she marveled at how different her sleek fur was from the fuzzy, fluffy hair of her first cat, Crookshanks. When she had graduated Hogwarts, the haughty, intelligent feline had refused to leave with her. He had been adopted as the school mascot and patrolled the halls there, spending nights with the Gryffindors.

Hermione shifted her gaze to Dumbledore. Now that she was awake and alert and could fully comprehend the curveball he'd hurled at her, she was desperate to share it with someone and get their opinion. Dumbledore nodded resignedly, a small smile playing about his lips.

Speaking as quickly as she could while still being understandable, slipping in a soothing word to Roxy once in a while, Hermione related everything to Chantall, who had collapsed into a kitchen chair and was staring, brown eyes wide.

It took a full minute for her to be able to speak.

"Why the hell did this happen?" she finally breathed. "Herm-- I mean-- you are--"

"Yeah, I know--"

"And why you, because--"

"Yeah, I'm just me--"

"And who's the father, Herm--"

"I don't know, but--"

"Ladies," Dumbledore interrupted pleasantly. "I'm very sorry, but I must be going."

Hermione and Chantall cried, "What?" in one voice.

Dumbledore took Hermione's hands in his own. [A/N: Noooooooo!!!!! This is not a Dumbledore/Hermione!!!! How frickin' gross is that?!?!? It's a fatherly gesture, y'all!]

"Hermione, this is much too much for you to bear on your own. I want you to talk to your friends-- Mr. Potter, Mr. and Miss Weasley, Mr. Thomas, Mr. Finnigan-- sort out your thoughts on all this. I will return in one week's time to speak with you again. By then, I will know more about many things that also might help you reach a decision on whether or not you want to accept your preordained duty as Aurora's new mother. Godspeed."

With that, he Disapparated.

Hermione felt like collapsing again.

*~*~*~*

By noon, Hermione was dressed in a flowy, filmy, side-tie skirt with a pastel watercolor print and a stretchy cream-colored tank top. She'd pulled her hair into a low, loose ponytail and applied her usual lip gloss and mascara.

Chantall had insisted on making more coffee (she'd thrown in a few "odds and ends" that made the ordinary French roast taste like a cinnamony vanilla latte) and toasting white bread. The two women sat on the kitchen windowseat, nibbling toast, sipping from mugs, and discussing Hermione's predicament.

"I'm just so lost," Hermione confessed. "This was so bloody sudden. . . ."

"You can say that again," mumbled Chantall around a mouthful of toast dipped in coffee. "It's like-- bam! That guy in the dress shows up in your kitchen with news that your name has been flamed on the dead body of a woman whose child is a telekinetic, telepathic locked one."

"Chantalllllll. Dumbledore was wearing robes. Jeez, you act like you're not a witch. Do you think it's helping?"

"Sorry?" Chantall offered brightly, not deterred in the least. "And I am a witch-- just an American one with fashion sense."

Hermione sighed. "Honestly, what to you think of all this?"

"You want my honest answer?"

"Chantalllllll!"

*~*~*~*

It helped her to make lists. After talking with Harry, Ron, Ginny, Seamus, Dean, and even her parents Todd and Karaline Granger via FlamePhone (her nickname for the spell you cast to make your head appear in someone else's fireplace), Hermione sat down at her desk with a roll of parchment and a Muggle pen.

Name: Chantall Larson-Delgado

Relation: Close friend

Reaction: "If I were you, I'd dye my hair platinum, change my name to Frederica, and move to Iceland. And I'm just telling you that because I love ya, Herm."

Comments: You're a bloody big help, Chantall!

Name: Harry Potter

Relation: Best friend

Reaction: "Wow, Herm. This is odd. But Dumbledore's a smart wizard. He'd never even let you know about this if he didn't think you do it-- or if he didn't think it was what you were meant to do."

Comments: Of course he has faith in Dumbledore. He's like the man's adopted grandson. Interesting point about it being what I was meant to do.

Name: Ron Weasley

Relation: Best friend

Reaction: "Bloody hell! I think Dumbledore's a bit off his cracker. . . . I've never even heard of locking, and Dad's never mentioned it. Do you think he's serious?"

Comments: Would Arthur Weasley have heard of it? And even if he had, would he have mentioned it to Ron? Think about that. Plus, I honestly don't think Dumbledore's "off his cracker."

Name: Ginny Weasley

Relation: Best friend

Reaction: "Jeez! I mean-- I've never even heard of this happening. But if it's true, do you want to raise the kid?"

