This Subdued Fire

Hermione arrived at King\'s Cross later that day. She was greeted by her mother\'s father, Antoine Lyonnesse. Hermione and her grandfather had always had a special bond. He understood his only granddaughter as nearly no one else did. As the taxi pulled away from the kerb, they sat in silence knowing that there were no words to be said.

The cabbie pulled up at Lydia Granger\'s house. The lights were blazing brightly and a subdued energy could be felt behind the lacy curtains. Antoine paid the driver and he and Hermione got out. He noted his granddaughter\'s tight pale face and huge dark eyes with worry. The last time he\'d seen her she\'d had color and her eyes sparkled with health and happiness. Then again, after what happened to Peter and Clarice, it was perfectly understandable.

Lydia, still a formidable woman at the age of 72, opened the door and pulled her granddaughter into a tight embrace. \"Oh, child,\" was all the older woman said.

Hermione stayed quiet. Lydia ushered them into the house. There were cousins and aunts and uncles bustling around the small abode. Hermione was engulfed in a deluge of French and English. She managed to smile wanly at them all but still hadn\'t said a word. Hermione went upstairs, leaving her relatives to cluck their tongues sympathetically.

In the spare bedroom, Hermione went around clicking on lights and putting her few possessions away methodically. She gave each task her undivided attention because if she let her mind wander it might wander away and not come back. Losing her mind was Hermione\'s greatest fear. Just when she thought she had the stray thoughts under control she saw a picture of her parents on the bedside table. Hermione picked it up and stared at it. It was a photograph of the skiing holiday they\'d taken two years ago.

Her parents were smiling and red-cheeked in the photo. The backdrop was of white, white snow and tall evergreens draped in snow. Hermione could feel the tears well up but none fell. Instead all the heat seemed to be siphoned into her fingers and she saw the glass covering the picture puddle and splinter slightly. Hermione put the frame back on the bedside table hurriedly.

There were delicious smells emanating from the kitchen below. The only thing they elicited in Hermione was nausea. She pulled her wand from her bag and clutched it like a talisman. Taking a few deep breaths, she stilled the rising waves of sickness and sorrow. And then there was numbness, blessed numbness. Hermione put the wand on the bedside table and finished unpacking.

She undressed and got into a flannel nightdress. Hermione padded into the bathroom and flipped on the light. Looking at herself in the mirror which hung over the sink, she found herself wishing that it would make some sort of smarmy comment. She twisted on the taps and brushed her teeth. Again, she gave the simple task great concentration. When she couldn\'t stall anymore, she finished up and turned off the light and went back into the bedroom. Hermione went around the room and methodically turned off all the lights. When only the moon\'s glow lit the room, she slipped under the covers.

Sleep descended on her and she grabbed at it like a drowning man would a life preserver. Unfortunately, sleep didn\'t provide the necessary peace she\'d been seeking. Hermione dreamed all sort of things. The images were all a mush of Draco and Lucius and Voldemort and her parents, but of all that the most frightening thing was herself. The terrible energy she\'d felt welling up in her veins that caused the very earth to quiver and shake.

Hermione awoke, sweating and breathing hard. She remembered the horror and fright in their faces when she\'d said those terrible words. Even Dumbledore looked at her as if she\'d sprouted two heads. And Snape...when he\'d tried to touch her. His cry of pain from being burned and shocked was what yanked her back. Suddenly and inexplicably, she felt the need to inflict some sort of abuse on herself. Hermione arose from bed and put on a pair of jeans, a jumper, socks and boots.

Gathering up her coat and wallet, she slipped downstairs. All was quiet and dark in the rest of the house. Everyone was in their beds. Hermione put her coat on and stuck her wallet in her pocket. She exited the house quietly and went walking along the pavement, the only sound was the sound of her bootheels ringing on the pavement. Up ahead there was a small shop that was still open.

Hermione rounded the corner and swept into the shop. The flourescent lighting stung her eyes and she blinked several times. The clerk eyed her suspiciously. Hermione almost laughed. (I\'d look at me suspiciously, too, if I were looking at me.)

