Posting a little early because I'm not sure when I'll have time later...
The next part of 'The Truth About Love'-- where I had fun with history and literature and period detail. This chapter has some of the dialogue that I found easiest to write, for some reason; it is easy to write H/Hr banter and I do love their friendship.
For my dear avidbeader.
Enjoy!
The Truth About Love
Part 4: Beginnings
Hermione awoke to find the sun high in the sky and the morning well-advanced. She glanced at the clock to find, to her dismay, that she had slept in until it was nearly 10 in the morning. She must have been more tired than she had thought.
She sent for Winnie and proceeded to dress for the day with more haste and, at the same time, more care than she usually put into her clothing, aware of a wish, which she hadn’t felt before, to look pretty-or as pretty as possible-for her husband, choosing a simply-styled morning dress in a violet shade.
“Very nice, dear,” her mirror remarked approvingly when she was finished and, somewhat heartened by this praise, Hermione hurried out of her bedchamber and down the stairs, receiving a fleeting impression of clean, elegant lines.
The front door opened just when she reached the entrance foyer and she saw Harry.
He had been out flying, she could see, from his clothing and from the generally refreshed and wind-blown appearance he had.
She wondered if she were imagining the slight falter in his step when he saw her, the almost imperceptible flicker of some expression she couldn’t read in his eyes, but then he smiled and she dismissed her wondering as her imagination. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” She felt herself flush a little, wondering when she had begun to react this way to seeing Harry-was it only the consciousness that he was her husband now? Was that where this sudden awareness of him, not just as a person and her best friend but as a man, came from?
“I was thinking we could have a tour of the house and some of the grounds today. I don’t know how good of a guide I’ll be since it’ll be just about my first time seeing it all too, but…”
“That would be nice.”
“Good. I will see you in a little while, then.”
Godric’s Hollow was not just a house, Hermione realized once the tour had begun; it was a manor, with all of what that word entailed.
It was not a pretty house, exactly; its exterior, indeed, looked a trifle grim, even in daylight, with its pale gray stonework but it had a sort of imposing elegance to it. But the somewhat grim impression was mitigated by the turrets and crenellations which softened the façade of the house. It looked like what it was, an old house which had been built centuries ago and had withstood time and change with reassuring solidity. In spite of the additions which she could see had been added on in more recent centuries, she noted approvingly that whoever had overseen the additions had been wise enough to replicate the original stonework so that the additions blended in with the rest of the house in a nearly seamless manner. With the additions, the manor was now roughly the shape of a large, sprawling letter E, in tribute to Queen Elizabeth, who had been Queen at the time of the additions.
Hermione had known, intellectually, from the books she had read that the Potters were an old wizarding family but she hadn’t fully realized just how old a family they were. Certainly Harry, having grown up not knowing about his wizarding roots, didn’t exude any consciousness of his ancestry, but here, in this house, it was clear just how old and how established the Potters were.
It was odd to think that she was now one of them; in marrying Harry, she had become a part of this family’s and this house’s history.
The interior of the house had clearly been updated and modernized over the years so it was more gracious, generally decorated with clean, elegant lines and simple styles. One of the Potter wives, at least, at some time, had had good taste, Hermione thought.
She smiled, turning to Harry. “I think I will like your home.”
He returned her smile, his eyes brightening with something like gratitude for the simple compliment but what he said was, “It’s now your home as well.”
She felt her breath stutter a little in her chest-although she wasn’t sure whether it was due to his words or due to his smile, or a combination of both. This was her home too…
The ground floor had all the public rooms, a formal dining room with a table in it that looked, at least from the entrance, at least as long as one of the House tables in the Great Hall at Hogwarts (although, Hermione was to find, it was actually less than half that length, which, admittedly, still meant that it could seat upwards of 20 persons), the smaller, more intimate morning room (where Hermione had eaten her breakfast), and another smaller, more cozy dining room (this one clearly only intended for family use) several sitting rooms and parlors, a music room with a pianoforte and a harp and some instruments which Hermione could not identify (the music room led out onto the terrace, which, in turn, led to the gardens behind the house). Also, attached to the house (clearly a much more recent addition, within the last century, Hermione guessed) was a conservatory. It looked to contain a number of both magical and Muggle plants as she recognized such things as an orange tree and also other plants, such as the Mandrake root, which she had learned about in Herbology.
Upstairs, on the first floor, were the bedrooms, bedrooms for guests in one wing of the house and the family bedrooms (where her and Harry’s bedchambers were) in the other wing. Also upstairs was the gallery, which stretched along most of the back of the house with windows looking out over the gardens, lined with portraits of the Potter family.
Hermione smiled to herself. Even at a quick glance, she could see the resemblance. The men of the family in particular seemed to have the messy black hair and the glasses, although the spectacles ranged rather widely in style over the years.
