In Memoriam

It was warm again today, warm enough that she ended up pulling off her cardigan not long after she lay down, leaving her only in the brightly patterned sundress. Although the ground was still wet from the night's dew, the stadium blanket kept her and her things dry. She watched a small beetle crawl over the edge of her book as it made its way across the far corner of the blanket. It was not yet hot enough to make the humid air unpleasant, but she knew that in a few hours the oppressive heat would force her into the shade or even inside. Until then, she planned to take in the sun and her reading, and the people around her.

Not too far off was a playground, at which a few small children played, watched over by their nannies. She enjoyed watching the children play with each other, laughing and shrieking, devising complex games and scenarios that had been played out for generations. She wished she had been as active as they when she had been that small, but her parents had always encouraged her to stay inside and learn. Perhaps that was why her social graces were not as graceful as they might have been. (She knew that there had been more than a few studies to that effect.)

She had never been to this particular park before. It was small, no more than a few acres, and located in a wealthier section of town. They had moved into their new flat only two weeks prior, and today was the first day she was not obligated to be doing something. She had woken up with the sun pouring through her open floor-to-ceiling windows, as usual, and dressed, gathered her things, and went for breakfast. One omelet and a café au lait later, she found herself stretched out upon the crest of a small hill, observing the life around her, and feeling peaceful for the first time in a more than a few weeks. It was good to look at the world around you, she thought, and stop analyzing your own problems for once.

A red-gold streak tore through the field to her left, and Hermione lazily turned her gaze to watch the dog race after a neon colored shape. It leapt, intersected the ball's path, and landed, the prize firmly clamped in its powerful jaws. The dog stilled, head tilted to the side, and it first looked at the direction from which it came, to the playground, to Hermione laid out on the army green blanket. The half-pink, half-blue rugby ball looked comically big in the dog's mouth, forcing the chops to stretch tightly around the spongy trophy, and the cheeks to wrinkle adorably. Hermione had never been around dogs much, but she imagined that this was the happiest one she'd ever seen. Merlin knows, her Great Aunt Sophia's little yippy thing was always unpleasant to be around.

"Come!"

The dog took off like a bat out of hell, back towards its owner, and Hermione rose on one elbow, twisting, to watch. The dog was amazingly muscular, and she was fascinated by the interplay under its skin as the powerful hindquarters propelled her at astonishing speed towards the man who walked to meet her. She was glad the hound seemed so friendly-she doubted she could have outrun it.

The man who met the dog not twenty yards away was as muscular as his pet, if his arms were anything to go by. She felt slightly guilty for checking out another man when the ring twinkled so brightly on her left hand, but then, hadn't Ron's glance rested a little too long on the waitresses' chest two nights ago? And besides, it wasn't as if she would actually ever be held in those arms the way she briefly imaged she was being held right now. It would be absolutely delicious, though, she was sure.

"Drop it." The red dog obliged and sat in front of the man, tongue lolling and eyes flicking back and forth longingly between his face and the ball clutched in his hand. He palmed it, adjusted his grip, and let fly. Directly towards her.

Hermione had just enough time to realize that the four stone dog would soon enough be upon her before the dog sailed over the small of her back in pursuit of the toy. Suddenly, the powerful square jaws didn't seem as friendly as they had.

She heard the man curse, and looked away from the returning dog to see him jog over and crouch beside her blanket.

"I'm very sorry about that. I didn't realize you were even there until I'd already released the ball." He had sharply defined cheekbones that crested under deep brows and planed down to a well-defined jaw. His nose had the small bump that either genetics or a break could lead to. He was not as beautiful as the men in those wall-sized posters that were plastered over the storefronts of that American clothing company, but he was definitely handsome. And he was definitely expecting her to respond. Sometime soon, perhaps.

Hermione blushed lightly. "It's quite alright. No harm, no foul."

His eyes narrowed slightly in amusement. "My philosophy exactly." He looked up. "Portia!"

Hermione turned and watched as Portia, the dog, made her way briskly to over where her master knelt at the edge of the blanket. When she reached the two, she plopped down between Hermione and the man and panted, entirely pleased with herself and the world and everything forever. Hermione envied her simple happiness. Portia turned her attention to the taste and the delightful squeaking of her favorite ball.

The man stared down at her in affection and exasperation, fondling the short, cropped triangular ears. "And it's said men have a one-track mind. Clearly, they forgot about dogs."

"She's beautiful."

His voice, formerly friendly, turned sad and cold. "Yes. Bred from a very long line of champions. I rescued her from an....acquaintance of mine when she was about one. She'd already been whelped, and was going to be killed because she lost in a fighting pit to a dog with two stone on her."