\"A packet of Djarums, please.\"

The clerk kept one eye on her as he slid the packet across the countertop. \"That\'ll be 8 quid.\"

Hermione took out her wallet and gave the little man a tenner. He dropped her change in her hand, studiously avoiding touching her. She stowed the bills and her wallet back in her pocket and scooped up the pack. \"Oh, a book of matches, please.\"

The clerk sighed and slid a book of matches across from her irritatedly. Hermione gave him a cheery smile and left the brightly lit shop. She opened the box and lit a fag and drew in deeply. She coughed, having become unused to it in the few months she\'d been at school. After fifth year, when it had been impressed upon her that taking up with Harry Potter might actually have fatal consequences, Hermione decided to take baby steps towards sin. The first of those was smoking. She remembered her Grandfather Antoine smoking the most deliciously scented cigarettes when she was younger.

During her summer sojourn with him, working the vineyard, she inquired as to which brand he used to smoke. \"Djarums,\" he\'d answered promptly.
The look of pleasured remembrance made Hermione curious and so, late one night, she kipped down the road to the nearest store and bought a packet. They smelled of sweet cloves and happy childhood memories. Lighting one, her fifteen-year-old self had coughed and coughed madly, but eventually getting the hang of it. It helped that the cigs hadn\'t left a nasty taste in her mouth.
Since then, every summer, she\'d celebrated her return to the Muggle world with a packet of clove-flavoured fags. Ron hadn\'t been too thrilled upon learning of the habit, but he had no say in it, especially after she\'d broken things off with him. Hermione was halfway down the block, the clove scented smoke swirling about her hair when she noticed something winking at her from the front porch of her grandmother\'s house.

It was a small black cat with strangely dark eyes sitting there primly. Hermione raised an eyebrow but made no attempt to shoo the cat away. She supposed that it was one of Crookshanks\' little feline friends. She chuckled mirthlessly. That damned orange cat of hers made friends far more easily than did his mistress.

Hermione tucked her woolen coat tightly around her and sat on the top step of the porch, enjoying the silent night and listening to the comforting crackle of the cigarette as it burned away. The little black cat sat by her side watching contentedly. Hermione looked at the feline. The cat seemed to be sniffing the clove-perfumed air with something akin to pleasure in its little dark eyes. It put a paw on her sleeve and nudged her arm with its nose.

Hermione\'s lips curved softly and she scratched the cat under the chin softly. It mewed and then scampered away into the night. Hermione put out the stub against the concrete of the steps and flicked the butt into the slush that dotted the pavement. She arose, drinking in the cold air of the night and went back into the house. The small cat, with his strangely black coal eyes watched intently and gave a low grumbly purr.
**********

Hermione awoke the next morning, still numb, still cold. She went about her ablutions slowly, not thinking about what lay ahead. Coming downstairs dressed in black trousers, shirt and boots, she found her grandmother and grandfather discussing something in hushed tones. The looked up from their places on the couch and greeted her.

\"Ma pauvre Valentine.\" Grandfather Antoine pulled her into his bear-like embrace. Even after eighty-one years, Antoine was still a huge man and full of strength. His posture had become a little bowed over the years but he was brimming with vigor and vitality. He had always called Hermione by her middle name because it was more French sounding than Hermione.

He set her back from him and she saw the tears glinting in his eyes. Hermione\'s mother had been the youngest and dearest of his children. Clarice, instead of marrying someone French and residing in the wine country as did all her soeurs, did the impossible and taken up with Peter Granger, a most English young man whom she\'d met whilst at University. Clarice was not going into the winemaking business but instead became interested in dentistry and studied that.

Peter had been on holiday from his school and he and a couple of mates had gotten together, scraped together their money and taken a trip to Paris. It was there that he\'d met Clarice. It wasn\'t love at first sight but, more accurately, lust. The open-minded and free-spirited Clarice found a partner of similar temperament in Peter. After Peter went back to London, they\'d struck up a correspondence and when Clarice went on holiday three months later, she visited Peter and a romance blossomed.

From then on, Peter and Clarice had been inseparable. Antoine wasn\'t very happy about his bebe going off to live in *London* - that barbaric city with its insufferably snotty citizens, but what could he do about it? Clarice was happy and that was an end to it. He threw them a grande fete in celebration and they were married in the family chapel that had been there since the sixteenth century.

Peter\'s mother, Lydia had been charmed and delighted by la petite Francaise from the moment her son brought her home. Peter was her only son and as his father had died several years back, she was very close to him. Clarice was everything she\'d hoped for Peter to find for himself - they complimented each other so well.

