(A/N: A couple of reviewers have asked how many more chapters are in store. In the past, I've been a remarkably poor judge of how long my stories would end up being. Still, I've no desire to have this turn into a neverending history of the Potterverse - this story's plotlines will reach resolution. Of course, to do that in a reasonable time, I've had to make this chapter the longest to date. I'm so sorry to have to subject you all to this, but, hey, them's the breaks. At least you didn't have to suffer the way my beta, MirielleGrey, did.)
(Disclaimer: Der! XY chromosome? Not a billionaire? Never even seen Scotland? What part of "I am not JK Rowling" does anyone find ambiguous?)
*
"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
*
XXX: One Foot In Front Of The Other
*
The first thing that came to Harry's notice, when he woke up in the wee hours before dawn, was that he was waking up.
Waking from sleep - it had been so long since Harry had slept that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. If he'd needed any more proof that the Deathly Hallows no longer affected him, he now had it.
The second thing that came to Harry's notice was Hermione: gently snoring, delightfully nude, and using him as a full-length mattress. They hadn't moved from the positions they'd been in when they'd fallen asleep together: she fully atop him, and he fully inside her.
His expression turned goofy - really, there was no other word for it - as the last night's events came back to him. Somehow, they'd never made it off the couch and into the bedroom (Harry vaguely recalled Hermione performing some enlarging charms on the couch, but his attention was understandably elsewhere). Both of them were so eager, and so nervous - understandable, he supposed, since they were each coming out of a long sexual drought. But more to the point, each of them had initially been more concerned about the other's physical gratification than their own. Which made for some fumbling and awkwardness at first, but they'd resolved the problems by the end of their second round of lovemaking.
Round three had been just about perfect. And round four was even better, because it ended with their falling asleep while still joined. Maybe that was why Harry had slept so well.
The third thing that came to Harry's notice was a gentle brush across his brow… from above. He looked up and squinted into the semi-darkness, to see a pair of bright yellow eyes staring back at him. Bottlebrush was perched on the sofa's back, curious and only moderately resentful. After a moment, when Harry failed to respond, the kneazle reached out his paw and gently swatted Harry's fringe again.
Thanks to your foolery, his look seemed to say, I didn't get any dinner last night.
Neither did I, Harry felt like replying. Deal with it. He didn't say anything out loud, of course - he was enjoying Hermione's closeness too much to want to disturb it in any way. Her body pressed against his, her warmth, her scent… even her weight, and why hadn't he ever imagined that being squashed under his lover's weight could be so pleasurable?
Lover. Harry sighed in utter contentment.
Bottlebrush gave a plaintive meow and swatted his paw again, this time on Hermione's head. "G'way," she mumbled, then lifted her head to look Harry in the face. "Not you. Him. You stay right there."
"I wouldn't dream of moving. Good mornimmmph…" Hermione had evidently decided that there were better morning greetings than mere words… and better uses for their mouths. Harry tried to show his approval of this concept, and the next few minutes were spent in a thorough lip-mashing.
Hermione only came up for air when they heard the tapping on window, telling them an owl was requesting entry. With a final buss that promised this would be only a brief interruption, she reached down to the floor by the couch and felt around for her wand. Once she found it, she used it to open the window and admit the owl. Bottlebrush gave her an affronted glare as he hastily jumped off the couch's arm, an instant before the owl landed there. It stiffly held out its leg to allow Hermione to remove the tiny scroll, which she did without moving from atop Harry.
"Ah," she said after quickly reading the message. "Gringotts has contacted the owner of the vault that used to be yours, Harry. They've agreed to open it for you, so you can prove that you're you. Eldritch - he's the one who wrote this, asking me to 'forward' it to you - will meet you at Gringotts tomorrow, or I should say today, this morning at nine. Thank you," she added as an aside to the owl, which shook itself haughtily and flew out the window.
She watched the owl leave, then brought her head back down to rest her chin on his chest. She regarded him somberly. "Harry… about yesterday," she began.
"Yeah," he said quietly, not letting her finish. "It was a pretty, um, full day, wasn't it? Perfectly understandable if we got a little freaked out…"
"If by 'we' you mean 'me', I'm forced to agree. And… and Harry, I have to admit I'm still a little freaked out, as you put it. Heart surgeons routinely bring people back to life in Muggle hospitals - but those people don't remember being in the land of the dead! It was so cold, so dark... but it felt so, so inviting in a way, as well. A small part of me wants to… to go back."
