About Last Night

A Perfect Plan

Despite a youth covered in blood, bruises, and battle, it was a man made of pretty words and gentle hands that ultimately broke Hermione Granger down.

She thought herself above that doe-eyed, daydreaming nonsense, but she had not been any better than all those people she regarded as fanciful and silly (idiots, really) who allowed their lives to be drenched in glitter and color, as if all of that could fix or alter their actual grey and grim realities.

If Hermione looked back at it now—in her current shattered state of existing—she would say she clung onto Finn Conrad the same way he had clung onto her: like a lifeline.

He had let her gather him in her arms, this stranger in bright-colored robes who whispered reassurances in his ear that his little girl would live, that he would see her again, that he would get to hear her laughter again. In turn, she let him gather her in his strong arms when her nights were lonely and cold, this stranger with bright blue eyes who whispered reassurances in her ear that she was worth loving, that she would never be alone because she had him, because she could have a family of her own with them.

If Hermione looked back at it then—in her previous wonderstruck state of existing—she would say she looked at Finn Conrad the same way he had looked at her: like love at first (proper) sight.

The spark had not shot up like a guiding light the second she had to hold Finn back so other Healers could race little Lottie straight to surgery as he raged and shattered into pieces, punching his knuckles against anything that could break his bones as he cried himself into devastation. It was after, after a Calming Draught and hours of surgery, that Hermione had sat beside him and said, "Will you tell me about Charlotte?"

Finn did not move red, dead eyes from his cup of cold tea. "Lottie," he muttered in a voice so defeated and raw, "she likes to be called Lottie."

"Will you tell me about Lottie, please?"

It took a few more minutes of silence for Finn to find his words.

"I didn't want her at first," he mumbled, a fresh wave of tears down his blotchy, red cheeks. "Her mother and me, we knew shit about responsibility or how to stay in one place for too long, let alone how to stay with one another for too long. We tried making it work so many times, a baby wasn't going to fix it, but she wanted to keep it. I was resentful of her and the baby, but once Lottie was born, once I saw her, all pink and holding onto my thumb, it was all gone. All I felt was a love I never thought I could ever feel."

Hermione watched his fingers tremble over his cup.

"I'm not the best parent, either. I spoil her rotten. There isn't anything I won't give my baby girl. I filled up a room with dolls, books, paints, and magic just for her. People told me she'd turn out like those horrid kids screeching at the shop, the kind you wish their parents would leave locked up at home because they're a nightmare, but not my Lottie. The more I gave her, the more she had to give to others. I bought her a new doll once and she gave it her nan because it reminded her of one from her youth. I gave her stars in a jar and she gave it to a sad little muggle boy whose family couldn't afford to send him to camp that summer. I gave her a sickle for sweets in Hogsmeade and she gave it to a beggar woman outside the Hogs Head because she needed it more."

Hermione knew all about correct and approved protocols when dealing with a patient's loved ones, but in that second she did not think reused phrases of St. Mungo's survival rate or revolutionary modern remedies would be enough. So she reached over, taking the cup from his loose grip to set aside, and engulfed his shaking hands with her own. He turned to her with those broken blue eyes, and it was then that she knew she would do anything in her power to see them light up like the brightest of sapphires.