~ Epilogue 2 ~
this has nothing to do with the plot
nothing at all
(would I lie?)
it's just a series of
'what happened to everyone in the changed timeline'
very short blurbs
Lucius Malfoy hadn't cared for the way his father had insisted his own only son and heir cultivate some Ravenclaw Mudblood. He hadn't cared for the way that son and heir had developed an actual, bona fide tendre for the girl. He certainly hadn't cared for the way the boy had moped when he'd been informed he'd be marrying Pansy Parkinson whether he liked it or not. Malfoys had arranged marriages. His grandfather had. Lucius certainly had, though he was more than fond of Narcissa. Draco would.
Lucius had, however, been fascinated by the way Abraxas Malfoy, who'd bloody well insisted the boy make friends with the Granger girl to the point of hauling out obviously falsified documents claiming she was not Muggle-born but rather a distant cousin descended from bastard squibs, had been relieved when Draco had stopped his lovelorn behavior, married Pansy, and produced an heir of his own post-haste; Scorpius was a nearly perfect child and both Lucius and Abraxas adored him.
When Tom Riddle, Minister of Magic and Lord Voldemort - not that many people knew about the latter bit - swooped down and married silly little Hermione Granger, Lucius had turned to his father and said in astonishment, "You knew. How did you know? How could you know?"
"I just knew," Abraxas said. "And now we have a Malfoy cousin married to our Lord and your son in place as her most trusted confidant and personal secretary."
Lucius shook his head in admiration.
Abraxas took a sip of his very expensive fire whiskey. "Here's to hoping that baby she's carrying is a girl," he said, raising the glass in his hand toward his son.
Lucius let out a low whistle. "Scorpius as the son-in-law of…"
Both men exchanged pleased, conspiratorial glances as Lucius raised his own glass to his father. "Daughters are always a blessing," he said.
. . . . . . . . . .
"You are such a kiss-arse," Sirius said with disgust. "how can you even work for that no good bastard Riddle? And now this child bride barely out of the schoolroom?"
"I happen to believe that Riddle is the best Minister of Magic that we have ever had," Regulus said. His voice didn't even become agitated; he and Sirius had this discussion at least once a week. "And Hermione is a lovely woman. You think that you would at least be glad of the work that Riddle has had me doing on creature rights."
"You and your soft spot for Kreacher." Sirius tossed back half a shot of fire whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You think you would have grown out of that by now. Sorry, brother, but it is hard for me to get excited about elf rights."
"Merlin!" Regulus said. "You never grow up. Perhaps you could manage to get yourself to care about werewolf rights given who you're married to."
Sirius narrowed his eyes and finished his drink before he asked, "See you at dinner on Sunday?"
"Marlene and I will be there, flourless chocolate cake from that Muggle bakery Remus likes in hand."
. . . . . . . . . .
"Minister Riddle's wedding was very nice, thank you for asking," Percy Weasley said as he reached for the toast.
"We didn't ask," Fred said.
"You just told us," George added.
"I'm sure it was very nice," Molly Weasley said, giving Fred and George a look that started at 'quelling' and moved on from there. The twins ignored the look and remained unquelled.
"Isn't his bride young enough to be his granddaughter?" Fred asked, making a face. "A bit skeevy if you ask me."
"They seem sincerely attached," Percy said, his spine stiffening. He'd had a very nice conversation with Hermione Riddle, complimented her on her Sorting into Ravenclaw, and did she know his own fiancee was from that House? She had; she'd even known he was engaged to Penelope and he'd been flattered that the new First Lady, a Malfoy cousin no less, knew who he was. He didn't want to hear criticism of who he hoped might be a political patron.
"Did I tell you I had the weirdest encounter with her a few weeks before the wedding?" Ron asked. When Percy made a 'do tell me more' sound, Ron told them how the woman had run up to him in the street, "just as if we were the closest of chums when I swear she never said two words to me in seven years. And even though it was morning she was dressed as though she were coming back from a costume party." He shook his head. "So strange. She invited both me and Harry to the wedding, though neither of us went, of course. Too weird."
"She sounds very polite," Percy said, setting his glass of juice back on the table with perhaps more emphasis than was necessary.
. . . . . . . . . .
"Lily," James Potter whined. "I don't want to have to go to your sister's garden party thing. Last time that giant kid of hers almost sat on me."
"Dudley is a nice boy," Lily said, then sighed and admitted, "They're all awful but they're the only family I have. And that husband of hers is on a business trip to Japan so - "
"How did you arrange that?" James asked.