Dismay must have showed on his face, for Hermione immediately butted her forehead against his to look directly into his eyes. "A very small part of me! The rest of me wants to stay right here - with you, my Orpheus, my love, forever."
My love… words that sounded like phoenix song to Harry's ears. He reached up to entangle his fingers in her hair, gently rubbing her scalp with his fingertips. She gave him a soft hum of contentment, then brought her head upward so that she could softly brush her lips against his.
"So… nine o'clock," she said in a voice gone husky, "that's about four hours from now…"
Harry cleared his throat and assumed a matter-of-fact tone. "Yeah. Yeah, that should give me enough time to Apparate back to my flat, get some clothes and my spare glasses… give me a chance to wake up…" He almost managed to keep a straight face as he said this, but something must have slipped. At any rate, a slow, anticipatory smile began to blossom on Hermione's face.
"Mm, yes, wake up," she purred, rising to a kneeling position over Harry and stretching her arms over her head. The sapphire bounced atop her breasts - and her smile grew broader as she saw how Harry's eyes darted to it, moved south slightly, and turned hungry. She started rocking her hips as she continued, "Well, it does seem to me that someone's already awake. Oooh, yes! A bit of a surprise, since he's still in bed…"
"Rise and shine," laughed Harry, and put his hands on her hips to bring her closer. Hermione moaned delightedly as together they found their rhythm and rocked all the harder.
Round five was shaping up to be outstanding.
*
Hermione stared at Gawaine Robards in utter incredulity. When she'd arrived at the Ministry and received the note to come at once to Robards's office, she hadn't anticipated this. "No."
Robards said nothing, but his eyes were hard and determined.
"No," Hermione repeated. "If this is a joke, Gawaine, it's not very funny."
"Not a joke," said Robards quietly. "And not really a surprise, either. We were prepared to offer the same deal to Swivingham, after all."
"Dismissal of all charges? Total immunity from prosecution?!" Hermione looked wildly around the office, as though she expected George Weasley to jump out from behind a potted plant and yell Gotcha!
"In exchange for Zabini's complete cooperation in bringing the Cartel Lords to justice," Robards affirmed. "Yes."
"If we drop the charges, Zabini will claim exoneration! You know he will, Gawaine! Damn it, this is Lucius Malfoy all over again!"
"Hermione…" Robards stopped, and seemed to gather his thoughts. He began again. "Madam Granger… I trust you've seen this morning's reports from the ICW? They've apprehended Castigni, but ibn al-Afrit has so far evaded capture. Nor were they the only Cartel Lords - merely the two you succeeded in identifying. Their lieutenants… the Cartel's internal organization… those will quickly slip through our net, unless we act now. That means we need the information in Zabini's head."
"Then why can't we pump him full of Veritaserum until it bleeds out his ears, and get it!?" Hermione flung her hands into the air in exasperation as she paced about the room. Her question was rhetorical, and Robards knew it; both of them understood why they couldn't apply such direct methods to Blaise Zabini.
"You must admit," Robards added sardonically, "his timing's perfect."
Hermione took another turn around the room, growing calmer as she slowed to a stop. She chewed on her lower lip, a habit she would have claimed she'd lost, as she considered. "But he must know," she said, thinking aloud, "he must know his life wouldn't be worth a leaden Knut if he testified against the Cartel. Swivingham was example enough, surely…" She tapped her chin pensively, then asked, "This bargain… was it his idea or ours?"
"His." Robards gave her a grim smile. "And before you ask, he made it verbally to one of his guards, not through a solicitor. No one's been in his cell, per your instructions."
"Then let's get a Memory Charm expert down there, and make sure his memories haven't been tampered with," said Hermione. "It's unlikely, since we hustled him into cells right away, precisely to prevent any possible tampering. If he had his full memories of the Cartel yesterday, when I confronted him, he should still have them now. But let's make certain, all right?"
"All right," nodded Robards, making a note on the parchment on his desk. "And if the scan turns up clean, I'll sign off on this plea-bargain. What about Doukas? Has the Greek delegation said anything about him?"
Together they continued their brainstorming session, hammering out their priority tasks for the day. Hermione promised to report back to Robards's office before she left for the day. ("For the weekend," were his words, but neither of them believed it.) For her own part, she was pleased with how the Head of the Department was taking her suggestions to heart. The years of working side by side, Hermione told herself, had taught them to respect the other as an equal.