Comments: Surprise, like everyone else. Duh. But she brought up a good point-- do I want to raise this Aurora?

Name: Dean Thomas

Relation: Close friend

Reaction: "Are you feeling all right?" (After realizes I'm serious) "God! This is insane! Are you sure you want to get yourself into this shit?

Comments: Already established that Dumbledore's not crazy. Moving on, do I want to get into this whole mess? Think about that.

Name: Seamus Finnigan, otherwise known as "Shamey F" of Bordering On Silence

Relation: Close friend

Reaction: "Dude! Herm! This is like a miniseries! And who the hell's the guy 'flamed' to be Aurora's father?!"

Comments: Miniseries? All righty, then. But he's right!!! Who's going to be Aurora's father?!?!?

Name: Todd Granger

Relation: Father

Reaction: "Well, dear, I'm afraid I really don't know what to tell you. This is a decision you honestly have to make yourself. I would suggest you talk to Professor Dumbledore and get some more information."

Comments: Thanks a lot, Dad. Thanks a whole bloody lot. But I should talk to Dumbledore again

Name: Karaline Granger

Relation: Mother

Reaction: "Oh, Herm, you're going to have a child! That's wonderful. . . . if you accept. You are accepting, aren't you?"

Comments: Groan. I forgot that if you mention the word "baby" around Mum, she goes absolutely nutty and starts planning nursery decor and knitting sleepers and cooing in baby talk.

FINAL SAY: I don't know what the bloody hell to do.

My plan is:

1) Talk to Dumbledore again

2) Find out WHO THE FATHER IS

3) Consider: do I want to get involved in this mess? Do I like the father? Do I really want to raise a child?

4) Inform everyone of my decision, whatever the heck it may be

5) Pray (Okay, so I haven't been to church since I was ten. But God really is all forgiving, right? Right?)

This was one list that was obviously not going to help.

She didn't sleep much that night.

*~*~*~*

Hermione had to go back to work on Tuesday.

Java Du Jour opened at seven a. m.

Hermione woke up a six-fifty.

"Dammit!" she panicked as she glanced at her clock radio. "I'm going to be so late!"

After the world's fastest shower, Hermione cast a drying spell on her soaking curls. Immediately, they turned into a frizzy mess. The only way to make them curl softly and nicely was to use a Muggle blow-drier.

Hermione swore, pulled her hair into a tight ponytail, and preceded to ransack her drawers for something to wear.

Are all my clothes bloody dirty? Okay, here's a pair of jeans-- oh never mind. Thanks a lot, Roxy, thanks a bloody lot. They're covered in cat hair. I could wear those black pants Chantall leant me-- scratch that, I don't want to have to cut myself out of them. Oh, to be half a stone lighter and two inches taller!

Hermione finally settled on dirty-wash jeans, black leather boots with chunky three-inch heels (being petite was a bit of an annoyance), and an old scarlet "Gryffindor Lions" tee. She shrugged on a little black cardigan over it, checked her appearance in the mirror, resigned herself to the fact she looked presentable but that was about it, and hurried downstairs.

Brad and Damon were already manning the register as two or three early bird customers streamed in, along with beams of cheerful sunlight. Hermione blew them each a quick kiss. "I love you guys!" Brad held up a hand to catch the kiss and pretended to put it in his pocket. Damon rolled his eyes and went back to counting out change for the first shopper of the day, a bald old man carrying a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. Hermione laughed and continued back to the coffee bar.

"He-ey!" Chantall greeted her cheerfully, the thin, sparkly black bangle bracelets on both of her wrists clanking softly as she manned the espresso machine. A harried-looking woman carrying a newborn baby was waiting at the counter, obviously desperate for a caffeine fix. Hermione could relate.

"Hey, Tally."

Chantall frowned as she poured the woman's espresso into a clear plastic cup with the signature red script of Java Du Jour on it. "Herm, you only use that nickname when you want something."

"World peace, total and complete silence about the Aurora thing, and vanilla-almond latte with chocolate shavings?" Hermione put on her best winning smile, which was pretty sad after two hours of sleep and six hours of staring at the ceiling.

"Secrecy, I can do," Chantall replied. "No problemo. And peace in the wizarding world was pretty much clinched after Harry kicked Voldemort's scrawny ass. But peace in the Muggle world? I'm a witch, not a miracle worker! Muggles couldn't stop fighting and declaring war if you paid them."

Chantall's American accent was particularly prominent. Hermione rolled her eyes, touching the sore bump on her head as she did so. "Yes, yes, very good. And the latte?"