She glanced at Harry, whose expression had become oddly still as he looked at these pictures of his family, most of whom he didn’t know and whom he had grown up knowing nothing about. And she suddenly thought how terribly tragic it was for Harry to know so little of his family; the richness of his own family history, the family legends, all that he would know next to nothing about. She made a mental note to look and see if she could find any books of the Potter’s family history, thinking, with a slight blush, that at the very least, their children could grow up knowing something of their history.
Hermione cast about mentally for something to say, feeling a need to banish the hint of melancholy in his expression now as he looked at these pictures.
“I can see where you get your hair,” she said teasingly.
The melancholy fled as he turned to grin at her, once again the best friend she knew. “It’s part of the Potter charm,” he quipped.
“Oh, of course,” she laughed. “My, you really do have a long lineage, Mr. Potter,” she said lightly, in a tone of mock awe.
He smiled. “If it means anything, my family is not nearly as Pure-blooded as most old wizarding families are. Apparently, some of my ancestors were rebellious and I remember my Uncle Sirius mentioning one particular scandal when one of my ancestors ran off with and married a Muggle young lady.”
“Oh? Which one of these couples would that be?”
“I- ah- don’t know,” Harry admitted in a sheepish manner. “I did warn you, did I not, that I would not be the best of guides?”
She paused in front of one painting of a couple, dressed in clothes from Renaissance times, struck by the woman in the picture who looked, with her blond hair and thin, sharp features, startlingly like a more pleasant version of Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy. “Harry, she looks like a Malfoy.”
Harry looked, stepping a little closer to the painting. “Oh, yes. And fortunately for you, this is one person whom I can actually tell you a little about. Uncle Sirius mentioned her to me once, when he was telling me about my family. The reason she looks like a Malfoy is because she is one. Honoria Malfoy, to be precise.”
Hermione made a disbelieving sound in her throat, indifferent to how inelegant it was. “Someone named a Malfoy for honor?”
Harry let out a brief chuckle. “Ironic, is it not? But apparently, she was not entirely Malfoy-like and the marriage, according to Uncle Sirius at least, who had it from my father, was a comparatively happy one, by the standards of the time.”
“The standards of the time? Wouldn’t that mean that they were capable of spending at least a month in the same house without one trying to kill the other?”
Harry smiled. “Something like that, I believe. To do her justice, however, according to what my father told Uncle Sirius, she was actually an agreeable woman. I suppose it goes to show you that not even a Malfoy is always evil.”
“But that would mean that you’re related to Mr. Draco Malfoy.”
“Very distantly, yes, I am. As my Uncle Sirius mentioned, almost all of the older wizarding families are related in some fashion, especially the Pure-blooded ones, but even to a lesser extent, my family.” Harry’s smile and his tone softened a little as he added, “Uncle Sirius said jokingly that as we shared an ancestor somewhere, he could really be my nephew many times removed or something.” He was silent for a moment and then he blinked a little. “Being related distantly by blood clearly doesn’t mean much because of how inter-related most of the old wizarding families are, but for my father and Uncle Sirius, they saw it differently and made their distant blood relationship just part of a much closer friendship.”
Harry’s eyes had that distant, sad expression he tended to have whenever he spoke about his Uncle Sirius (who had not been an uncle at all but his godfather, but had been as close as a brother to Harry’s father, hence why Mr. Black had insisted that Harry call him Uncle rather than the more formal Mr. Black) and his father.
Hermione studied Harry in silence, a little surprised at how much Harry had revealed in the past few minutes. Harry had never been the most communicative of young men, didn’t speak of his parents or of his godfather very often, but Hermione had realized long ago that what some people might mistake for not thinking about them, was actually an indication of the opposite and that Harry thought about his parents and his godfather all the more for not speaking of them. Harry was that type to feel things deeply but not speak of them to any but a select few. And she was fortunate that she and Ron-along with Mr. Lupin, she knew-were probably the only people whom Harry did trust enough to speak about his parents with.
The silence stretched, becoming tinged with sadness, and in an effort to dispel it, Hermione said lightly, “Hmm, I might have to regret marrying you if it means I’m suddenly related to the Malfoys.”
Harry blinked, his gaze returning to her, with a slight smile. “Why do you suppose I didn’t tell you about being related to them until now, when it’s too late for you to change your mind?”
Hermione smiled, rejoicing to see the humor gleaming in his eyes. “Aha, so that was your sly plan. I see your intent now, sir.”
He didn’t say anything in response but his eyes were bright and as they turned to finish their walk through the gallery, he offered his arm to her. It was a small gesture, insignificant enough as gestures went, but it sent a little thrill of happiness through her, nevertheless. It was the first indication he had given of welcoming her touch, even as chastely and simply as her hand on his arm, and while she had rested her hand on his arm before, those other times had usually either been for the benefit of others or because he thought she might be tired. This gesture had very little to do with any of those other occasions; there was no one there to see or care and he could not possibly think she was in need of support after simply strolling through his house. This gesture was from gallantry and from something warmer-dare she call it affection?-a wish for her to touch him even? She wasn’t sure but she knew it meant something more than simple civility or even friendship. And so she smiled as she rested her hand on his arm.
