An Addams Alternative
by Herman Tumbleweed
this chapter co-written with grenouille7777
Disclaimer:Would that I did own these or any other world of fantasy; yet alas I am but the humblest of usurpers, taking the works of others to impart upon them mine own ideas of humour... or lack thereof.
Note: grenouille7777 and I are also co-writing Oh No! Not Again! on this same bat-channel. Also, this continues from where chapter one left off.
Chapter Two: Something Wonky This Way Comes
Little Whinging, Surrey (England, for those with OCD):
Morticia, not to mention Thing, could feel that two of the three magical sources, the weakest and next weakest, had started moving away from the strongest one. Morticia still believed that one to be a young child, while the weakest was definitely an old person, probably male, and the other a rather middle-aged woman she was nearly sure. A fourth, still weaker yet, had been on the motorcycle as it flew overhead.
While Morticia, like most Addamses and those of associated family branches, didn't have magic herself, at least not enough to cast spells with, she and many others could sense magic and perform many magical tasks, such as brewing potions. Oddly, there had been few Addamses, and those of assorted branch families, with much more than what the Brits called squib level magic in several centuries, but nearly all had some magical abilities. At least that had been true for a number of generations, even if they could trace their roots back to Merlin's great-great-great-great grandparents, or thereabouts. Her mother, Esmeralda Frump, who everyone called Grandmamma, was the only known exception to the rule. There had been rumours of a witch here in England who was related in some way, but no one at home had known for sure.
Her brother-in-law, Fester, for example, had an affinity for electricity, able to both absorb and discharge it in great quantities; frequently to the puzzlement of the local power company. Often his discharges were more than spectacular, to the amazement and terror of certain of the Normals who mistakenly took him to be, shall we say, in a costume of sorts, or a homeless person, or better yet, a crazy person. Fester, of course loved being called that last one, and always thanked people for the compliment.
One poor fellow's hair still wouldn't stay lying down, after more than two years, from an unfortunate encounter with Fester. Not that Morticia, Gomez, or anyone else in the family was concerned about it. The lawsuit the man filed had been thrown out of court as soon as the judge saw it; or rather immediately after Gomez had his say in defence of his brother. It seemed the judge went on vacation the next day – for a month. Not that Gomez was in the habit of winning in court, but things did often seem to go his way; it was just that the judge nearly always dismissed things soon after he opened his mouth, for some odd reason.
And that was Gomez's magic, the ability to manipulate things in his or his family's favour, to argue with the best of them, and, of course, to produce legal documents at an amazingly inhuman speed. He was blessed, as well, with the Addams charm, wit, and gift of pure unadulterated bullshit artistry. He could take that to an much higher level than almost any other human since their distant ancestor, Merlin.
Anyroad, the detour into Little Whinging, unlike the detour above, was at its mid-point now as the car slewed rather impressively, and sideways, around the corner onto Privet Drive. Gomez secretly thought it silly in the extreme to name a street after a hedge, but he didn't say so to Morticia, she of the black thumb in the family.
Morticia was known for admiring all sorts of "unusual" plant life, and he was quite sure she would love the odd hedge plants. He wondered if he could import some cuttings for her to experiment with, not realizing that certain varieties were available from his local Normal garden shop in the States. But then, they seldom went to Normal's shops of any kind. He thought she might even manage to cross the interesting hedge with something very thorny for the back black rose garden, or for the bare area the county kept spraying between the street and the front wall around the estate. She often complained that nothing weedy grew there. He hoped that perhaps she could breed something resistant to their sprays.
His thoughts were tossed aside though, as the Rolls came not so gently to a stop; skidded to the curb would be rather more accurate. Their door was positioned in perfect alignment with the front path, naturally. Thing promptly opened the door for the Addamses, and they exited to gaze amusedly at the house with a bold brass number four. Both thought the inhabitants had to be Normals; no Addams within the fold would ever consider having such a boring home and address, much less in such a boringly Normal neighbourhood. Cousin Itt had, for example... well, best not to get into that.
Thing and Morticia had both felt the other magic users disappear from the area, probably by Apparating they assumed, shortly before their own high speed arrival at the location of the very strong magic user. She thought it very strange that the other three would bring some small magical child here, to this average Normal neighbourhood, and just leave, but then she also knew that wizards and witches in the UK were quite lacking in common sense. Logic was, to them, a completely foreign concept which they discounted, much as Normals dismissed the idea of magic. It was well known to the world's magical communities that British magicals thought log-ick was a large ugly piece of a dead tree.
