A/N: Thanks to everyone reviewing Absence after I finished the story! I loved reading your reviews and comments. I'm a bit nervous opening the story up again, because it did have a definitive end in the epilogue. To clarify:This is the first of a short series of drabbles, post-Absence, telling parts of the story of what happened after the epilogue. It's not a full sequel, more like scenes and events I wanted to write.
My soundtrack as I wrote: Ghost, Absolution from album Meliora. Lyrics at the bottom (all rights belong to Ghost).
And would you know: Absence has been nominated in two categories the Beyond the Book Fanfiction Nook Summer Awards 2018! I'm so proud! *grins*
The categories are Lost in Time (Favorite Time-Turner) and Something Theatrical This Way Comes (Favorite Drama). Voting is open from 10 September 11 November. If you've read and enjoyed Absence, please vote here (remove the *):
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The ceremony was tedious. She hated speeches, boring, long-winded officials, loving the sound of their own voices. Standing next to him, she waited patiently, playing the role of adoring wife. Her back ached, and the heaviness of her belly made standing still awkward and slightly painful, though she had charmed her high heels to feel like sneakers. Sneakers, a wonderful concept none of the people in the room were familiar with, and she almost wanted to laugh at that.
Still, the room was too hot, the summer heat stifling. Her dress felt too tight over her stomach, and the charm holding her curls in place felt like an iron band around her head, keeping her veins throbbing in pain against the restraint.
The ornate carvings on the heavy, mahogany furniture were polished until it shone in the candle light of the ever-dim Ministry, and the smell of varnish and soap was nauseating. All in all, Hermione Voldemort, neé Granger, didn't feel all too good.
"And finally, Mr. Voldemort, here are the keys to your office," the short, bald official from the Ministry boomed. Her husband grasped the large key in his left hand, while shaking hands with the official, to the sound of a smattering of applause and cheering from his new employees in the Department of Mysteries. The camera belonging to the photographer from the Daily Prophet gave off a small bang and a puff of smoke, capturing the scene nicely, and Hermione knew with certainty that her plastered smile would survive in the photo. After all, she was a professional by now. Her smiles seemed real, even fooling the magical cameras.
"And for you, Madame Voldemort, we would like to give you this bouquet of flower as a token of appreciation, since you are so courteously allowing us to borrow your husband during work days." The official smirked at her, bowing down and kissing her hand.
She shivered, feeling a chill run down her spine, but as it were, she had to hold back her angry glare at the stupid wizard. Despite the shivering, sweat was pooling under her breasts and at her nape. Merlin, it seemed like the temperature was increasing. Didn't the Ministry know how to set Cooling Charms on the rooms?
When they had entered Magical Sorbonne, over six years ago, her husband had immediately presented himself as Voldemort, foregoing the name of Tom Riddle. The Headmaster and Dark Arts Master, Roulet, had just smiled knowingly at what he knew was a change of name. Everyone in Paris took the name in their stride, and consequently, she became Madame Voldemort – at least until people got to know her on a first name basis. Somehow, in France, everything about the name had seemed easier.
Now, the title made her uncomfortable, maybe because they were back in Britain, and Voldemort was reality here – representing scary memories, awful life experiences, an evil shadow looming tall over six years of her past life in the future. At the same time, it was her brilliant husband, the ruthless wizard set on achieving power no matter what, but also the man she loved, the man who, incredible as it seemed, loved her and would protect her against everything and anything.
Smiling politely as her husband was speaking, she tried her best to disguise her discomfort. A strong twinge in her back almost made her knees buckle, and her smile faltered. Standing stock still, trying to regain her balance, she slowly relaxed.
Voldemort was now finished with his speech, the applause as always thunderous, and he was now moving among his employees, smiling, shaking hands, looking just as devilishly handsome as always. Even taller than he had been at eighteen, his frame was now more muscular though still graceful, and his face had matured. No, strike that, she thought, he was more handsome than before. Maturity suited him. He looked powerful, strong, and his gaze was as demanding as ever, those pools of black eyes that people frequently did tend to drown in, herself included.
Another twinge went through her, and she involuntarily brought her hand to the small of her back to support herself.
Always aware of her, he called out to his secretary: "Would you help my wife to a chair, please?"
She sat down heavily, wanting to believe this was only Braxton-Hicks-contractions – again. But somehow, she knew this was different. This very well might be the real thing.
Xxxx
At the soiree after the ceremony, she hugged Muriel Weasley happily. It was good to see a friendly face in the throng of Ministry sharks. The red-headed beauty whispered: "You look wonderful. I'm so happy you're starting a family." Muriel withdrew from the hug with a wistful smile, and over her shoulder, Hermione caught the eyes of Abraxas Malfoy. He gave her a strained smile, before turning to an old wizard in purple robes.