A little ways down the gallery, they came to the last of the family portraits, although there was still plenty of space left-space for her and Harry and for their children, she realized with a blush.
And Hermione saw what Harry’s parents had looked like for the first time. She knew that he had seen them, to know what they looked like, first in the Mirror of Erised, and then, more terribly, when they had emerged from the wand of Lord Voldemort, but she had not been present at either of those times. So she studied this last couple in the portrait with a personal interest which she hadn’t given to any of the others.
“Oh, Harry…” she breathed softly, not quite sure why she said it, but the words slipped out. Perhaps out of sympathy for his never having known them?
He tried to smile but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as he said, with mock formality, (even as he blithely turned on its head, the polite rule of always addressing the elder party first and introducing the younger one to them) “Hermione, may I introduce you to my parents, Mr. James Potter and Mrs. Lily Potter?”
Harry bore a remarkable resemblance to his father, Hermione saw immediately. Not just the messy black hair or the glasses but the features, too, were like his father’s, with only slight differences about the nose and mouth. But Harry’s eyes, the clear green which everyone always noticed, were from his mother.
Hermione felt something inside her give an odd twist at the first sight of Harry’s mother, as Mrs. Lily Potter’s bright red hair reminded her, unpleasantly, of Miss Ginny Weasley, but a moment’s closer notice banished the impression. Any similarity between Miss Weasley and Harry’s mother ended at the color of their hair, not only because Mrs. Lily Potter’s eyes were the same vivid green as Harry’s but because of the expression on Mrs. Lily Potter’s face.
Whoever had painted the portrait had been skilled, Hermione could tell even with her limited knowledge of art, because of how very alive the people in the portrait appeared. Mrs. Lily Potter was seated while Mr. James Potter was standing beside her. In the portrait, even as she watched, Harry’s father seemed to grin and then wink down at her and Harry, before turning to look down at his wife, his hand moving to rest on her shoulder. Harry’s mother also smiled at Harry and then looked up at her husband. There was an open-ness, a liveliness, about Mrs. Potter’s expression as she smiled up at her husband, that bore no resemblance to Miss Weasley’s customarily serene expression, and the simple power of the emotion clear to be read in Mrs. Potter’s eyes as she looked up at her husband was more than any emotion which Hermione had ever seen Miss Weasley exhibit in seven years.
“Your mother was a lovely woman,” she finally said simply.
Harry’s eyes were soft, as was his tone. “Yes, she was.”
“I wish I could have met her.”
Harry glanced at her. “I think she would like you. Both my parents would have liked you,” he responded, almost without thought, and he only realized, belatedly, that he really meant the words. He did think his parents would have liked Hermione-and the thought was somehow reassuring, as if his parents had just given his and Hermione’s marriage their blessing.
“Thank you. It was the kindest thing which Mr. Lupin said to me yesterday. He told me that I reminded him of your mother.”
“Did he say that? Well, he would certainly know what my mother was like.”
Harry was quiet as they left the gallery, thinking of his parents, of his godfather, of Remus who was now the closest thing to a father he had, but somehow always conscious, in a way he’d never been before, of the warmth from Hermione’s ungloved hand resting on his arm, even through the cloth of his jacket.
He had been rather uncertain about moving into Godric’s Hollow but he had decided that now, on his marriage, was the right time for him to finally move into his family home, no matter what ghosts and memories he might disturb there.
But enough of his hesitation had remained that he hadn’t tried to visit the house before the wedding, had not tried to explore it on his own this morning.
All he had done was to go flying over the grounds of the estate but that had been more for the relaxation he always found in the air than for the purposes of seeing the grounds around the house.
But exploring the house with Hermione had ended up being surprisingly (or not so surprisingly-this was Hermione, after all, his best friend) enjoyable. She had kept her comments and exclamations light-hearted enough and it had allowed him to see the house as what it was, an old, dignified family home, and not only as a place of hallways where his parents had once walked, not only as the ill-fated location of his nightmares of his parents’ murders.
And even now, looking at his parents’ portrait, there had been a touch of wistfulness, of regret, yes, but not the overwhelming grief he had rather been expecting. For about the first time, he’d allowed himself to think of his parents without guilt, had thought that now, finally, he might be able to put their ghosts to rest.
He glanced at Hermione as they walked. He didn’t doubt that it was due to her presence, in large part, for why this tour of his home had been pleasant, and felt a sudden wave of affection for her, his dear best friend. On impulse, before he could think better of it, he moved his free hand to cover hers, where it rested on his arm, giving it a light pressure.
She gave him a quick smile but didn’t say anything.
“There’s still one more part of the house we haven’t seen,” he told her, enjoying the way her eyes widened a little.
“There’s more? Harry, your house isn’t one of those with expanding walls or anything, is it?”
“No, it isn’t, not as far as I know.”
He had deliberately kept this part of the house for last; it was the one part of the house he had gone to look for, earlier this morning, wanting to know where it was.
And it was with a hidden smile of anticipation that he led her down a back staircase and opened a door with a small flourish.