*
Canby, if asked directly, would deny that he was bonded to any human. Canby was a free elf, he would insist. He was paid wages by the Ministry of Magic, after all. The fact that he sometimes acted as though he were bonded to a human was the purest of coincidences.
That said, if The Witch Who Won ever told Canby to go jump off a cliff, Canby would make the trip to Dover in record time.
He waited now in the inconspicuous way of elvenkind, present in Miss Hermione's outer office without being seen by anyone. Miss Hermione had arrived that morning - looking practically radiant, about which Canby had his opinions but reserved judgment - and had been handed a note by her clerk Sheryl. She'd dashed into her room for a second, then left again.
If he concentrated, he could sense Miss Hermione's current location: the office of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Miss Hermione was a frequent visitor to that office. Canby judged that her work there would be more important than his business with Miss Hermione. He would not interrupt; he would wait here for her return.
Though, truthfully, the matters he wished to discuss would take only a few minutes. Miss Hermione would want to know that Fatima had been properly remembered. Canby would tell her about Fatima's "funeral" - he would use the human term, though the elf ceremonial would hardly seem like a funeral to humans - which had taken place at sunset yestereve.
And then there was Fatima's sister Ayesha, who would soon be arriving in England from foreign lands. True to Miss Hermione's word, the indictments against ibn al-Afrit had prompted the ICW to emancipate any of his elves that might be called to testify against him. Ayesha had chosen to come to England, to take her sister's place in whatever needed doing.
And finally, Canby was curious about the remaining witnesses in his care, and what was planned for them. Were they still witnesses, now that Jack Swivingham was dead and no longer to be tried? Canby suspected so: Swivingham had had his own organization in Knockturn Alley, and his elves might well have overheard things while working for him. Which meant that they would still be the guests of the Ministry for the time being… so Canby assumed, but he wanted Miss Hermione's confirmation.
Once he had Miss Hermione's authority to back him up, Canby could persuade them to remain patiently in their rooms, and not strike out on their own. Perhaps Canby could show them some of the opportunities England offered to free elves… unbonded to humans.
*
Harry considered leaving behind his borrowed cloak when he Apparated to Jacob Clayman's flat. The flat was private, after all, so no one would be scandalized if he suddenly materialized there in the nude. Plus, he really didn't want to keep Ron's cloak a moment longer than necessary - and after last night, it was rather in need of cleaning.
But that reminded him that he didn't want to leave it at Enthalpy House, either. A cloak loaned to Harry Potter, found in Hermione Granger's home? If someone should show up there, he didn't want to leave any clues as to what had happened last night. Oh, neither he nor Hermione had any reason to be ashamed, once Hermione deduced that her wedding vows had been dissolved - but any announcement would be on their terms, in their time, thank you very much.
So Harry arrived at Clayman's flat (he still thought of it that way) with the cloak wrapped around him. The flat was as he'd left it, with all clues to his identity neatly cleared out. In the center of the living room was his goal: the trunk he'd conjured and packed, the night he'd first fled. He'd been living out of it ever since, unpacking and repacking as needed, and it had followed him from hotel to inn to open field, and now back to this flat.
With a smirk, he shrugged Ron's cloak from off his shoulders, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it in the general direction of the kitchen. He'd have clean clothes now, not to mention his spare glasses - everything he'd need, magically shrunk and packed…
Using the Elder Wand.
Oh, crap. Harry raised his left hand and stared at his forearm, where for fifteen years he'd kept the Elder Wand strapped. I don't have the Elder Wand anymore. I don't have any wand anymore! How am I supposed to get my clothes!?
I suppose I could use Hermione's wand to unpack my things. Right. Just Apparate back to the Ministry, still wearing only Ron's cloak, and walk into her office? Uh, no.
Or I could send her a Patronus-message and ask her to bring it here… if I had a wand to summon a Patronus! Aargh!
In frustration, he beat on the trunk with one fist. Obviously, if he planned on rejoining the wizarding world, obtaining a new wand would have to move to the top of his to-do list. And after his spectacular entrance from the Department of Mysteries, Harry figured he was committed on that point.
But he had half an hour to find some clothes and show up at Gringotts, or he'd never be able to prove his identity to some wizards' satisfaction. Getting a shower would be nice, too, but he'd do without if he was running late.
