Questions and Answers

Hermione lifted her head and stared at her mother, as if she could make her breathe with sheer force of will. After several tense moments, Hermione shook her head. 'No, see? Look...' Jane's chest rose and fell imperceptibly. Ron joined her in the intense staring. Waiting. Hermione's hand pressed against Jane's throat, just under her jaw. She reached for one of Ron's hands. 'See if you can feel a pulse,' she demanded, placing his fingers where hers had been.

Ron waited for several moments, then shook his head. 'I can't feel anything,' he said. He eased out of his chair and darted into the corridor. One of the nurses was walking toward him. 'I think she's...' He trailed off and gestured to Jane's room. The nurse hurried into the room, pulling a stethoscope from the pocket of her scrubs. She fitted the earpieces into her ears and rested the round disc of the chestpiece against the front of Jane's pajamas. She listened intently, then straightened slowly.

'She's gone...'

xxxxxx

If Ron expected Hermione to break into paroxysms of hysterical sobbing, he was wrong. She exhaled on a shuddering moan and buried her face into her folded arms on the edge of Jane's bed. 'Hermione?' Ron asked softly. She peeped at him over the crook of her elbow.

'I'm all right.' She inhaled deeply and sat up. 'I'm all right,' she repeated. Hermione slid the chair back a bit and stood up. 'I need some air,' she murmured. She headed for the door and stopped. 'Do you mind staying here with Mum...?' Ron shook his head and Hermione slipped out of Jane's room and blindly strode to the door of the building, her finger automatically punching in the code to unlock the door. She turned to one side of the building and ducked into a dormant garden, walking the small labyrinth laid out in flagstones, with her hands clasped behind her back. Hermione paced slowly, oblivious to the fingers of cold wind snaking through her jumper. When she reached the middle, and the bench resting in a patch of grass, she dropped into it with a sigh.

Hermione thought she ought to have felt... Something. She remembered the awful morning her father had died nearly fifteen years ago and the raw, gaping grief that had enveloped her mother and her. But now, the only thing she could feel in the cacophony of emotions swirling around her head was relief. With each breath, she could feel her shoulders slipping down little by little, until they no longer felt as if they were hovering just under her ears.

The sound of shoes crunching on the gravel path leading to the edge of the labyrinth made Hermione's head turn slightly. Ron trudged to the entrance of the garden, carrying her coat and started to walk directly toward her, but abruptly turned into the path of the labyrinth, marking its route with a deliberate step. He joined Hermione on the bench and slipped an arm around her shoulders. After several moments, she stood up and began to walk away from the center of the labyrinth, still keeping to its boundaries. Ron followed her, matching her methodical gait. Neither of them spoke until they stepped from the circle. She reached back for Ron's hand and met his sober blue gaze. Her hand tightened around his and before he could blink, she had Apparated them both to Hogsmeade.

xxxxxx

Hugo sighed handed a scroll of parchment to Maddie. 'Can you look over that essay for Charms? Flitwick nearly came unglued last week when Janie handed in her quiz with the incantations misspelled. Said he'd start taking points off of regular homework if that sort of thing continued...'

Madeline scanned the scroll and nodded, passing it back over the tower of books surrounding Hugo. 'Looks fine.'

'Fan-bloody-tastic,' Hugo muttered. 'All that extra work, because she can't be bothered to look up the bloody spell in the textbook.' His lip curled in distaste. 'You'd swear she was dropped on her head as a small child...'

'Janie Sawyer?' Isabella asked, as she passed by the table where Hugo and Madeline were working.

'Yeah,' Hugo sighed. 'You know her?'

'I know her older brother Malcolm. He's actually quite smart for all that he behaves like a gormless eejit.'

'So is Janie,' Hugo told her. 'She's just insanely lazy. Lazier than even I am,' he added.

A cry arose from a small know of third years in the corner. Rosie groaned theatrically over Scorpius' delighted shout of, 'Checkmate!'

Al gathered Rose's chess pieces and tucked them into their box. 'Why do you insist on doing this to yourself?' he asked idly.

'Because,' Rose began patiently, 'Dad plays brilliantly. Hugo plays brilliantly.'