And when Hermione had been born, both grandparents had been so overjoyed that they doted on her almost embarrasingly. Her Tantes Renee and Josette sometimes commented cattily on how very Anglaise their niece was, but Hermione never really felt offended. Part of her summers were spent with her parents, the other part in France and the last part at the Burrow. And now...now things were so very uncertain.

\"Sit, ma chere.\" Antoine told her. Hermione sat in one of the ladder backed chairs situated opposite the couch. \"Your Grandmere and I, we\'ve taken care of the arrangements for the...\" Antoine choked a little. \"For the funeral. It will be the day after tomorrow, all you need do is send word to whomever you wish to be there. Lydia and I will take care of the rest.\"

\"Merci, Grandpapa.\"

\"De rien, ma chere enfante.\"

\"Gram...I didn\'t bring anything to wear for the funeral. I haven\'t been to one since Grandmother Helene died when I was eight.\"

\"We\'ll go today and find something. We also need to find a dress for your mother. I\'ve already picked out Peter\'s suit.\" Lydia\'s manner was brisk and efficient, very British and keep-a-stiff-upper-lip. Hermione found it very comforting. \"Have you eaten anything?\"

\"Not since...not since before I found them.\" Hermione\'s voice wavered a little but she did not cry.

\"Will you take a little tea? Toast?\" Lydia\'s eyes, the same dark golden-brown as Hermione\'s, pleaded with her icy granddaughter.

\"I can\'t.\" Hermione\'s tone held a note of finality and Lydia did not press the issue further.

\"Well. Since you won\'t eat anything, there\'s no reason to dally. Get your coat and we\'ll go to Selfridge\'s.\"

\"Mother hated Selfridge\'s,\" Hermione said. \"She much preferred Harrod\'s...and so do I.\"

\"If that is your choice.\" Lydia\'s mouth tightened. She wasn\'t used to her granddaughter being so self-possessed. \"Come on, I\'ve still the printer\'s to visit and the monument makers.\"

\"Alright, Gram.\" Hermione rose from her seat and went back upstairs to get her coat.

\"Antoine, that girl is going to shatter, she\'s holding onto herself so hard.\" Lydia shook her head.

\"It\'s the Anglaise in her. You British pride yourselves on not showing emotion.\"

\"For once, I agree with you.\"

Hermione came back down at that moment, shrugging on her coat. Lydia was struck by how very adult Hermione looked. Any vestiges of the little girl she remembered had been burned away. This Hermione was still and resolute and completely dry-eyed and hard.

\"I\'m ready, Gram.\"

Lydia got up and put on her own coat and grabbed her pocketbook. They drove to Harrod\'s and Hermione picked out a dress for her mother. It was a white cowl-necked confection of georgette with a chiffon overlay. The garment was just the sort of thing her mother would\'ve picked had she been alive. Lydia, aware of the proprieties, picked out a black wool jersey surplice that tied at the side. With closed toe black shoes and a long black wool melton chesterfield, Hermione looked appropriately somber. Yet there was something else. Lydia was loath to admit it but Hermione looked very...just *very* in the sober ensemble. The dress closed over her tall figure and the jersey knit moulded itself to her curves. The dress itself was very proper. Hermione in it was not. But there was nothing to do for it. Hermione wasn\'t the type to wear a full suit and she was still too young for that anyway.

Leaving with their purchases, they went to the printers who were doing the obituaries. Lydia went to drop off the pictures and the order of the service with them. After that they went to the monument makers who were making the grave markers. Both Peter and Clarwantwanted simple stones, no epitaphs, just names and dates of birth and death. Hermione picked out an obsidian stone and gave the engraver the correct names and dates for her parents.

And then it was to the mortician\'s. Hermione couldn\'t bring herself to go in. She gave Lydia the bag containing the dress to take to Mr. Callaghan. Again, Lydia did not press her granddaughter.

Lydia drove back to the house in silence. When they reached the house and settled themselves in the living room Lydia said, \"We have to meet with your parents\' solicitor tomorrow and start the proceedings in settling their estate.\"

\"I\'ve met Mr. Berg. He\'s really very nice.\"

\"I\'m sure he is. But from what he\'s told me so far, because of the nature of your parents\' death this could be held up in probate for at least a year.\"

\"Cut to the chase, Gram.\" Hermione\'s mouth tightened like a steel band.