That aside, Morticia could sense the very young wizard was quite close, and not even inside the house. When she mused aloud that this was quite unusual in the modern world, Thing, who was sitting on her shoulder, reminded her with sign language that these magicals still hadn't left the 18th century and it wouldn't be all that far from believable for them to leave a child on someone's doorstep. As she and Gomez approached the house she could see that her body-challenged friend and relative was quite correct.
"Oh Gomez," she practically cooed, "look; they left the child on the stoop just like in the days when people only stole children for wonderfully dark rituals and sacrifices; how marvellously quaint."
While Morticia bent to pick up the child and cuddle him, Thing jumped off her shoulder to ring the bell. He just loved doing that, especially in the middle of the night. People had such wonderful reactions to being awakened, especially by an Addams or two, or three, or, in this case, four since Lurch had followed them out of curiosity. Actually, he already knew what they would find, but wanted to watch the show anyway.
Meanwhile, back in that other galaxy, er... dimension...
Harry still sat simmering in the juices of all Mr Lurch had revealed to him. Several times the young wizard looked up with a vacant stare and opened his mouth as if to say something, though a moment later said mouth would snap shut and he'd go back to gazing at whatever it was he was seeing in his imagination. That he was thoroughly perplexed with all he had learned was obvious, as was his inability to deal with it all at once.
To Lurch, it appeared, at times, the kid had nearly reached brain lock, which somewhat made the Reaper feel almost sorry for him. Sort of, that is; well, okay, a very small part of his thinking was leaning very slightly in that direction. It did, however, give the timeless being an interesting idea.
It was at that point they were joined by four other individuals, and Lurch smirked as the door opened and they came in. Harry was about to get a couple of his rather risky wishes fulfilled, though of course he had only offhandedly made those wishes to himself, and didn't really want to go back, or so he thought. He was soon to have his mind changed, though not in a particularly pleasant manner. It was akin to the old closing room used in car dealerships, which was, in fact, where they had gotten the idea.
The young life-challenged wizard was startled out of his most recent personal pity party by the grinding chuckle of his "host". Coming back to his senses, more or less, he knew Lurch had spent a considerable amount of time on him, and since he was a kind person tried not to think too badly of someone who kept sending him back to that crap of a life he had. On the other hand, it had been a very big crap of a life, so he didn't really feel all that bad. In fact he felt almost as bad as he felt for a certain furry old buzzard, which is to say, hardly at all.
Harry wasn't listening too closely at first, but then perked up as introductions were made and his head swivelled to focus his glare on the trio of women who'd entered. The elderly man with them barely got a glance at first, but the triplets got the full treatment, one which can rarely be matched by anyone older than 20.
"So," he growled, "you are the three who have been using Albus Piss-pot Wiping Bonehead Dumbledore to muck up my life for at least the past 17 years, and probably a lot longer than that. Just how is it you justify fucking over people that way? Must be nice to just sit back and say, "Ooh, do you think we can ruin his day in this way, or would that way be better?" Where do you get off, or should I say why do you get off, doing that? Bloody foul skanks!" He was greatly exaggerating the last, as the three were, in fact, extraordinarily beautiful women. That they also happened to be what amounted to demigods didn't faze him in the least. He was dead; how much more could they fuck him over? He was about to find out.
The one who'd been introduced as Fate answered first, "Mr Potter, we did not intentionally muck, as you say, with your life. There is such a thing as free will, although the instrument we adapted to use in this case, your Mr Doublebore... oh, that was Dumbledore, sorry... has a much larger ego than we anticipated. Consequently he was able to use his free will to deny you your free will through much of your life."
Chronos spoke up, "Unfortunately for you, and for some very complicated reasons, we cannot reset time past when you were orphaned without doing considerable damage to the timelines, and causing our friend Chaos to gloat even more over the way things get out of whack, so to speak."
Harry's head was starting to hurt, but he asked, "Just how far back have you sent me before. I mean, have you actually sent me back to when I was orphaned? If you did, why didn't you do something to keep me out of the hands of those sorry excuses for relatives of mine?" Lurch smiled to himself over that comment. He'd have also rubbed his hands in anticipation, but held himself back so as not to give away the game.