'So that means you have to?' Al chuckled.

Rose pursed her lips primly. 'Even Mum plays better than I do... I can't stand being the only one who's absolute rubbish at chess.' She swept the box containing her pieces into her bag. 'Why don't you go ask Lily why she's learning to untie knots blindfolded, hmm?'

'Because she's training for a career as a petty thief in case the magic bit doesn't work out,' Al replied promptly. 'It's what Mum always says when we try to sneak around.'

The portrait swung open, and Neville climbed through, scanning the faces of the students inside the common room. Sudden silence descended over the common room. Neville hardly ever came into the common room, unless it was to break up a raucous post-Quidditch party at three in the morning. 'Were we too loud, Professor?' Isabella asked, with a dubious expression.

Neville frowned at her. 'What? Oh, no... Rose...? Hugo...? Could you come with me, please? And bring your things with you.'

Rose glared at Hugo. 'What did you do?' she hissed.

'Nothing!' Hugo gazed at Neville's unusually sober face as they followed him through the portrait hole. He waited until the portrait closed and came to a stop in the corridor. 'Something's happened, hasn't it?' He crossed his arms over his chest and refused to move any further.

'I'd rather not discuss it here,' Neville said quietly. 'Come on...'

'Has something happened to Mum or Dad?' Hugo persisted.

Neville sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. 'No.' He beckoned to the two children and headed down the stone staircase.

Hugo's eyes narrowed but he followed his sister, managing to avoid the trick step. They walked quickly through the corridors to a door, guarded by a pair of gargoyles. Rose glanced over her shoulder at Hugo. 'Where are we?' she mouthed. He shrugged in bewilderment. As much as he and Lily had managed to explore the castle, there were still areas that remained a mystery. They trailed after Neville into a room that managed to be cozy and airy at the same time, with a roaring fire and comfortable sofas and armchairs. Ron and Hermione occupied a small sofa near the fire, half-heartedly sipping tea neither of them seemed to want.

Hugo hung back by the door, his feet rooted to the spot. He examined each of his parents in turn, peering at them closely, noting the faraway look to his mother. 'It's Grandmum, isn't it?' he guessed. 'She's...' He gulped audibly. 'Dead.'

Ron and Hermione exchanged a wordless glance, fueled by their nearly lifelong relationship with each other. It was Hermione, in the end, who nodded, and set her tea on the table next to the sofa. 'Yes. She is.'

Hugo heard a stifled gasp and turned to look at Rose. She had both hands clapped over her mouth, her dark eyes wide over the edges of her hands. 'When?' she asked, her voice muffled.

'This afternoon,' Ron told her gently. Rose's eyes welled up and tears spilled from the corners. She sniffled loudly and started to wipe her sleeve under her nose, but Neville pushed a clean handkerchief into her hand. 'You're going to come home with us for a few days,' Ron added.

'I'll collect your assignments for the next several days and owl them to you tonight,' Neville told them.

'Thanks, P-p-p-professor,' Hugo stammered, driven into numb formality. He stumbled toward the fireplace and waited, staring into the flames.

'Rosie...?' Hugo started a little at the sound of his mother's voice. She hadn't spoken since they walked into the room. Hermione pushed herself out of the depths of the overstuffed sofa and crossed the room, where Rosie stood clutching her bag, shaking her head slightly. She cupped Rose's face in her hands, nearly having to look up at her daughter. Hermione gently thumbed the tears from Rosie's cheeks. 'I won't force you to come home with us,' she murmured. 'It's all right if you don't want...' Her voice cracked and it seemed to reach through the shell that had enveloped Rose.

Rose shook her head. 'No... I'll...' She trudged across the room and joined Hugo at the fireplace. She watched at Neville enfolded Hermione into a sympathetic embrace.

'Send an owl to Hannah and me when the funeral will be,' Neville said softly to Ron, when Hermione stepped away. Ron nodded and shook Neville's hand with a murmured word of thanks, then guided Hermione to the fireplace. Neville reached into his robes for a small pouch of Floo powder and carefully poured a handful into each of their hands, and waited for Ron, Hermione, Rose, and Hugo to disappear into the swirling green flames. He left the staffroom and strode to his own quarters, slipping through the door, then silently closing it. One of the school elves tiptoed from Eric's room, a severe demeanor on her pointed face.