\"Simply put, they\'ve left you a considerable amount, what with their practice, investments and the house but you won\'t be able to to touch it until it\'s settled. And because Peter and Clarice were murdered there will be an inquest into what happened and only after the courts are satisfied will you be able to handle everything.\"

\"So in other words, except for what\'s in my bank account, I\'m broke.\"

\"Quite.\"

\"Is there a way to expedite matters? I want to sort through things and sell the house as quickly as possible.\"

Lydia\'s eyes went cold as she heard her granddaughter calmly discussing dividing up her parents\' possessions.

\"My god, girl, have you no feeling at all?\"

Hermione looked at her grandmother fully. The depth of the pain in her dark eyes stunned Lydia to the core. \"I feel too much, Grandmother.\"

Lydia had the good grace to look away, ashamed. \"I\'m sorry.\" Tears rolled down Lydia\'s cheeks. \"I know this is harder on you than anyone else.\"

\"Yes...if you\'ll excuse me, I have letters to send out...friends, pallbearers and the like.\"

\"Of course.\"

Hermione got up from the chair and Lydia shook her head at her granddaughter. Once upstairs Hermione wrote letters to Ron, Harry and Professor McGonagall. She wanted the entire Weasley family there, except Percy. In her eyes, Percy was just as complicit as Lucius Malfoy. Hermione\'s mouth tightened at the thought of Lucius. If she saw him again...her fists clenched in angry reaction.

As for Draco, in her heart of hearts she\'d been expecting him to betray her. However she thought that Voldemort would\'ve had the balls to attack her directly, not go after her poor parents. If the Dark Lord thought that after this she\'d just willing submit to him he had another thing coming. She bore a grudge against Dumbledore, too. It was his fault her parents were dead, keeping them there strategizing when Voldemort was killing them. Hermione could feel the terrible rage welling up within her again.

The familiar white-hot sparks began forming at the tips of her fingers and hair. This time, though, Hermione had the presence of mind to notice them. She tamped down on her emotions and looked around the room. There were small burn marks where the sparks hit the furniture and wood. The quill she held was a melted goo in her fingers. A scorched smell lingered in the air. Hermione was horrified.

(Merlin\'s robe, what if I\'d have started a fire?! Get hold of youf, Hf, Hermione, before you cause anymore damage.) Hermione willed any emotion down into a small box in her heart and locked it. If that was what happened when you felt then it was better to not feel anything at all.

Making a decision, Hermione walked over to the nightstand and picked up her wand. (No more wandless magic. It\'s too volatile and unstable and I can\'t control it.)

She realized belatedly that the Ministy\'s ban on underaged magic didn\'t apply to her anymore. She was of age. Smiling mirthlessly, she incanted *\"Scorgify!\"* and the room was pristine once more. The ruined quill lay on the desk.

*\"Evanesco!\"* Hermione passed the wand over the feathery puddle and it Vanished with a pop.
However, the room still had a scorched smell. Flicking her wand and saying a swift *\"Vapor Plaisir\"* replaced the smell with the scent of roses and hyacinth.

She transfigured her trousers to include a wand pocket down one side and tucked the wand into it carefully. Hermione didn\'t have anymore quills but rummaging around in the drawer of the desk produced an ordinary Bic pen. She recapped the ink pot and finished her missives before realizing that she\'d not brought Boolean. He was still at Hogwarts.

\"Damn. Now how am I going to get those back to them?\" But just as she thought it, her dark brown owl was tapping at the closed window. Opening it, she brought him inside and rested him by the opened heating vent. The avian settled himself on the vent and fluffed his feathers, obviously enjoying the warm air.

Hermione eyed him, amused in a small way by his antics. \"Don\'t get too comfortable, I\'ve post to send out,\" she told him.

Boolean gave her a baleful look and turned his back on her.

\"Oh, is that how it is? Don\'t expect any owl treats from me then.\"

Boolean hooted disdainfully and kept his back turned.

\"At least I\'ve got Crookshanks to keep me company. Speaking of which, where is that damned cat?\" Hermione left the bedroom and began calling for Crookshanks. She finally found snoozing him in the kitchen, his bulk spread out over a vent in the floor.

