June 1970
"Thanks for agreeing to come with me, Georgie. It… erm… it means a lot."
Bilius' pale, freckled cheeks splattered scarlet as he cleared his throat nervously. Georgiana smirked a bit, lacing her arm in Bilius'. He was her oldest, dearest friend, and she'd be damned if she was going to let him go alone to his own brother's wedding.
"Once I was made to understand there would be unlimited food and beverage, it was an obvious decision," Georgiana joked. She patted Bilius' arm and watched him roll his eyes. Then, laughing a bit, Georgiana said, "I'll even dance with you once or twice. Promise."
They took their seats among the long rows of folding white chairs. Georgiana pricked her ears up to the buzz of conversation among the other guests awaiting Arthur Weasley's wedding ceremony.
"The Lady Georgiana… didn't think the Dark Lord would… she's a Prewett, and from what I understand…"
Georgiana only caught bits and pieces of the whispers around her. She felt an angry heat in her cheeks as the wedding guests gossiped. Could Georgiana truly do nothing without her parents' politics becoming attached? All she wanted today - all she ever wanted, really - was to live her life without being thought of as the Daughter of the Dark Lord.
"Ten Galleons says your brother flubs his vows," Georgiana whispered snidely to Bilius, and the two shared a laugh before Bilius replies,
"I'd bet you, except that I agree with you, and I'd lose the bet. Three Galleons - oh, come on, Georgie, I haven't got ten… Three Galleons says that Molly Prewett trips in her dress walking down the aisle!"
Georgiana swatted at Bilius' shoulder and giggled. "You should never wish such a terrible thing upon a bride!" she scolded him, trying to look cross. It didn't work, and she dissolved into laughter again as Bilius shrugged.
The ceremony was brief but beautiful. Red-haired Molly Prewett married red-haired Arthur Weasley as the onlookers swiped away tears of happiness.
"Fifty Galleons says every single one of their offspring is ginger," Bilius hissed, leaning over to Georgiana's ear near the end of the ceremony. She stifled a guffaw and whispered back,
"You haven't got ten Galleons, but you're willing to bet fifty that their children are all red-haired?"
"I'm relatively confident in my wager," Bilius replied. Gideon Prewett scowled at the two of them from where he sat a few rows ahead. Georgiana suppressed her smile and mouthed a silent apology to Molly Prewett's brother.
Later, after much celebration and dining, Georgiana sat at a table and drummed her fingers. She glanced around the reception tent, rather impressed with the enchantment that had turned its otherwise plain interior into a night sky glittering with stars. The dance floor glowed gently as the small band began playing old-fashioned tunes, and one by one couples began to trickle out together.
"Are you going to dance with Bilius Weasley, My Lady?"
Georgiana looked across her table to where Bellatrix Black practically hung off of the shoulder of Rodolphus Lestrange. Georgiana tried not to outwardly frown at the sight of Bellatrix - already clearly a bit drunk - as she petted Rodolphus' pale, spindly fingers.
"He's off talking with his brother just now," she explained, gesturing vaguely to the opposite side of the tent. Bellatrix nodded and said,
"I thought Molly Prewett's dress was just hideous, didn't you? It was obviously homemade… Not at all in fashion." Bellatrix twisted her face a bit, and Georgiana gritted her teeth.
"I thought it was just fine," she said quietly, sipping her wine and feeling a bit queasy. Something about Bellatrix Black put Georgiana deeply at ease. She set down her wine glass and rose from her chair, watching as Bellatrix and Rodolphus rose with her. Georgiana tried not to roll her eyes at the pair of sycophants. Again, she felt rather irritated that she was being shown deference only on account of her parents' identities. Georgiana nodded brusquely and said,
"You know, I think I shall go see whether Bilius wants to dance."
She turned on her heel and was strode across the half-full dance floor in a beeline toward where Bilius stood talking with the newlyweds. Plain-faced Molly Prewett - Molly Weasley, now - smiled a bit as Georgiana approached. Mercifully, neither she nor her new husband gave any sort of obeisance to Georgiana.
"Congratulations, Arthur. Molly." Georgiana nodded to each of them, and watched as Molly took Arthur's hand.
"Thank you for coming, My Lady," Arthur replied. Georgiana nodded and forced a little grimace of a smile. She turned to Bilius and asked rather sharply,
"Will you dance with me, please?"
Bilius looked a bit taken aback by the abruptness of Georgiana's request. Georgiana flicked her eyes from Bilius to Arthur, who appeared to be stifling a small laugh, and then to Molly, whose orange eyebrows had flown up in surprise. Bilius cleared his throat and extended his arm.
"Of course, My Lady," he said quickly. Georgiana walked with him out to the dance floor and they attempted to glide into the waltz playing. Georgiana felt a little quiver of nervousness as she danced with Bilius, knowing full well that the entire tent full of people was watching them intently. She sniffed lightly and squeezed at Bilius' shoulder.
"I like your dress," Bilius said, his tone casual. Georgiana glanced down at herself and smiled. She was wearing a flowing, lightweight gown made of silk the colour of raspberries. She shrugged and admitted,
"I made it myself. Though, if you asked Bella, making things yourself is apparently a crime against fashion."