It was Fortune's turn to take the ball, which only served to increase Harry's headache, what with seemingly four people taking turns on him. That, of course, was by design; and he had miscounted.
Speaking in a kindly voice, that belied her inner mirth at her current favourite human (which is not necessarily such a good thing for said human), Fortune told him "We've actually only sent you back a year at a time, at most, so far. As we said, it creates more fun for Chaos, the farther back you go, so we limit it as much as possible. She has entirely too much fun at our expense as it is. However, we have an offer for you, which you might find interesting."
Harry was shaking his head slightly, wondering if the headache could get worse as it was already nearing Voldie-induced proportions. He quickly found out it could, but first he remembered the manners he'd learned somewhere along the way, though he wasn't sure where. "By the way, Ms Fortune," he said kindly, but not too kindly, "thank you for stepping in to allow me not to get killed in my third year. I'm sure Mr Lurch was pleased over that as well."
She smiled more widely, and replied, "You are quite welcome, Mr Potter, and it was my pleasure. I do wish I, or we that is, had been able to step in more often, but that free will thing just seems to get in the way all too frequently." She looked at her sister then. Harry did as well, knowing that he was about to get mind woogied in a different sort of way – not that he felt he could do anything about it at this point.
Destiny smiled alluringly, and said in a soft, sexy voice, "Mr Potter, Harry, we know you've not had it easy in your life. However, you know you have a destiny to fulfil, and we have all wished to go back and fix that so it could be anyone, not just you, who took care of Mr Riddle. But, unfortunately, as Chronos told you, we cannot. However, we have a compromise offer we'd like to make to you. We'd like you to go back to shortly after the incident that orphaned you and to make some major changes to how things have gone previously."
Forget Voldie headaches, this was ratcheting up to migraine levels, as his head, swivelled to the last member of the group of immortals. The one he'd not counted before, but who the others now looked at, and he knew the dragon dung was about to hit the rapidly rotating air moving device.
After a quite prolonged groan, which oddly sounded rather soothing and somehow calmed the headache a bit, Lurch finally got around to some of the details. At his concluding remarks, Harry face palmed, shook his head, and then looked warily around at the five.
"So you're telling me," the mark, or rather client, said a bit testily, "that I can go back to shortly after Allpuss Prick Wanking Bitch Dribblewhore left me on that bloody doorstep, in fucking November no less, the barmy dolt, and that shortly after that I'll be rescued by some other distant relatives who will actually care for me, and that I will meet my two soul mates, which still blows my mind just so you know, and will grow up in a more normal manner. Will I have to put up with the stupid celebrity thing, and the wanking hangers on and groupies like before?"
Fate answered; it was her turn, "No, Harry, at least not until you enter Hogwarts again, and by then you will be well equipped to handle it."
"Well, that's something then, isn't it? " he commented snidely. Harry thought for a few moments, his headache making a grand reappearance, as he looked around at the almost too composed faces. He just knew they were hiding something, after all he'd dealt with Doublebore, (he snickered over that one) Snake, and Griddle for most of seven years. He had come to trust few people, and was absotively, posilutely certain he couldn't fully trust these entities either.
Finally getting back to the matter at hand he asked, "And I get to keep all my memories? How will that work, if I'm only fifteen months old? Won't it seem rather odd to whoever raises me? Seems to me I'd get really, really, bored not being able to talk much, let alone even do much for myself? Hell, I doubt I was even toilet trained at that age."
Chronos took his turn, then, saying, "The method we'll use won't give you all of your memories at first. There'll be very little difference until you are about five, though you will be quite precocious. The memories will begin to fade in over the next year, and by the time you're six you will remember everything. One of the first things you'll recall is why you are remembering."
Harry looked to Fortune, knowing she was next in the rotation, and asked, "Is there anything in particular that I will need to do before I go to Hogwarts?"
He was right in assuming she would answer next, as she smiled again, answering, "Yes, there is one really important thing you will have to do, and that is to be a kid to the best of your ability. Just because you have those memories, doesn't mean you can't enjoy your life. Even after you get to Hogwarts, you'll be able to enjoy your friends and the two companions who'll share in your life's journey. That's because with your foreknowledge of how your headmaster, and I use that term loosely, will have set things up at times you can take care of them quickly. Then you can relax and enjoy school and be a kid the way you could not in your previous incarnations."