Hermione stared at the ecstatic dog, trying to imagine the horrors she'd been put through. She noticed, for the first time, the scarring on her withers and face, and felt her stomach turn. "I am very glad that you found her, then. Thank you." She looked up to meet his eyes. "I can't stand it when the vulnerable are abused."

The grim look he sent her was somehow intimidating and satisfying at the same time. "Neither can I. Especially dogs. They're so utterly dependent upon us, and so many choose to violate that trust they place in us. It's disgusting."

"Yes."

"Do you have a dog? You seem very partial."

Hermione shook her head sharply. "No. I had a cat-very cantankerous-but he passed a few months ago from old age. My father is-was allergic."

"I'm sorry." She wasn't sure whether he was referring to her lack of canine companionship, or the implication that her father was dead. Which he wasn't, of course. He just might as well have been.

"I've never seen you here before. Are you new to the neighborhood?"

Hermione smiled. "Yes. I finally finished unpacking everything this week, and I didn't have any plans until later tonight, so I thought I would enjoy the weather and a good book. You walk Portia here often?"

He shook his head. "Sort of. I try to take her somewhere new every day, or at least somewhere well populated enough that the smells and environment have changed. We end here most days with a good game as a reward, and to tire her out before we settle in for the night. I'm Marcus, by the way." He held out his hand to her, and she took it. His palm was rough, well calloused, and his nails blunt. Scars traced the backs of them. Her own hand, stained with ink, the nails not as well cared for as they could have been, seemed very small and very delicate in his.

"Hermione. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He smiled, slightly, showing only a hint of teeth. "And you. Hopefully, we will see each other again, and I promise to try not to send Portia straight at you next time. Wouldn't want to scare you from the park for good."

Hermione laughed, pleased and also a little confused. Marcus was a very attractive man, and what she felt towards him right now was not something appropriate for a woman in her position. Perhaps she shouldn't return so soon, or at least not when she would run into the man while he played with his dog.

"Good evening." He rose from his crouched position.

"Good evening." With that, Marcus turned and walked away. Portia looked up from her ball, registered that Marcus was leaving, and heaved herself to her feet with a groan that had Hermione smiling for an entirely different reason than she had been. As Portia trotted off, Nerf ball clamped firmly in her mouth, Hermione realized that she would never leave Ron for a handsome Muggle neighbor, so she had no reason to feel so guilty. It was not as if she had done anything bad, or intended to cheat on her husband-to-be. Everyone deserved a little eye candy. Especially when said candy had as nice an ass as Marcus did.

Ron would be home late again that evening, so Hermione set out for the Weasley household by herself. Ron would join them later, closer to dinnertime and, hopefully, after he had showered. The Appleby Arrows' tryouts were in two weeks, and the Cannons' in three, so Ron was spending all of his time on the pitch with other hopefuls, trying to improve his game sufficiently so he would be picked up. He was currently the first string Keeper for a minor league team affiliated with the Wigtown Wanderers. Ron was convinced that he'd be promoted to the major leagues this season. Hermione was relieved, because his funds had been stretched thin enough after he had insisted on paying for the first year of the flat entirely by himself, even though she would have been more than happy and capable of helping out. It had been making him stressed and cranky. Ron had insisted, however, so the flat's lease, framed and hung on their wall, listed his name as the holder, with hers as a roommate. She suspected his desire had something to do with being the youngest of six brothers, and wanting to prove himself competent enough to support her. Hermione was happy enough with the arrangement, realizing how important this was to him and so she hadn't put up too much of a fight. She did wish, though, Ron would stop acting like she would soon be barefoot and pregnant, cooking for him the way his mother did.

Ginny and Harry were already there, along with George and Angelina, and Bill and Fleur. Hermione settled herself in the living room with a cup of tea after having let herself in, feeling a bit as if she were a third-or seventh-wheel. Ginny and Angelina were cooing over the "wee dress robes" which would someday be worn by the bump in Angelina's middle, due in September. Fleur was in the kitchen with Molly, hands covered in flour, as she folded the dough into the small rolls that would accompany dinner. They were getting along much better now, especially since Molly had started letting her daughter-in-law participate in the kitchen, where Fleur, remarkably enough, seemed to be more than competent. Perhaps it was because she was French, Hermione joked privately.

George and Bill were seated next to the wireless, listening to the sports report. She wasn't quite sure what the sports report was reporting on, since the Quidditch teams hadn't even begun training, and there wasn't any other large organized sport in the European Wizarding world. Harry was missing, but so was Arthur, so she thought that perhaps the older man had dragged Harry into his shed again. Hermione enjoyed the evenings spent in the Weasley house, because they were the only family she had left, and because soon she would be another daughter to them, as Fleur and Angelina were.