Bilius looked confused for a moment, faltering a bit in his dancing steps. "Don't pay Bellatrix Black any attention," he insisted, shaking his head. "She's a foul creature. Always has been. Always will be."
"Hmm." Georgiana looked over to where Bellatrix sat. She was fully on Rodolphus Lestrange's lap now, placing cherries into the wizard's mouth with a sickening sneer of a grin upon her pointed face. Georgiana sighed and said, "I feel as though, most of the time, I'm entirely surrounded by foul creatures."
"You're dancing with one now," Bilius smiled, in an obvious attempt to lighten Georgiana's mood. She stuck her tongue out at him, and then rather impulsively placed her forehead against his shoulder.
"Of all the creatures here, you are the least foul, Bilius," she murmured sadly, and she felt his hand tighten around her waist.
"I'm very happy to be the 'least foul.' Quite an honour. Now, Georgie, stand up and look happy. Everybody's watching you."
Georgiana pulled her face from Bilius' shoulder and flashed him a false, plastered smile. "Don't I look happy?" she asked sarcastically. Bilius smirked.
"I'd much rather you actually were happy, Georgie."
"I am," she insisted, and as she stared at Bilius' bright eyes, she realised that wasn't entirely a lie. She smiled, more genuinely this time, and said again, "I am happy. Very happy."
August 1949
Hermione's return to Malfoy Manor had been characterised by a great many confused stares, awkward questions, and quite a bit of catching up. She learnt that Tom had spent the past seven months acquiring wizarding real estate and businesses - using, she suspected, intimidation tactics to wrest the properties from their owners' hands. The businesses, many of which were well-known and successful, had been allowed to remain "managed" by their previous owners, so long as the Dark Lord received a very large cut of profits and an oath of fealty. In cases where owners would not submit, they had been "eliminated" (Hermione wished for no details on those cases). New managers had been installed as rewards for loyal behaviour. The apothecary in Hogsmeade, apparently, had been seized, its owner "eliminated," and Avery had taken over the place.
In addition, Tom had spies and allies in nearly every Ministry department now. The ranks of his followers was still too small, though, to manage an actual overthrow of the Ministry. Instead, Tom had regular meetings with his spies, receiving damning information about enemies and sensitive Ministry intelligence.
Hermione found out that Albus Dumbledore had officially and permanently retired from Hogwarts, that he was instead in collusion with subversive Aurors on a mission to eliminate the "threat of Voldemort." From what Hermione understood, Albus Dumbledore had been spending the first few years of his retirement forming a coalition of witches and wizards opposed to Tom's ascent. It all sounded terribly familiar to Hermione, who still vividly remembered the faces of members of the Order of the Phoenix from her own time.
One day, as she sat in the library of Malfoy Manor, she shut her eyes and thought back to secretive meetings at Grimmauld Place. She could still hear the murmurs from the kitchen as Arthur and Molly Weasley, Remus Lupin, Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Albus Dumbledore himself discussed important matters. All of their meetings had related to Voldemort - the grey-faced, monstrous version of Voldemort from Hermione's time. Apparently, Albus Dumbledore still had his heart set on destroying Tom. Some things, Hermione realised, could not change even with the radical alteration of a timeline.
Hermione opened her eyes from her daydream, glancing out the library window at the pounding rain. Nearly the entire month since she'd come back, the weather had been positively atrocious. The gardens were mushy and flooded from excessive rain, and she could scarcely recall the last time she'd seen the sun. Hermione sighed and flicked her wand at the fireplace, loathe to light a fire in August but shivering in the dank space. The hearth burst into a warm glow, and Hermione watched the flames dance for a while. Then there was a gentle rapping upon the door, followed by a squeak and soft footsteps. Hermione turned round in her armchair to see Dobby the House-Elf come padding into the library.
She felt a knot in her throat then, for seeing Dobby only made her think harder about the life she'd left behind. Dobby had been liberated from his servitude to the Malfoy family by Harry Potter in 1993, and he'd been an integral part of Hermione's failed S.P.E.W. campaign in her fourth year. Hermione swallowed, trying to rid herself of the flood of memories, and croaked out,
"Hello, Dobby."
"Madam! Dobby hopes the terrible weather is not affecting Madam's mood! Madam appears much aggrieved today. May Dobby bring Madam some tea? Some biscuits? Anything to make Madam happy."
Dobby had been perhaps the happiest one in Malfoy Manor upon Hermione's return from London. She knew that Dobby preferred her over the other witches and wizards in the house, for she had a fondness for house-elves not shared by the other denizens of the Manor. She smiled weakly toward Dobby, knowing that her smile did not reach her eyes.
"I'm fine, Dobby. Thank you. Have you any idea where my husband is at the moment?"
Dobby's enormous eyes widened then, and he pinched his lips. He shook his head, his ears flopping back and forth a bit, and said, "Dobby hasn't got any idea where the Dark Lord is, Madam! But Dobby can find him! Anything to make Madam happy!"
Hermione chewed upon her bottom lip, trying not to cry as she asked, "Dobby, do you suppose you could find him and ask him to come here? I should like to speak with him."
