Burning Down the House

Hermione ran a hand through her hair and looked out the window. The weather had turned blustery and cold with freezing rain making everything slick, but the view outside her window displayed sunny blue skies, a sparkling turquoise ocean, and soft white sand. Someone in Maintenance must be going somewhere warm and sunny on holiday after Christmas, she mused. Her chin trembled and she savagely bit her lip to stem the angry tears that pooled in the corners of her eyes. She massaged her temples slowly, trying to ease the band of tension that had settled around her head. 'Hey.' Hermione looked up. Harry stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with sympathy. 'I heard...' he said, coming into the office, and quietly shutting the door behind him. Hermione pushed herself to her feet and launched herself into Harry's arms, wretched sobs wrenching from her throat. 'Shhhh,' he murmured, guiding her to a chair, and gently, but firmly, made her sit down. He knelt next to the chair, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, keeping an arm wrapped around her shoulders. Harry handed her the handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes, swiping the soft cotton roughly over her face.

'It was awful,' she choked.

'I know,' he crooned, as if she had been James. 'Want to tell me what happened?'

Hermione sniffed, and rubbed the handkerchief under her nose. 'Not particularly.' She sniffed again, and looked at Harry. 'Does Ginny know you're here?'

'In your office?' Harry asked, bemused. 'No. But she knows I'm at the Ministry.' He rubbed her back soothingly. 'C'mon, Hermione, tell me what happened.'

'They eviscerated it,' she whispered. 'They tore it apart. They didn't think the Hogwarts model would work on a widespread basis.' She rested her head on Harry's shoulder. 'When they asked me why I was so adamant about doing this, every logical argument flew out of my head, and all I could say was "No more Dobbies." One old swot actually referred to my condition,' she spat.

Harry stiffened slightly. 'What do you mean by that? No more Dobbies?'

'No more elves wearing dirty pillowcases. Or being forced to iron their fingers. Or physically punish themselves in anyway. No more ordering elves to do things that could kill them,' she added, thinking of Kreacher. She slowly exhaled. 'It was all I could think of. But none of that actually came out of my mouth.' She wiped the handkerchief under her nose again. 'Not at first, but by the time those words had formed in my head, that old wanker muttered something about pregnant women needing to stay at home and knit socks!' she said indignantly. Hermione rubbed her forehead. 'Kingsley and the others who supported it were outvoted two to one.'

'You're not packing it in, are you?' Harry asked, shifting from his knees to a chair nearby.

'Of course not!' Hermione snapped. 'I'm just going to rewrite it. Try and go at it from another angle. And they won't all be around forever...'

Harry stood up and took Hermione's coat from the hook by the door. 'Come on, then. You ought to get yourself home. Ron will be worried.'

'What time is it?' Hermione tilted her wrist sideways, checking her watch.

'Six-thirty, and you need to get home.' Harry held her coat out.

'Fine...' Hermione heaved to her feet, and thrust her arms into her coat. She picked up her briefcase and handbag, and strode out the door, waiting for Harry to follow her.

'Taking the Underground home?' he asked idly, walking with her to the lifts.

'No. Too icy to walk home from the station.'

'Apparition? Floo?'

'Does it really matter?' Hermione ground out between clenched teeth.

'Well, no,' Harry said, unperturbed by Hermione's mood, having been on the receiving end of Ginny's mood swings with James too often to be bothered by it. 'But I know solo Apparition's getting difficult for you and so is Flooing, so if you'll let me, I'll see you home.'

Hermione's shoulders sagged slightly. 'Apparition's fine.'

Harry punched the lift button. 'We'll have to stop by my office for my things, all right?'

'It's fine.' They were silent on the ride to Level Two and Hermione waited by the lifts for Harry, who appeared in a few moments, his coat dangling from one shoulder and arm, and his bag in the other hand. Once in the lift, he shoved his other arm through its sleeve, and slung the bag's strap over his shoulder.

Harry shifted uneasily a few times, and glanced at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. 'Sometimes, you have to start small,' he said softly. 'Lots of people aren't going to change their minds about some things overnight. And some people never will.'

'I know that,' Hermione said impatiently. 'And that's a bit rich coming from you.'

'I'm just saying, Hermione,' Harry remarked mildly. 'You might need to back off a bit, and just change one thing at a time.'

'I've tried to do that,' she sighed.

Harry leaned against the wall of the lift. 'Well, what was the least offensive thing to the Wizengamot?' he asked.