With a deep sigh, he closed his eyes and pressed his hands against the trunk. Harry would swear he could feel the spells he'd used to shrink and pack his belongings: the atoms themselves shrunken and overlapping, the very fabric of space folded up like some intricate origami, in sneering defiance of the laws of physics.
Everything was so simple when I had the Elder Wand, he thought in despair. I didn't even need an incantation. Just picture in my head what I wanted… and the Wand's power took care of the rest. Everything neatly packed.
It would need such a tiny tug to unpack it. Just a little untwist… right… there…
And Harry went flying as the entire contents of the trunk violently erupted outward, each item expanding in its arc to add to the mayhem. He landed on his arse several feet from the now opened trunk, with a pillowcase over his face and a winter scarf tangled around one leg. He started to sit up, and felt more items of clothing being flung at him - and heard the more ominous sound of his living room furniture thumping forcefully against the wall. The opposite wall, thank Merlin, but Harry didn't feel like pressing his luck: he stopped trying to rise, but instead lay flat and waited, until the sounds of upheaval slowed and finally stopped.
He waited another moment, just to be sure it was safe, then slowly stood up with a chuckle. Well, maybe the effects of the Hallows aren't completely gone after all, he thought as he began to peel off the bits of garb. I guess all that practice trying to sense the flow of magic paid off…
"Oh!" exclaimed a high-pitched voice, and Harry's chuckle froze in his throat. "Oh, this is a terrible mess Mister Harry is making! Mister Harry needs help, that much is plain!"
Harry whipped the pillowcase from his face and turned around. Brillig stood in the center of the room, surveying the chaos, her hands on her hips and her head shaking slowly.
"Brillig?" he blurted. He realized his mistake at once when Brillig turned to answer him. The elf's eyes went wide and her mouth gaped. With a blush as furious as any Weasley's, Harry held the pillowcase over his privates with one hand, in a belated attempt to preserve his modesty. With the other hand he made a twirling motion at Brillig, to get her to turn around.
Mesmerized, Brilling made the same twirling motion back at Harry.
"W-Will you please…?!" he hissed, barely articulate. "Not… can't you see... I'm… no clothes…"
"No clothes?" Brillig brought her wide eyes back up to Harry's face, and Harry was astonished to see them fill with tears. "Oh, thank you, Master…"
And before Harry could correct her choice of words (or say anything, really), the elf crossed her hands in front of her to grasp the hem of her shift - and with a practiced, fluid motion she pulled it over her head. Needless to say, the shift was the only article of clothing she wore. And it didn't help Harry's composure in the slightest to learn, in the moment before the shift cleared her head, that Brillig could have posed as a Page Three Girl with no trouble at all.
Brillig carefully folded her shift and set it aside. Then she stepped closer to Harry and quickly knelt before him, resting on her knees and toes. She assumed a submissive posture with her hands folded in her lap and head lowered. "How may thy handmaiden please thee, O my master?" she asked, her voice no longer as high-pitched. For a female elf, it was positively… sultry.
Desperately trying to jumpstart his brain, Harry guessed that this must be one of the behaviors Swivingham had required his "working elves" to learn from Fatima. Certainly her words, both in phrasing and in delivery, smacked of a ritual or a convention of some sort. But it made no sense that she'd offer herself - in that way! - to him! She was done with prostituting to humans! She was a free elf, she should be looking to mate with another elf!
And yet… Harry caught Brillig glancing up at him through her lashes, giving him a look both demure and… hopeful. This couldn't be an act, could it?
He cleared his throat, and prayed his voice wouldn't crack. "First of all," he said firmly, "I'm no one's master. No human's, and no elf's. Do you understand?"
He waited until he saw a minute nod of her head before he continued, more gently, "And second of all, Brillig, you're no man's property. You're free of all that, and you should cherish it. Do you understand?"
The elf raised her head to stare at him. Her face was stricken. "But Mast… Mister Harry… you said, no clothes…"
Harry could have smacked himself. Stupid! Stupid! If giving clothes to a bonded elf grants freedom - then an elf who surrenders her clothes must be bonding! She thinks I offered to bond with her!
