Chapter Fifty-Three: Hermione the Hairy Hag
Kingsley Shacklebolt had been reelected Minister of Magic the month before by unanimous vote, something that had not been done in the history of the wizarding world. Percy had been elevated to his second in command.
Remus had named Severus Snape as his Deputy Headmaster, and his new best friend, even if Snape had pretended to gag when Remus had announced both to the school at large. It was rumored that they'd been caught snogging in a dark corner but Harry refused to believe it, and Hermione was quite sure if Remus was snogging Snape he'd have the decency to hide it like a normal person instead of getting caught in the hallways like a bunch of horny fourteen-year-olds.
The foreign witches and wizards who'd shown up to fight, turning the tides finally for the side of good had been awarded gold, plaques, and eternal promises of friendship.
The village of Hogsmeade had remained full of Muggles including Mr. Granger, who was oddly flourishing as a dentist in a magical village. It seemed the wizarding community felt their teeth were cleaner after being scraped painfully for an hour then by a good old-fashioned dental charm. That, and they felt a secret sense of obligation to patronize the man who'd sired Hermione Granger, noted heroine and savior of the wizarding world. One of the heroes of the wizarding world, at least.
The Dursley father and son duo had been busy as well teaching hand to hand combat, the only two Muggles in the world who had taken on Death Eaters with their fists and lived to tell the tale. It was a good thing that the Dursleys were still here and finding success, Harry repeated once too often, usually with a twitch in his left eye.
Millicent and the other dead had been buried, some on the grounds of Hogwarts itself next to Dumbledore's tomb, and some in their family's plots, all except the man known as Lord Voldemort, who'd been burned into dust and port-keyed to a desert to be let loose in the air, to be sure that no one could ever worship at his grave site or attempt any foolish necromancy spells on his bones. All the rest of the dead had been buried except, of course, for one boy.
Bellatrix and Rodolphus had been entombed back into Azkaban with the dementors, along with Vincent Crabbe Senior, and another twenty Death Eaters. It wasn't ideal, but it was all they could do for now. One day soon, they would eradicate the dementors and find a more suitable punishment for the monsters who'd willingly followed Voldemort, but that day was not today.
Belinda Harper would've been jailed as well, but the students from the past, alternate reality, or the Forty Alt Heroes as they had taken to calling themselves, had insisted that she be returned with them for her punishment. They had no intention of giving her over to an Azkaban that was shortly going to be dementor free after she'd killed the brightest star of their age.
The order of Merlin's had flowed like water, and for the first time ever a Muggle had been awarded one. In her death, Petunia Dursley had finally become a member of the magical community like she'd always secretly wanted. Hermione and Harry had received one as well, giving Hermione an Order of Merlin, second class and an Order of Merlin, first class to lord over Harry, who'd only received the latter in their current reality. The Forty Alt Heroes had all added an Order of Merlin, first class as well, which Estelle had taken to wearing in her hair after turning it into a diamond studded brooch. Riddle now owned two Order of Merlin first classes and he was being obnoxiously humble about it all.
Parvati, Nott, Pritchard, Midgen, and Turpin had been awarded full pardons for their part in the slaughter of Hogwarts, as had Carina Zimmerman and others posthumously, but it did little to heal the hurt that had happened.
Life for many was returning to normal, or as normal as normal could now be. Hermione, however, could not count herself as one of those lucky souls who felt the relief of the nightmare being over. Her nightmare in some ways, had just begun.
January 11th, 1997
"I don't think you should stay," Hermione said carefully, "I don't think it's a wise idea."
"I didn't say anything about staying," Phobos said shortly. In his hand, was Igneus's Order of Merlin, first class, or perhaps it was his. He was turning it over and over as he sat on the edge of Hermione's bed in Gryffindor tower.
"But you said-"
"I said I was going to come back," Phobos said stubbornly, "there's a difference, Granger."
"Coming back to stay," Hermione said, "that's what you mean, isn't it?"
"So what if it was?" Phobos said, frowning down at his hand. His hair had grown out to its old length finally, in the past few months the Forty Alt Heroes had remained in Hermione's time and reality. The lion was gone. It was a shame. She had kind of grown to like it on him.
"We already have a Phobos Malfoy," Hermione said, more delicately still, "remember?" She was wearing a faded pair of jean shorts even thought it was freezing and January, and a string tied around her ankle, a friendship bracelet Ginny had made for her the year they'd gone to the world cup, and a band shirt for The Smashing Pumpkins that seemed to offend Phobos the more he looked at it. Not that he was looking at her much.
Katie walked in the sixth-year girls' dorm which had been housing Marion Hinsley, Marlene Smith, Evelyn, and Brigitte and spotted Phobos sitting on Hermione's bed with her and promptly walked out again without a word.
Hermione sighed.
"Your boyfriend won't like that," Phobos said shortly, "sorry, I guess."
Hermione sighed louder.
"What?" Phobos said, "not sure which boy I was referring to?"
"Katie doesn't have a big mouth," Hermione said wearily, "and actually, Phobos, I don't have a boyfriend at all."
"Why not?" Phobos said, looking up from the Order of Merlin and staring at Hermione's expanse of legs before shaking his head with a scowl.