'Could you please just stop?' Hermione retorted. 'I know what you're trying to do, but it's not making me feel better.' The doors of the lift opened, and they walked out into the echoing emptiness of the Atrium toward an Apparition point. She put her hand on Harry's arm, and in seconds, they reappeared on her doormat. 'I'll see you Sunday,' she said tiredly.

'It'll be okay, Hermione,' Harry said, swiftly bending down to kiss her cheek, before he disappeared with a soft pop.

Hermione stood on the doormat for a moment, before she twisted the doorknob, and walked into the warm flat. Ron hastily turned off the television, but not before she heard a familiar sound effect. 'So who did it this week?' she asked, knowing those American police procedural dramas were Ron's secret guilty pleasure.

'The daughter,' Ron said promptly. 'Her alibi's too neat and pretty,' he added scornfully. 'Are you hungry?'

'Not really,' Hermione replied, sinking onto the sofa next to Ron.

'How did it go today?'

'It didn't.'

'They cancelled your session?'

'No, it didn't pass.'

'I'm sorry. You've worked really hard on it.'

'Back to square one, I suppose.' Hermione sighed. 'I wanted to pass it before the baby came.'

'The whole thing?' Ron asked incredulously.

'Yes, Ron, the whole thing. What's wrong with that?'

Ron turned around to face Hermione. 'You've been around witches and wizards more than half your life now. You know perfectly well that a lot of the older ones don't like change, and you're asking them to change everything they know. It's not going to be easy.'

'Why does everybody keep telling me that?' Hermione muttered mutinously.

'Because you want to change the world, hen. And you want to do it all at once,' Ron said soothingly. 'You've never really failed at anything, hen - '

'This isn't a failure!' Hermione interrupted peevishly.

'No, of course not. Setback, then,' Ron interjected smoothly. 'But everything always came easy to you. At least in school. And everything you've done in your department has been stuff the Wizengamot could handle. Or at least wrap their minds around. Moving some centaurs to a new area to prevent overcrowding in the Forbidden Forest, fine. Making Wolfsbane readily available at St. Mungo's, well, who wouldn't want that? Making the Centaur Liaison Office into a real position was brilliant, and the centaurs respect you for it, and they don't respect humans at all. And it took years, but you finally got werewolves classified under the Being division, when you proved it would be beneficial to everyone.'

'But I promised,' Hermione said sadly. 'I promised Dobby that I would make things better.'

'And you will,' Ron said confidently. 'It just didn't happen today.'

'Are you going to give me some pap that tomorrow's a new day and I can start over?' she snorted bitterly.

'Actually, I was. But if you don't want to hear it...' Ron left his position on the sofa and went into the kitchen. Hermione could be even more stubborn than he was at times, and if she didn't want to be soothed, she would resist it until she was ready. He pulled the lid off a pot of stew that was simmering on the back of the stove and poked a spoon into it, stirring it a few times. Ron didn't want to antagonize her, but she was angry and hurt, and itching for a fight. He recognized that need to lash out from himself. It wasn't something he did as much as he had when he was younger, but he still had a tendency to pick a fight with someone when his ego was bruised. He replaced the lid to the pot and briefly wondered if Hermione had always been that way, and he'd never noticed, or if it was mere hormones, like Harry and George kept trying to convince him into believing. Ron thought it was more likely she had picked up that particular habit from him. Of all the bad habits she could have learned form him, that was one he could live without, hormonal or no.

*****

'Ooof!' Ron's eyes flew open. Hermione's elbow had collided painfully with his nose. She continued to sleep fitfully, a line between her brows. Ron lifted his head from the pillow and glanced at the alarm clock. It was only six-thirty in the morning. Sighing, he turned on his side, and tried to go back to sleep, but Hermione's restless shifting kept him awake. Giving up, he slid out of bed, and padded to the door of the flat, thinking the Muggle paper Hermione read might be at the door already. He pulled the door open, yawning, and blinked in bemusement at the neatly folded parchment on the doormat. He picked it up, and stepped out into the landing, walking to the stairs. He went down a few steps, peering into the semi-darkness. No tell-tale flutter of wings or soft hoots signifying an owl reached his ears, and Ron didn't see anyone else in the darkened stairwell. Shrugging, he went back into the flat and looked down at the parchment in his hands. Hermione's name was in the middle. With a glance toward the open bedroom door, Ron quietly unsealed the letter and read the message inside.

The blood drained slowly from Ron's head, and he dropped to the edge of a chair. He carefully set it on the coffee table, his hands shaking. He clasped them together, and squeezed them between his knees, in an effort to stop the shaking. A rustling sound made him look up, and Hermione shuffled into the sitting room. 'Paper isn't here yet,' Ron blurted standing up to help ease Hermione down to the sofa. Her sense of balance was rubbish first thing in the morning.

