Not In Kansas Anymore

Chapter Nine: Clensing Bitterness

The wounds healed bit by bit. Hermione found a solance in the Manor's library and comfort in chocolate soy milk. Draco would have preferred she eat nothing by grease slathered chips and juicy steak, but Hermione wasn't having any of it, she ate a little more each day under his careful eyes and then she ate an extra mouthful just to pacify him.

They didn't do a lot of talking, just the basic, "I'm going out for an hour or so." The obligtary, "Good night." Or even the rare, "Pass the salt." Draco seemed satisfied that Hermione was eating, sleeping, talking occasionally, and staying away from sharp objects.

Hermione was content to wander the halls aimlessly with her soy milk and maybe a bit of bread. Her thoughts seemed to be telling her more than enough of a story, and though books crossed her path several times a day, that she didn't suffocate herself with novels. It was the rainy season and it was a dreary time for her, the rain fell often, and the roads were muddy passages of disgust and putrid stench. She spent most of the day in holy and worn jeans and mismatched socks, it wasn't often that she ventured to change into robes and when she did they were blatantly plain.

The days passed and Hermione gave them little care, time was so worthless, so imemorial, and she didn't constitue it. She was sitting in a window seat she had found that looked out over the grounds, water streamed down it, the rain drops racing toward the sill, and she jumped when Draco set a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey," she said, turning back to the window, hoping he wasn't going to stay and chat too long.

Draco stayed where he was, his hand still on her shoulder, he looked out at the grounds for a moment, wishing Hermione would talk, but when she remained quiet he spoke again. Solomly he said, "I've got an idea. My family has a villa out on the coast of Southern France where it is not raining and I think it would do you some good."

Hermione tilted her head back and said dreamily, without much conviction, "I've never been to Southern France."

Draco acknowleged her 'enthuasium' and said, "You can stay there until Patil's wedding."

Hermione had forgotten tha Parvati was still getting married, she knew she was supposed to be a maid, and it startled her a bit to see just how much she had missed, how much she had neglected. "Am I...?" she asked, trailing off a bit.

Draco nodded and said, "You're still the second bride's maid."

"Good."

He noted how short all of her words were, how little breath she was bothering with and made a second attempt. "What do you think?"

"Whatever."

Draco shrugged. "Good, I've moved your stuff to the fireplace."

He offered her his arm and Hermione took it spiritlessly, letting him lead her down the stairs corgilly. They passed by talking and spiteful portriates, over intricately woven rugs, and ended before the luggage. Hermione stepped into green flames, muttered, "Mafloy villa," and stepped out of an identical fireplace in Southern France.

*

She wished, for the second time in her life, that she was clinging to her father's arm. Her father had been a stout man, he had had a bit of a pot belly with salt and pepper hair and a bushy mustache. He was jovial with thick arms that had guided her through amusment parks, down stairs at the society ball her grandmother had just insisted upon, he had led her through halls to piano reciatls, and down busy London streets.

She missed him despretly, missed the nights they would sit up late watching bad Amercian comedies, and eating rich chocolate together. She missed the rugby games he would drag her to in the snow when her mother wouldn't go.

It was her mother that insisted she learn to read, and in the beginning she struggled with her, arguing that she was three and reading was unnecessary, but by four she loved the pages and their smell.

It was her parents she wished she could see, her mother's perfume and fathr's pipe tobbcco she longed to smell. It was strange to be settling for Fred and George. And though they were like family, she still felt incomplete without parents.

Harry was standing at the front of the quaint chaple and Hermione knew he missed his parents as strongly as she missed hers. He had Mrs, Weasley and Reamus, she had Fred and George and there were vows to make before evening.

*

Hermione gave a little gasp as she saw the villa, it was empty, silent except for the crashing waves she heard off in the distance and Hermione knew she was in paradise. The floor under her feet was hard wood, furniture covered the space and each had a white sheet tossed over it, there was dust and everything had a longing that screamed for somebody to use it, but the simplicity was endearing to Hermione.

A deck was on her left and the beach down the wooden steps, just within her reach. She made her way through the villa, running her fingers through the dust and opening windows to allow the salt water smell in. The bitter, sour smell comforted her stomach and a deep breath quelched her thirst for serenity.

