Work Text
Clink! Clink!
That stupid boy. Who does he think he is? Hugh Grant? The nerve to think I'd just mope around waiting for him—
Clink! Clink! Clink!
That insensitive, self-centred, absolutely revolting excuse for—
“Hermione!”
Hermione jumped and looked to the side. Ginny was looking down at her plate with concern.
“A little less pressure, maybe? I think you've bent your fork.”
Hermione blinked down at her plate of nearly minced eggs and released the choke hold she had on her, indeed rather bent, fork. Ginny leaned closer then and placed her hand over Hermione's, giving her a sympathetic look.
“Come on, Hermione,” she said. “Don't let yourself get all twisted up over him. He's just jealous and being a moron about it. He really does like you!”
Hermione scowled and snatched her hand back from Ginny's grasp.
“Hardly,” she sniffed, breaking off a piece of toast and dropping it onto her eggs. “If he did in fact, ‘really like me’ then he should've plucked up the courage to ask me to the ball. And not as a last resort!”
Ginny pulled a face.
“I know. I heard that and so did the rest of Gryffindor Tower.”
Hermione flushed and turned away from her friend, hunching over her breakfast. She spooned a mouthful of her disfigured eggs and began to chew with a grimace.
“Well, what about before the fight? You looked really happy with Krum. Any juicy details to share?”
Hermione coughed slightly and pressed a fist over her mouth as she swallowed.
“None at all,” she said, shooting her friend a quelling look.
Ginny raised a disbelieving brow. A corner of her mouth turned up with the beginnings of a wicked smile.
“Really?” she drawled. “I seem to recall seeing you and Krum sneaking away while the rest of us were distracted by the Weird Sisters.”
Hermione felt her cheeks grow red-hot. She instantly opened her mouth to object but Ginny was faster.
“Don't deny it! I saw you two leave through the front doors. I scarpered pretty soon after the opening dance.” Ginny scrunched up her face in a look of disgust. “Neville's dancing was awful.”
Hermione quickly glanced about at their neighbours at the Gryffindor table, anxious to see if anyone had overheard. To her relief however, the table was less than half full. It was still a bit early and most people were probably sleeping in after their late night.
“Nothing happened!” hissed Hermione, turning back to Ginny.
“Well, I hope you at least had the sense to use one of the Beauxbaton carriages instead of the rose bushes,” continued Ginny undeterred. “Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies are covered in scratches.”
Hermione worked her mouth soundlessly for a moment, floundering for an appropriate response when a timid voice said from behind them, “Excuse me!”
Both girls turned around to find a small boy carrying a large bouquet of yellow roses. It was Dennis Creevey. His face was very red indeed and most of his torso was hidden behind the large offering of flowers. He was looking at Hermione who briefly wondered how much he had overheard.
“Yes?” she asked.
“These are for you,” said Dennis, rushing forward and pushing the roses into her arms.
Hermione stared at him owlishly, her brows inching up her forehead.
“I beg your pardon?”
The boy turned beet red and squeaked, “Not from me of course! I was only told to deliver them to you.”
Hermione felt sure her brows must have touched her hairline.
“From whom?”
“I can't say,” said Dennis, now beginning to edge away from them. “But you should read the card.”
With that, the little boy darted away toward the cluster of first years sitting some ways down the table, all of whom were sending curious looks at the roses Hermione held in her arms. Hermione blushed as she looked around and found that rather more than just Gryffindor first years were taking notice of her anonymous gift.
Taking advantage of Hermione's bewildered state, Ginny sprung forward and plucked the little card from between the flowers.
“Ginny!” hissed Hermione.
“Is this from who I think it is?” asked Ginny, her eyes sparkling and a wide grin breaking out over her face.
Ginny turned the card and Hermione read the words on it, written in a familiar, blocky hand.
‘For luck in new beginnings.’
Hermione hardly had to say anything at all. Her rose-red cheeks were all the confirmation Ginny needed.
“Oh my Merlin, this is so romantic!” cried Ginny, swiping the bouquet from Hermione's arms and leaning forward to sniff the brightly coloured blooms.
“It's a very showy gesture that's for sure,” remarked Hermione as she turned back to her breakfast.
“Oh, please,” said Ginny, rolling her eyes. “I know you're over the moon about it. Everyone saw you at the ball with him. You couldn't stop smiling.”
And despite her best efforts, a smile now blossomed on Hermione's lips. She snuck a glance at the roses as Ginny continued to admire them, feeling her smile widen further. Yellow roses with red tips.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“We should do up her hair like this. It'll show off her curls.”
“No, no. That looks terrible. How about this?”
“Sure. If you want her hair to look like a helmet, why not?”
An outraged pause, followed by,
“I don't see why you're the one who gets to decide how her hair is done! You picked the jewellery—”
“And you did the makeup!”