'Oh, hadn't even thought that far ahead,' she mumbled.

'You ought to go back to bed,' Ron chided gently, one hand moving in slow circles over her stomach, feeling the nudges against his palm as the baby stretched and kicked.

'Can't sleep,' she countered. 'Baby's moving too much.'

Ron leaned down, so his lips hovered above the rippling material of Hermione's nightgown, his large hand still slowly circling over the swell of the baby. 'You need to settle down, then,' he whispered. 'You're keeping your mum awake and between you and me, she gets more than a bit tetchy when she's not slept well,' he added, grinning cheekily up at Hermione. 'Come on, little one. You have to listen to me, because I'm your father.' His cheeks colored slightly. 'I've always wanted to say that,' he admitted sheepishly. 'Ever since I heard Dad say that to George and Fred.' Ron dropped a kiss over Hermione's navel and straightened up.

'What had they done?'

'I don't remember, really, but in all honestly, the better question would be what hadn't they done.' Ron laughed quietly, then sobered. 'Hermione...?'

'Hmmmm?'

'You got something in the post.' Ron picked up the parchment and handed it to her.

Hermione glanced down at it, unimpressed, then crumpled it up and threw it into the fireplace. 'It's nothing,' she said.

'That's not nothing,' insisted Ron.

'Ron, do you remember our fourth year?'

'I try not to,' he muttered. 'But yes.'

'Do you remember all the hate mail I got after that article Skeeter wrote about Harry and me in Witch Weekly?'

'Yeah.'

'That's all this is,' she said dismissively. 'Ignore it.'

'This isn't the same thing, Hermione. This is someone with an axe to grind.' Ron eyed her suspiciously. 'This isn't the first one, is it?'

Hermione considering telling Ron what he wanted to hear, and saying that yes, this was the first note she'd received. But he knew her well enough to tell when she wasn't being quite truthful with him. He said her voice went up to a pitch only dogs could hear. 'No,' she sighed. 'It's not.'

'How many have you gotten?' Ron asked.

'A few,' Hermione acknowledged.

'How many?' Ron demanded.

'That one made four,' Hermione confessed, indicating the fireplace, the letter long since burnt to ashes.

'Damn it, Hermione!' Ron's fist crashed on the coffee table, making the chess board set in the middle rattle, and several pieces toppled over. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Because you'd react like this!' she snapped, centering the board on the table once more, and carefully righting the pieces, tenderly setting them into place on the board. It had been her father's. Jane had given it Ron after Richard had died. 'It's nothing. If I don't react to it, they'll go away. It's a juvenile game, and I won't allow them to keep me from doing my job,' she nearly shouted back.

'Of course I'd react like this! You're carrying our child, or did you happen to forget that?'

'Like I could forget that,' Hermione said contemptuously. 'I'm not putting myself or the baby in danger. I would never knowingly or willingly do anything that would harm either of us.'

Ron sagged forward, his head cradled in his hands. 'I know... But this is a little scary, you know?'

'I do know.' Hermione's hand rested on the back of Ron's head, stroking the bright red hair. 'But I refuse to live my life in fear for what I believe. And you did, too, once upon a time...'

'Yeah,' Ron croaked. 'But that was before we became parents. Everything scares me. I just don't want to take the chance of losing either of you.' He drew in a shaky breath. 'But I won't - can't - ask you to stop doing what you're doing.' He sat up slowly. 'But do promise me something, will you?'

'What?' Hermione asked warily.

'If it turns into more than just notes, you have to tell Harry about it.'

'Ron, I'm sure it won't be necessary, but all right. If anything odd happens, we'll go to Harry with it.'

That seemed to mollify Ron, because he absently patted Hermione on the knee and went to see about fixing both of them breakfast, before going into the shop for the rush of students coming home for the Christmas holiday. As he stood on the hearth rug, a handful of Floo powder in his hand, he looked at Hermione. 'Put up a few wards or something, please? It'll make me feel better.' Hermione opened her mouth, ready to protest, but the pleading look in Ron's eyes made her nod in agreement. As soon as the emerald flames in the fireplace died down, she retrieved her wand from their bedroom, and slowly walked around the perimeter of the flat, murmuring spells she had learned for the months she, Ron, and Harry had spent searching for the remaining Horcruxes. A chill cascaded down her spine as she completed the last spell.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not anymore.