Dobby looked as though he were second-guessing his offer to find Voldemort. He looked rather terrified for a moment, but then seemed to remember how fond he was of Hermione. Finally, a resolved look came over the creature's face, and he nodded firmly. "Dobby shall find the Dark Lord, Madam! Dobby shall bring him to the library, and speaking with the Dark Lord shall make Madam happy. Dobby wants Madam to be happy."
He snapped his fingers then, and with a sharp crack! was gone instantly from the room. Hermione felt ill for a moment as she looked back at the fire. Since she'd come back to Malfoy Manor, she'd seen very little of Tom. Most days, he was engaged in meetings and office work until late at night, when Hermione would rouse from sleep to feel him slipping into their bed. By the time she woke in the morning, he was usually gone.
The words of the old woman in London still stuck with Hermione. Quell the tempest in his soul, just enough to staunch the flow of blood… He needs you very nearly as much as you need him. Hermione still had no idea who the old woman had been. Most days, she supposed she did not want to know at all. But she had recently realised that she'd somewhat failed at following the old witch's command since she'd come home. She hadn't done much of anything to 'quell the tempest'inside of Tom. She'd left him alone, only deepening the gap between them. Her days had been idle and she had begun to feel rather worthless.
As Hermione contemplated all of this, the door creaked again as it opened. She turned round to see Tom in the threshold. He straightened his neatly-tailored suit coat as he walked silently into the library, taking a seat in the armchair opposite Hermione.
"A very insistent house-elf informed me that you wished to speak with me," he said simply. Hermione steeled herself and squared her jaw, wishing that she could find the boy she'd fallen in love with all those years ago. When she looked into Tom's eyes now, all she saw was a cold darkness. It was difficult to find her Tom in his eyes anymore. How long, she wondered vaguely, until those eyes turned red? Until he was no longer man, but solely monster?
She lowered her head and stared at her fingernails for a long moment. "Araminta Meliflua. Diana Greengrass. Winifred Bulstrode. Druella Black. Am I forgetting anyone?"
Hermione flicked up her gaze and watched as a strange look came over Tom's angular face. His hands tightened upon the arms of the chair. When he spoke, his tone was significantly warmer than it had been when he'd first come into the library.
"Mistakes, every one of them," he admitted, for Hermione had listed the women with whom she knew Tom had been intimate in Hermione's absence. Tom sucked on his teeth and sighed. "I have apologised just as profusely as possible, Hermione, for those women. I ought not have…"
His voice trailed off then, and he looked quite uncomfortable. Hermione raised her eyebrows expectantly, and she listened as Tom finished,
"I thought only of you."
"As you made love to them," Hermione snapped. This conversation was not going as she'd planned. Tom looked offended, frowning and muttering,
"I should hardly consider what happened with those women to be 'making love,' Hermione."
"What was it, then?" Hermione demanded, shaking her head. "Were you using them to advance yourself? To fill in the blank spot I left behind? What were they to you?"
"They were nothing," Tom said confidently. His eyes glittered as he insisted, "No one is anything to me, Hermione, except for you."
She shut her eyes and remembered all the times he'd told her that no one was safe from him… except for her. She was inclined to believe him, to forgive him. But she felt rather sorry for all those young witches who had bedded Lord Voldemort in hopes of advancing themselves or their families. They'd been just as big of fools as he had been… and as Hermione had been.
"Is there anything else you wished to discuss, My Lady?" Tom asked. Hermione heard the bite in his tone, and she opened her eyes to see him drumming his fingertips upon the arms of the chair.
"I think you ought to have Betty Cattermole interview you again," she said, and Tom looked confused. Hermione cleared her throat and clarified, "The entire wizarding world knows that I vanished for months, and they shall all gossip and assume unless you give them a story to believe."
"I scarcely think that my appearing in Witch Weekly again will be beneficial to our marriage, Hermione," Tom said, narrowing his eyes as though Hermione had suddenly lost her mind. She sighed and said,
"I'm only trying to help you, Tom. I don't want them making up stories that paint you as a fool, or a cuckold, or, worse yet, someone who gets deserted. Tell them I was off on some sort of clandestine mission for you. Tell them you were in close contact with me all the while, and that you and I are very happy now that I'm back home."
"Are we happy?" Tom asked coldly, and Hermione felt a sting in her eyes. She lowered her face again and whispered,
"Very happy."
There was a soft rustling then, as Tom rose from his chair and moved to stand in front of Hermione. She stared at his shoes for a moment, then felt him tip up her chin. There was black steel in his gaze as he drawled,
"You're not happy. But I want you to be happy."
"You sound just like Dobby," Hermione said, flashing Tom a sad smile. He did not react to that, choosing instead to seize Hermione's hands and take a step back. She stood, only inches away from him. He smelled like warm cinnamon, like rosewood and clean soap and hard iron. He smelled like Tom, like the boy from school who'd Conjured her lilacs and kissed her on the Viaduct and married her in secret. She stared into his glimmering dark eyes and tried to find that boy. At last, his gaze faltered in its harsh chill, and she saw him. Hermione whimpered softly, wanting nothing more than to be rid of her confusion.