The headache was back as bad as ever. Time travel always did this to Harry.
Destiny then added a little fuel to the headache fire. "Just remember, dear, that you don't really have to take care of Riddle, his soul jars, or any of that until at least your fifth or sixth year at Hogwarts, though you could at any time if you so choose to. In fact, the more you can mess with the furry old buzzard's head and plans in those years, by anticipating much of what he'd like to have you involved in, the more fun you, and we, will have."
Harry shook his head trying to clear his thoughts; the idea of messing with Doublebore to the extent being mentioned had a lot of charm to it. He wondered how much fun he and his partners in crime, who would mostly be different people than the last time, or was that times, could have mucking up the old bastard's plans. It made him grin quite maliciously, despite his brain feeling like it was being cooked by a Hungarian Horntail.
Lurch could tell the hook was set, and reeled in the fish, or rather made the final offer to the young man. He led off with a long groaning monologue, ending with "contract", and then offered the several-pages-long document to Harry. His final comments, Harry barely listened to as he started skimming the pages. In later years he would learn from his "uncle" to never sign anything without reading it thoroughly and making sure he understood all of it. There were a few things in this one that he missed, and would kick himself later for not knowing about in advance.
When he'd finished, and thought about it for a few minutes, Harry looked up at each of the carefully schooled-into-benign-looks faces around him. Taking another of those deep breaths he didn't really need, he told them, "I know there's a lot you're not telling me. I've been dealing with people like you my whole short life... er, make that lives I guess. And I know I'm being played here. But it is something I want to do, and there are things that happened before that I don't want to happen this time which I know I can prevent, or change. I'll do it!" He finished with resigned finality. His Gryffindor pride/courage/stupidity got the better of him again, but he'd never truly regret that decision. It was just the not reading and negotiating the contract part he would not be too happy with, to put it mildly.
Lurch handed him a pen, and showed him where to sign, initial, sign again, and again, and again, initialling here and there, until his hand was quite sore. Finally he was done, and sat back. As he let go of the contract it flashed and five copies appeared alongside the original. Lurch kept the original, and handed one to each of the others. As he was doing so, Harry reflected how much easier and comfortable, despite his now sore hand, using a pen had been. He determined not to use a friggin' quill ever again, Dumblebitch and Snarkman be damned.
Harry started to ask, as Lurch handed him his copy last, "When will I..." but he never got to finish that sentence, at least not for five years.
The last thing he heard from the group, or perhaps that should be closers, was Destiny saying, "Be careful which Weasleys you trust. You know who you can and can't." He'd spend some time contemplating that a few years from now, or then, or whatever. Time travel gives everyone headaches.
We now boldly go where no man or woman should ever go (who is not an Addams)... back to the Dursley household at 0147 hours (that's in the very early a. m., for those who don't know).
"So, Dursley old man," Gomez said amiably, "I suppose that concludes our business, and we should be on our way. You'll receive your copies of the papers in a few days." The smiling, world renowned, and internationally infamous attorney had to repress a smirk as he took back the papers and black quill (disguised as a fountain pen) both Dursleys had signed in their own blood, unbeknownst to them in their sleep-interrupted-Addams-confused state. Still repressing his smirk, he filed the papers inside his jacket in the space expanded automatic filing system which magically appeared in all his jackets as soon as he donned them. It helped keep him organized so he could spend as much of his time with his family as possible – especially the part where he romanced his lovely wife.
While the aforementioned attorney was suppressing his smirk, Vernon Dursley made no effort whatsoever to hide his rage at both being awakened in the middle of the night and having to deal with Freaks. (Yes, he actually capitalized it in his dim little mind.) He grumbled aloud, and a quite loudly, truth be told, something about Abnormal Freaks and Weirdos, going on about their lack of decency and respect for others. His tirade went on for a couple of minutes, and Gomez and Tish just let him ramble.
Morticia had finally recalled, just as they approached the house, what she couldn't remember earlier about another branch of the family here: the Evanses, it turned out quite serendipitously, were that other branch. Not that certain demigods had anything to do with that, of course (wink, wink). The Addamses had, of course, introduced themselves as distant cousins, and this just made it even better.