The lights were blinking oddly, she rather thought, and the temperature was still much too hot. Her long, black silk robes were stuck to her back, sweat running down her spine in what felt like rivulets.
"How are you, really?" Hermione said, forcing herself to not notice the state of her body, instead taking a close look at her friend. Muriel looked drawn, with an almost pinched look around her eyes, like she wasn't sleeping enough.
"Oh, I'm good," Muriel said lightly, avoiding her gaze, smoothing her yellow, fitted silk robes, showing off her curves to her advantage. Around them, several wizards ogled her discretely, their eyes betraying that they really, really wanted it to be their own hands stroking Muriel's hips and flat stomach.
"Really," she replied, cocking her eyebrow to the witch. "You and Abraxas?"
"I'm an Auror," Muriel said stiffly. "I don't have the time nor the inclination to play lady of the manor."
Hermione snorted. "Is he still going on about that? Hasn't the man grown up?" Giving Muriel a searching look, she said slowly: "You're still together, aren't you?"
"Sort of," the witch said, sighing. "It'll never be anything more than this, I'm afraid. Illegal love. Soon, Abraxas will need an heir, and that'll be the end of it all."
"Oh," Hermione said softly, reaching out a hand to Muriel. Then a strong twinge in her back made her step falter, and she gripped Muriel's arm hard to avoid crumpling to the floor.
"Is it…?" Muriel said, blue eyes wide open, as she looked at her.
"I think so," Hermione grunted, as a wave of nausea engulfed her, making her breathe heavily and slowly through her nose.
As always, she could feel his presence before he actually said something, and gods, how she was relieved right now.
"Are you alright, love?" His voice was a comfort, and his strong arm around her even more so.
Leaning back into his body, she almost panted: "no," as another ache went through her.
"Is it time?" he said softly, dark eyes boring into her, like he wanted to see the insides of her body, finding out what was going on in there.
"It might be," she gasped, clutching his arm as not to wobble.
"We're leaving," he said resolutely.
"No," she protested, "you're not done yet tonight, this is your celebration. You need to mingle."
He cocked his head at her, a half-amused twist to the corners of his mouth, and he said very clearly into her ear: "You're in labour. I believe that's a valid excuse for leaving early. We can mingle anytime later."
Everything became a blur, as they left. Faces, lights, colours, smells and sounds all mixed into a very confusing blend, and she wasn't able to follow strands of conversations. It was like a demented person turning a switch on and off, on and off, as sound disappeared, came back, volume much too high, before disappearing again. It felt like she was slowly zooming out on everything but the pain in her back.
The cold air outside hit her face, and then it whipped against her face, as they flew towards St. Mungo's. Weakly, she thought that she had to be completely knackered, not protesting at the flight through Muggle London.
It was a blur. Entering St. Mungo's felt like a blink of an eye, though she clearly remembered her husband arguing with the Welcome Witch.
She was in a room. A mediwitch patted her stomach, waving her wand in a complex pattern, saying something half-illegible about "progress, should have come earlier…"
She was in a chair. Someone pulled her dress over her head, replacing it with something large, free-floating and soft, settling around her neck. Like she was captured under water, people moved too slowly, spoke strangely.
She was in a bed, curling, bending, groaning, as a spasm went through her, and she panted.
She was locked inside herself, panting, squeezing, shuddering, screaming.
She was falling, lights flickered, someone yelled, things were crashing, bursting and burning around her.
A mediwitch shouted: "We cannot contain her, she's too strong, we need help – ooouch! – see, she's breaking through, aaargh, my arm! She's unconsciously cursing everything on sight! – look, we cannot do this, we'll have to Stun her…"
"Get her husband!" a voice shouted, as something hard, like shards of glass rained down from the wall, the light globes in the roof swaying dangerously, and then the room went blessedly dark.
"Can you hear me?"
His voice was insistent, low, worried.
"You must restrain her, Mr. Voldemort. She's too strong, she'll destroy the room, possibly hurting herself as well as us. Already, two Healers are in treatment for cuts and burns…"
"Merlin, you must do this every day, why can't you…? Even in her state, she could tell he was angry.
"She's too strong! She's breaking through the charms restraining her magic from flaring out again and again, please…"
In her ear, she heard his deep voice: "I'm going to put you under the Imperius, for your own safety, love. Imperio!"
Suddenly, she was floating, the pain inconsequential, everything was fluffy, alright…
"Relax, love, and listen to the mediwitch. She wants you to breathe slowly. Do it, Hermione, breathe."
And she did, for what seemed a long time.
"Now push. Push, Hermione."