'Shhh!' she cautioned, fixing Neville with a look that would have done McGonagall proud. 'Eric is sleeping.'

'I won't wake him up,' Neville promised in a whisper. He tried to reimburse the elf for watching Eric, but the severe aura changed so swiftly to one of hurt reproach, he felt as if he'd insulted the elf.

'Professor Longbottom, I is not watching Eric so I's can be paid,' she sniffed.

'I'm sorry,' Neville said in chagrin. 'It was just such short notice...'

The elf shook her head. 'It is not being a problem, Professor Longbottom,' she squeaked, then left the flat. Neville turned into Eric's bedroom, and stood over the cot, watching his son sleep in limp abandon. He carefully scooped the boy into his arms and backed into the rocking chair, tucking Eric's sweaty head under his chin, his sturdy weight a welcome burden against his chest. Eric stirred sleepily and his eyes opened slightly.

'Da....' He smiled, snuggled into Neville, then promptly shut his eyes. His deep, even breathing resumed soon after. Neville pushed his toes against the floor and began to rock Eric, the chair swaying in time with Eric's breathing.

Neville could remember the day his mother had died. She'd slipped quietly away during the night a couple of years after the war ended. What he'd felt more than anything else was crushing guilt. He thought he ought to have been devastated.

He had been more relieved than grief-stricken when the Healer from St. Mungo's had met with him and his grandmother, something Augusta had picked up on, but wisely refrained from commenting about it. But as the day wore on in a whirl of arrangements for Alice's funeral, Neville felt increasingly guilty that he wasn't more distressed by his mother's death. It wasn't that Neville didn't love his mother. But at the same time, he had wondered from a fairly young age just how long both of his parents could linger as they were. Neville often wondered if they suffered at all. At least then he knew his mother wasn't suffering any longer.

The expression on Hermione's face put him in mind of the one he'd worn just after he had left the hospital with his grandmother - the carefully blank countenance, the feeling that he was wrapped in a fog of cotton wool, trying to balance his overwhelming sense of relief against the sorrow of losing his mother.

In contrast, it was his grandmother's death that had sent Neville into a well of despondency. She was the one who had raised him, sent him off to school, celebrated when he got his position as the Herbology professor, and wept tears of joy when he'd married Hannah. True, she had been somewhat abrasive when he was a child, but Neville had often wondered if she felt in some way responsible for what had happened to Frank and Alice. That if she raised Neville to be made of slightly sterner stuff, the same thing wouldn't happen to him.

He brushed his lips over Eric's silky hair, wishing for the first time since Eric came into their lives, he could have one more day with his grandmother.

*****

Ron collapsed on the sofa and groaned softly as his body shifted into the contours of its cushions. Hermione had fallen asleep almost immediately after dinner, obviously worn out from the day. He could hear the occasional muffled sniffle from Rose's room, as if she had the quilt pulled over her head. Hugo's bedroom door was firmly closed, but a band of light shone underneath. Hugo could still be awake or he could have fallen asleep with the light on. He hadn't made a peep since he'd retreated to his room. That worried Ron. While Hugo was normally on the quiet side, Ron hadn't expected him to totally withdraw like he had.

'Hiya...' Harry's head was in the fireplace.

Ron picked his head up from the back of sofa. 'Hi,' he replied softly and slid off the sofa, settling on the hearth rug.

'How's Hermione?'

'All right, I guess... We brought the kids down for the funeral.'

'We'll bring our lot down for it, as well,' Harry said.

'Oh, Harry, that's not necessary...' Ron began, but Harry cut him off.

'Don't be a git. That's how we do things in this family,' Harry reminded him. 'Besides, it'll be nice if they have someone else their age around. Especially after the service.'

'And do you really think McGonagall will agree to allow...' Ron paused and counted off the number of Weasley and Potter children currently in school. 'Thirteen students to just go home like that?'

'I do,' Harry responded. 'Minerva knows how we handle things of this sort. When's the funeral?'