"Hermione! There you are! Come out here. I'm trying to get Harry to explain the droopy square to me, but he doesn't seem to know what he's talking about!" Arthur's graying head was framed by the back doors, his expression earnest and distraught as he brandished a floppy disk. "I'm desperately befuddled by the damn thing. It's supposed to go in the computer, you know, but I opened it up and sort of shoved one in there, but nothing seems to be happing. Damn inconvenient, by the way, having to undo all those little screws. You would have thought they'd have been a bit more clever."

"Arthur! Language. Little ears hear big words!" Molly's scandalized voice amused Hermione, as the "little ears" belonged to Fleur's daughter, who was barely two.

"Of course, Arthur. I'll be right out." Hermione set her tea on the end table, and made her way outside, pleased to be included.

"Merlin, that was delicious. I could eat another serving. Especially of the pie. Mmmm." Ron kicked off his muddy shoes next to the doorway, shrugged off his coat, and made his way into the house, tossing the coat onto the back of the couch. Hermione considered this a victory, because it had taken several months to train him to remove his shoes in the first place. She followed, more slowly, toeing off her shoes, and placing her purse on the hallway table, keys in their dish.

She carried the leftovers into the kitchen, transferred them to her own Tupperware, and washed the plates that Molly insisted on giving her leftovers away on. Hermione had tried two years before to introduce the older witch to the wonders of modern disposable Tupperware, but the older witch had looked on it as if it were some foreign and invasive object that had no place in her kitchen. Two months later, Arthur was using it to store his plugs. At least it had been used for something, she thought.

"Did I tell you about that save I made today?" Hermione rolled her eyes, facing away from him as she put the leftovers in the refrigerator. This was, perhaps, the fourth time he had brought it up.

"No, Ron. Do tell."

"Come here and sit with me." Hermione did, placing the plates in the drying rack, and sitting next to him on the couch. He immediately squirmed about until he lay on the couch, head pillowed in her lap. "Play with my hair." Hermione obliged.

"So, today in the locker room, Douglass was all, 'Weasley couldn't block one of my shots if his life depended on it'. Real bastard, him. So around three o'clock, when we'd finished with the work out and were doing drills...."

Hermione tuned him out, knowing by this repetition where the appropriate places to nod or 'hmm' were, and thought about her life. She was happy, she thought. Her fiancée, while sometimes boorish and more than a little messy, was kind, and genuinely loved her. Her new flat was lovely, and she was sure a fresh coat of paint would do wonders in the kitchen. Her job was demanding and rewarding, and she was excited every day to go to work. Although life as a charms developer for a private firm was perhaps not the most exciting, as it required long hours and multiple repetitions of similar strategies, it was the most relevant to her ultimate goal. Returning her parents' memory.

Wendell and Monica Wilkins were still happily retired, living in the outskirts of Brisbane, Australia. Unfortunately, Bill and Olivia Granger were nowhere inside their heads. Afraid that a simple "Obliviate" would be too weak, and that her parents might remember something and try to return to England before it was safe, Hermione had done extensive research and found another memory-modifying spell, which was much stronger, and which allowed for new memories to be placed over the old. Unfortunately, when she went to return their memories to them one month after the Final Battle, the counter spell had not worked. Hermione had tried everything in her power to find the key to her parents' memories, but had yet to succeed. Their personalities still sat in her nightstand dresser, caught in a set Baoding Balls, all this time later. As a charms developer, however, she had learned the skills and strategies to devise all sorts of useful spells, and she had bent all of her considerable talents to rescuing her parents in her free time. Currently, she had dead-ended, and that was why, she thought, she was not as happy as she should be. It had nothing to do with Ron. Only that she missed having her family.

On the weekends, and on Mondays, when she worked only half days, she visited the park. The weather grew warmer, the children and their nannies more numerous, and her discontent deepened. It was not that she had any reason to be dissatisfied, she thought, as she lay looking at the sky. She had a home that was continually growing more beautiful as her small improvements continued, a man who loved her, and a job that she enjoyed. She was to be married in October.

That, she thought as she rolled over, was the crux of the problem. Not that she didn't love Ron. He was good for her, had always been there for her (except in his more childish fits of temper, she qualified internally), and he was happy to be getting married to her. They had always been intended for one another, from the moment they and Harry had become the Golden Trio. There was no other man who could fill that spot.