Faintly, she felt like she was splitting in two, but the edge of the pain was gone, leaving only a trace of unpleasantness.
"Push!"
And there was a sound. A baby was crying. Her baby, and his.
It felt like swimming out of darkness, and then she saw him cradling a baby, a squalling, red-faced thing with dark, curly hair.
Her husband, the dark wizard, the world-conqueror, the vicious killer was quiet, staring down at the baby in his arms.
Weakly, she stretched out her arm, feeling a strong sense of loss. That baby belonged in her arms, it was supposed to be a part of her body still, wasn't it?
"My son," he whispered, staring at the baby for a long time.
"Mine too. Ours," she said, her voice almost breaking, pleading, her heart bleeding, like there was something wrong with the baby being outside her reach.
Her husband very reluctantly put the child down in her arms.
Feelings rushed through her, and she felt mixing surges of love, loyalty, protectiveness, caring, fear, anxiety and dread rush through her. What would her baby's future be like? Safe, hunted, protected, endangered?
The small baby boy stopped crying, his little nose sniffling at her, and his lips puckered.
A mediwitch rushed forward, helping her to get the baby attached to her nipple. The feeling was strange, close to unpleasant, but her son seemed eager, suckling at her.
His hair was dark, curly, and his body small and very light, soft and warm. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she was smiling, sobbing in and odd combination of happiness and relief, the emotions too strong to be contained inside her.
"He's a big boy," the mediwitch said, "healthy and strong."
"Give us some privacy, please," her husband said, ordering the mediwitch out.
"Are you alright?"
The question startled her somewhat, and she looked at him – and then she saw the devastation around her. There was a large pile of sawdust in a corner, from what she thought might have been a chair and a table. Pieces of ripped fabric cluttered the room, and the tapestry on the walls had long gouges, like enormous nails had scratched long lines. The roof had several scorch marks, and by the bed, there was smattering of ashes like something had been incinerated.
"I did this?"
"Yes. Your magic flared because of your pain. I had to use the Imperius on you to keep you from killing them. It was necessary, love, you hurt some of the Healers rather badly too."
"Oh. I had no idea." Shame flooded her cheeks. Thousands of witches gave birth every year. Why hadn't she managed it? She was sure she'd have read about it if destruction and attempted killings at magical births were commonplace.
"Don't worry. You were simply too strong for them."
She grunted. "Not for you, though." Damn, even now, it galled her to lose to him, and he knew it.
A small smirk entered his lips. "Correct, darling. Besides, you were too busy birthing to even try to resist my curse."
"Hmm." She got lost in watching her small son, his tiny mouth now half open and relaxed, breathing rapidly. Asleep, she thought, tears of an inordinate happiness again welling in her eyes.
Trust her husband to ruin that, though. Voldemort had his wand out, making a flaming circle around them, and then he was chanting: "Protegere connecto, familias sanguis."
The room darkened visibly outside the circle of flames, and he had a small, silver knife in his hand, ripping open his shirt, and to her horror he cut himself just above his heart, making a small droplet of blood well forward.
"Voldemort," she said weakly, "please, don't… Not a ritual, not now."
Shaking his head adamantly, he grabbed hold of her, moving the baby aside, doing the same thing to her before she could utter any more protests. The cut was a sharp, stinging pain, and blood dripped out on her breast.
At last he lifted the baby, gently making a small wound over his heart too, his eyes tender, though dark, fiery blood magic swirled all around them.
Her son opened his eyes, yelling indignantly, shockingly loud. She watched with narrowed eyes, as Voldemort Levitated their drops of blood into a small ball of swirling red, and with a whispered "Crystallo argenti", it was encircled by a small crystal orb, hanging from a silver chain.
Quickly, he lowered the baby to her chest, and soon, he was happily snuffling at her other breast, searching for the nipple by opening and closing his small, adorable mouth.
Reverently, Voldemort put the chain over the head of their little son.
"He's protected, now. Bound to us, as we are bound to him. Now, he can draw on our life-force if necessary," he said heavily, sitting down on her bed, watching them both with those dark, inscrutable eyes.
Lyrics Absolution:
Ever since you were born you've been dying
Every day a little more you've been dying
Dying to reach the setting sun
As a child, with your mind on the horizon
Over corpses, to the prize you kept your eyes on
Trying to be the chosen one
All those things that you desire
You will find here in the fire
Put your hands up and reach for the sky
Cry for absolution
You'll be down on your knees and you'll cry
Cry for absolution
Even now when you're here you are moving
Hysterically seeking out what needs improving
And you're still asking for the sun
All those things that you desire
You will find here in the fire
Put your hands up and reach for the sky
Cry for absolution
You'll be down on your knees and you'll cry
Cry for absolution