When the rotund man finally wound down with an inane comment about the Addamses being the worst of the lot, the slick attorney then replied, smiling widely, "Why thank you, old boy, how kind of you to say. And since you both are related to the family, I suppose you would know all about us being abnormal to the best of our ability." Then in his most boisterous manner, he told the deeply frowning and nearly-incandescent-with-rage-pair, "By the by, did the two of you know you are third cousins once removed? No need to thank us, I'm sure you are as pleased about it as we are." Suddenly they were much less red than before. In fact even Grandpa Munster wasn't quite that pale.
Morticia smiled somewhat maliciously at the dumbstruck pair, rocked little Harry in one arm, turned with her husband, and walked sedately with her other arm in his, as they always did, back to the car. When they were in the car, and she was snuggling up to her husband, with the sleeping toddler in her arms, she said softly, "Gomez, dear, I do believe you may have been overacting a bit there at the end."
"Yes, cara mia, I suppose I was." He grinned salaciously at her, knowing what that term would do to her. Then he went on, "But you have to admit they are horribly Normal. I hardly think there is more than a drop or two of Addams blood left in either of them."
Still rocking young Harry slightly in her arms, she replied in a smouldering voice, "You'll pay when we get home for using Italian while I can't do anything about it," and smiled back even more salaciously. Raising her voice, and using a normal tone, she said, "Home, Lurch, and step on it."
In the front, the giant of a man gave a knowing glance to Thing, who signed back in agreement. Lurch then floored the pedal on the huge engine under the hood, leaving the gaping pair at Number 4 Privet Drive wincing at the sound and smell of burning rubber. Moments later he pressed a button on the steering column and the rapidly accelerating car blurred and was gone from Great Britain. The Dursleys, on the other hand, would be in England for the rest of their lives, stuck in a marriage neither was willing to end and risk being seen as abnormal, Heaven forbid. Neither, of course, ever really understood that they were, by their own definition, Freaks,and by another definition unknown to them considered squibs. Nor would they understand how their own darling Dudley could later produce two of those infernal abnormal abominations.
Meanwhile, once more in that aforementioned other dimension:
Hermione found herself sitting in a nondescript waiting room which, like waiting rooms everywhere, was strewn with magazines that were older than most of the people waiting, and even less interesting. This left her at somewhat of a loss – something the brainy Gryffindor seldom found herself in. The last thing she remembered was trying to escape Hogwarts after Harry fell.
Dragging her thoughts away from the loss of her dearest friend, she focused on where she was now. At first, she thought that it could be St Mungo's, but the lack of obvious magical injuries pretty much ruled that out. Not to mention, as a Mudblood, she'd never end up there with Voldemort in control of the country. She noticed that occasionally someone with a clipboard would enter the room and call out a name, followed by a birth and… death date?
With a slightly hysterical chuckle, she thought, "Great, I must be dead. At least my parents will be amused to discover that the entrance to the afterlife looks a lot like the waiting room in their surgery. Rather fitting, if you think about it."
"Granger, Hermione Jane, born Nineteenth September, Nineteen Seventy-nine, died Second May, Nineteen Ninety-eight," announced a bored sounding, flat, sexy, voice.
Looking up, Hermione saw a young woman, about her age, in a slinky, form-fitting black dress and stiletto heels.
As the brunette rose and approached the other young woman, she appraised her as only a woman can. "I'm Hermione Granger,"she announced herself, while thinking morosely, "Jeese, what a skank. I guess I'm not gonna lose my virginity to anyone decent here, either, if they all look like her."
"Please follow me," the stranger said as she made a mark on her clipboard. "One of my superiors is anxious to see you. Again." The last word was spoken in a nearly inaudible undertone. Her intense, yet oddly dead-looking eyes, surrounded by a deathly pale complexion, betrayed a flash of emotion as she looked Hermione up and down quickly, as if appraising her in turn. After finishing her inspection, she turned and exited the waiting room.
Hurriedly following in her wake, Hermione noticed the other girl's long, inky-black hair that, while tied in a long braid, still just reached the top of a fine, firm bum as she sex-walked just ahead and to Hermione's left. "Oh well," she thought, "at least she has the body for that outfit. Might be nice to get to know her, anyway. Hmm, she seems rather familiar somehow."
Her never-ending need to know had followed her to wherever she was, so she called out, "Excuse me, Miss?"