*

Hermione burst into her dorm room and took an immediate step back out into the hall. The room was dark except for the candles that were scattered everywhere and the smoky incense pervaded her nose and hair, infiltrating her senses.

Hermione swatted at smoke and Lavender collided into her back. "What is it?"

Hermione sighed as a deep monotonus hum met her ears. "Parvati's meditating again."

Lavender covered her nose with her robes and barreled into the room, a few seconds later she emerged with her pillow and blanket. "I am not sleeping in there again, not after last time."

Hermione could easily understand why Lavender had fled, Hermione wished Parvati and Dean had not broken up, it aggervated her a bit that Dean had had the gall to make her and Lavender suffer though Parvati's angst.

Parvati was searching for herself though her ancestorial roots, medetation and fasting. The fasting had made her frame look much better but the soul searching only gave their dorm a heady stench.

Little did Hermione know that she would one day be searching for herself, only she was bound to do so through cleaning.

*

The dust roared in clouds as Hermione polished the wooden end tables and shook out the sheets that had probably been white a one time. Tears pricked at her eyes as she chipped grime from windows, and ashes from the floor, as she got runs in the jeans she was wearing and smuged dirt over her face and caked her hair with streaks and layers of powder. She threw open doors and sand blew in, but the sand was better than the dust and she let it be for the most part.

She conjured light white linens to hang as curtains over the windows that she never closed, she tied her hair up with silken ribbons discarded in a vanity, and she finished the downstairs in two days. It was open and airy.

The upstairs had no windows, it was a dark and gloomy place and it sent chills up her spine. For a bit she thought she might just want to let it rot, but when she stopped cleaning she had to sit and think and it was just easier to work hard and keep her mind off everything.

So, that was how she came to cleaning the upstairs. There was a closed off study clotted with clouds of dust and fog, books of the Dark Arts written in languages Hermione did not fancy deciphering, ink dried and curdled, smelling strongly of sulfur. Apart from the study there was only one room, a small storage space packed with wilting cardboard boxes, and on top of the boxes was a layer of filth that stained her palms.

Curiously, and anxious for something to do with her hands, Hermione unpacked the boxes. Some were filled with rare silks and satins, some had expensive objects that Hermione was positive had been stolen from museums in the late seventies, but the boxes that were the most interesting contained outdated clothes and hats.

*

Hope wondered into Hermione's bedroom wearing a large floppy hat, shoes that hung off her heels, and scarves that were wrapped six times around her waist. Her lanky hair was pinned up with neck ties and belt buckles. She sighed when she saw Hermione.

Hermione was sitting on her mother's bed amongst piles of fluffy pillows wearing strands of her mother's finest pearls, a woolen winter scarf, thick leather boots, and a suit jacket of her father's.

She was reading a heavy volume.

Hope flounced up on to the bed with an extra little flourish hoping to attract Hermione's attention away from the likes of Anderson, she was not lucky. Hermione continued to read, flipping pages clumsily with elbow length gloves made of white tulle.

Hope said something; Hermione was unsure of what it was and just calmly flipped the page. Hope conceded defeat and began to read over Hermione's shoulder. The little mermaid...

*

Hermione slipped the white skirt on over her pale legs and let her jeans fall into a pile on the ground, and then she tugged a white shift over her head and let it fall over her. The thin material was cold on her skin and smelled faintly of violets, the lace neckline was low and tickled her collarbone. Dreamily Hermione found a brush and ran it through her hair, discouraged when she realized just how matted it was.

In bare, tender, feet she padded down the stairs and sat in front of the vanity. She assumed it had been Narcissa's, the perfumes and powders were delicate and fine, probably imported. She splashed some water on her face before brushing blush on to her cheekbones and covering her lips over with fragrant gloss, the sheen completed her and she felt put together in a way she hadn't felt since before Harry.

*

Hermione tumbled out of bed, blissfully late, but unworried because she didn't have to be at the joke shop until one. So it was with casual elegance that she slipped out of her bed, sheet wrapped around her like a bath towel. Yawning Hermione stretched in a way that was reminiscent of a cat, the sheet slipped a few inches and she tugged it quickly back up, it wasn't that she was afraid of people seeing, she got cold without the sheet around her.