At least, I hope that's what she thinks I offered her…
"But thirdly," he said, his mind racing, "um, thirdly… I can't accept any service, even paid service, right now." An idea flashed through his mind, and he gestured around the flat. "I live as a Muggle, amongst Muggles. You know how we have to keep magic secret from them, Brillig. And yeah, I know elves are good at not being seen, but even Muggles would notice if you were here, working, day after day. For me to have an elf here - a paid elf," he emphasized, "just isn't possible."
Brillig looked puzzled. "Mister Harry is living amongst Muggles… oh!" she exclaimed in sudden understanding. "Brillig remembers! Mister Harry has been here in secret, not telling wizards! But Mister Harry is not in secret any more?"
"Not since yesterday," he said ruefully, relaxing a bit. She seemed to be taking this better…
"So Mister Harry will need a home amongst wizards!" In an instant, the elf was on her feet and had rushed up to Harry. He tried to keep the pillowcase in front of his groin, not quite sure of her target… so he was taken off guard as she seized his free hand in both of hers. Before he knew what was happening, she was kissing his hand. "Mister Harry must not worry, Brillig will find wonderful home for him! Some place amongst other wizards, with nice large house that needs an elf's care!" She gazed up at him, her face radiant with happiness. "And… and Brillig will even take wages! One Galleon, just like the Great Dobby! But no more!" she told him, suddenly stern. "Would not be seemly to take more than Dobby took. That is very important, Mister Harry, so you must promise Brillig!"
"Ah, er, um…"
"Oh, thank you, Mister Harry! Brillig will begin at once! Thank you!" And snatching up her shift from the floor, the elf vanished from the room with a crack of displaced air.
Harry stood blinking for several seconds. Well, he concluded glumly, that certainly could have gone better. At least he'd bought himself a little breathing space: he could wait until he joined the wizarding world before he had to explain to Brillig that he really wasn't in the market for an elf.
As housekeeper or anything else.
In the meantime, somewhere in this mess was his spare set of glasses, and he was now in the unenviable position of being too nearsighted without them to be able to search for them.
*
In the foyer of Gringotts Bank, Eldritch glanced at his watch for the third time in thirty seconds. "Madam Granger assured me she would forward any message," he muttered.
"Considering where he's been these last few years, I'm prepared to cut him some slack, Mr. Eldritch," Andromeda Tonks replied tranquilly. She was only half-attending to the grey Unspeakable; she kept her eyes on the entrance to the foyer. Seconds later, she was rewarded by the sight of a young man trotting briskly into the bank. Andromeda didn't bring his arrival to Eldritch's notice, wanting a moment to study the newcomer.
She'd only met Harry Potter the one time, when the Order of the Phoenix had used her home as a way station for Harry and Hagrid. The few minutes she'd spent with young Potter had been enough: the young man who was now looking frantically around the foyer was definitely the same man. He was even, as he had then, wearing clothes slightly too large for him.
Eldritch had noticed Harry by this point, and was motioning him to join them. "It is nine oh-seven," he said by way of greeting.
"Sorry," Harry shrugged. "I had a little difficulty rustling up some clothes." The last half of the sentence was delivered with a certain frostiness, and Andromeda couldn't help smiling at Eldritch's discomfiture.
"Harry," she began, and he turned his eyes on her. Those bright green eyes were just as she remembered. The smile upon seeing her was genuine.
"Mrs. Tonks? Hello! I should've realized that Teddy would end up with my vault… a lot of the Black estate ended up there."
"Harry," she began again, "I'm glad of the chance to meet with you, here at Gringotts. It will help facilitate the return of much of your property…"
"No," he interrupted hastily, "that's all Ted's now. My will was executed exactly as I wished - and let's face it, Mrs. Tonks, I was dead. Well and truly dead, by any reasonable definition of the word. The goblins followed my last wishes perfectly…" Harry didn't look around, but his eyes danced as with a shared joke; Andromeda knew that he knew the goblins were eavesdropping. "And I'm satisfied with how things turned out," he concluded.
Andromeda smiled to herself: she'd expected this response, and was ready. "At least accept this." From her handbag Andromeda produced a small money pouch filled with Galleons. "I must insist you not argue with me, young man. You came back into this world owning nothing but your skin. Let your friends - your family - help you while you get back on your feet. I assure you, this is only a fraction of what our entire world owes you."
Put that way, Harry had no choice but to accept. Andromeda quickly closed her handbag, so that no one would see the letter it still contained.