'We were thinking about Friday,' Ron muttered, twisting his fingers together.

'One of us will go up on Thursday and collect them. I'll send an owl to Minerva before I go to bed.'

Ron chuckled a little, his shoulders slumping. 'Did you lot decide all this at lunch today?'

'Of course we did,' Harry retorted. 'Did you even have to ask?'

Ron pressed his fingers to his eyes and nodded. 'Thanks, mate.'

Harry peered at Ron in concern. 'How are you doing, then?'

'I've been worse...'

'Yeah, you look done in. I'll talk to you tomorrow, all right?'

'Okay.'

Harry pulled his head from the fire and Ron remained on the hearth rug. He could still hear the muffled sniffles coming from Rose's bedroom. He got to his feet and headed for Rose's room, knocking softly on the door. 'Hey, Rose-bud,' he called in a low voice, picking his way across the floor and perching on the edge of Rose's bed. He dug into his pocket and pressed a handkerchief into her hand. 'Don't use the edge of the sheet,' he told her, as she raised it to her face. 'Even I don't do that anymore.' The corner of his mouth tilted up. 'Well, not much, at any rate...'

Rose scrubbed the soft cotton over her face. 'I didn't get to say good-bye,' she choked, tears running from the corners of her eyes, dampening the pillow under her head.

'I know, sweetie,' Ron crooned, tucking a strand of her wayward hair behind her ear. He bent and brushed a kiss over her cheek. 'Try and get some sleep,' he murmured. 'It's gong to be a long week.'

'G'night, Dad...'

'Night, Rose-bud.' Ron left the room, and closed the door behind him. Hugo's room was across the corridor, so he went inside, after knocking quietly. There was no answer, so Ron opened the door a mere crack. Hugo was sound asleep, a book open over his scrawny chest. Ron carefully picked it up, his eyebrows going up in surprise. He supposed Hugo had plucked it from one of Hermione's bookcases that lined the walls of the sitting room. Out of idle curiosity, Ron scanned the text, his brows nearly disappearing into the fringe that flopped over his forehead. It was a sentiment he'd heard Ginny mutter to herself from time to time over the years, and wondered when Hugo had heard her say it. He slipped a scrap of parchment between the pages and closed the book, placing on the night table, scrutinizing his son. It didn't seem normal for an eleven-year old to actively seek out comfort from a book, no matter what it was. Ron switched the lamp off and backed out of the room. Hugo had always been something of an odd duck, even as a baby.

He edged into his own bedroom and sat heavily on the edge of the bed he shared with Hermione. Ron hauled his jumper and t-shirt over his head and let them drop to the floor in a heap next to the bed, then eased his jeans down before stretching out in the bed.

'Was it just her body that died, do you think?' Hermione's voice drifted through the darkness. 'Had that part that made Mum, well, Mum - had it died before today?'

'First Hugo, now you,' Ron replied. 'Using philosophy to cope...'

'Well...? What do you think?' Hermione persisted.

'I don't know, hen,' he finally answered. 'I think you'd have to ask Neville that one. He's the one with any sort of experience at all with anything like this...'

'But what is it that makes a person?' Hermione continued, craving a resolution to her inquiries. 'Is it just the fact they can breathe, walk, talk? I mean ghosts can walk and talk, sort of, but that doesn't necessarily make them people!'

'Hermione, you know the answer to that,' Ron chided.

'Do I?'

'Do you remember the first time you realized Jane couldn't do the crossword anymore?'

'Yes...'

'Was she still your mother?'

'I suppose...'

'What about when she didn't remember you, me, or the children?'

'Of course she was still my mother,' Hermione said heatedly. 'It's not as if I'd just say, "Oh, well, too bad, you don't remember me, so you cease to exist?" would I?'

'Well, no, that's not what I'm trying to say... It's so difficult to give you an answer you'll find satisfactory,' Ron sighed. 'If you think that your mother's identity rested in her memoires, then maybe she did die a long time ago, and it just took this long for her body to realize it. Or maybe your mum always was there and she just got lost.' Ron shook his head. 'I really don't know. This is a conversation for an Unspeakable...'