"Stop looking at me like that," Hermione said irritably.
"Like what?" Phobos asked, "like you're going to fuck the guy who helped kill my cousin? Or have you already? Reports are mixed."
"Riddle didn't have anything to do with Igenus's death," Hermione said, her jaw clenched.
Phobos laughed.
"How do you figure that?"
"Because..." Hermione hesitated, "because he's still alive. He's with you in Tahiti. The other you, I mean."
Phobos looked up at her again, a light in his eyes that she hadn't seen since they had been in his reality.
"You're sure?" he asked, "he wasn't one of those freaks in masks, ever?"
"No," Hermione said, "you were right, Lucius was Abraxas's son. That was the branch that got mixed up with Voldemort, not yours. Or your cousins."
"They just hid like cowards," Phobos said, and then almost immediately, "I want to meet them."
"You can't," Hermione said at once, "You know you can't. They wouldn't understand. And you might not even like them."
"All the same," Phobos said, "I want to. Dougal wants to meet them as well."
Hermione hesitated again. "Dougal died when he was twenty-one. In my reality, anyway."
"Of what?" Phobos said, staring at her ankle bracelet like it had personally wronged him.
"He was training to be an Auror," Hermione said, and of all the things she'd said, that surprised Phobos the most.
"What?"
"Yeah, he'd...repented of some of his views, it seems. He was killed by a dark wizard. Audrey married Thaddeus Nott. She was barren, and he divorced her when she was thirty. It caused a huge scandal. She's been shacking up with a series of younger Muggles in Tahiti for years now."
Phobos laughed once. He didn't sound particularly amused.
"They all sound very happy," Hermione said tentatively.
"Good for them," Phobos said, "but I'm not. I'm going back with Dougal to bury Igneus, and them I'm saying goodbye to my parents and coming back here."
"But...why?" Hermione said, fearing the worst.
"Guess," Phobos said shortly.
Hermione squirmed.
"It's not...I mean...I can't promise you anything, Phobos," she said softly, picking at the shirt. Her cousin had gotten it for her after a concert and she'd worn it every time she'd tried to look cool. Why she was wearing it in front of Phobos Malfoy she had no idea. Surely, she wasn't trying to look cool? And why had she put on her shortest pair of jean shorts, the ones she'd hacked with a pair of scissors, so they frayed just like the popular girls she'd gone to primary school with? The popular girls that lived down the street from the Grangers, the ones that still ostracized Hermione every summer home from Hogwarts?
"I see you're just as arrogant as usual, Granger," Phobos said, and Hermione spluttered in indignation for a moment. Having a Malfoy call you arrogant was a new low.
"I want to be useful. I want to be somewhere I can make a difference. I want to be somewhere I'm not reminded every day about Igneus."
"But...he died here," Hermione said, "because of me."
"No, not because of you," Phobos snapped, "he died because of that little bitch Belinda, and I can't live in a world where she's alive."
"I think your family will miss you," Hermione tried again. It was bad enough she was stuck with Blaise, who was alternating between ignoring her and making faces at her that reminded of that time in his bed months ago.
"Yeah, well, I can visit," Phobos shrugged.
"Can you?" Hermione said, "the stone might crack after you go back. And if it doesn't, it could crack after you return here. You can only use it five times, remember? And then you'll be stuck here."
"What do you suppose I've been doing while you've been accepting awards the past few months?" Phobos asked. "It was our library that held the books on the mysteries of time travel, you know. Our library, and Dumbledore hid some more in his office. Narcissa has been letting me visit to read in the library."
"How...nice of her," Hermione said, her lip curling. Narcissa had somehow weaseled her way out of any sort of punishment for her role in everything and had gone back to living at Malfoy Manor, but if Hermione had her way, that frigid bitch would be rotting next to Bellatrix in Azkaban.
"Yes, she said I could stay with her, when I come back," Phobos said, "I guess she misses her son. And it's a Malfoy home, you know. Not hers, not really. She's a Black."
"How generous," Hermione said flatly.
"Yes, I asked her how she'd feel if I brought you to live there as my wife," Phobos said casually, and Hermione froze, "she didn't seem thrilled but hid it right away. I would say she's very desperate for a surrogate son. I can manipulate that to my advantage."
"Ah, that sounds like you," Hermione said, laughing nervously.
"Don't worry, I don't plan on us getting married," Phobos said bitterly, "I know I'm third in line for you at best. If I'm lucky. I was just testing her."
"I see," Hermione said, "but Phobos, I have no intention of ever getting married, to anyone."
"I figured," Phobos shrugged, "but even so. I'm still third in line to be your paramour, aren't I?"
Hermione looked at the boy who looked so much like Draco Malfoy but was nothing like him, not really. She took a deep breath.
"No," she said finally, "you're not third. That's why I think you should leave."
There was another flicker in Phobos' cold grey eyes.
"What do you mean?" he said finally.
"I don't need more complications," Hermione said, "my life...is complicated enough. And I don't think it's right. What about Dougal? What about your parents? What about-"
"I didn't finish earlier," Phobos said, "I've been researching, and I figured out how to time travel with accuracy between worlds. I don't' even need Aeternus Lapideus anymore."