"Yes?" was the response, accompanied by a slight turn of the head, although the dark-haired beauty didn't slow down as she sauntered down the bland hallway, past the innumerable equally bland, yet oddly contrasting, doors.
Drawing on her Gryffindor courage, the now-apparently-dead witch asked, "May I ask who you are, and where we are going?"
The black-haired young woman stopped and slowly turned in place. "Oh, my; two polite, young, and attractive clients in a row," she replied saucily as she repeated her earlier appraisal, though more slowly this time. She seemed to be drinking in Hermione's appearance making the girl under assessment flush a bit. "My name is Wednesday, and I'm taking you to see your Grim Reaper. You do realize that you've died, don't you?" Her flat, yet sexy, voice, as well as her soft American accent, took the sting out of the question, in spite of the nearly inaudible "Again" that was tacked on to the end.
"I-I guess." Hermione countered Wednesday's frankly blatant visual appraisal with one of her own, barely noticing the profound effect the other girl was having on her own hormones. It didn't occur to the young genius that someone who was no longer among the living shouldn't have hormones. In her defence though, she did have a number of other things on her mind, so can thusly be given a little slack for her missing this one relatively minor detail.
Wednesday, apparently finished with her frank evaluation, continued to lead the way until she arrived at a door that looked like all of the others. Opening it, she gestured for Hermione to enter, commenting, "It was nice to meet you, Hermione. Perhaps we'll see each other again." She sex-walked off with a tiny, but lusty, grin cast back over her shoulder; not waiting for a response.
"C'mon in, sweetheart. Take a seat," came a gravelly, Brooklyn-accented voice. Hermione did as she was bid, closing the door behind her – an act she immediately regretted as a cloud of pungent cigar smoke came billowing towards her.
Sitting at an expansive desk was an ancient man with skin that was even more pale than Wednesday's, other than the slight greenish sheen. His more-salt-than-pepper hair was thinning, except for the whitish tufts above his ears. Hermione was accustomed to the odd sense of fashion displayed in the Wizarding World, but the tuxedo (black tails, white bow-tie and vest, with a blood red ribbon holding some sort of medallion included) the ancient man, who seemed to make Dumbledore look like an ickle firstie, was wearing was at least four hundred years out of date. The tux, that is; the man she had no idea what to make of. "Hmm," she thought, "perhaps I should make that being. Not really sure if he's actually human, or..."
Her thoughts were interrupted by the old being, saying, "Gimme just a sec, here, sweetheart, while I look this over, I'm kinda new at this. Oh, and I'm Sam, but most just call me Grandpa." He picked up a file from the desk, then put it back down as he rummaged through his pockets. Snapping his fingers, he yelled, "Igor! Get back here with my glasses!" Looking around, he muttered, "Damn flying rat…"
Out of a corner of the office, a large bat appeared, wearing a human-sized pair of black, horn-rimmed reading glasses. It hovered, as if on a wire, just out of the old man's reach. Sam half rose, viciously snatched the glasses off of the flying rodent, put them on as he plopped back in the chair, and started to read the file.
"Pardon me, sir," Hermione started, "ah, Sam? Can you tell me why I'm here?"
"You're here 'cause you're dead," he retorted with more than a bit of snarkiness. "Now gimme a minute to see what's going on here." He continued to peruse what was obviously Hermione's file, muttering to himself the whole time. "Let's see, now. Troll, three-headed dog, big-assed snake, soul-sucking demons… all harmless enough… drowning – now that's no fun… curse… botched love potion – what kind of moron could screw that up… and a couple more curses… let's see… one, two, three… ah, the hell with it." Looking up, he saw that the young woman across the desk had turned paler than he was.
He reached across and patted her hand tenderly. "Now, now, it's okay. Dying ain't so bad. I've died more than a few times myself. Can't help it when you've been married a hundred and sixty-eight times. A couple of 'em are bound to kill ya." Sitting back, he took a big puff of his nasty-smelling cigar and expelled it in a big sigh. "See, here's the thing… I'm not wha'd'ya call a regular Reaper. I'm just sitting in for a friend who's got a client that thinks he should be returned to life and, in his words, won't fucking shut up about it."
This outburst elicited a shocked giggle from the girl.