The silence spooled between them for such a long time, Ron thought Hermione had fallen asleep. 'Do you think she would have been angry with me?' she asked.

'Whatever for?'

'Because I let her die...'

'You didn't let her die, hen,' Ron corrected. 'It's not as if you let her fall off a cliff.' He rolled over onto his side so he could look at Hermione. 'You know - knew - your mum better than probably anyone alive right now. Do you think she wanted to live like that for some indefinite period of time?'

Hermione turned to face Ron and burrowed into his chest. 'Then why does it feel like I've killed her...?'

xxxxxx

Arthur set a creamer on a tray filled with a sugar bowl and numerous cups and saucers. He glanced out the kitchen window into the wintry back garden. Hugo slumped in the swing suspended from the apple tree, listlessly twisting it around. He beckoned to Charlie, who was hanging Aiden's coat in the scullery. 'Take this into the sitting room, would you?'

'Sure...'

'Tell your mum I'll be back in a moment.' Arthur grabbed his cloak and made his way to Hugo, Summoning an ancient day lounger from the others grouped by the tool shed, he set it next to the apple tree and settled into it, as if he were going to spend the afternoon reading Ron's old issues of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. 'It's a bit chilly out here,' he remarked.

Hugo shrugged. 'It's all right.'

Arthur slid down further into the chair and stared outright at his grandson. 'Something bothering you?'

'No.' Hugo gestured with his chin toward the house. 'Just don't want to be around people.'

'Hmmm.' Arthur nodded a little. 'I can understand that.'

Hugo began to swing slightly, his toes grazing the ground. 'Grandad?'

'Yes?'

'Do you think it's okay that I didn't cry at Grandmum's funeral?'

Arthur's brow furrowed a little. 'I didn't cry at Fred's funeral,' he said.

'That's not the same, Grandad,' Hugo pointed out.

'And what makes you say that?'

'Different situations,' Hugo countered. 'Uncle Fred was killed in a battle. Traumatic situations can make people act in ways they wouldn't normally.'

Arthur shook his head, trying to work his mind around the depths of his grandson's musings. Hugo was just as much a voracious reader as his mother, but his tastes were somewhat more esoteric. 'That is true...' he allowed.

'Grandmum's death wasn't exactly a surprise,' Hugo said dryly. 'But... I already made my peace with it. A long time ago. It's just with Rosie carrying on like she is...' He scuffed the toe of his shoe through the churned-up snow under the swing. 'Just makes me feel like I ought to...' Hugo shrugged.

'That you ought to be prostrate with grief?' Arthur finished.

'Yeah.'

Arthur wrapped his cloak around himself a little more tightly and considered Hugo. 'How you handle things is nobody's business but your own. Unless you're causing harm to yourself or others, of course,' he added. 'But it's not anybody's place - not mine, not your parents', nor your sister's - to tell you what's appropriate or not. If you don't feel the need to cry, then you don't have to.'

Hugo stared at his feet for several moments. Arthur could see his mouth tighten and when Hugo spoke, his voice quavered slightly. 'Does it make me a bad person?'

Arthur leaned forward and ran a hand over Hugo's tousled hair. 'Oh, Hugo... No, it doesn't.'

Hugo slid off the swing and wedged into the day lounger next to Arthur. 'Then why does it feel as if I'm the worst person in the world because I can't manage to squeeze out one bloody tear for my dead grandmother at her funeral?' he muttered.

'You're not the worst person in the world,' Arthur said. 'Tears aren't an indication of how much you loved your grandmother.' He put an arm around Hugo and gave him a gentle squeeze. He heard Hugo sniff a little and glanced obliquely at him from the corner of his eyes. Hugo rubbed the back of his mitten under his nose and caught Arthur looking at him.

'It's cold out here,' he huffed, only slightly defensively.

'Why don't we go inside, eh? I'll make you some hot chocolate.'

'Better than Dad's?' Hugo asked skeptically, as he wriggled out of the chair.

'Not quite that good, but it's not too bad.' Arthur unfolded himself from the day lounger and Banished it back to its place by the tool shed, then led Hugo back into the Burrow.