Lily arched her eyebrows but only said, "This time no changing into a deer and pissing in her petunia bed."
"The things I do for you," James said with an exaggerated groan. "Fine. No expressing my opinion in non-verbal ways."
. . . . . . . . . .
Rita Skeeter threw down the story she'd been writing fawning on the admittedly impressive abdominal muscles of that Quidditch player Krum and played with her quill. She wanted to write a story about the new Mrs Riddle and her remarkably healthy and large premature baby girl. She'd written a story on the new Mrs. Riddle and found it back on her desk, under the arse of her editor who asked her whether she was suicidal and did she need a long break to recuperate her mental health.
Rita had stared at the man in confusion.
"People don't cross Minister Riddle more than once," the man had said softly. "And something tells me a speculative gossip column on his wife would not go over well.
She swore and picked up the article on Krum again and tried to find something new to say about Bulgaria's golden boy. Maybe he'd agree to pose for new pictures. That always sold a few papers.
. . . . . . . . . .
Narcissa Malfoy and Andromeda Tonks stood over their sister's grave. They'd laid the flowers down, as they did every month, and contemplated her memorial. "I still miss her," Narcissa said.
Andromeda hesitated. She didn't want to speak ill of the dead, and Narcissa and Bellatrix had been very close, but the truth was that the Black familial instability had been flowering in Bella and it was probably a blessing she'd contracted Dragon Pox and died young. "It's very sad," Andromeda finally settled on.
Narcissa walked to the back to the headstone and swore. "'Dromeda," she said. "It's back."
Andromeda joined her sister and stared in perplexity at the word 'mudblood' that had appeared. No matter how many times they charmed the scar on the stone away, one apparently scratched into the monument with a crude but sharp knife, it came back. "It doesn't even make sense," Narcissa said. "Why would anyone deface Bella's grave with that?"
. . . . . . . . . .
Hermione stood in Tom's office and watched the pink clad, toad-like woman offer fawning congratulations on the birth of their daughter. Tom's mouth twitched in a grimace of annoyance that rarely bode well for anyone. When the woman finally left all Tom said was, "I don't think Abraxas would approve of that sweater."
Hermione moved the baby from one shoulder to another and wandlessly scourgified the newest incident of spit-up on her shirt. "I want her dead," she said.
"Dolores Umbridge?" Tom asked. Hermione nodded and he began to smile. "Consider it done, my love." He reached his hands out for the baby and Hermione passed her over. "How's my perfect little girl?" Tom cooed. "We're going to kill someone this afternoon because she annoys your mother. Yes, we are. That's right." The baby let out a wail of protest that quieted as Tom gently bobbed her up and down. "That's right," he said. "We'll kill anyone who annoys you sweetheart," he promised. "No one gets to bother my perfect angel. Angels."
Hermione gave a rather rude snort at that and Tom looked up at her, a falsely beatific smile on his face. She rolled her eyes but her expression softened to one of undeniable fondness as she watched Tom Riddle with their daughter.
. . . . . . . . . .
"Hullo Second Hermione," Luna said as she sipped from a glass of punch. Hermione blinked a few times and stared at the blonde woman in feigned confusion and actual worry. The christening has so far gone smoothly and she'd managed to smile as Padma Patil commented that the pregnancy had been so hard on her and she was happy to see her back to her usual self.
She wondered if she could get Tom to find a really, really good job for Padma far away so she wouldn't get caught as an imposter by the stranger who was supposed to be her best friend. She rubbed at her head and tried to think of what to say to Luna Lovegood. She was fairly sure the lanky, dark-haired man hovering at Luna's elbow was Theodore Nott and she shook her head again and tried to shake out the memory of the man's father, little older than he was now, talking to her during her peculiar stay at Malfoy Manor. "We won't tell," the man who must indeed be Theodore said. He smiled in a way that bared a few too many teeth. "I rather like my life and, at any rate, most of the…." He paused as if searching for what to say.
"Death Eaters?" Hermione asked with as much saccharine as she could inject into her voice.
"Right," he said. "They all know." He smiled slyly. "Maybe you'd put in a good word for me to join."
Hermione looked at Luna who was staring out the window with a vacant expression on her face. "Luna," she said. "Your… friend wants…" She stopped again.
"I know," Luna said. "He likes learning things and that's really the only way to do advanced magical research."
Hermione turned as Tom joined her, Lilith Eltanin cradled in the crook of his arm. "Tom, she said, "You must know of Thoros' son."