Chuckling himself, Sam continued, "I guess the bastard has been going on about some kinda "Greater Good" nonsense for over a year, now. What was his name? Dumbear, Dumbdoor, Bumblemore…"
"Dumbledore?" Hermione asked in amazement.
Sam snapped his fingers again in glee. "Yeah, that's the idiot. Bah! Send him on, I say, and be done with it. Got better things to do than mess with that youngster. Ya know, back in the old country…" He waved his hands in a dismissive gesture, "Nah, never mind that, now. Let's get back to you."
Taking another puff from his cigar, he went on, "Like I said, I don't usually don't do this, so bear with me. It seems like you've already died a bunch'a times you weren't supposed to and the powers-that-be decided to give you a last chance to get it right without screwing it up." He glared at the ceiling. "Kids; gotta give 'em chance after chance," he muttered to no one in particular. "Now in the old days…" Shaking his head rapidly and waving his hands again, he returned his attention to the confused young witch.
"Now, my dear, I get to give you all the basics since those damn demi-gods…" he then muttered imprecations under his breath, "are dealing with another 'second chance' so I get the pleasure. Lucky me," he added, sarcasm dripping like honey, or partially coagulated blood, depending on your preference.
"Are you trying to tell me," Hermione interrupted as her hysteria level increased once again, "that I've died every year I've been at Hogwarts? At least once each year?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. Now quit interrupting so we can get this done. From what it says here," he indicated the file in front of him, "you were supposed to help beat this Voldi-whatsis clown and, along with your soul mates, usher in a new era for something-or-other. I dunno what's all the fuss, but that's what they want."
"Soul mates? As in more than one?" Hermione gasped in shock.
"Yes, more than one," he rebuked snidely. "That's what it means when you put an 's' on the end of a word. Don't they teach kids anything these days? Now don't ask me who they are 'cause I didn't pay attention, alright? Something about a kid with a scar on his forehead."
"Scar," Hermione thought. "Scar…? Harry? Harry's my soul mate? Or one of them, anyway? If I weren't already dead, I think one more surprise like this would kill me."
"Okay now, Missy, let's try and finish up here. I've got an experiment going on in my lab and my daughter will kill me if I blow up the house again."
"Kill you? You-you're a vampire, right? How can you be killed?"
"You got something against vampires, kid?" Sam snapped angrily, the ever-present cigar smoke billowing around them.
"N-no, sir. I just thought…"
"I just thought," he mocked in a whiny voice. "I can't believe how kids are these days. In all my six hundred and thirty one years… Anyway, here's the deal so pay attention: the Fates are gonna send you back to when you were a baby; with one difference. Your mother will be, um, convinced to have more contact with her family, which, coincidentally, is my family."
"Y-your family? But how?"
"Your mom was raised by her aunt and uncle – my daughter, Lily, and her good-for-nothin' husband, Herman – ever since she was a baby." He seemed to collapse into himself as he sighed deeply. "Poor Marilyn. We thought she'd never get a husband as disfigured as she was. We tried everything we could think of. Witch Doctors, potions, spells, but nothin' ever seemed to work. She always came out with that movie starlet look – blonde hair and all." He shuddered visibly.
Collecting himself, he looked carefully at his great-(plus a whole bunch more greats)-grand-daughter. "She eventually met your dad and he took her off to England. We get a few letters here and there, but we haven't seen her since. We loved her in spite of her looks, and still do, but we miss her. I'd like to take that Roger and… grrrrrrrr!" He made a choking motion with his hands.
Hermione's thoughts were spinning out of control through all of this, but one thought struck through and passed her lips, "I-I have vampire blood?"
Sitting up straight in an odd mixture of outrage and pride, the old vampire declared, "Not just any vampire blood," he placed one hand on his chest, "but that of the Dracula Family. The oldest and most prominent in all of Transylvania."
"You're Count Dracula? The Count Dracula?"
"Yup, that's me," he nodded vigorously with a wide smile. "Sam Dracula, Count of Transylvania."
"I thought that Vladimir was the Count?"
"Nah, that was my brother. Damn fool. He changed into a bat one day and chased a bug into one of those bug-zapper things. Burnt 'im to a crisp."
"But… that means… that I'm not a Muggleborn," she realized excitedly. "I'm related to one of the oldest Pureblood families…"
"Blood, schmlood," he dismissed the issue with another flamboyant wave of his hands. "I've heard about those crazy limeys and their blood nonsense. Blood means nothin'. Well… except as a really tasty snack.