Hermione took a quick shower and ran her hands through her wet hair; it was always so nice looking when it was wet, looked so much more controllable when it was damp. It was with a carefree nature that Hermione let her hair hang down over her short sleeves and trudged through her small kitchen in fluffy slippers.

Her eyes glanced to her calendar, each month with a different author on it, today was Saturday. She didn't have to go to the Ministry for work, she didn't have to file reports, and she didn't even have to be at the joke shop on time. Fred and George wouldn't mind her tardiness, so Hermione languidly dressed herself and left at her fancy.

She was so free, she loved the feeling and it was with a slightly guilty heart that she remembered this was why she had not married Ron. This was why she lived alone in a small flat; this was why she wasn't dating, though if she spent much more time around Harry she thought that might just change.

She was just happy to live for herself, she was free.

For the moment.

*

The sand was warm under her feet and Hermione let the waves of unfamiliar freedom wash over her just as the waves sprayed over her feet, cooling the sand. She was still in the white skirt and shift, the wind was blowing them up to reveal indecent amounts of her legs and abdomen, but there was no one here to see her. She continued walking along the beach, tracing her big toe though the sand and her fingers through the salty air.

Something in the atmosphere, the salt, the sand, the animosity in the serenity of the ocean started the crank in her head. The crank that had been cleansed of cobwebs by her quite days in the Manor, oiled by the cleaning, and then started by the crying seagulls. This crank generated powerful thoughts, she sank back against the sea wall, partially in shadow and half in sun. Her hands twisted and buried themselves in the sand, and she thought.

She knew the binding rings were no longer on her fingers.

She knew she was now, simply, Hermione Jane Granger.

She knew she was quite loved, from an ex-fiancée, from the twins, from her at one time worst enemy, from her girlfriends, and on some level by her parents.

She knew her parents were dead.

She didn't want to know that her children were dead, that was not a desirable reality. Maybe it was, once again, the salt air, but her eyes pricked with tears and they silently made their way down her face. She did not like this time, this time when she had passed the irrational tears and gasps for breath that would not come, after the stage of catatonic denial, after the attempted suicide, and then even after the days of self consideration. This was the state of acceptance and it was very painful, almost tiresome.

An added shadow fell over her and she looked up to see a man standing over her. "Hello," she managed and thought that if she had not been sobbing she might have made him aware of the fact he was blocking her sun.

"Hi," he replied though a curtain of rakish black hair that hung over his sparkling eyes of azure. "May I?" he asked politely pointing to the patch of sand next to her. His voice was distinctly British, though it had slurred tones that suggested he had been in France for some time as he was beginning to have a rather converted accent.

Hermione nodded and wiped away tears to no avail as new ones just trailed down to replace them. Through her tears her logical side remembered her manners and she held out her hand to introduce herself. "Hermione Granger."

The man looked a bit surprised, but it didn't show for very long as a mischievous grin found his face and he took her hand, "Blaise Zabini."

Hermione studied him for a calculated moment, her sorrow temporarily forgotten before saying, "I remember you." Out of carefully cultivated reflex her eyes flew to his forearm and she was relived to see it blank except for a blue vein running over sculpted muscle.

He watched her eyes and chose tactfully not to comment, but he did remember her tears and he wiped them away with a confident motion before murmuring in a hypnotizing voice. "No crying on the beach."

Hermione caught his hand as it followed the path of a tear down her face. "But the ocean cries?" she protested huskily.

Blaise's eyes crinkled, in response lifted her chin so Hermione could no longer avoid his gaze and he said, "Yes, but the ocean is nothing as pretty as you."

Hermione would have gasped if his mouth had not been blocking her way.

*

"You work too hard Hermione," said Ron from the couch in the Room of Requirement where she was stacking pillows and other things up on shelves after a brutal DA meeting.

Hermione looked over her shoulder at him to say disapprovingly, "And you don't work hard enough."

Ron chuckled from his seat where he was tossed over the couch. "Put that down and come here."

Hermione was no fool, she knew that tone and walked to him. "I have things to do!"

Ron was going to tell her to shut up but he kissed her instead and pulled her on top of him. Hermione responded by wrapping her arms around his neck and sliding her tongue into his mouth. Ron moaned a bit and pulled away, saying tartly, "You have work to do, don't let the likes of me distract you."