"What?"
"So maybe I'll come back, and find you mid shag with Riddle, and leave again, or maybe I'll come back and you'll miss me so much we'll be the ones caught by someone mid shag. Who knows? But at least we can have options."
Hermione stared; her jaw slightly ajar. She was caught between the mad desire to slap him for being a jerk and the even madder desire to say that they didn't have to wait and could get caught mid shag right now.
Phobos's eyes shifted again. He saw the mad desire in her face, she knew it. She had to look away, now. But she didn't, and he leaned forward, licking his lips. His left hand, which sported the ridiculous Malfoy crest on a ring, just like Draco used to wear, traveled from her left ankle up to her bare knee. He leaned forward, and Hermione felt herself mimicking him.
The door banged open and she sprang backward, Phobos's hand still on her knee, and fell off the bed with a shriek.
"Really graceful," Estelle said, "truly. So, does the fact that Phobos is in your bed mean that your boyfriend Zabini will be shortly pining for you, Granger?"
"No," Hermione said, her face beet red, "I mean, I don't care. Do what you like with him. And we weren't doing anything."
Phobos smiled. It was a little happier than a few minutes before. "You ready to go back, Estelle?" he asked, "or are you planning on staying to try to steal away Granger's second boyfriend?"
"He's not my boyfriend," Hermione said exasperated, "I don't have a boyfriend!"
"Just a harem," Estelle said, crossing her arms, "and no, I'm going back. Of course, I'm going back. We all are!"
"Sure," Phobos said, still sitting on Hermione's bed. He looked like he belonged there, which was disturbing. He leaned back against the pillows, picking up her childhood stuffed animal, Mr. Skeffinton, a pink giraffe.
"What does that mean?" Estelle said, as Hermione got to her feet, tugging at her shorts. It was futile, and Estelle eyed her tiny shorts with a knowing smirk. Phobos stared at her from underneath his silver eyelashes, a little smirk of his own playing on his mouth. He'd apparently taken their almost snog as evidence that Hermione might have actually just slept with him if they hadn't been interrupted. And god help her, she might have.
It was strange. She had won. She had completed her mission. She'd turned Riddle inexplicably to good. He'd helped her defeat Voldemort. Harry and her father had lived. Evil was vanquished. All was well. So why wasn't Hermione well? Why did she feel like every last thread of her sanity was being slowly snipped away, one by one?
It was Phobos today, but yesterday it had been Blaise. They'd been cleaning up one of the classrooms on the second floor together, repairing the splintered desk, and he'd smiled at her with his dimples and she'd had a wild urge to push him down onto the teacher's desk and rip off his robes and climb atop of him, and then Estelle had burst in to tell them that Harry was looking for Hermione. It seemed someone else had come up with an award for them to go to the Ministry to accept, and she'd had to put on her nicest robes and smile and shake hands while flashbulbs popped. Rita Skeeter, of course, had come unscathed out of the other side of everything without ever casting one spell on either side.
And if that wasn't bad enough, if Hermione hadn't entirely lost her wits and sense of good judgment, the day before THAT she'd been in Hogsmeade, sweating in her least flattering mum shaped overalls and paint stained t-shirt while repairing The Three Broomsticks and Riddle had wandered over to help, looking impeccable and unruffled, and they'd ended up in the cellars together, heaving casks of honey matured mead, as Hermione remembered Madam Rosmerta and the way Ron's ears had turned red around her, and how she'd died throwing sparkly shoes at Death Eaters to save the school and the students encased within.
She'd felt a tear in her eye. It had been odd, crying over Madam Rosmerta of all people, when she'd lost so many, so countless many, most of whom had been far closer to her, but there had been something about finding the woman's trunks of clothing that had seemed so sad and intimate to her, and before she knew it Riddle had been holding her while she cried for the first time in months, she'd been letting him, and she'd tilted her head up to thank him, his lips so close to hers, sweat trickling down his face, dust in his hair, and she'd been a hundred times more attracted to him than all the times he'd looked perfect. They'd leaned forward and then the door to the cellar had banged open, and Estelle had shouted down that Remus had-
Hermione whipped her head around to look at Estelle, who grinned at her. Hermione's eyes narrowed.
"Phobos, I've got to speak to Estelle," Hermione said.
He shrugged while playing with Mr. Skeffington's left hoof. "Go ahead," he said easily, "I'll wait."
Hermione breathed out through her nose, but she walked away, leaving Phobos Malfoy lounging on her bed like a sultan with her childhood stuffed toy.
Estelle followed as they made their way to the empty seventh year girl's dorm. Katie had given up all pretense and was sleeping in Oliver's quarters now, and it remained empty still. Hermione walked in, saw Carina's poster of The Weird Sisters, and made to climb out the window.
"What are you doing?" Estelle demanded.
"I can't stay in here," Hermione said, "and we need to talk."
"Oh, do we?" Estelle said, "and I'm sure there are about a hundred better places to talk then on a rooftop, Granger," but she followed Hermione outside as she clambered onto the roof, the wind ruffling their hair.
"So, out with it," Hermione said.