"I did not make love to any of those women," Tom whispered, reaching to pet Hermione's wild curls. "I was desolate without you. I was wrong to use them. To betray you. I was wrong. But I did not make love to them. I have only ever been - will only ever be - capable of loving you, Hermione Jean. And I do love you, profoundly and fiercely and rather painfully."
He kissed her, and she tasted caramel and mint on him. Her knees buckled a bit, and she staggered as he pushed her backward to the bookshelves. She nearly laughed aloud as she realised where they were… a library, just like the place he'd taken her maidenhead.
She hauled herself up onto the ledge below the bookshelf and kissed Tom harder than ever, feeling him sigh against her as his long fingers trailed up her thigh. She moaned quietly, willing him to touch her more firmly. But he made her be patient, dragging his fingertips against her knickers. Hermione felt a flush of damp heat there, felt him press his erection against her thigh. She moved her mouth from his, desperate for air. Tom seized upon that moment to lap and nibble at her neck, and Hermione shut her eyes as she became overwhelmed with arousal.
At some point, Tom's fingers pushed her knickers aside and delved into her wet entrance. He pulsed his thumb against Hermione's nub and ground himself against her thigh. He gasped onto the skin of her neck and reached with his other hand to brace himself against the bookshelf. Hermione wriggled and bucked her hips against his smoothly moving fingers, desperate for release. Her own hands worked helplessly at the buttons of his dress shirt, trying to rid him of his clothing. But Tom murmured into her ear,
"Leave it on. I'm touching you."
She shivered at his words, and a shock of want struck her straight through. Her fingers stilled at Tom's chest and she panted,
"You've spent the past seven months stealing businesses and homes from people. Having them killed. Possibly killing them yourself. I don't really want details. You're a vicious madman, Tom."
"That may well be so." Tom nodded into the crook of Hermione's shoulder and shoved himself against her leg as his hand quickened at her womanhood. Hermione cried out, rather loudly, and felt herself clench around his fingers as her ears rang and her pleasure exploded. As she caught her breath and came down from her high, Tom took his fingers from her and said, "Be vicious with me, will you?"
December 1949
Voldemort squared his jaw, remembering the common story he and Hermione had agreed upon. This entire interview was a compromise with Hermione. She had urged Voldemort to publicly present an explanation for Hermione's absence, but he'd resisted another appearance in Witch Weekly. Instead, he'd agreed to an interview with Arden Colporter from the Daily Prophet, ostensibly to commemorate the anniversary of Grindelwald's death. For some reason, when Arden Colporter had confronted him in the interview about Hermione's departure and absence, Voldemort had felt distinctly unwilling to discuss the matter. But he reminded himself that people had been talking, that rumours had indeed circulated about a broken marriage or a scandalous affair. After nearly an hour of discussing Grindelwald's death, Voldemort had decided to steer his conversation with Arden Colporter back to Hermione.
"What sort of mission?"
Arden Colporter frowned, lifting her quill from her parchment.
"A clandestine matter, the details of which I am not prepared to publicly discuss," Voldemort said carefully. "She was in Africa, and suffice it to say that she has acquired a great deal of valuable information, knowledge, and resources on behalf of our cause. For her safety, I did not discuss her absence, nor announce it. The Dark Lady is back in Britain now, and has been for several months. We are both very happy now that she is home."
"Happy?" Arden Colporter seemed rather amused at the prospect of Lord Voldemort demonstrating that emotion. Voldemort smirked at the reporter's disbelief, and he nodded.
"Very happy."
August 1949
"My Lady? Might I speak with you for a moment?"
Hermione whirled at the sound of Betty Malfoy's voice. She'd been traipsing through the gardens, for the weather was finally sunny and mild. She'd rather been enjoying her solitude, for the past month since she'd returned to Malfoy Manor had felt a bit stifling. She was rarely alone, completely alone, and so the quiet walk in the garden was a welcome respite. Hermione knew that Tom was upstairs, meeting with several high-profile spies and allies. He'd invited her to his meeting, but she'd declined and chosen to walk outside instead.
"What's wrong, Betty?" Hermione frowned at the sight of Betty Malfoy. The young woman's blonde hair was properly disheveled, and she did not appear as though she had put her usual amount of effort into dressing for the day. Hermione flicked her gaze from Betty's wrinkled dress up to her red-rimmed, watery eyes. "Has something happened?"
Betty Malfoy wrung her hands anxiously and chewed hard upon her lip. "It's just… oh, Hermione…"
Hermione felt her eyebrows fly up at the sound of her given name. No one ever called her 'Hermione' around here - only Tom. Betty had been calling her 'My Lady' for nearly five years. Hermione was even more shocked when Betty closed the distance between them and crashed against Hermione, wrapping her arms around the Dark Lady's torso.
"What's wrong, Betty?" Hermione demanded tightly, patting awkwardly at Betty's shoulder blade. Finally, Betty stood up straight, fresh tears cascading from her pale eyes.
"I know who you are." Betty Malfoy nodded and gave Hermione a look filled with pity. Hermione felt a cold shock go through her, and she stammered,
"W-what are you talking about?"