Tom handed her the baby and said, "I do, indeed. And have heard good things."
"He wants to join your little cult." Hermione was still trying to reconcile the identical and equally vague woman in front of her with the girl who she'd fought with, the girl who'd been held prisoner by the very group her boyfriend sought to join."
Tom wrapped an arm around her and and murmured "It will get easier, my love." She tucked Lilith against her chest and leaned her head on his shoulder, despising how she drew strength from him in this reality but doing it anyway. Despising how she loved him but doing it anyway.
. . . . . . . . . .
The little girl turned her Chocolate Frog card over and made a face. "Nicholas Flamel," she said. "Who's that?"
Her brother yanked the card out of her hand and turned it over. "Some alchemist," he said. "Lived 600 something years." He kept reading. "Dead now. Been dead almost 50 years."
His sister huffed. "Some old, dead guy. Great. Throw it away. I wish I'd gotten one of Rabastan Lestrange. He is so gorgeous."
"And an amazing wizard," her brother said. Rabastan's notorious good looks didn't appeal to him. "The duel he fought with that old Dark wizard who escaped from some prison on the continent? A-maz-ing. His brother too."
"Hadn't Dumbledore fought him too?" his sister asked. "Grindelwald, I mean."
"Whatever," the boy said. "Just sent him to prison. He escaped so what good was that? It was Rabastan who finished the job."
"Yeah," his sister said. "But all I got was some dead alchemist."
. . . . . . . . . . .
"Headmistress," the student stuck her head around the doorway of Minerva McGonagall's office. "They're just about ready for you. The Minister's going to arrive in five minutes."
"Thank you, Hagrid," McGonagall said. "I'll be right there." The man nodded and lumbered away and McGonagall sighed and, despite her words, made no movement to get out of her chair. Another year without Albus, another memorial service, another day to wonder what had happened. How had one of the greatest wizards of their generation been killed in his sleep? He'd been found in his bed, his wand missing. Nothing else had been stolen, there had been no sign of breaking and entering. It remained a mystery and there had been only perfunctory efforts on the part of the Ministry to solve it.
McGonagall rubbed her forehead and stood up. She hated these memorial services and wished the man they were for were here to puncture their pomposity with some of his nonsense words or even a twinkling smile just for her.
Still, duty called, and she went to greet Minister Riddle, his very young wife, and their new baby, Lilith. She shook her head. The things people named their children.
. . . . . . . . . .
Harry Potter had his head down in a closet and his arse up in the air when Parvati found him. "What are you doing?" she asked in the kind of exasperation only a wife can muster.
"Looking for my invisibility cloak," he said. "I can't find it."
She rolled her eyes and said, "Merlin, let me look." However, after rummaging through the shelves she stepped back, put her hands on her hips and said, "Huh. When was the last time you saw it."
"I'm not sure," Harry admitted. "Maybe at school? Honestly, I'm not sure I've used it since Dumbledore died. Just… where would it be if not in my old school trunk?"
"I don't know," Parvati said, "but I'm sure it will turn up. It's not like anyone would have broken into Hogwarts just to steal your cloak."
"You're probably right," he admitted.
"Of course I'm right," she said. "Now stop messing around and go get dressed because we're supposed to meet Ron and Lavender for dinner in 30 minutes."
. . . . . . . . .
Augusta Longbottom lay a wreath on her son's grave and knelt down on her arthritic knees so she could brush her fingers across the names. Frank. Alice. Neville. She wondered what their little boy would have been like. He'd have been a man by now. Would he have been as talented a wizard as his father? As brave as his mother? She bowed her head and, after a span of time so long an observer might have feared she'd joined them in repose, placed a hand on the top of the stone to help raise herself up.
Slaughtered on Halloween in their home with the culprit never found. Little Neville had just started saying what she had insisted was "grandma."
He would have been a brilliant, brilliant boy.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Ginny grinned at Cho. "Kiss for luck?" she asked, one hand on her broom.
"Like you need it," Cho Chang scoffed, but she pulled the woman over and kissed her girlfriend of several years so deeply the photograph would run in the Prophet with a coy remark about tonsils. The rest of Ginny's professional Quidditch team ignored the pair; their mutual adoration and total lack of concern about public displays of affection had long ago rendered their pre-game snogging so commonplace as to be dull.
"Go win for me," Cho said at last, shoving Ginny toward the pitch.
She did, of course.
It was a world of nothing but victory, after all. There was nothing at all to fear in a time of peace and prosperity.
Nothing.
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