“Oh, Harry!” Her hand dropped from his arm as she clapped her hands together once, gazing around her with unhidden delight.
It was the library.
Harry had been rather pleasantly surprised himself at just how large the library was, the walls of the room entirely lined with bookshelves, all filled with books. He smiled to himself as he pulled out his wand and waved it, smiling at Hermione’s delighted laugh as all of the shelves along one wall moved away from the wall toward the center of the room, showing yet another layer of bookshelves.
Hermione gave Harry a glowing glance. “This is definitely my favorite room in the house.”
“Is it really? I’m absolutely astonished,” he deadpanned, his eyes teasing.
She gave a self-conscious little laugh. “Oh, it’s wonderful.” She moved closer to some of the bookshelves, almost drawn to them, noting with pleasure that the library had both Muggle and magical books. She saw several books she recognized from the Hogwarts library, several editions of Hogwarts: a History, books on Herbology and Potions and Magical Creatures and Transfiguration, to say nothing of History of Magic. But she also saw other books, volumes of Shakespeare, an edition of the Faerie Queene, a volume of John Donne’s poetry, Alexander Pope, and even-she noted with some surprise and some amusement-the works of Mary Wollstonecraft. (Most likely belonging to Harry’s mother-and she suddenly felt a wave of kinship with Mrs. Lily Potter which she hadn’t felt simply from knowing that Mrs. Lily had been Harry’s mother, who had given her life for him.)
“Oh, Harry, why didn’t you tell me your family had amassed such an incredible library?”
“I should have,” he said humorously. “It would have been easier to convince you to marry me, if I had.”
She threw him a laughing glance. “Of course it would have been.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” he said, assuming an injured tone. “You wouldn’t marry me to save your reputation or simply because I asked you to, but you would marry me for my family’s library.” He gave an exaggerated sigh, addressing the air. “It’s a lowering thing, for a man to know that he ranks lower in his wife’s eyes than his books.”
Hermione laughed softly and moved closer to give him a teasingly consoling pat on his arm. “Well, I did marry you before I found out about your library.”
“I will forever be gratified to know that,” he told her with sham solemnity.
“You should be,” she answered lightly, but her gaze had returned to scanning the bookshelves, he saw with some amusement.
“At least now I know where you will be found, if I’m ever wondering where you are.”
“You do, indeed.”
Harry smiled again and then gestured towards a door on the far wall. “That door leads out to the main corridor and the front of the house.” He indicated another door on the adjoining wall. “And that door leads to my father’s study.”
He moved to the door, opening it.
It was certainly the most masculine room in the house, decorated mostly in dark woods, the room dominated by a large desk.
“I’m told that my father and grandfather took care of the estate accounts and any other business here and it also served as their retreat when there were callers whom they wanted to avoid seeing. Because of its connecting door to the library that connects, in turn, to the back staircase which leads you directly to the wing with the family’s bedchambers, it made an ideal escape route.”
“From what I’ve heard of your father, the escape route part sounds more like him than the business,” Hermione observed teasingly.
Harry laughed. “You are probably correct. But given that it was Remus who told this to me, you can understand why he would have somewhat edited his memories for my benefit.”
“And it does Mr. Lupin credit,” Hermione rejoined before asking lightly, “Will you be using this room as a study or as an escape route?”
“I am not sure. Do you plan to be having many disagreeable callers whom I’d want to avoid seeing?”
Hermione pretended to ponder the question. “Well, I was planning on inviting Mr. Malfoy’s mother to tea sometime,” she teased (ignoring the fact that Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy would sooner leave the Magical world altogether to become a Muggle seamstress than she would accept an invitation to tea from Muggle-born Hermione Potter).
“In that case, I will definitely be using this room as an escape route.”
Hermione laughed.
“If you’ll excuse me, I told Remus I would Floo-call him so we could go over some of the estate accounts since it’s time I start handling them. You will not be bored, I think,” Harry added with a slight smile.
“Bored? In the library? Oh yes, it will be tedious in the extreme; however will I amuse myself?”
He laughed and lifted her hand to brush it with his lips before he left.
He joined her again at supper, which was the only meal held in the formal dining room unless there were guests.
The places were set, as was proper, with him at one end and her at the other.
Hermione suppressed a sigh. She knew this was the way of things but it did seem somewhat ridiculous for two people to be seated at opposite ends of such a large table and she did not like the feeling of being separated from him. But she stayed silent, not wanting to sound dissatisfied.
Harry sat down, smiling at her before he directed his glance down at the length of the table with a slight frown, and after a moment, stood up again. “This is ridiculous. I feel like we’re in separate counties.” With a wave of his wand, he moved his place setting down to the place adjoining hers, and sat down with a slight smile. “This is better, is it not? Much more conducive to conversation. Unless you mind?” he added with a touch of uncertainty.
“No, not at all. It’s hardly necessary to be so formal when it is only us.”
After supper, they talked for a little while longer and then he escorted her up to her room, leaving her at her door with a smile and a “Good night, Hermione.”