\"There you are. Being spoiled rotten, no doubt. Ah. No comfort for the lonely then.\" Hermione got her coat from the chair she left it on and went out to the back entry to have a smoke.

She sat down on the stairs, looking out at the garage and the undisturbed snow blanketing the ground. Lighting the cig, she inhaled deeply, taking small comfort in the punishing aspect of smoking. It was so cold, the smoke looked as if it were frozen, hanging in the air before finally dissipating.

The small black cat came padding through the snow. Hermione smiled slightly and the cat climbed up to sit at her side once again. She scratched the cat under its chin and looked at its funny shaped nose. The nose was a little off-centre and a tiny bit big for its face. But, Hermione decided, that small flaw only made the creature more adorable. The cat climbed in her lap and purred softly. Hermione rubbed its ears and continued to smoke, enjoying the sweet smell and the soft crackling noise.

Antoine stepped out onto the back stairs, shivering against the cold in his coat. \"I\'d forgotten about these hivers d\'Anglais.\"

\"Oh, Grandpapa, sometimes the winters in France are just as horrid.\"

\"C\'est vrai, ma petite, c\'est vrai. But, what is this? Have you taken up smoking?\"

Hermione looked chagrined but did not extinguish the cigarette. \"Oui. But it\'s not a new habit. I\'ve smoked for years.\"

Antoine sniffed the frigid air. \"Cloves. When your Grandmere finds out, she\'s going to be even less pleased with me than ever.\"

Hermione gave a small smile. \"As I recall, she was never very approving of you.\"

\"No, ma petite. She never was.\" Antoine gave a Gallic shrug. \"Would you mind sharing with an old man? I think I need something...\"

Hermione handed a cigarette and the matches over to her grandfather who lit one and dragged deeply on it. \"I\'d forgotten how much I enjoyed these.\" They sat in silence, enjoying the forbidden cigarettes, each lost in their own thoughts. Hermione idly stroked the cat in her lap.

Antoine noticed the feline lying contentedn Hen Hermione\'s knees. \"And who is this pretty fellow?\"

\"I don\'t know. He seems to have taken a liking to me. We sat and had a smoke last night, Grandpere. He quite enjoys the smoke it seems.\"

Antoine gave the cat a scratch between its perky ears. \"Well if he likes you, I can\'t complain. Monsieur Chat has excellent taste. Why don\'t you bring him in? I\'m sure Lydia wouldn\'t mind.\"

\"Ah, but I have no idea how Crookshanks would react. Two toms usually don\'t get along.\"

\"True. Still, your Crookshanks seems to be an amiable feline.\"

\"Well, I\'m done out here.\" Hermione stubbed her smouldering butt out on the step and tossed it into the space underneath the porch. She gathered the slumbering feline into her arms and went into the house. Antoine still sat outside, smoking, thinking about his daughter and missing her terribly...
**********************

The following day, Hermione sent Boolean off with the letters. Sighing heavily, she went downstairs to await Tobias Berg, her parents\' solicitor. Slipping downstairs in jeans, a t-shirt and trainers she sat on the couch and flipped through a stray copy of \'Vogue\' that her grandmother had on the coffee table.

Antoine and Lydia came in from the kitchen where they were reminiscing about their children and making breakfast. \"Ah, bien. You\'re awake. Voulez-vous le petit dejeuner?\"

\"Non. Je ne me pense pas pourrais manger.\"

Antoine gave a shrug and went back into the kitchen. Lydia sat down in a wingchair with Hermione\'s discarded magazine. The little black cat and Crookshanks came ambling into the living room from the kitchen. The two felines seemed to have made friends and they took their places sitting sentinel beside their mistress.

\"Ah, mes bebes. There you are.\" Hermione petted the cats, who lapped up the attention. The little black one however, grew tired of it and squirmed away, nipping at Hermione\'s fingers. \"Oh ho! Not one for too much affection are you? Suit yourself. I need to think of a name for you. You\'re so solemn...I don\'t know what would suit you.\"

Hermione thought a bit. \"You remind me so much of a cat from a animated film I saw once...his name was Robespierre though. But...you\'re too nice to be a Robespierre, aren\'t you?\"

The cat cocked his head at Hermione as if to say \"I am?\"

\"Oh, you *like* Robespierre? Then that\'s who you will be.\" Robespierre nodded solemnly at Hermione and settled down on his front paws to watch the dust motes floating in the watery winter sunlight. Through the lace curtains Hermione could see a medium-tall figure coming up up the cement stairs. Rising from amid the felines, she twitched back the fabric and saw that it was Tobias Berg, the solicitor.