Hermione ran her hands though his hair and did as she was told, getting up she was half a footstep away when Ron grabbed the back of her robes and said, "You never listen to me! Don't start now!"

Opting to avoid the argument Hermione crawled back on to the sofa and complied with Ron, needless to say they had no arguments that night.

*

This was wrong...but it felt so right. This was naughty and racy...but there was nobody here to see. This was doing nothing to heal her...but it sure was taking her mind off her pain. This was not the kind of behavior that would take away her pain...but it was numbing her body nicely.

Blaise was very gentle, placing feather light kisses in all the right places, making her body hum in response. The thoughts of what she had lost slipped away as Blaise pulled her shift over her head, she knew of only what she was about to gain. The silky material of her skirt was replaced by the course rubbing of sand against her shoulder blades.

Blaise cradled her small body in his arms and Hermione gave him a moan of reassurance, without really hesitating Blaise entered Hermione and she bit his shoulder, rocking her hips against his.

The beach may have known what they were doing and it lowered the tide to accommodate them, the wind cooled the fevered bodies enhancing the lust and passion that came to a head as waves crashed violently against a rock down the beach.

Hermione let Blaise prolong her pleasure as she began to float back down, her mind and body falling away from his and she found herself wrapped in his arms.

*

Out of the window Hermione could see miles of beach and water and palm trees, no double decker buses and owl shops, no magazine stands or robe repair shops. It was refreshing to drink her coffee in serenity; the only sounds were waves hitting the beach and seagulls calling off in the distance as they struggled for breadcrumbs on the boardwalk.

Harry wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed at the side of her neck, he rocked against her and she cooed, giving him the response he wanted.

Taking his time Harry twirled her hair around his fingers and massaged her midriff not at all opposed to the fact she was wearing nothing more that underwear and a purple bra.

"Purple has never looked so appetizing," said Harry as he relieved Hermione of her coffee cup and bit playfully at her bra strap, which he artfully removed, with a flick of his hand.

Hermione took in his ripped chest and plaid boxers and replied, "Plaid has never been so infuriating."

Giggling Hermione let Harry pull her on to the bed and she fell heavily on to his stomach.

*

The sun was setting when Blaise shook her awake and Hermione rolled over to see his face looking at her, his chiseled features were casting long shadows in the setting sun and he kissed her before saying, "Get up sleepy head."

Propping herself up on her elbows Hermione became aware of the fact her stomach was rumbling and the fact that she was still naked. Gracelessly she sat up all the way and extended a hand to find her clothes.

Her rational side was in amazement as to what she had just done, but the side of her that was overpowering was still waking up and wasn't registering any complaints. "Looking for these?" asked Blaise, dangling her clothes off his forefinger.

"Yes," said Hermione matter-of-factly.

Blaise shook his head and replied in an equally unassuming tone, "Well you can't have them, you look far too good for white silk."

Hermione pretended to be flattered before diving through the sand at Blaise, she missed by quite a bit and landed with her face two inches from his knee cap. "Give--back," she said into the sand.

Blaise shook his head. "No, you're much better looking without them."

Struggling Hermione scratched friskily at his upper thigh and Blaise did not respond at all, in a last ditch attempt Hermione pulled his head toward hers and kissed him forcefully. Blaise was surprised and dropped his bundle to hold her.

Hermione took her opportunity and snatched her clothes, taking a few steps back she put them on, though she looked haphazard she still managed an air of confidence that allured Blaise back toward her.

Wrapping his hands around her waist Blaise brought their bodies together, touching their foreheads he asked, "Where are you staying?"

Hermione ran her finger over the dips and pulse points on his neck before whispering, "The Malfoy villa."

Blaise arched and eyebrow, which bristled against Hermione's forehead. "Really?"

Hermione just nodded, still toying with his neck and the bit of hair at its base. Blaise shrugged his shoulders and tossed her over them, carrying her in the general direction of the villa. Hermione kicked her feat against his chest and pounded her fists against his back, laughing the whole time.

Hermione stopped half way there and just enjoyed the ride, not aware that she was doing just as much for Blaise's heart as he was doing for hers.