"Out with what?" Estelle said, trying to sound innocent, but as she was a Slytherin, she failed horribly.
"Out with why you are trying to block me from—"
"From what?" Estelle said archly, as the arctic wind of January in Scotland blasted Hermione and she regretted all her sartorial choices, "from putting three new notches on your bedpost?"
"I'll have you know one of those notches is not new," Hermione said, her teeth chattering.
"Oooh, which one?" Estelle said, and then she took pity on Hermione's foolishness and cast a warming charm on her.
"Really?" Hermione said incredulously. Out of all her friends aside from Harry, Estelle should know the truth.
"Oh, the pretty one," she sighed, "right. Are you ever going to tell me what he was going to do with his mouth that one time?"
Hermione blanked out for a second, then remembered the X-rated waking dream Estelle had caught her in and turned purple.
"No," she said at once, and then she reconsidered. Was it Estelle's fault Hogwarts taught how to turn doorknobs into jump ropes and not sex-ed? "Well, okay."
"Really?" Estelle aid eagerly, leaning forward. If she leaned forward anymore, she might fall off the roof and although it had snowed the past few days, they were still hundreds of feet up.
"See, you don't have to just put the penis in the vagina," Hermione said matter-of-factually, and Estelle's cheeks went pink, "I mean, there are lots of other types of sex, right? Men can have sex with men, and—"
"They can?" Estelle gasped, and Hermione did a double take, sure she was being made fun of now, but the pure-blood's girls face was guile-less, an expression Hermione knew from experience was near impossible for Estelle to make on purpose.
"Yes," Hermione said, reconsidering The Talk she'd had planned. This was going to be longer than she thought.
Maybe Dobby would bring them some cocoa if she asked nicely. Or even if she didn't ask nicely, really, knowing Dobby. Kreegan hadn't quite gotten used to her yet, and this Kreegan was very, very old. She had seemed alarmed when Hermione had cried upon learning that Ralmy had died three years previously of old age. He'd been here all along and she hadn't known! But she'd patted Hermione on the arm and handed her a handkerchief and Crabbe had passed her one of the cookies he'd been working through, and Hermione had sighed while eating the chocolate chip walnut cookie and Kreegan and Crabbe had both gotten misty eyed with happiness.
"And girls with girls," Hermione added.
"WHAT?" Estelle said, her eyes bulging, "girls with – how? Have you ever done that, Granger?"
"No," Hermione said, "but maybe I will later, who knows?"
Estelle goggled at her.
"Or you can even do one of each at once," Hermione said, warming up now, wishing for cocoa more. "You know, one girl and one boy and then yourself. Or two boys and you, or two girls and you, or—"
"Have you done that?" Estelle said excitedly.
"No," Hermione repeated, and of course her brain betrayed her, and she had a flash of Blaise and Phobos and Riddle with her in a giant bed and the mad urge that had possessed her the last three days returned with a vengeance. "No," she repeated, unnecessarily, her neck flushed even though it was freezing out.
And what did you mean by penis in the vagina?" Estelle asked avidly, and Hermione's mouth dropped open. This was worse than she thought. Her brain helpfully supplied a visual of Blaise naked, and her face burned as well.
"Are you joking?" Hermione asked finally. She hadn't seen Riddle naked, but it had been a close thing, and she'd felt it in more than one way, so her treasonous, horrible brain was actively betraying her and filling in the rest at warp speed. The last thing she needed was to be thinking of Riddle and Blaise naked.
It was Estelle's turn to flush red.
"It's not my fault," she said defensively, "mother and father insist on me being a lady. I only found out what kissing was in third year!"
"What?" Hermione said, and now that she was thinking about kissing her blasted evil brain was playing in 3-D technicolor what would've happened in her bed ten minutes ago if Estelle hadn't burst in.
"Yes, I saw a pair of Hufflepuffs snogging," Estelle said, "and Ethelinda explained it to me."
Hermione was baffled. Had the girl's parents never kissed in front of her? Purebloods. Of course they hadn't.
"Okay," Hermione sighed, "okay. This might take a while."
She launched into an explanation, and by the end Dobby had brought them a whole pot of hot cocoa and stayed to put in his thoughts, Estelle had learned all she wanted to know about human sexuality and more than she wanted to know about house elf sexuality, and Hermione had forgotten all about the fact that Estelle Black had been deliberately blocking her from her love quadrangle the past three days.
By the time they returned to Hermione's dorm room, Phobos was asleep on her bed, Mr. Skeffington still under one arm, Crookshanks traitorously curled to his left side, as Evelyn and Marion and Brigitte and Marlene tiptoed around, making pointed faces at Hermione, then back at Phobos, then back to Hermione when she returned with Estelle.
Hermione sighed, then turned to Estelle.
"I'll sleep in the Slytherin girls dorms tonight," she said, then thought of Blaise who was there looking delicious and reconsidered, "Or um, Ravenclaw—" but no, Riddle had judiciously taken up camp in Ravenclaw with Michael, Anthony, and Terry and their ilk.
"The Hufflepuffs," she said finally, "the Hufflepuffs won't—"
"Oh, just stay here," Phobos said grouchily, opening one eye. "There's an extra bed over in the corner. Or stay in this one and we'll leave the curtains open."