Betty swallowed heavily and looked conflicted. "Abraxas received an owl. From Albus Dumbledore. The letter said that your parents were never killed on the Continent during the Muggle War. That you never attended Beauxbatons. That your last name was 'Granger.' The letter said that you came back in time. That you're from the future. Is it true, Hermione?"
Hermione felt the warmth drain from her face. She felt as though she were going to be sick upon the grass. The gardens were spinning and her ears were ringing. At last, Hermione put a stony expression upon her face and squared her jaw.
"I'm quite certain I've never such lunacy in all my life," she insisted sharply, taking a small step away from Betty. "Albus Dumbledore is an old fool. He's gone mad; he will do anything - say anything - to vanquish my husband. Surely, Betty, you can not believe such nonsense?"
Betty lowered her eyes and shook her head. "Of course, I don't want to believe it. But Abraxas contacted Beauxbatons and asked for verification that you'd attended. He contacted the French Ministry of Magic and inquired about your parents…"
"If that's true, then Abraxas Malfoy is guilty of treason against his Lord." Hermione's voice was hard as iron then, as she fought to stand up straight. She was more queasy than ever as Betty's sad eyes met hers. Hermione hissed, "How dare you and your husband circumvent the Dark Lord's authority in order to attempt to prove Dumbledore's ridiculous conspiracy? You would call both the Dark Lord and myself liars…? Dumbledore is the liar, Betty. Even if I'd wanted to travel through time in such a way, you know full well that such an act is both illegal and impossible."
She was rambling now, and she knew it. But Hermione felt angry tears rush to her eyes. Betty knew her truth. Abraxas knew her truth. Who else knew?
"Who else has been fed this nonsense?" Hermione demanded, her voice crackling a bit with unbridled rage.
Betty sighed. "Abraxas has only shared the letter with me. I can not confirm whether anyone else has received a letter from Dumbledore, though Abraxas doesn't think anyone has." Betty shifted upon her feet and asked softly, "If it isn't true, Hermione… if you aren't a time traveller, then where did you come from? The parents you told us about - there's no documentation of such people. You said you attended Beauxbatons, but they have no record of you. In fact, there has never been a French witch or wizard with the registered surname of 'Villeneuve.' As for the name 'Granger,' there's never been a witch or wizard in Britain with such a name. Certainly no 'Hermione Granger.' So, if everything Dumbledore said is a lie, then what is true?"
Hermione instinctively reached into the pocket of her robe, closing her hand around the wand inside. It was a vine wand, made by Garrick Olivander in the early 1990s. She felt bile rising her throat as she nodded and said softly,
"If I tell you and Abraxas the truth, do you promise to stay loyal and true to the Dark Lord?"
Betty Malfoy swiped and her eyes and nodded vigorously. "Of course! You're my friend, Hermione. I've been your friend ever since the day you appeared at Hogwarts. There is no truth you could divulge that would change that fact. All I ask is to know who precisely has been deceiving me."
Hermione gritted her teeth and said, "Right. Let's go find Abraxas and Tom."
It was only as the two witches made their way up the stone stairs of the Manor that Hermione realised she'd called her husband "Tom" in front of Betty. The carefully manufactured personas she and Tom had crafted were crumbling about her, she thought bitterly. She led Betty down the corridor to the room where she knew Tom was meeting with several associates.
"We ought not disturb them!" Betty whispered frantically as she trotted behind Hermione, but Hermione shook her head and put her hand upon the doorknob of the meeting-room.
"This is far more important than anything else just now."
She opened the door and stepped into the meeting-room. At once, the wizards at the table flew to their feet, their swift motion accompanied by the sound of chair legs scraping on the wood floor.
"Good afternoon, My Lady." Avery bowed his head reverently, and Hermione glanced about the table to take inventory. Nott, Lestrange, all three male Malfoys, and Mulciber had come for the meeting. Hermione sniffed lightly and glanced to the head of the table, from which Tom was giving her a rather curious look.
"My Lord," she said sharply, ignoring Avery's greeting entirely, "I wonder if Madam Malfoy and I might speak with you and her husband Abraxas. Privately."
Tom's dark eyebrows arched. "I'm afraid our meeting is only halfway through, My Lady," he said, a meaningful expression coming over his dark eyes. Hermione impulsively put her hand to her throat and touched the key that dangled there, on the same chain as Slytherin's locket. She thrust her thoughts at Tom through the Protean Charm connection, knowing he had the bit of obsidian in his pocket.
End your silly meeting! she shouted mentally, watching as Tom flinched a bit where he stood. Betty and Abraxas know I've come through time. They know… Dumbledore told them…
Tom cleared his throat and shuffled some parchments on the table before him. He gave no outward indication that he had received Hermione's thoughts, but Hermione could hear the tightness in his voice as he said,
"On second thought… Gentlemen, I wonder if you would all be so kind as to return tomorrow. This meeting has dragged on long enough, and the remaining agenda items are hardly urgent."
"But, My Lord," protested Lestrange, his voice drawling through the meeting-room, "Mulciber and I need further instruction about -"
"I said to come back tomorrow." Tom's dark eyes flashed dangerously as he glared at Lestrange, who shrunk down a few inches and nodded meekly.
"Of course, My Lord."
