The Murder In St. John

7. Tell Me You Want Me

Aunt Bella came and went in only a short day and a half. Enough for dinner, a night spent, and dismissal of coffee. Entertained by the Weasleys and the Potters, and home hungover all that next day while Hermione had gone to work. Entertaining Hagrid's lighthearted teases and stealing glances at George across the street. 

Hermione stood on her porch steps early that next morning and watched her aunt's car bounce down the laneway. Her manicured fingers had scratched Hermione's hand as she plucked the envelope from Hermione's grasp. 

A thin envelope, with a singular check inside. 

A thin envelope that Lily had called and made Hermione swear she wouldn't hand over. She had begged to Hermione to wait-that she would drive down right now and get her to leave without it. 

Hermione had merely told her she had it handled, and hung up the phone. Cursing out Harry in her mind for telling his mother in the first place. It all came from a place of love, but this had been happening for a decade now. Hermione had been handling it.

Sure, the begging was more frequent, and rarely did Hermione see her Aunt Bella more than once a month. But it would fade. Just like everything else in Bella's life did.

Then, when Lily had called later that night asking again, Hermione had told her that she wasn't her mother and she could take care of herself, before slamming the phone down once more. Before breaking over it with quiet, muffled sobs.  

Bella hadn't stirred. Drunk on the wine Harry had brought over, and nestled in the blankets on Hermione's bed. 

Now, as the dust settled and Coach came trotting out of the tree line, Hermione felt her eyes bristle with tears. 

It wasn't fair. Would it ever be fair? Would she ever live without that tingle on the back of her neck telling her each and every day what power her aunt had? What control she had over her life. 

Hermione turned, leaving Coach out on the front lawn, and hurried through the house. Where the scent of Bella's perfume lingered and hurried into her bedroom. She ripped the blankets and the sheets off the bed and hurried out the back door. Throwing them on the lawn, before turning and grabbing the hose to fill her wash bucket. 

She sat there, bent over in a folding lawn chair, and scrubbed every inch of the bed sheets. 

She scrubbed until her fingers were pink and pruned and near close to bleeding. 

Then she set about clipping them up along the clothesline-ignoring Coach who lay a few feet away in the grass. Huffing and puffing every few moments from the lack of attention, but he never trotted over to beg. 

She dumped the water over and put everything away before stepping back up into the house. 

She threw out the empty wine bottles on her counter and scrubbed the kitchen table until it sparkled. She washed the dishes from her early morning breakfast before she stopped. 

Bracing her hands against the counter edge and thought of her phone hanging by her front door. 

She could call George. 

He would race over, probably armed with snacks and that goofy smile of his. He would pull up in that noisy truck of his, and he would jump out-dressed in jeans and a clean tee shirt. He wouldn't say a word-he would just wait. 

He would wait for her to cry or talk or to ask him to go somewhere. 

Or maybe he would just sit by her. 

Maybe he would sit by her out on the front porch on her two matching porch chairs that she always sat in alone, and maybe he would hold her hand. Maybe he would rub those circles she liked against her skin, and they would watch Coach together as he ambled around. Sniffing and digging and playing.