Hermione's mouth dropped open, and Evelyn nervously giggled.
"Yes, all right," Hermione heard herself say, and Marion gasped.
Well. That made two of them that had just been shocked. Phobos smiled his most obnoxious smug smile, both eyes open now, and patted the bed next to him. Crookshanks looked up at her with his yellow eyes, and it was Brigitte's turn to gasp when Hermione crawled into the bed. This was a bad idea. But it was a worse idea to keep three boys on the string, one of whom who was an all-powerful wizard still in the possession of a remarkably powerful robe, who had killed the most evil wizard of all time, who happened to be an older, alternate universe version of himself.
Phobos was returning to his own time, and despite all his assertions, Hermione was positive he would see his own family and friends and not want to return to this horrible world just for the possibility of snogging her. So if she got tangled up with Phobos, the boy who was getting away, then she'd drive away Blaise and Riddle, and live in peace, a hermit with no boyfriends and a cranky cat, a crazy best friend, and an absent minded dad. It had all the makings of a sitcom. Hermione the Hairy Hag. At least, that's why she told herself she crawled into bed with Phobos. They were fully dressed! The curtains were open! But she didn't exactly push him away when he put an arm around her and drew her onto his chest.
She slept that night better then she had in a year.
"I don't think you should stay here," Hermione said, feeling like she was stuck in a time loop.
"I don't think you get an opinion," Riddle said rudely.
Hermione sighed with relief. There he was, finally. Riddle had been Everyone's Favorite Humble Orphan for months now, following the death of Voldemort. She knew better more than almost anyone how that was a total lie, and yet even she had been charmed by it from time to time. Personality number 6, the Snide Sarcastic Arrogant Arse had seemed to re-emerge just in time to remind Hermione of the truth.
"Well if you're staying because of me, I think I do," Hermione said stubbornly.
"Who says I'm staying because of you?" Riddle said, "arrogant much?"
"Cauldron, kettle," Hermione muttered.
"I'm staying because of my reputation," Riddle said, ignoring her, "I'm the wizarding world's hero here."
"That's Harry," Hermione said, "Not you. You need to stop forgetting that."
"I've got two Orders of Merlin, first class that say differently," Riddle said.
He was scrubbing at the walls in the Great Hall entryway with actual physical labor, his sleeves rolled up around his elbows. The curses cast by the Death Eaters under their magical influence had been so powerful that magic alone could not undo the damage, try as though the Slytherins might. Remus had dictated that everyone who remained be a part of the cleanup process of the school, and the Slytherins, Snape among them, had whined and moaned and tried to shortcut the cleaning process with magic so many times it had become a school-wide running joke.
"How many Slytherins does it take to clean up a curse mark?"
"One to scrub, another hundred to whine about it."
Riddle, of course, had cheerfully scrubbed in humble silence.
"From two different realities," Hermione said, "so you've got exactly as many as Harry does in this one."
"I'm the one who killed him," Riddle said sullenly, "you need to remember that." A trio of girls walked by, giggling at thin air in their direction. Riddle's smile immediately blinded Hermione, and the girls giggled harder.
"Recruiting new Tarts?" Hermione said archly while the girls dawdled, as Riddle scrubbed in a way that flexed his arm muscles but didn't clean particularly effectively. At least she was going for an arch tone. She was afraid it had sounded far more like a jealous nag, even to her own ears.
"Going to fill out an application?" Riddle shot back.
The girls had finally left, and personality number 12, the Vaguely Sullen Aloof Heartthrob had made its comeback. As irritating as Vaguely Sullen was, it still was an improvement over most of Riddle's 17 personalities.
"I'm the president of the Tarts," Hermione retorted, "obviously."
"Hilarious," Riddle said, "really, Hermione."
The way he was scrubbing now was doing wonderful things to his back muscles, which were visible through his white shirt.
"No, I am," Hermione said, "I'm the kind of president that's run on a platform of lies about their feelings and intentions, so I've faked an interest in you to gain power, and now that I've got it—"
Riddle dropped the scrub brush into the bucket all at once, his cheeks red.
"I've got the hint," he snapped, Personality number 2, the Angry Vengeful Sociopath was back, "I had at least thirty-two people tell me today how Phobos Malfoy had a little sleepover with you last night. I didn't even know that there were thirty-two people left in this forsaken school, but apparently there are, and they all want me to know who you were fucking last night. Potter was one of them, of course."
"I wasn't—" Hermione stopped herself. It's why she had let Phobos stay, wasn't it? To repel Riddle, to help Blaise move on to someone better for him than her? "Well, I needed you to know that you should leave," she said instead, crossing her arms.
"Message received," Riddle said, "but I'm not going anywhere. I told you. This world has no Dark Lord. It has no infrastructure left, practically. The hospital is destroyed. The newspaper. The Ministry is almost obliterated. I'm close friends with the two heroes of this world," that last part was of course, sarcastic, "there's a huge power vacuum and someone needs to fill it. Why not me?"