She stifled a sigh before she went inside.
She spent the second night of her marriage much as she had the first: alone.
~To be continued...
For my dear avidbeader.
Enjoy!
The Truth About Love
Part 4: Beginnings
Hermione awoke to find the sun high in the sky and the morning well-advanced. She glanced at the clock to find, to her dismay, that she had slept in until it was nearly 10 in the morning. She must have been more tired than she had thought.
She sent for Winnie and proceeded to dress for the day with more haste and, at the same time, more care than she usually put into her clothing, aware of a wish, which she hadn’t felt before, to look pretty-or as pretty as possible-for her husband, choosing a simply-styled morning dress in a violet shade.
“Very nice, dear,” her mirror remarked approvingly when she was finished and, somewhat heartened by this praise, Hermione hurried out of her bedchamber and down the stairs, receiving a fleeting impression of clean, elegant lines.
The front door opened just when she reached the entrance foyer and she saw Harry.
He had been out flying, she could see, from his clothing and from the generally refreshed and wind-blown appearance he had.
She wondered if she were imagining the slight falter in his step when he saw her, the almost imperceptible flicker of some expression she couldn’t read in his eyes, but then he smiled and she dismissed her wondering as her imagination. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” She felt herself flush a little, wondering when she had begun to react this way to seeing Harry-was it only the consciousness that he was her husband now? Was that where this sudden awareness of him, not just as a person and her best friend but as a man, came from?
“I was thinking we could have a tour of the house and some of the grounds today. I don’t know how good of a guide I’ll be since it’ll be just about my first time seeing it all too, but…”
“That would be nice.”
“Good. I will see you in a little while, then.”
Godric’s Hollow was not just a house, Hermione realized once the tour had begun; it was a manor, with all of what that word entailed.
It was not a pretty house, exactly; its exterior, indeed, looked a trifle grim, even in daylight, with its pale gray stonework but it had a sort of imposing elegance to it. But the somewhat grim impression was mitigated by the turrets and crenellations which softened the façade of the house. It looked like what it was, an old house which had been built centuries ago and had withstood time and change with reassuring solidity. In spite of the additions which she could see had been added on in more recent centuries, she noted approvingly that whoever had overseen the additions had been wise enough to replicate the original stonework so that the additions blended in with the rest of the house in a nearly seamless manner. With the additions, the manor was now roughly the shape of a large, sprawling letter E, in tribute to Queen Elizabeth, who had been Queen at the time of the additions.
Hermione had known, intellectually, from the books she had read that the Potters were an old wizarding family but she hadn’t fully realized just how old a family they were. Certainly Harry, having grown up not knowing about his wizarding roots, didn’t exude any consciousness of his ancestry, but here, in this house, it was clear just how old and how established the Potters were.
It was odd to think that she was now one of them; in marrying Harry, she had become a part of this family’s and this house’s history.
The interior of the house had clearly been updated and modernized over the years so it was more gracious, generally decorated with clean, elegant lines and simple styles. One of the Potter wives, at least, at some time, had had good taste, Hermione thought.
She smiled, turning to Harry. “I think I will like your home.”
He returned her smile, his eyes brightening with something like gratitude for the simple compliment but what he said was, “It’s now your home as well.”
She felt her breath stutter a little in her chest-although she wasn’t sure whether it was due to his words or due to his smile, or a combination of both. This was her home too…
The ground floor had all the public rooms, a formal dining room with a table in it that looked, at least from the entrance, at least as long as one of the House tables in the Great Hall at Hogwarts (although, Hermione was to find, it was actually less than half that length, which, admittedly, still meant that it could seat upwards of 20 persons), the smaller, more intimate morning room (where Hermione had eaten her breakfast), and another smaller, more cozy dining room (this one clearly only intended for family use) several sitting rooms and parlors, a music room with a pianoforte and a harp and some instruments which Hermione could not identify (the music room led out onto the terrace, which, in turn, led to the gardens behind the house). Also, attached to the house (clearly a much more recent addition, within the last century, Hermione guessed) was a conservatory. It looked to contain a number of both magical and Muggle plants as she recognized such things as an orange tree and also other plants, such as the Mandrake root, which she had learned about in Herbology.
Upstairs, on the first floor, were the bedrooms, bedrooms for guests in one wing of the house and the family bedrooms (where her and Harry’s bedchambers were) in the other wing. Also upstairs was the gallery, which stretched along most of the back of the house with windows looking out over the gardens, lined with portraits of the Potter family.
Hermione smiled to herself. Even at a quick glance, she could see the resemblance. The men of the family in particular seemed to have the messy black hair and the glasses, although the spectacles ranged rather widely in style over the years.
She glanced at Harry, whose expression had become oddly still as he looked at these pictures of his family, most of whom he didn’t know and whom he had grown up knowing nothing about. And she suddenly thought how terribly tragic it was for Harry to know so little of his family; the richness of his own family history, the family legends, all that he would know next to nothing about. She made a mental note to look and see if she could find any books of the Potter’s family history, thinking, with a slight blush, that at the very least, their children could grow up knowing something of their history.