There were murmured farewells then, and a bit of movement as everyone in attendance gathered their belongings and shuffled from the meeting-room. Only Abraxas Malfoy stayed behind, his hands tightly gripping the back of his chair as he pursed his lips. Tom stared intently at Abraxas as the room emptied. Once everyone had gone, he flicked his hand at the doorway without looking and mumbled a few spells to ward and lock the door. At last, he raised his eyes and looked from Hermione to Betty and back again. Hermione shook her head a bit at him, and watched as he sucked on his teeth. Then he strode to stand opposite Abraxas, and he barked,
"Malfoy." Abraxas looked up. The instant he did, Tom sneered, "Legilimens."
Betty gasped beside Hermione, who felt her heart hammering in her chest. It appeared as though Abraxas freely admitted Tom to his brain. He swayed a bit where he stood and moaned softly as though in pain, but there were no other signs of distress or resistance. After what felt like an eternity, Abraxas took an abrupt step backward, and Tom snarled,
"I ought to have you killed, Malfoy - no, I ought to kill you myself… for subverting my authority and seeking sensitive information about my wife from government and school records."
"Perhaps that's so, My Lord," Abraxas Malfoy mumbled, his hands tightening on the back of the chair until his knuckles went white. "I assure you that Betty and I sought only the truth, for the information fed to us by Albus Dumbledore was… shocking."
"I propose, My Lord, that we appoint Abraxas and Betty Secret-Keepers… and that we reveal the full story to them."
Tom looked scandalised for a moment. He reached into his pocket, and Hermione's head suddenly throbbed as he projected his thoughts at her.
The Fidelius Charm? You want to tell these two where you're really from, use the Fidelius Charm and appoint them Secret-Keepers? That's madness, Hermione. They've already gone behind my back once. It would be quicker, easier, and more effective to simply eliminate them.
Hermione struggled not to show emotion as she touched her key carefully. Murder Abraxas Malfoy and his wife, Tom, and you'll soon enough have more enemies than friends. Powerful enemies. You owe the Malfoy family a great deal. I believe it would be highly unwise to 'eliminate' any of them just now.
She watched as Tom appeared to contemplate the idea. Betty and Abraxas were staring at one another, fear and confusion in their eyes. Hermione said nothing, wanting Tom to appear as though he were entirely in control.
"Very well," Tom said at last. "The Fidelius Charm will allow you two to receive the whole and unadulterated truth about Hermione's life… but no one shall be able to extract the information from you against your will. Our secret will be safe in your souls, unless you openly betray us and surrender the information directly. If that happens, there will be no mercy. Do I make myself fully understood?"
"Of course, My Lord." Abraxas Malfoy nodded vigorously, and Betty squeaked out her own assent. Tom gestured toward the long table, and Betty shook as she sat in a chair beside Abraxas. Tom sat again at the head of the table, but Hermione stayed standing. She wrung her fingers together and paced around the perimeter of the table as she began to speak. When she did, words and truth tumbled forth, perhaps more freely than Hermione had intended for them to do.
"My name is - was - Hermione Jean Granger. I was born on the nineteenth of September, 1979. I am Muggle-born; my parents were dentists in a London suburb. Growing up, I always had unusual abilities. Things I could do that I suspected were abnormal. One day, a kind old woman came to my parents' house and told me about a place called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I had Magic inside me, she said. And, that autumn, in the year 1991, I began school at Hogwarts. I was sorted into Gryffindor. My best friends were a boy called Ronald Weasley - yes, those Weasleys - and a boy called Harry Potter."
Hermione paused, moving away from the table to stare rather blankly into the back of the empty fireplace. She examined the charred stains on the stones there for a long moment. Then she sighed, unable to see the faces of her audience, and continued,
"Harry Potter was famous for defeating a wizard called Lord Voldemort. When I say 'defeated,' I should perhaps specify that Harry's parents were murdered by Voldemort, and that Harry survived the Killing Curse. The curse rebounded and destroyed Voldemort for a great many years. Then, in my fourth year, Voldemort came back. He was resurrected into a macabre shadow of the man he had once been, but everyone was still terrified of him. And he was still very, very powerful. In the spring of my sixth year, I argued with Ron and Harry and retreated into a deserted classroom to study. One of our professors - a known follower of Voldemort - burst into the room and Vanished my belongings. He immobilised me, levitated me, and took me to a place I'd never been before. A place called Malfoy Manor."
Hermione turned round slowly and took in the expressions upon the three seated at the table. Betty Malfoy's bright eyes were wide and round as dinner plates, and her cheeks had drained white with anxiety and disbelief. Abraxas Malfoy's blond eyebrows were furrowed in confusion and apparent distrust. Tom Riddle - Voldemort - clasped his hands calmly together upon the table and showed no reaction whatsoever to what Hermione was saying. She cleared her throat and finished her tale.
"I was taken to Malfoy Manor and was introduced to Lord Voldemort, whom I had never met before. He was an old man, a wretched creature, but still terribly fearsome. And he kissed me - he kissed me - and said he had missed me and that he'd known me before. In his past. In my future. It made no sense at all, but before I could contemplate any of it, he handed me something… a rolled-up parchment that functioned rather like a Portkey. I was pinching and whirling, and when I landed, I was outside of Hogwarts, just as I'd been before being kidnapped. Only… I hadn't moved an hour forward in time. I had moved more than fifty years backward."