Hermione opened the door just as the man raised his hand to ring the bell. Fortyish and graying, the lawyer was startled at Hermione\'s apparent precognition. Her lips quirked. \"I saw you through the curtains,\" she reassured him.

\"Oh. Quite.\" He lowered his arm. \"How are you, Hermione?\" he asked as he stepped over the threshold.

Hermione didn\'t answer yet led him over to the furniture grouping. Antoine came from the kitchen, having heard voices. Hermione sat in the center of the couch, flanked by the cats. Antoine and Lydia moved to the armchairs on either side of the sofa. Tobias sat across from the ten pairs of curious eyes and shifted rather nervously.

\"Well, I\'ve already talked to your grandparents. Your parents\' will is quite clear. You are to receive everything, and since I\'ve talked to the inspectors, this shouldn\'t take long to move through probate after all. You were at school when the event occurred and due to the heinous nature of the crime, you are not regarded as a suspect. And due to your age, you will not need a guardian. You will be emancipated and regarded as a legal adult.\"

\"I see. So when will this all be taken care of, Mr. Berg?\"

\"Well, no one wants to be bogged down with something of a nasty nature for very long, so I would assume that it should be cleared with probate before Christmas. The murder investigation is another story. It could drag on for years. I\'m very surprised that the police haven\'t been by to question you.\"

Lydia spoke. \"They tried the night Hermione got here, but we kept them out as she wasn\'t fit to answer any questions of *that* sort.\"

\"Yes, quite. I suspect that they\'ll try to get to you before you return to school. My advice is to try to answer their questions to the best of your ability. Now, I have these papers here for you to sign.\" Tobias opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of bound pages. \'They\'re for probate, you know. Authorizing them to investigate and so forth.\"

Hermione took the papers from the older man and flipped through them dispassionately. \"Do you have a pen?\"

\"A pen? Oh, yes.\" Tobias reached into his breast pocket and extracted a silver Waterman. Handing it to her he added, \"I\'ve marked with an \'X\' all the places you\'ll need to sign and initial.\"

\"Fine.\" Hermione began signing her name in all the appropriate places and handed the pen and papers back to Tobias.

\"Very good. I\'ll have these back to the office so they can get started. Do you have any questions for me?\"

Hermione shook her head.

\"All right. I will see you at the services tomorrow then. And let me add that I am very sorry. Peter and Clarice were very good friends to have.\" Tobias\' brisk manner slipped a bit as his eyes clouded with memories. \"I\'ll just let myself out.\" And he did and the three humans and two felines sat in silence.

The quiet deepened after five minutes spent in it. Hermione made a face and got up. \"I\'m going for a walk.\"

\"To where?\" Lydia asked.

\"I don\'t know and I don\'t know when I\'ll be back.\"

Hermione went to the coat closet and grabbed her coat. Her keys jingled in a pocket as she slipped it on, wrapping a plaid scarf around her neck. Without a backwards glance she left the house. Soon after she left, the slender black cat leapt from the sofa and trotted out of the open kitchen door, which was cracked to allow the cats freedom to come and go as they pleased.

Hermione walked to the nearest tube station and took the train into the city proper and moved from the main streets into a narrow familiar lane. In the storefront of the middle building she could hear the sounds of harsh breathing and metal clanging as footsteps fell. Smiling the first genuine smile of the past three days she opened the door and stepped inside.

\"Reynaldo!\" She called, unlooping the scarf. A short, stocky man with as curly a mustache as one could wish stepped out.

\"Ahhhh, Hermione. I thought I wouldn\'t see you until the summer.\"

\"I had need of your expertise and so I\'ve come to visit.\"

\"Then grab some equipment and let\'s to work.\"

\"As you will.\" Hermione saluted the little man, giving him a mock bow.

The small cat stood on its hind legs, peering into the window fascinated by all he saw.