Hermione cast about mentally for something to say, feeling a need to banish the hint of melancholy in his expression now as he looked at these pictures.
“I can see where you get your hair,” she said teasingly.
The melancholy fled as he turned to grin at her, once again the best friend she knew. “It’s part of the Potter charm,” he quipped.
“Oh, of course,” she laughed. “My, you really do have a long lineage, Mr. Potter,” she said lightly, in a tone of mock awe.
He smiled. “If it means anything, my family is not nearly as Pure-blooded as most old wizarding families are. Apparently, some of my ancestors were rebellious and I remember my Uncle Sirius mentioning one particular scandal when one of my ancestors ran off with and married a Muggle young lady.”
“Oh? Which one of these couples would that be?”
“I- ah- don’t know,” Harry admitted in a sheepish manner. “I did warn you, did I not, that I would not be the best of guides?”
She paused in front of one painting of a couple, dressed in clothes from Renaissance times, struck by the woman in the picture who looked, with her blond hair and thin, sharp features, startlingly like a more pleasant version of Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy. “Harry, she looks like a Malfoy.”
Harry looked, stepping a little closer to the painting. “Oh, yes. And fortunately for you, this is one person whom I can actually tell you a little about. Uncle Sirius mentioned her to me once, when he was telling me about my family. The reason she looks like a Malfoy is because she is one. Honoria Malfoy, to be precise.”
Hermione made a disbelieving sound in her throat, indifferent to how inelegant it was. “Someone named a Malfoy for honor?”
Harry let out a brief chuckle. “Ironic, is it not? But apparently, she was not entirely Malfoy-like and the marriage, according to Uncle Sirius at least, who had it from my father, was a comparatively happy one, by the standards of the time.”
“The standards of the time? Wouldn’t that mean that they were capable of spending at least a month in the same house without one trying to kill the other?”
Harry smiled. “Something like that, I believe. To do her justice, however, according to what my father told Uncle Sirius, she was actually an agreeable woman. I suppose it goes to show you that not even a Malfoy is always evil.”
“But that would mean that you’re related to Mr. Draco Malfoy.”
“Very distantly, yes, I am. As my Uncle Sirius mentioned, almost all of the older wizarding families are related in some fashion, especially the Pure-blooded ones, but even to a lesser extent, my family.” Harry’s smile and his tone softened a little as he added, “Uncle Sirius said jokingly that as we shared an ancestor somewhere, he could really be my nephew many times removed or something.” He was silent for a moment and then he blinked a little. “Being related distantly by blood clearly doesn’t mean much because of how inter-related most of the old wizarding families are, but for my father and Uncle Sirius, they saw it differently and made their distant blood relationship just part of a much closer friendship.”
Harry’s eyes had that distant, sad expression he tended to have whenever he spoke about his Uncle Sirius (who had not been an uncle at all but his godfather, but had been as close as a brother to Harry’s father, hence why Mr. Black had insisted that Harry call him Uncle rather than the more formal Mr. Black) and his father.
Hermione studied Harry in silence, a little surprised at how much Harry had revealed in the past few minutes. Harry had never been the most communicative of young men, didn’t speak of his parents or of his godfather very often, but Hermione had realized long ago that what some people might mistake for not thinking about them, was actually an indication of the opposite and that Harry thought about his parents and his godfather all the more for not speaking of them. Harry was that type to feel things deeply but not speak of them to any but a select few. And she was fortunate that she and Ron-along with Mr. Lupin, she knew-were probably the only people whom Harry did trust enough to speak about his parents with.
The silence stretched, becoming tinged with sadness, and in an effort to dispel it, Hermione said lightly, “Hmm, I might have to regret marrying you if it means I’m suddenly related to the Malfoys.”
Harry blinked, his gaze returning to her, with a slight smile. “Why do you suppose I didn’t tell you about being related to them until now, when it’s too late for you to change your mind?”
Hermione smiled, rejoicing to see the humor gleaming in his eyes. “Aha, so that was your sly plan. I see your intent now, sir.”
He didn’t say anything in response but his eyes were bright and as they turned to finish their walk through the gallery, he offered his arm to her. It was a small gesture, insignificant enough as gestures went, but it sent a little thrill of happiness through her, nevertheless. It was the first indication he had given of welcoming her touch, even as chastely and simply as her hand on his arm, and while she had rested her hand on his arm before, those other times had usually either been for the benefit of others or because he thought she might be tired. This gesture had very little to do with any of those other occasions; there was no one there to see or care and he could not possibly think she was in need of support after simply strolling through his house. This gesture was from gallantry and from something warmer-dare she call it affection?-a wish for her to touch him even? She wasn’t sure but she knew it meant something more than simple civility or even friendship. And so she smiled as she rested her hand on his arm.
A little ways down the gallery, they came to the last of the family portraits, although there was still plenty of space left-space for her and Harry and for their children, she realized with a blush.