“That's beside the point! None of you trolls have any fashion sense—”
“Excuse me? This coming from the one who suggested we string up live fairies with the lanterns—”
“Because they would have looked great!”
“They would have been burned alive!”
Hermione sighed as she sat at her vanity, resting her cheek on her fist and gazing wearily at her squabbling friends, cousins and in-laws. She'd been awake since five in the morning. She had hardly had any breakfast, her stiff, heavy dress was beginning to chafe and now she had to endure yet another fight between her best friend and soon to be sister-in-law. She wondered dully whether it was too late to just elope.
The fight was mercifully cut short however when a loud knock was heard at the door. The bickering subsided somewhat as Hermione's mother extricated herself from one of the warring factions and answered the door.
“Dad!” exclaimed Hermione, her sour mood immediately lifting at the sight of her father standing outside her room.
“Hello, pumpkin,” her father greeted with a smile, entering fully into the room and casting an appreciative glance at her attire. “My stars, don't you look as lovely as a queen.”
Hermione smiled as she stood up from her chair, her long white dress pooling at her feet.
“Thanks, Daddy.”
“John,” began Mrs Granger, her hands on her hips and her eyes fixed on the flowers in her husband's hands. “What's that?”
Mr Granger blinked and looked down at the roses he carried with a hint of uncertainty.
“Er—the bridal bouquet?”
“The bridal—!” sputtered Mrs Granger, her face turning white and then bright red in quick succession. “Don't tell me they sent us the wrong flowers! The ceremony's due to start in an hour!”
“Erm—well—they're actually not from—”
“I can't believe this!” continued Mrs Granger, throwing up her hands in dismay. “We specifically ordered lilies—”
“And khrizantemi!” piped in Hermione's mother-in-law.
Hermione's mother shot her counterpart a tight smile in response.
“And chrysanthemums to match the decorations in the church and the reception hall. There isn't a speck of red anywhere in the decorations or in Hermione's dress. You've got to return them, there's nothing else for it—”
“But, dear—”
“Don't ‘dear’ me!” cried Mrs Granger, wagging a manicured finger at her husband and looking positively apoplectic. “My only child is getting married in an hour and you're here telling me you've brought the wrong bouquet. Oh, saints, I feel another headache coming on...”
“Does this mean we'll have to go buy a new bouquet?” one of Hermione's cousins chimed in.
“But it is so early,” moaned Ivana, Hermione's sister-in-law. “None of the shops will be open!”
“Well, maybe we could charm the roses to turn white?”
“No, no! That's a horrible idea. They will look all pasty and artificial.”
During the ensuing kerfuffle over the misdelivered flowers, Hermione had managed to slip the bouquet out of her father's hands and bring it to her corner of refuge at the vanity table. She drew her fingers through the lustrous, dark red petals and found a small card nestled amongst the blooms. Her eyes took in the phrase on the piece of paper, an echo from years past, and a genuine smile appeared on her lips for the first time all morning.
“These are the right flowers.”
Silence fell behind her.
“What?” came the flabbergasted voice of her mother.
“These are the right ones,” repeated Hermione. She placed the roses gently on her vanity and turned around to face the flustered wedding party. “Thank you for bringing them, Dad. Mum, I'm sure no one will mind all that much if my bouquet doesn't match the decorations. The press will find something to criticise about the ceremony regardless. And I think I can do up my hair myself, thanks. I'll just need some help later with the veil. So, if you all would be so kind as to...”
Hermione gestured delicately in the direction of the door. The gathered women stared at her in stunned silence for a minute before, finally, Ginny stood up and began ushering people out of the room.
“You're quite sure you're feeling all right, darling?”
“I'm fine, Mum.”
“Shall I get you some tea and toast, moppet? I don't think you ate that much after we woke you up.”
“No, thank you, Aunt Mary. I rather think I'm too tight laced to eat anything at the moment.”
“Give the Edwardian one a go, won't you? It's so charming, I know it will look great on you.”
“Yeah, sure. I'll give it a try, Ivana.”
“Call us if you need anything. Vee vill be right outside.”
“I'll be sure to remember that, Mrs Krum.”
It took rather a long time to reassure each of her guests but finally the last skirt disappeared across the threshold and her father placed his hand on the doorknob to close the door. He shot her a small, conspiratorial smile as he said, “Did I mention those flowers aren't from the florist?”
Hermione smiled down at the roses on her vanity, a vibrant burst of colour in her rather blandly hued bedroom.
“You didn't need to, Dad.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Hermione opened her eyes. And then instantly closed them with a groan.“How do you feel?”
Hermione scowled as she shifted about in the unfamiliar bed and rubbed the sand from her eyes.
“How would you feel after pushing out an eight pound baby?” she grumbled, squinting up at the bright fluorescent lights of the hospital room.