In four months, though, she was going to be married, and her father was not going to be there to walk her down the aisle. He would not stand by her side, outside the hall, and give an awkward but loving talk that would make her ruin her perfect makeup. He would still think he was Wendell Wilkins. Her mother would not be there to fuss over her hair, cup her cheek, and tell her how desperately happy she was for her daughter. She would not be sitting at the edge of the pew, crying quietly as her only child was married. She would be in Australia, living her life as Monica.

Her latest avenue of research had dead-ended yet again, and she had yet to think of a new approach. The charm she had invested the past two months in, the charm she was sure would return her parents' memories, had failed miserably. The test subjects, ten white mice that had been trained to perform the same maze and then had their memories stripped with the same spell her parents' had, were utterly lost after she had performed the possible counter charm. If anything, they were even slower than they had been, going in circles, confused. Her hope was dwindling.

"I have to say, the brooding face doesn't really accessorize that frock all that well." Hermione looked up from the children, at whom she had been staring sightlessly, to see Marcus fold gracefully into a seated position facing toward her. They had seen each other almost every time Hermione had visited the park, and she thought that they were something like friends. Portia ambled over, a toy in maw, and sat down next to Hermione. Hermione gave the dog her usual rub down, starting at the small triangular ears, over the square head, around the powerful neck, and down her sides. Portia let out one of the ridiculous groans that Hermione loved, and collapsed, belly up, so that Hermione could continue with the affection while simultaneously playing with her toy. She proceeded to mouth the toy, looking for the tiny pieces of cheese encased inside the snowman-shaped rubber toy. Hermione smiled.

"That's better. A smile definitely goes with flowers."

"I'm sure it does. I really can't understand why you aren't a famous fashion designer." Hermione grinned, still paying attention to the dog. She had grown fond of the pit bull in the three weeks she had been visiting the park. Portia was always happy, always excited to see her, eager for affection and just as eager to give it. She was adorable, and loving, and warm and huggable. Hermione thought that perhaps she should broach the subject of getting a dog with Ron. Perhaps something else to focus her attention on would do her some good.

"What's his name?"

Hermione looked up from playing with the comically flapped-out chops of the dog, and stared blankly at Marcus.

"Excuse me?"

"You fiancée. The one who has you brooding so darkly on such a nice day." He wasn't wearing a shirt today, which Hermione thought was rather dangerous, at least for the children at the playground. Every nanny's eye was focused on his muscular back, and not a one was focused on her charges. Not that Hermione had noticed his muscular back before. Or the delectable chest that was on display today.

"His name is Ron, but he's not the reason why I'm upset. Not that I am. Upset, I mean."

Marcus slid her a sideways glance, lips tipped up at one side. "Of course." His tone did not match the words. Suddenly, he straightened, and stared straight at her. "Wait. You're Hermione? And he's Ron."

"And you're Marcus, and that's Portia. I don't see the point of this exercise, but I'm game, I guess."

"You're Hermione Granger."

"Yes, I-you're a wizard!" Hermione felt partly shocked, partly betrayed, and mostly confused.

The look on Marcus' face was very bizarre. "Of course. I should have known. How many Hermione's in their twenties could there possibly be in the world, much less in Britain."

"I don't know the exact count worldwide, so I'm afraid I can't give you an answer, but I can say that I, for one, have never met another." Hermione smiled at her own little bit of humor.

The odd look on his face went away, replaced with the same almost-smile he usually wore, and Hermione felt relieved. She had been upset that he was upset, she realized.

Hermione's curiosity was peaked. She didn't think she'd ever met the obviously British wizard before. "What's your name? Where did you go to school? It can't have been Hogwarts, I don't recognize your face." Hermione thought back to all the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and couldn't think of a single Marcus, but then again, she had been focused on more important things during most of her time at school. Like surviving the year. Clearly, he hadn't been in Gryffindor. She was sure of that, at least. And he wasn't that much older than she.

The smile grew to the point where his teeth flashed, every so slightly. From their previous encounters, Hermione knew this was his version of a full grin. She wondered vaguely why he didn't show his feelings much on his face.

"I think I'll keep that a secret for now."

"What? Why?!" Hermione was intrigued, and confused. What reason could he possible have? Clearly, he had not been a Death Eater. Although his left arm did have a tattoo, the crook of his elbow was bare.

"I've heard of how you thirst for knowledge, and it amuses me to know you don't know my name. I imagine you'll become very curious, but you won't rest until you know the answer. Though most any other witch or wizard could tell you who I am, I think." He looked downright pleased with himself.

Hermione frowned, put out. "You're not being very nice, taunting me like this."