"Well then," said Eldritch briskly, "shall we do what we came here to do? The Potter heirloom chest awaits you, sir…" He was, Andromeda noted, careful neither to use Harry's name, nor deny it was his.
The three made their way to one of the tellers, where a goblin watched alertly as Andromeda produced her vault key. "Acting on behalf of Ted Lupin, I authorize the opening of his vault, and the admission of these two wizards." She handed the key to the goblin, then calmly extended one finger.
With a swift motion, the goblin stuck a pin into Andromeda's outstretched finger, and allowed a single drop of blood to fall on the key. Andromeda watched dispassionately as the blood was absorbed into the metal key, which promptly gave a momentary golden glow. "All seems to be in order," said the goblin, who turned and shouted for an escort.
"You won't be accompanying us to the vault?" Eldritch asked.
She shook her head. "I expect there'll be plenty of opportunities to catch up with Harry in the future." She smiled knowingly at Harry, with this reminder that they would be meeting again Saturday in a much more private setting… and was a bit puzzled by his lack of response. "In any case," she added in a clear dismissal, "I am already convinced as to his identity."
Once Eldritch and Harry had left with their goblin escort, Andromeda retired to a bench in the foyer to await their return. She paused only a moment before surreptitiously casting privacy charms around herself. With a nod, she put away her wand and, bringing out her handbag, drew out the letter. She'd received it only that morning, and to say she had been surprised was an understatement.
The letter was from her sister, Narcissa Malfoy.
Andromeda had already read the letter several times before coming to Gringotts; she fancied she had its contents memorized by this point. Nonetheless, she unfolded the letter and scanned it again. None of the words had changed - which was not a farfetched concern, given it was from Cissy.
She's being released from Azkaban… her and her spawn, Draco. And of course she considers herself destitute: Malfoy Manor, their lands and holdings, were confiscated when her husband was proven to be a Death Eater. So she's asking for my help while they re-establish themselves.
Oh, Cissy. Have you forgotten? Do you think I've forgotten? Forgotten your scorn when I was disowned from the House of Black for the sin of marrying a Muggleborn? Forgotten the deaths of my husband, my daughter? She was as much a Black as your get, dear sister.
You must have forgotten, Cissy. Because not even you would have the unmitigated gall to ask for my help, otherwise.
She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. With Harry Potter's return, a great many shadows from the past had returned as well. Most were easily dealt with… this one, much less so.
But it's as I just told Harry, she reminded herself. Family is there to help when one's down on their luck. I daresay one can't get more "down on their luck" than spending fourteen years in Azkaban. And Narcissa is family, a trueborn Black.
Nonetheless, it will do no harm to extract a promise from my dear sister before I'll agree to help them: an acknowledgment that my grandson Ted, by blood and inheritance, is the Head of the House of Black. Won't that stick in her craw!
*
Arriving back in her offices, Hermione was only mildly startled to see the knot of people waiting for her, all with bits of Ministry business that they seemed to think needed her approval. She was more startled to see that one of the waiting wizards was Ron. A serious, unwontedly quiet Ron, bearing a large manila envelope.
Sheryl noticed her glance around the room. "I was going to ask them each to take a number for faster service," she said, "but I don't know how many of them would get the joke."
Hermione managed a smile at that. "Have we heard from Dennis this morning?"
"Peasegood dropped off a note," said Sheryl, handing it over, "saying that The Subject is being kept Stupefied until he, Peasegood, has another chance at him. At the moment, he's busy with our Higher Profile Subjects."
"There are disadvantages to being the Minstry's best Memory expert," Hermione sighed. Unfortunately, Arnold Peasegood was not only their best expert on the subject of Memory Charms, he was head and shoulders above their second best expert.
She was about to ask which wizard had arrived first when Sheryl tapped the back of her hand with a fingernail. Sheryl caught Hermione's gaze, looking her firmly in the eye, and silently mouthed the word Ron. Hermione blinked in surprise; Sheryl gave a barely imperceptible nod.
Well, this was as good an opportunity as any to give Ron the news that their wedding vows had been dissolved. She still wasn't sure how to tell him how she knew, but it would work itself out. First, she'd let him conclude whatever business he'd brought… that would give her a bit more time to think. "Gentlemen, I'll be with you all shortly," Hermione announced. "Ron, did you need to see me?"
"Yeah," he said. He didn't elaborate, which was unlike Ron.