*****

Ron tumbled out of the fireplace at the Burrow, checking his coat pocket for the awkwardly wrapped package tucked inside. A quick feel of the item inside told him it was undamaged, and he went into the kitchen, joining Molly to help finish preparations for Christmas lunch later. 'Hello, Mum. Happy Christmas.'

Molly looked up from the pastry crust she was crimping around the edge of a pie plate. 'Happy Christmas, Ron.'

'I, uh, have something for you,' he said, holding out the flat package.

Molly finished crimping the top crust of the pie that bulged with apples, and wiped her hands on her apron. She took the gift from Ron, smiling at the clumsy wrapping, and carefully pried the paper apart, ignoring Ron's sigh that told her to just rip the thing open. She pulled a frame from the welter of newspaper he had wrapped protectively around it and turned it over. 'Oh...' Three photographs nestled together in the frame. Fabian with an infant Ron in his arms, rocked steadily, while he read Merlin-knew-what to the wide-awake baby. The second also showed Fabian, his toes resting on one of the cradle's rockers, rocking Ron inside with a slow, steady rhythm. The last was taken when Ginny was only a week old, her tiny body snuggled into the arms of Gideon, while Fabian held an obviously sulky Ron, while Bill, Charlie, Percy, George, and Fred clustered around their beloved uncles. Well, everyone except Fred and George. George was placing a Filibuster's Wet-Start No-Heat firework under Percy, while Fred ducked behind Percy, and, well, you couldn't actually see what Fred was doing, but Ron surmised he had urinated on the firework. Percy shot out of the photograph like a scalded cat, as the firework popped harmlessly, more noise than anything else.

Molly traced a fingertip over Gideon and Fabian's faces. 'It's lovely.' She looked at Ron. 'You have their nose,' she told him. 'And that cowlick over your left eye.' Her hand rose to brush over Ron's hair. 'Gave Gideon fits when he was sixteen.'

'The cradle's fantastic, Mum.' Ron's head ducked bashfully. 'It was right nice of you to think of Hermione and me.'

'It was always meant for you.' Molly rose to set the frame on the dresser and went back to her pies. Ron took his coat off and hung it on a hook in the scullery, then joined Molly at the table, and began to spoon mincemeat onto the circles of pastry that littered one end of the flour-covered table.

'I thought you would have given it to Bill or something,' Ron remarked, shrugging.

'No.' Molly lifted another pastry crust into a pie plate and pressed it gently against the sides, before ladling apples fragrant with cinnamon into it. 'After Gideon and Fabian were...' Her voice cracked slightly. 'Gone... I decided that the rocking chair and cradle would go to Ginny and you.' She laid the top pastry crust over the mound of apples and began the process of crimping the crusts together. Molly glanced at Ron. 'Bill didn't need memories of either Gideon or Fabian. He had plenty. And you spent more time in that cradle with Fabian than any of the others. It was the only thing that would settle you.' Molly paused, 'That was something you had with Fabian that none of the others had.' She slid the completed pie across the table to rest next to the first one. 'Didn't make sense to give it to any of the others.'

'Thanks, Mum.' Ron carefully folded one of the rounds of pastry over and crimped the edges together. 'So...' he began. 'Be honest. Did you make my jumper maroon this year?'

*****

Ron sat on the floor of the sitting room in his flat, watching the flames of the fireplace, the chessboard on the hearth rug in front of him. 'At least she put a nice border on the sleeves and neck,' Hermione placated. 'And that's not maroon.'

'That's easy for you to say. She's never made you a jumper that was in a color you despised.' Ron moved a white piece. 'Me, twenty-five Christmases, twenty-five maroon jumpers. I have photographs.'

'You're exaggerating.'

'Nope. Every year a new jumper, every year it's maroon.' He sighed gustily. 'One day...' He thoughtfully looked up at Hermione sprawled across the sofa. 'I don't suppose it would be ethical to do a Memory charm on Mum to make her forget that my jumpers are always maroon, would it?'

'No, it wouldn't be ethical. And I can't believe you'd even consider asking that.'

Ron moved a black knight, and studied his options on the board before moving a white bishop. 'Even Angus got a jumper, and he's not born yet. And his isn't maroon.'

'Jealous much?' Hermione commented archly.

'You would be, if your unborn child got a lovely blue jumper, and you, once again, got maroon,' Ron sulked.

'Have you ever said a word so much it lost all meaning?' Hermione wondered pointedly. 'I don't think I've said the word "maroon" more in one conversation in my life.'

Ron picked up the chess board and slid it back onto the coffee table, leaving it in mid-game. 'All right, hen, I can take a hint.' He unfolded his body and stretched as he got to his feet. 'Let's go to bed. I'm all done in.'