And Hermione saw what Harry’s parents had looked like for the first time. She knew that he had seen them, to know what they looked like, first in the Mirror of Erised, and then, more terribly, when they had emerged from the wand of Lord Voldemort, but she had not been present at either of those times. So she studied this last couple in the portrait with a personal interest which she hadn’t given to any of the others.
“Oh, Harry…” she breathed softly, not quite sure why she said it, but the words slipped out. Perhaps out of sympathy for his never having known them?
He tried to smile but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as he said, with mock formality, (even as he blithely turned on its head, the polite rule of always addressing the elder party first and introducing the younger one to them) “Hermione, may I introduce you to my parents, Mr. James Potter and Mrs. Lily Potter?”
Harry bore a remarkable resemblance to his father, Hermione saw immediately. Not just the messy black hair or the glasses but the features, too, were like his father’s, with only slight differences about the nose and mouth. But Harry’s eyes, the clear green which everyone always noticed, were from his mother.
Hermione felt something inside her give an odd twist at the first sight of Harry’s mother, as Mrs. Lily Potter’s bright red hair reminded her, unpleasantly, of Miss Ginny Weasley, but a moment’s closer notice banished the impression. Any similarity between Miss Weasley and Harry’s mother ended at the color of their hair, not only because Mrs. Lily Potter’s eyes were the same vivid green as Harry’s but because of the expression on Mrs. Lily Potter’s face.
Whoever had painted the portrait had been skilled, Hermione could tell even with her limited knowledge of art, because of how very alive the people in the portrait appeared. Mrs. Lily Potter was seated while Mr. James Potter was standing beside her. In the portrait, even as she watched, Harry’s father seemed to grin and then wink down at her and Harry, before turning to look down at his wife, his hand moving to rest on her shoulder. Harry’s mother also smiled at Harry and then looked up at her husband. There was an open-ness, a liveliness, about Mrs. Potter’s expression as she smiled up at her husband, that bore no resemblance to Miss Weasley’s customarily serene expression, and the simple power of the emotion clear to be read in Mrs. Potter’s eyes as she looked up at her husband was more than any emotion which Hermione had ever seen Miss Weasley exhibit in seven years.
“Your mother was a lovely woman,” she finally said simply.
Harry’s eyes were soft, as was his tone. “Yes, she was.”
“I wish I could have met her.”
Harry glanced at her. “I think she would like you. Both my parents would have liked you,” he responded, almost without thought, and he only realized, belatedly, that he really meant the words. He did think his parents would have liked Hermione-and the thought was somehow reassuring, as if his parents had just given his and Hermione’s marriage their blessing.
“Thank you. It was the kindest thing which Mr. Lupin said to me yesterday. He told me that I reminded him of your mother.”
“Did he say that? Well, he would certainly know what my mother was like.”
Harry was quiet as they left the gallery, thinking of his parents, of his godfather, of Remus who was now the closest thing to a father he had, but somehow always conscious, in a way he’d never been before, of the warmth from Hermione’s ungloved hand resting on his arm, even through the cloth of his jacket.
He had been rather uncertain about moving into Godric’s Hollow but he had decided that now, on his marriage, was the right time for him to finally move into his family home, no matter what ghosts and memories he might disturb there.
But enough of his hesitation had remained that he hadn’t tried to visit the house before the wedding, had not tried to explore it on his own this morning.
All he had done was to go flying over the grounds of the estate but that had been more for the relaxation he always found in the air than for the purposes of seeing the grounds around the house.
But exploring the house with Hermione had ended up being surprisingly (or not so surprisingly-this was Hermione, after all, his best friend) enjoyable. She had kept her comments and exclamations light-hearted enough and it had allowed him to see the house as what it was, an old, dignified family home, and not only as a place of hallways where his parents had once walked, not only as the ill-fated location of his nightmares of his parents’ murders.
And even now, looking at his parents’ portrait, there had been a touch of wistfulness, of regret, yes, but not the overwhelming grief he had rather been expecting. For about the first time, he’d allowed himself to think of his parents without guilt, had thought that now, finally, he might be able to put their ghosts to rest.
He glanced at Hermione as they walked. He didn’t doubt that it was due to her presence, in large part, for why this tour of his home had been pleasant, and felt a sudden wave of affection for her, his dear best friend. On impulse, before he could think better of it, he moved his free hand to cover hers, where it rested on his arm, giving it a light pressure.
She gave him a quick smile but didn’t say anything.
“There’s still one more part of the house we haven’t seen,” he told her, enjoying the way her eyes widened a little.
“There’s more? Harry, your house isn’t one of those with expanding walls or anything, is it?”
“No, it isn’t, not as far as I know.”
He had deliberately kept this part of the house for last; it was the one part of the house he had gone to look for, earlier this morning, wanting to know where it was.
And it was with a hidden smile of anticipation that he led her down a back staircase and opened a door with a small flourish.
“Oh, Harry!” Her hand dropped from his arm as she clapped her hands together once, gazing around her with unhidden delight.