Not missing a beat, Viktor replied, “Like cursing your husband and swearing to use contraception next time.”
Hermione snorted and turned her head sideways on her pillow, a smile lighting up her tired face. The smile grew as she glimpsed Viktor sitting in a chair beside her bed, cradling a small bundle.
“How's the baby?” she asked, extending an arm towards her husband.
“Baby is fine,” replied Viktor, glancing up from their daughter's face and favouring Hermione with a smile of his own. “She's just been fed by the nurse.”
Hermione frowned and immediately sat up, supporting herself on her elbows.
“Bottle fed?” she asked, her mouth puckering with disapproval. “Viktor, I specifically told you not to let them feed her that.”
“And why not?” countered Viktor as he stood from his chair and approached the bed. “The alternative was waking you up—”
“Which you should have done.”
“—which I was not going to do,” continued Viktor, shooting Hermione a sharp look as he adjusted her pillows so she could sit up straight. “You were ready to pass out by the time it was over. It would have been cruel to wake you before you were properly rested.”
Hermione felt her heart warm at his concern for her. But really it was quite irresponsible of him to feed their newborn that synthetic formula. The WHO guidelines were very clear about exclusive breastfeeding till—
But then Hermione forgot everything to do with WHO guidelines as her daughter was transferred to her arms.
“Oh, she's awake,” said Hermione, shooting her husband an excited smile.
“Mmm,” mumbled Viktor as he watched mother and child interact for the first time.
Hermione carefully adjusted her arms to mimic how Viktor had been holding her, cradling the baby's head and neck in the crook of her arm. Her first thought was that her baby was much better looking than she had initially thought. Upon her birth, the baby had been red and squalling, her skin puffy and covered with an unappealing cheesy goo. But now the goo and the swelling were gone and the redness had mellowed from an angry scarlet to a rosy pink. Her nose was not much larger than Hermione's smallest fingernail. Her eyes were brown and her hair a fine black down. Her tiny mouth was slightly ajar as she blinked drowsily up at her mother.
Hermione felt her heart swell with love as she stroked her baby's pink, feather-soft cheek and whispered, “Hey, baby. Hello, darling. I'm your mummy.”
The baby yawned in response, scrunching up her eyes and sticking out her little pink tongue.
Hermione's cheeks had started to hurt from smiling but she hardly noticed the ache as she shared another joyful glance with her husband. Hermione leaned back against the pillows at her back and she had just begun to get used to the baby's weight on her chest when she noticed the state of her bedside table. Most of it was hidden under an ostentatious display of greeting cards, wreaths and bouquets, canopied by a few garishly coloured balloons with the logo 'WWW'.
“Oh, no,” groaned Hermione, her earlier giddiness now receding. “Are they all waiting outside then?”
It was noon on a Sunday. Of course they would all be outside. Her parents, her in-laws, cousins, aunts, uncles, friends. Hermione grimaced. Reporters.
“Hermione.”
Hermione turned to look at Viktor. He was leaning forward with a slight frown, his hand squeezing her knee.
“No one is waiting outside,” he reassured her. “I told them all to go home and that they can come see you when we are back home with our baby.”
Hermione gaped at him for a moment before she burst out laughing, making the baby wriggle against her with a discontented huff.
“Oh, my God,” she grinned. “I'm sure my parents took that very well.”
“Oh, yes, very well,” said Viktor with a solemn air. “I learned more English swears from them in two hours than I have living with you in two years.”
Hermione threw back her head as she released another hearty laugh. However this was quite clearly more noise than her baby was willing to tolerate. So she promptly began to cry.
Hermione stared rather helplessly down at her daughter, her amusement quickly turning to anxiety. How did you hush a crying baby?
“Here, I'll take her,” said Viktor, lifting the baby out of Hermione's arms. He flashed her a smug smile as he began to gently bounce the bawling babe in his arms. “She probably likes me more than you anyway.”
“She does not!”
“And how do you know? She's known me longer than she has you.”
Hermione was just about to remind him that it was in fact she who had carried her around in her belly for nine months, thank you very much, when her eyes landed on the table on the other side of her bed. The table itself was quite unremarkable, as was the glass and jug of water on top of it. No, it was what stood next to the jug and glass that caught her attention.
The roses were white this time and arrayed in a squat transparent vase. They weren't identical like the last two times. No, somehow this little bouquet managed to display the entire life cycle of the flower, from a tiny green bud to a wilted hunchback. There was a card tucked under the bottom of the vase but Hermione did not need to read it to know what it said.
“What do you think we should name her?” asked Viktor as he tucked the now soothed baby into her bassinet.
Hermione did not reply for a moment. She pulled out a rosebud from the vase and lightly stroked its delicate white petals, only just starting to bloom. It took her hardly a second to decide.
“Rose. We should name her Rose.”