"Anyway, back to business. The Powers have decided to send you back, but with all of your memories." He glanced again at the file in front of him. "But you'll remember nothin' 'bout it 'till you're seven, when your soul mates do. Those infernal demi-goddesses, and boy are they goddesses... whoowee. Uh, sorry, kid. Anyway, they got some complicated plan here to do this, but, bah, you'll find out soon enough. They're gonna arrange for your mom to get back in touch with the rest of us, so you can be raised properly and meet your soul mates early enough that none of this other nonsense…" He shook his head. "This is way too complicated, but what can ya do?"
"Well, let's get this show on the road. I'll see you shortly, but you won't remember me for a few years, I'm afraid," he concluded with a loud clap of his hands.
"But, what hap…" was all Hermione managed to get out as everything went black for her and she faded from sight.
Rubbing his hands together, Sam then turned to the last file on the desk and began to read it while puffing heavily on his seemingly never-ending cigar. "Hm," he thought, "so this is the idiot that can't make a simple love potion. Let's see,now… that damned dog again… uh hunh… oh, my… dolt… traitor… whoring out his own sister… this guy's too stupid to be alive. Bah! Should just send him to the lowest reaches of hell… Oh, good, good, that's what they're gonna do."
Looking up from the report, he called out to Wednesday, "Hey, sweetie? Bring in this Ronald Weasley character." Sitting back in his chair, he snorted to himself, "Bilius? What kinda stupid name is that?"
Some forty miles southeast of Little Whinging:
Marilyn Granger sat in the old rocking chair, cuddling her two-year-old daughter. As much as she loved the child, she couldn't help but be sad that Hermione had inherited her disfigurement. Granted, Roger told his wife at every opportunity that she was beautiful, but he was obviously biased. "Probably just likes that trick with my tongue,"she thought, although she knew he loved her as deeply as she loved him.
Relaxing in the mouldy dampness of the dungeon of the old castle they'd purchased just outside of London, she set her gaze on the sleeping bundle in her lap. "Well," the young mum considered, "she does have some redeeming features. Her hair resembles our many-times-great Aunt Medusa's, and Grandpa will probably like her teeth, the way they're coming in." She sighed, realizing that young Hermione's clear, rosy complexion and bright, chocolate brown eyes would probably frighten their relatives back in Mockingbird Heights.
That, she realized, was the source of her anguish. Seven years living in London among others equally as disfigured as she was had numbed her to the condition. Now, with their flight back to the States to visit her family less than twenty-four hours away, her insecurities were returning with a vengeance. Oh, she knew that they'd accept Hermione, and love her as much as they did her, but thinking of the sadness and pity that would be hidden in Aunt Lily's black eyes was almost more than she could handle. Uncle Herman, as could be expected, would be oblivious and probably just take the little girl out to the swamp in the back yard to play with the alligators. Hopefully, Cousin Eddie would have finally quit smoking all that oleander (or was it oregano), so as to not set a bad example for his young cousin.
One more thought struck her. Some dear old friends, who were distant relatives as well, lived not too far from her family. "I do hope we'll have time to visit the Addamses. They are such lovely people, and it has been years since I've seen Morticia. I believe Roger and I will just have to make time. After all, he sees his family so frequently."
At that moment little Hermione gave a bit of a start in her sleep, and seemed to mutter, "...pens now?" Marilyn gave it no thought, since her child was already known to be a genius.
A/N: grenouille7777, aka Mike, wrote roughly the last half of this chapter, starting with Hermi's trip through Death Inc, though I have to admit to tweaking it some here and there. And then the man has the temerity to claim he can't write humour. Kids these days... (as Sam would say). {Note from 'the kid': So says an even bigger kid… smirk.} So, thanks to the youngster for his help on that and his excellent beta skills. Thanks are due, as always, to Tumshe for his great beta skills and Brit picking to help with making this as authentically Limey as a couple of old hippies can.
One last thought, calling Dumbledore Dumbear is a nod in the general direction of one of my favourite movies, Dances With Wolves. In one scene, Dunbar is trying to teach one of the Lakotas his name and that is what the man them calls him at that one point. Arguably the best movie Kevin Kostner was ever in, and well worth watching.