It was the library.
Harry had been rather pleasantly surprised himself at just how large the library was, the walls of the room entirely lined with bookshelves, all filled with books. He smiled to himself as he pulled out his wand and waved it, smiling at Hermione’s delighted laugh as all of the shelves along one wall moved away from the wall toward the center of the room, showing yet another layer of bookshelves.
Hermione gave Harry a glowing glance. “This is definitely my favorite room in the house.”
“Is it really? I’m absolutely astonished,” he deadpanned, his eyes teasing.
She gave a self-conscious little laugh. “Oh, it’s wonderful.” She moved closer to some of the bookshelves, almost drawn to them, noting with pleasure that the library had both Muggle and magical books. She saw several books she recognized from the Hogwarts library, several editions of Hogwarts: a History, books on Herbology and Potions and Magical Creatures and Transfiguration, to say nothing of History of Magic. But she also saw other books, volumes of Shakespeare, an edition of the Faerie Queene, a volume of John Donne’s poetry, Alexander Pope, and even-she noted with some surprise and some amusement-the works of Mary Wollstonecraft. (Most likely belonging to Harry’s mother-and she suddenly felt a wave of kinship with Mrs. Lily Potter which she hadn’t felt simply from knowing that Mrs. Lily had been Harry’s mother, who had given her life for him.)
“Oh, Harry, why didn’t you tell me your family had amassed such an incredible library?”
“I should have,” he said humorously. “It would have been easier to convince you to marry me, if I had.”
She threw him a laughing glance. “Of course it would have been.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” he said, assuming an injured tone. “You wouldn’t marry me to save your reputation or simply because I asked you to, but you would marry me for my family’s library.” He gave an exaggerated sigh, addressing the air. “It’s a lowering thing, for a man to know that he ranks lower in his wife’s eyes than his books.”
Hermione laughed softly and moved closer to give him a teasingly consoling pat on his arm. “Well, I did marry you before I found out about your library.”
“I will forever be gratified to know that,” he told her with sham solemnity.
“You should be,” she answered lightly, but her gaze had returned to scanning the bookshelves, he saw with some amusement.
“At least now I know where you will be found, if I’m ever wondering where you are.”
“You do, indeed.”
Harry smiled again and then gestured towards a door on the far wall. “That door leads out to the main corridor and the front of the house.” He indicated another door on the adjoining wall. “And that door leads to my father’s study.”
He moved to the door, opening it.
It was certainly the most masculine room in the house, decorated mostly in dark woods, the room dominated by a large desk.
“I’m told that my father and grandfather took care of the estate accounts and any other business here and it also served as their retreat when there were callers whom they wanted to avoid seeing. Because of its connecting door to the library that connects, in turn, to the back staircase which leads you directly to the wing with the family’s bedchambers, it made an ideal escape route.”
“From what I’ve heard of your father, the escape route part sounds more like him than the business,” Hermione observed teasingly.
Harry laughed. “You are probably correct. But given that it was Remus who told this to me, you can understand why he would have somewhat edited his memories for my benefit.”
“And it does Mr. Lupin credit,” Hermione rejoined before asking lightly, “Will you be using this room as a study or as an escape route?”
“I am not sure. Do you plan to be having many disagreeable callers whom I’d want to avoid seeing?”
Hermione pretended to ponder the question. “Well, I was planning on inviting Mr. Malfoy’s mother to tea sometime,” she teased (ignoring the fact that Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy would sooner leave the Magical world altogether to become a Muggle seamstress than she would accept an invitation to tea from Muggle-born Hermione Potter).
“In that case, I will definitely be using this room as an escape route.”
Hermione laughed.
“If you’ll excuse me, I told Remus I would Floo-call him so we could go over some of the estate accounts since it’s time I start handling them. You will not be bored, I think,” Harry added with a slight smile.
“Bored? In the library? Oh yes, it will be tedious in the extreme; however will I amuse myself?”
He laughed and lifted her hand to brush it with his lips before he left.
He joined her again at supper, which was the only meal held in the formal dining room unless there were guests.
The places were set, as was proper, with him at one end and her at the other.
Hermione suppressed a sigh. She knew this was the way of things but it did seem somewhat ridiculous for two people to be seated at opposite ends of such a large table and she did not like the feeling of being separated from him. But she stayed silent, not wanting to sound dissatisfied.
Harry sat down, smiling at her before he directed his glance down at the length of the table with a slight frown, and after a moment, stood up again. “This is ridiculous. I feel like we’re in separate counties.” With a wave of his wand, he moved his place setting down to the place adjoining hers, and sat down with a slight smile. “This is better, is it not? Much more conducive to conversation. Unless you mind?” he added with a touch of uncertainty.
“No, not at all. It’s hardly necessary to be so formal when it is only us.”
After supper, they talked for a little while longer and then he escorted her up to her room, leaving her at her door with a smile and a “Good night, Hermione.”
She stifled a sigh before she went inside.
She spent the second night of her marriage much as she had the first: alone.
~To be continued...