Marcus' face grew serious. "I'm not a very nice person, Miss Granger."

Hermione laughed in his face and rolled her eyes. "Oh yes. You have the tattoos and muscles of a macho man, and it's not as if you rescue abused puppies. Your bad-boy ways are why you treat your vicious pit bull so poorly, and why you have been so mean to me our entire relationship. I'm sure Voldemort would have quivered in his boots had he ever had the misfortune to meet you, Mister Snuggles."

Marcus sent her a dark look, with a furrowed brow and everything. Hermione was delighted. At that moment, Portia got up and dropped the now cheeseless toy in Marcus' lap, and whined piteously, bussing her head against his chest. He rubbed her behind the ears with both hands.

"Clearly, you do not know me very well, Miss Granger."

"Clearly, I know you well enough to know you're putting on an act, Marcus. And stop with the Miss Granger thing. It's tiresome."

The dark look cleared from his face, and Marcus stood, gazing down at her, expressionless. Hermione smiled up at him, amused he could be so upset over her disbelief in his 'reputation'.

"I will see you soon, Hermione. Good evening."

"And you, Marcus." He stood abruptly and made his way towards the far side of the park and back to his apartment. He turned around and waved once, as he usually did, before disappearing around the block.

Hermione gathered her things with a sigh, folding the blanket and placing it and her book in her tote bag. It was a Saturday, barely noon, and Ron would have learned about his tryouts with the Cannons this afternoon. An early dinner at the Burrow was planned for today, at three, and he would share his news, one way or another, with her there. Hermione grimaced, hoping that he had made it. He had been in a foul mood after being rejected by the Arrows. She picked her way across the park, making her way back to their apartment. She really needed to clean, she thought. It seemed as if she could never rest.

As she left the park, Hermione stopped, struck by the thought that had crossed her mind. The weight that had been pressing her down for the past four years, the discontent and disappointment in herself, had all but disappeared while she had sat in the sun talking with Marcus.

"I have something to tell everyone."

The entire table hushed. All eyes turned to Ron, who sat, proud as a peacock, in the rickety chair that usually ringed the kitchen table. Even little Victoire quieted.

"I made the team! You're looking at the Chudley Cannon's newest reserve Keeper!"

The table broke out into celebration. Molly had a proud look on her face, George jumped up to give Ron a hug, and Harry laughed.

"Congratulations, man! I suppose you're going to get us tickets to all the games!" Harry elbowed Ron conspiratorially.

"Oh, yeah! I've already requested some for the preseason match in two weeks. We're playing Falmouth, those dirty bastards. I might even get some minutes on the pitch!" Molly blotted her eyes with her napkin, so pleased she didn't even shout about 'little ears'. "I got seats for Mom and Dad, of course, and you and Ginny and Angelina and George and Bill. I know you aren't much of a Quidditch fan, Fleur, so I wasn't sure if I should get one for you, too."

"It eez alright, Ronald. Victoire and I will 'ave a muzzer-dotter day instead, oui?"

Hermione frowned, something not sitting right. "You got one for me, too, right, Ron?"

Ron turned to her, the puzzled look on his face foreshadowing his next words. "Of course not, Hermione. I know how much you hate Quidditch."

Though she wasn't as shocked as she should have been, Hermione felt her throat close up. How could he think that her mild dislike of a sport she didn't understand would stop her from wanting to see her fiancée play? Especially since she had supported him through everything in the past four years, through all the training and rejections and losses. "I don't hate Quidditch, Ron, and I thought you'd know that I'd want to see you play. You've worked so hard for this. I thought you would want me there."

"Cripes, Hermione. Don't get so worked up. If you want to see the match that badly, I'll see if another player has some extra freebies. I already got some from Roux for Angelina and George and Bill. I'm sure someone else will donate."

"That's not the point, Ron." Hermione felt close to tears. Clearly, Ron thought she was being unreasonable, but the pitying look on Angelina's face supported her belief that there was something very wrong with this situation. George would never exclude Angelina from something this important in his life, she thought. Neither would Bill exclude Fleur, or Harry Ginny.

"I have some news, too, everyone. We have some news." Ginny called out, a little louder and a little higher than necessary, looking at the reddened cheeks of her friend. Hermione was grateful. It gave her something to look at besides the puzzled and exasperated face of her fiancée.

The table focused on Ginny and away from the distraught Hermione.

Ginny looked down softly at Harry, and Hermione knew what she would say before the words left the redhead's mouth. "I'm pregnant. The Healer says he's a boy."

The table broke out into celebration again, and Molly actually started crying.