Hermione felt her eyes burn, and she decided not to fight the tears that came forth. She let them fall freely down her cheeks, staring at Betty and Abraxas for a long moment and absorbing their perplexed and appalled expressions. Then Hermione shook her head and insisted softly,
"I had no intention of falling in love with the boy called Tom Riddle. I knew what he would become. But I fell in love with him, just the same, and he fell in love with me. And… well, you know the rest."
Tom surprised Hermione then by calmly rising from his chair and striding over to her. He straightened his suit jacket and dragged his fingers through his raven hair. Hermione breathed in his comforting scent, glad she had left the bits about the Amortentia Potion out of her story. That information was only for herself and Tom. Not even Dumbledore knew about that. Tom held out his hand to Hermione and nodded reassuringly when she took it. Then Tom turned and spoke to Betty and Abraxas.
"I have observed a great many facts about time since my wife's arrival in this existence," he said carefully. "I believe time is not so linear as we have been made to accept. I believe there are no inevitabilities, no fate, no destiny. Only choices. And I believe that a deeply flawed version of myself sent a young woman called Hermione back in time, so that I could make the proper choices the second time round. So that I could be the greatest Dark wizard of all time, without anyone able to say otherwise. I am grateful for both of your alliance. I am angry that Albus Dumbledore saw fit to attempt to turn you both against me. But I am glad, I think, that you know this truth. For the both of you have shown yourselves to be able and loyal friends, worthy of sensitive information. Rise, if you please."
There was a terrible moment of stillness and silence during which neither Betty nor Abraxas did or said anything. They both stared at one another, then back up at Tom, who cleared his throat roughly to urge them into motion. At last, as if shaken from a trance, both Betty and Abraxas rose from their chairs on shaking legs and moved to stand near Hermione and Tom. Tom released Hermione's hand and pulled his knobbly wand - the one that had once belonged to Gellert Grindelwald - from his pocket. He murmured a few incantations and flourished his wand in the air around Betty and Abraxas. A dense scarlet fog developed, surrounding the Malfoys in a hazy ruby swirl. Betty looked properly terrified, but Abraxas kept his pale eyes on Tom as the Dark Lord asked,
"Abraxas and Elisabet Malfoy, do you promise to maintain the secret knowledge which has here been entrusted to you, on pain of torture and death?"
Betty flashed her eyes to Abraxas, and then a resigned and steely expression came over her pale face. She nodded, and said at the same time as Abraxas, "We do."
The red fog was tightening and condensing, and Hermione watched with wonder as it turned into a smoky rope that began winding tightly around the forms of Hermione, Betty, Abraxas, and Tom.
"Shall you ever divulge, either with your will or against it, the story of the Dark Lady's time travel?"
"No, My Lord. We never shall." Betty shook her head frantically. Tom arched an eyebrow at Abraxas, who echoed numbly,
"Never, My Lord."
Tom nodded crisply and stared at the scarlet smoke rope as he gripped his wand harder and whispered, "Tueri secreti fidelius… Mors sequiter proditione."
There was a warm vibration in Hermione's veins after Tom intoned the charm. She watched, aghast, as the ever-tightening red rope of smoke snapped in a few places and seemed to dissolve straight into the skin of those present. There was more warmth, more buzzing, and a great deal of dizziness for a long moment, and then the room felt unnaturally quiet and still.
Betty and Abraxas stared at one another, then at the floor, both apparently unsure of what to say. Tom cleared his throat beside Hermione, and then he said with lethal calm in his voice,
"Protect the truth faithfully."
February 1977
Georgiana tossed her head back a bit, unable to control her mirth as she danced with Bilius Weasley. The wedding between Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black had been almost intolerably dull, but Georgiana had been laughing so much with Bilius that she almost didn't mind attending. Almost.
"Hmph… there's Bellatrix and Rodolphus," Bilius sneered with an exaggerated sense of loathing. He jerked his head to the edge of the dance floor, where the bride's sister and her husband had slid into an awkward, lurching sort of rhythm. Georgiana stifled a rude guffaw and forced her eyes back to Bilius'. They were the colour of amber, she noticed, and rather complemented his orange hair. Why had she never noticed what a fine colour his eyes were?
"I suppose we ought not be the least bit surprised that Bellatrix is not a dancing woman," she said with a smirk, and Bilius shook his head dramatically.
"No, no. Bella's not a dancer. She's a vicious beast, and when's the last time you saw a vicious beast dance? Of its own accord, I mean… not some monkey in a circus who's been forced to do it."
"It does look rather forced," Georgiana nodded solemnly, flicking her eyes back to Bellatrix and Rodolphus. Their syrupy romance seemed, in the past few years, to have settled into a hideous sort of symbiosis. They looked very much alike, the two of them, both with black ringlets and heavy eyes and constant scowls punctuated by maniacal grins. Georgiana turned back to Bilius and shook her head firmly. She tightened her hand on his shoulder and demanded,
"Make me think of something else. It's uncouth for the daughter of the Dark Lord to stare at other wedding guests and laugh at their inability to dance."