She ushered him into her office and closed the door behind them. "I wanted to give you your birthday present," Ron said without preamble. Hermione was surprised again: Sheryl's demeanor had suggested that Ron's business was important.
"I didn't think it could wait until tomorrow," Ron went on. "There'll be too much else to talk about." His demeanor was harder to define: it reminded her of the rare times during their marriage when he'd really wanted a serious discussion on an important matter - and didn't want it to end in a shouting match. Which seemed rather much, for a birthday present…
Ron handed her the manila envelope. Quickly, she tore it open and brought out what appeared to be a Muggle legal document. Its wording appeared to be standardized and formulaic - and at the top were the words Decree Absolute. Below that were their names, Ronald B. Weasley and Hermione J. Granger, as they'd appear in the Muggle world.
The Decree Absolute was the final document in the Muggle divorce process. According to this, a Muggle court had granted them a divorce.
Ron continued talking as Hermione stared at the document. "I got this from, um, well, she's Muggle-born and her brother dug it up for me. I reckoned, since we weren't married in the Muggle world, we didn't have to bother with their whole divorce business. That can take months, they tell me. This way, our own Magical Records Office can slip this into whatever records the Muggles keep, just like they do for births and deaths and such."
Hermione kept her gaze on the paper, so she could avoid meeting Ron's eyes. Inwardly, she was both hurt and touched. It was obvious to her what was coming, she'd deduced it the moment she saw the Decree; and while part of her had longed for it for years, another part was saddened that it was now here.
Still, she'd been prepared to inform Ron, so couldn't complain that he was informing her instead. And secretly, she couldn't help but be amused by the timing. And, really, for Ron, it was a considerate gift. Far be it from her to spoil his presentation.
"If it were that easy, Ron," Hermione said softly, "we could have done it years ago. But a wizarding marriage won't be affected by this…"
"No," said Ron seriously, "but this is just a formality, to cover all our hoops. We'll probably want our own Magical Records Office to have a copy, too… make it official and all. Y'see, we've done something that's never been done before in the wizarding world." A dramatic pause, then: "We're not married any more."
She looked up and feigned surprise. "Of course we are! Our marriage is enforced by our own magic, and the vows we took. Where we promised to be together forever…"
"Nope," Ron corrected her. "For life." He grinned at the confused look on Hermione's face. "Until Death us do part, Hermione. When you died yesterday, it broke the power of our vows. The moment you died, we stopped being married."
"I see!" she exclaimed, then stopped and assumed a thoughtful expression. "No, wait, it sounds plausible, but it may not have happened so cleanly. This is speculation. After all, as you noted, it's never happened before."
Predictably, the blood came rushing to Ron's face. "Erm," he coughed, "no, it's not speculation. I'm pretty sure our vows are gone." Hermione smiled quizzically, and he mumbled, "Okay, I'm absolutely sure."
She gave a slight snort of mirth, and decided she'd strung him along far enough. "I won't pry," she said gently. "So - my birthday gift is… freedom? Being rid of the hyphenation?"
He relaxed at the easy manner in which she was accepting his news. "Hey, last time we spoke, you did allow as how it was something you wanted." He smiled ruefully. "All right, that both of us wanted."
"Yes, well… thank you for telling me, Ron. I appreciate it." She laid the document on her desk, reached across and squeezed Ron's hand warmly. "And I hope this means we're still friends, even if we can't be spouses. I do care for you… I just can't be with you."
"I know what you mean," he grinned, then turned serious again. "But yeah, I hope we stay friends, at least. We're still going to be seeing a lot of each other, y'know."
Her surprise this time was completely unfeigned. "Oh, Merlin, I hadn't considered! Rose! What about Rose?"
"Hogwarts for most of the year, and summer hols with you," said Ron, with a readiness that suggested he'd given it some thought. "As long as I can be there for Christmas, and spend a day now and then with her, I'm good with that. What I was worried about was how…"
"How we're going to tell her," Hermione finished his sentence with him. "Well, she should certainly hear it from us, not from another source… we should do it together, and soon."
They stood silently for a moment. It was Ron who voiced what they were both thinking. "So… Saturday, after your Rebirthday Party, then."
"My Rebirthday Party." Hermione rubbed her forehead. Where I'll also be explaining all about Harry's disappearance, exile, and return. About which I haven't yet spoken to Harry. "Well," she finally said, "it's going to be one hell of a party, isn't it?"