It was Chantall's turn to roll her eyes. "Why do I get the feeling that's the thing you're most concerned about?"

Hermione tried her best to look innocent.

"Probably because it's true," Chantall answered herself, shaking back her silky locks, today which were arranged in a perfect half-ponytail with an ebony wood hair ornament shaped like a flower. Hermione's hand roamed to her own ponytail. Yep. Still a tight, frizzy, mess. "But I'll make you it anyway. I already indulged Brad and Damon."

"That just sounds wrong," laughed Hermione as Chantall topped the espresso she was making with whipped cream and caramel sauce and handed it to the woman, who clutched it like a lifeline, with a polite "Have a nice day."

Chantall wrinkled her perfect nose. "Okay, yeah, maybe. But we're talking about Brad here. Do you honestly think I'd make sexual references to him? He annoys the hell out of me."

"But what about Damon?" Even in her sleep-deprived state, Hermione picked up on Chantall's indiscretion.

It was hard to tell when super-tan Chantall blushed, but Hermione was pretty sure she did. "What about him?"

"Oh, nothing," Hermione grinned.

"Yeah, I bet it's nothing, Herm," snorted Chantall. Now Hermione was sure her friend was blushing.

Hermione bit her tongue as Chantall whipped her up a specialty latte. As she grabbed the cup from her friend, she prepared to head to the back storeroom with a singsong, "See you later, Mrs. Monhegan."

There was a muffled noise, like Chantall had started to beat her head against the espresso machine.

This morning was already looking up.

*~*~*~*

Three hours later, she wasn't so sure.

Java Du Jour was a madhouse. Brad and Damon were frantically manning the front counter. Even a special delivery of another couple of cups of Chantall's cinnamon-sugar espressos (plus the ones they'd consumed before the store opened) couldn't make them superspeedy enough to keep up with the mad crowd.

Chantall, too, was overworked. Hermione had worked a stint at the counter with the Caffeine Queen and had finally managed to work down the crowd a little bit. Now, after grabbing her third coffee of the day (plain hazelnut French roast, since Chantall had enough work to do as it was), she hightailed it to the front counter, where Brad and Damon were handling two of the three registers. Each line consisted of nearly fifteen people. Great.

Hermione's tight ponytail had started to give her a headache around nine a. m. She'd finally pulled out the rubber band and let her curls hang below her shoulders in all their frizzy glory. Her WonderWitch deodorant (Guaranteed to keep you smelling like a love potion, it's Celestina Warbeck's favorite brand!) had apparently stopped working a few minutes ago, because she could feel herself starting to sweat a bit. From now on, it's Muggle deodorant for me.

"Herm!" shouted Damon from the front, his deep voice carrying over the chattering of the crowd. "Someone just complained the Gothic romance section is a bloody mess!"

"Gotcha!" Hermione pulled a U-ey and headed for Gothic romance. Sure enough, it looked like a tornado (or perhaps a stampede of older witches desperate to get their hands on Taryn Lockheart's-- niece of the infamous and memoryless Gilderoy-- latest, Blood Lust) had blown through the section.

With a sigh, Hermione pushed back a wayward curl and began to reshelve, mentally noting there were only three copies of Blood Lust left. Annoying as primadonna Taryn Lockheart was (there had been that unfortunate book-signing incident at Java Du Jour, involving a pissed-off ex-Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, a set of biting teacups, and an irate and blue-haired Taryn) her books sold damn well.

"Miss?" came an annoyed-sounding voice from behind her. A short, pale man with a thick black moustache was holding a stack of three books (unable to resist, Hermione peeked at their spines-- The Three Musketeers, The Best of Edgar Allan Poe, and Wuthering Heights-- interesting) and a Java Du Jour receipt. "I want to return these?"

"Go to the front desk, sir," instructed Hermione. "You can tell one of the men working there what you want." With a sort of tutting noise, the man complied and walked away.

Hermione muttered something rather uncomplimentary and was just about to finish reshelving several copies of another Taryn Lockheart classic, Deadly Love, when Chantall's voice, sounding rather strange, rang out.

"Um, Herm?"

"Yes?"

"There's someone here to see you!"

"Can you tell them I'm busy?" Hermione shouted, picking up another couple of copies of Deadly Love.

"You'd better come here!" she called back in that same odd tone of voice. Hermione sighed impatiently, gathering a stack of a novel called Precarious Passion in her arms and weaving her way back to the coffee bar.

What she saw made her promptly drop her stack of books.

There, leaning against the coffee bar, looking completely at home, talking with Albus Dumbledore, was none other than Draco bloody Malfoy.