"Well, what isn't uncouth for the daughter of the Dark Lord?" Bilius narrowed his eyes as though he were seriously considering an answer to his own question. At last, he said, "I don't think it's proper for the daughter of the Dark Lord to dance with an unmarried man. Least of all because she's had so very many suitors and has rejected all of them. No, dancing with a poor and unconnected Ministry worker is not at all proper for you, Lady Georgiana. I suggest you go sit down."
"'Unconnected'?" Georgiana scoffed, painting her face with an offended expression. "You're connected to me in more ways than one, Mr Weasley. I should think you to be very well-connected indeed."
More soft laughter erupted between them, but then the grin faded from Bilius Weasley's face, and his steps slowed. He pulled abruptly back from Georgiana and bowed. Georgiana whirled around to see her father behind her. He flashed her a small, knowing smile and said to Bilius,
"Mr Weasley, I wonder if you might spare my daughter for a brief dance. I haven't got any notion how many dances I've left with her before she fully abandons me."
Bilius smirked at Georgiana, then tipped his head reverently to Voldemort. "Of course, My Lord. I shall just go see about the cake…"
He excused himself and backed away. Georgiana sighed gently as she took her father's hand and rested her wrist upon his shoulder.
"You look very handsome, Father," she told him with a small wink. It was true; Lord Voldemort had come dressed to the nines to the Malfoy wedding. But, then, he had to look presentable, since everyone in attendance was more concerned with ingratiating themselves to the Dark Lord than with the actual wedding. Voldemort gave Georgiana another little smile and mumbled,
"Credit your mother. She chose the dress robes for me."
"Mum's always had quite a sense of style," Georgiana acknowledged, swaying to the waltz as her father skillfully guided her. Voldemort laughed a bit under his breath and shook his head.
"Credit that to Betty Malfoy. She was a writer, you know, for Witch Weekly, once upon a time. Your mother learnt everything she knows about feminine adornments from Betty Malfoy."
Georgiana's eyebrows flew up and she glanced over to the cluster of witches in the corner of the ballroom. Her mother was elegant as ever, resplendent in deep brocade dress robes. She was standing with Betty Malfoy, the mother of the groom, and Druella Black, the mother of the bride. The three women seemed deeply engaged in jovial conversation.
"Mr Weasley seems quite fond of you," Voldemort said suddenly, wrenching Georgiana from her reverie. She snapped her eyes back to his and tried not to scowl.
"He's only a friend, Father," she insisted somewhat petulantly. Voldemort nodded calmly, moving his feet in larger steps as the pace of the waltz picked up. Then he said,
"He doesn't have to be 'only a friend,' Georgie. You're a grown woman. Marry who you please."
Georgiana chortled and shook her head wildly. When she looked back to her father, he seemed a bit confused. She sighed and explained, "I couldn't marry Bilius, Father. He's like a brother to me."
"'Like a brother.' Hm." Voldemort pursed his lips, a small wrinkle appearing between his slightly greying eyebrows. "That's something of a common excuse for situations like this, isn't it?"
Georgiana felt abruptly uncomfortable discussing her love life - or lack thereof - with her father. She huffed and said in a bit of a growl, "Please, Father. You've no idea how difficult it's been, my entire life, having your shadow hanging over me. I can't just -"
She stopped then, for an odd flash had come across her father's stony dark eyes. Was it… hurt? Had she hurt his feelings just now? Georgiana faltered in her dancing steps and shut her eyes, clarifying,
"I mean to say… I'm terribly grateful for all you've ever done for me. You and Mum, the both of you… but it's…"
She trailed off, not certain how to explain to her father that being the Daughter of the Dark Lord was akin to wearing a giant sign advertising the presence of infectious disease. Everyone in Georgiana's life had either been sugary and brown-nosed in an attempt to get nearer to the Dark Lord, or they'd been outwardly hostile. No one had ever seemed genuine. No one except…
"Bilius Weasley is my oldest and dearest friend," Georgiana said, nodding firmly, for that was the truth.
Voldemort sucked on the inside of his cheek and frowned. The waltz had ended and a slow two-step had begun. The Dark Lord altered the rhythm of his movements, and Georgiana struggled to keep up. At last, he spoke.
"All I want, Georgie, is for you to be happy. It's all I've ever wanted for you. I wish, sometimes, that you knew just how frightened your mother and I were for you. How badly you were wanted by the both of us. How fiercely we loved you despite every indication that we would lose you."
Georgiana was confused by her father's cryptic words. She furrowed her brow and shook her head, preparing to ask exactly what Voldemort meant. But then her father's throat bobbed heavily, and he said,
"It is time you knew the truth, Georgie. About a great many things. Tomorrow, I want you to meet your mother and me in her office at Hogwarts. In the Pensieve there, I've stored a few important memories that I wish for you to view. You… It is time you knew the truth," he said again, nodding as though he were convincing himself.
Georgiana stopped her dancing and pulled her hands away from her father. She tried not to show emotion outwardly, knowing they were being closely watched by the wedding guests. Instead, she nodded resolutely, wondering exactly what 'truth' it was that her parents wished for her to know.