"Of course,' Hermione said, and what was wrong with her that she was partly disappointed? "of course that's why you're staying. You could build power in your own reality, you know. No one there knows what you become. You're already the darling of Dippet and the Ministry. It will be harder, take longer, but—"
"So why would I do that, then?" Riddle demanded, "I can be the youngest Minister of all time here, you know."
"You probably could there as well," Hermione said. It hurt to admit, but it was true.
"But here," Riddle said, and he grinned Personality Number 2's dead eyed terrifying grin, "here I could do it in such record time that it will never be broken."
"How unambitious of you to not try for the harder prize," Hermione tried, but she knew by Riddle's mean laugh that it was a pathetic, doomed attempt.
"But I am going for the harder prize," he said, mysteriously. Hermione, as she often was when talking to Riddle, was confused but unwilling to ask for explanation.
"No," she tried again, "It will be harder in—"
"Do your promises mean nothing to you?" Riddle said, folding his arms like Hermione. Why did he have to roll up his sleeves like that? Why?
"They mean everything," Hermione said tightly.
"Then why are you breaking yours to me?" Riddle pounced. "You promised if I helped you defeat your Voldemort, that I would—"
"I never promised you anything!" Hermione said loudly.
Riddle sucked in a breath at her audacity.
"So, what would you call it then?" he demanded, "a suggestion? A lie? An act of manipulation?"
"I didn't promise you anything," Hermione repeated, outraged, "it's not my fault if you heard something that wasn't there. And so what do you care what I said or did?" Hermione said, "you are the hero of two different realities because of me. You're welcome."
Riddle's outrage grew. One of the French witches who'd been left by Madam Maxime to help restore Hogwarts walked by giving Riddle the hairy eyeball and he didn't even notice.
"You want me to thank you?" he said, disbelieving.
"Yes, I'm glad you understand now," Hermione said, "if it weren't for me, you'd be like that snake thing you saw. Despised, mutated, disgusting-"
"Feared," Riddle said, pushing back a floppy lock of hair, "powerful. Loved."
"No one loves Voldemort," Hermione said bluntly, then reconsidered. "Well, Bellatrix I suppose. But no one else."
"And who loves Tom Riddle?" As if to the underscore the irony of the question the giggling group was back, dawdling again.
"That's not enough for you?" Hermione said, gesturing.
"Oh bah," Riddle said, "that's not love."
"I agree," Hermione said, "but I'm surprised that you do."
The gigglers waited for Riddle to smile at them again, but he ignored them, leaning against the freshly scrubbed wall, his arms still crossed as he stared at Hermione with those oddly colored, arresting eyes of his. She hated when he leaned against things like a model. It was distracting and made her feel weak and foolish. So he had a pretty face. Okay, a beautiful face. Sure he had a nice body. He was tall. His hair was becoming. But none of those things should matter to Hermione Granger. He was evil and power mad and lacking in empathy. And smart and strong and brave in his own way, the part of her brain that was in cahoots with her hormones whispered.
"Come on," Riddle taunted, Vaguely Sullen in full bloom, "tell me who loves Tom Riddle, Hermione. Really loves him. His mother who died giving birth to him, though she didn't have to? His father who left him to rot in an orphanage? His grandparents, who told him he was a bastard to his face? Miss Cole, at the orphanage, who thought of him as an alarming burden?"
"Your friends care for you," Hermione said carefully.
"I don't have friends and you know it," Riddle said bluntly.
"Mulcibur will be devastated to hear it," Hermione tried feebly.
"So who loves me?" Riddle demanded.
They stared at each other. Hermione knew what she would have forced herself to say if they had still been in 1944 and she needed to manipulate him. Riddle was looking at her expectantly, and somehow, she knew he thought she'd say it. But it wasn't 1944. Voldemort was defeated.
Riddle's face contorted.
"See?" he said, short, "I told you. No one loves me. Not even you."
"Someone will love you someday," Hermione said, "if you keep doing the right thing."
She hadn't, of course, meant herself. She would never love Riddle, not if they both lived a thousand years and he defeated a Dark Lord for every year of that. She had meant some other foolish person.
"So, what else do I have to do for you?" Riddle said, his voice low, "what more could I possibly do, Hermione?"
"Nothing," Hermione said honestly, "nothing will make me love you. That's why I think you should leave. Go back, go back to a place Voldemort doesn't exist. Find some nice girl and-"
"You think I want a nice girl?" Riddle said witheringly.
"Why not? I'm a nice girl, and you want me," Hermione said, but even as she said it, she knew it was a lie. Hermione Granger of two years ago could lay claim to being a nice girl, perhaps. In some ways. But that Hermione Granger had gone on to commit murder. She'd lied and manipulated and used and would've committed more murder if need be.
Riddle, understandably, laughed. "If you were a nice girl," he said, "you wouldn't have gotten me to do your bidding so easily."
"Easily?" Hermione squawked, thinking of all the tears and sleepless nights and the snogging, oh god, the snogging! The groping! The hand job!
"You bought me cheap," Riddle said, "and then you used me to rid yourself of your Dark Lord. And now you're trying to throw me out like rubbish." He put on a high-pitched, horrible mocking voice, "go back to your own time, Tom! Go leave me alone to suck face with every boy but you, Tom, and suck a little else if they're lucky, and maybe-"
"That's quite enough of that," Hermione said, red faced. The girls had moved on, but god knows how many other witnesses might be overhearing this. What if Peeves showed up?
"Well, I won't make it easy for you Hermione," Riddle said, "you are still lying to yourself, I see. You want me out of sight, out of mind. But what if I actually left? You think you'd forget me? You think you'd move on? No. You'd feel relief at first, perhaps, that you can move on to your safe little boyfriend Blaise or get out your little naughty urges with Phobos, but you'll remember me. Eventually, you'll start closing your eyes tight and thinking about me when one of them are inside you."
Hermione gave a strangled noise.
"Maybe you'll slip and say my name after a while by accident. But I'll crawl under your skin and inside your brain and you won't be able to rid yourself of me, no how matter far away from you I am, and you'll know you made a horrible mistake. Perhaps it will be too late. Perhaps I will be Minister, and I'll have some staid blonde witch as a wife, two children and a dog and a nice modest home, and I'll tell you to go fuck yourself. What do you think of that, Hermione?"
Hermione's mouth closed and opened like a fish.
"Good," she said feebly, "I'd say...good."
"Liar," Riddle said.
"I'll be happy no matter what," Hermione lied.
In truth, she didn't think she'd be happy ever again, not really. How could she be? There was a throbbing hole inside of her chest where the old Hermione had used to be. The shrill, uptight one who had a generous soul and a strong sense of right and wrong, who studied far more then she needed to, who stuck up for her friends and usually followed the rules and was supposed to marry Ron Weasley, have two children with him, and spend most holidays at the Burrow while Molly Weasley fed her until she was stuffed like a turkey while she wore a lumpy Weasley jumper.
That Hermione was dead. This Hermione was some girl with only the loosest grasp on her morals, who'd killed people who didn't need to be killed, whose eyes held something dark and empty, whose best friend had eyes even darker and emptier, who was desperately trying to fill that void where old Hermione used to be by flinging herself at every boy around her, trying to feel something other than numbing cold. If Riddle only knew how close she'd been to fucking him days before, he'd not talk to her like this. He wouldn't leave this reality. Neither would Phobos. They'd stay and old Hermione wouldn't just be dead, she'd be obliterated. Even memory of her would cease, and this new dead-eyed monster would arise in her place.
"Will you?" Riddle said, seeing through her as always, "can you even be happy anymore, Hermione?"
Hermione wanted to bluster and lie. She really did. But what was the point? Riddle was either literally reading her mind or he knew her well enough to know when she was lying. Both thoughts were alarming.
"No," Hermione said, her shoulders slumping, "I don't think I can anymore."
If only she could understand Riddle the way he understood her, she'd know what his facial expression meant. As it was, she could only conjecture.
"Well, that's why I'm not leaving," Riddle said, picking up a rag again, "I've got to cheer you up, haven't I?"
"I don't think I can stay here," Hermione heard herself saying as she walked through the snow around the lake. The giant squid had breached the water nearby, flicking its tentacles briefly. A mermaid surfaced, stabbed it with a spear, and the two descended under the water again.
"What does that mean?" Blaise said, his hands in his pockets. His dark blue eyes were on her, she could feel it. "What do you mean by that? Are you moving to Hogsmeade, over your dad's shop with him?"
"No," Hermione said, although a stab of longing shot through her at the thought. Maybe she could learn to be a dentist. It wouldn't be what anyone would expect of her, the alleged brightest witch of her age, but who cared. Her father could teach her, and they'd spend hours dutifully scraping the teeth of witches, wizards, and their Muggle family members. They'd read books at night and discuss them together. Drink sugar free cocoa on a snowy night like this, the fireplace crackling. Maybe her father would try to date, Hermione would hate the new girlfriend, and then he'd stop, contenting himself to live with his ornery daughter and her even more ornery cat.
"Are you going to move back with your dad? To…where were you from, anyway?" Blaise asked as they trudged through the heavy snowfall. At least the wind had stopped, the sun shining. Hermione had always loved the sunny winter days at Hogwarts. The castle looked like something from a fairy tale when it was covered in snow like this.
"Oxfordshire," Hermione said, hugging herself against the cold. Blaise saw her, reached out an arm to wrap around her, and stopped himself, dropping his arm to the side.
"So are you going back there?" Blaise asked, "with your dad?"
"No," Hermione said. That would be even worse. Living with all of those memories of her mother surrounding her, seeing her old childhood bullies grow up and go to university, carefree in their lives, partying, while Hermione became a sour old woman by the time she was twenty. She'd be the local weirdo, the one to avoid by children.
"What are you talking about, then?" Blaise said, "and will you look at me, please?"
Hermione forced herself to turn. They stopped walking. They were still in sight of the castle windows. Ravenclaw tower was closest. Who would run and tell Phobos and Riddle first about this? Probably Luna, by accident, thinking she was being helpful. She'd drawn Hermione to the side just the day before and told her that it was perfectly legal in some societies to have three husbands.
"I need to go," Hermione said carefully. If Phobos was threatening to come back, and Riddle wouldn't go back to his own reality, and she couldn't possibly ask Blaise to go anywhere, that left her with one choice.
"I've never known Hermione Granger to be so bad at communicating a thought," Blaise said. "You are being deliberately obtuse. Go where? Paris, with your new French best friend? Italy? My mother's got a villa there. We can go together."
Hermione had a flash of living in a mansion with Blaise on the water, eating gelato and the greatest pasta in the world, swimming in crystal blue seas, sharing his bed at night, reading books on the sand of the beaches in the day, and felt an ache where old Hermione had been. Maybe old Hermione wouldn't have married Ron. Maybe she would've had a rebellious streak seventh year and run off with the rich bad boy Zabini, scandalizing everyone, and spend the rest of her life eating and reading, perhaps raising a hand to write her own books from time to time as a hobby.
"America, and visit Ilvermorny like you've always wanted?" Blaise continued, "take up Krum on his offer to show you Durmstrang? What? What are you talking about? And don't give me some brief non answer again."
"Maybe Ilvermorny," Hermione said, "maybe France. Maybe another place, another time."
The mermaid resurfaced, screeching, and a tentacle dragged it under the icy grey water again.
"I hope you don't mean what I think you mean," Blaise said finally, "not again."
"What do you think I mean?" Hermione asked uncomfortably. She knew she should rip it off like a plaster, but she couldn't bring herself to say it.
Blaise stopped and faced her. He was so tall. She'd forgotten how tall he was. His brown skin was flushed by the cold. "Another time? You cannot possibly mean it," he said, his eyes searching her face, "you could get stuck there! Permanently!"
"Not if I bring another stone," Hermione said.
"And what if it takes you to a third dimension?" Blaise demanded, "what if you go somewhere where Riddle is the supreme ruler, and everyone rides Muggleborns around like donkeys? Huh? What if you go somewhere where Grindelwald won, and Dumbledore was his captive slave, and you had to watch them snog all the time in arseless chaps?"
Hermione rolled her eyes.
"What if you go somewhere where Snape is King, and forces all of his subjects to forgo shampoo and soak their teeth in yellow paint?"
"Now you're just being silly," Hermione grumped.
Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw someone hanging out of Ravenclaw tower, watching them.
"What if you go somewhere where Pansy Parkinson is a supermodel?" Blaise said, raising his eyebrow, his beautiful dark blue eyes narrowed, "and you had to see her face everywhere, that bloody pug nose and her smirk, on the cover of every magazine? And the trend is to squash up your nose to look like her?"
Hermione shuddered.
"What if," Blaise said, really warming up now, "you go to an alternate reality where humans don't even have legs anymore and you crawl about like inchworms on the ground and—"
"Okay, okay," Hermione said, red faced, "I'll just go to France, are you happy?"
"No," Blaise said, "in fact, I'm quite angry that after you lied to Potter and left us all in the lurch about your disappearance, you think it's all fine and dandy to skip dimensions again because…why? You want to be with your evil little boyfriend in peace?"
"Phobos isn't my boyfriend," Hermione said automatically.
"No, he just sleeps in your bed with you at night," Blaise said bitterly, "I thought that was my job, but fine. You've replaced me. And I wasn't talking about him, and you know it."
"Riddle isn't my boyfriend," Hermione said. Merlin, she sounded like such a trollop based on this conversation alone. "And he's not jumping dimensions himself," Hermione said, "he refuses to. I've tried everything to convince him to leave. That's why I've got to go, Zabini. I can't stand to be around him."
All at once, Blaise's shoulders relaxed, like a great stone weight in the shape of Tom Riddle had been lifted off of him.
"Well that's all you had to say, Granger," he said, "let's go away together. Have you ever been to Hawaii? Or New Zealand is nice this time of year. Let's go somewhere warm. Get the golden girl more golden."
It felt like Blaise had stabbed her in the chest. She wanted that. She wanted it so bad, lying on a beach in Hawaii with a lei around her neck, sipping on an alcoholic beverage out of a coconut, wearing the kind of string bikini Mrs. Weasley would've fainted seeing her in. White and blue stripes perhaps, or rainbow patterned, or something silly like cartoon puppies, just to make her smile. During the day they'd swim and snog and eat and drink and at night they'd shag in some palatial room Blaise would get for them.
"I can't," Hermione said, the words painful. "I have to go somewhere alone, I think."
"But why?" Blaise pleaded, "I can take you somewhere else. My mother's second Italian villa, perhaps, in the Amalfi coast."
Hermione's eyes closed, thinking of her fantasy. She must be strong. She must be.
"I just have to," she said, "I need to find myself again."
"Find yourself with me," Blaise said, and Hermione wanted to, she wanted to drag the tall handsome boy from Slytherin down into the snow with her and snog him silly, drag him up to the dorms or into an empty classroom and get him naked again and forget, just for a moment, that she had turned into a monster.
"If you knew who I really was," Hermione said carefully, "You wouldn't want me anymore, Zabini. I promise."
"You're wrong," Blaise said, "I know what you've done. Who cares that you've fucked Riddle? I don't."
He was lying, it was clear he was lying, and worst of all, it only made Hermione feel more feelings for him.
"I didn't fuck Riddle," Hermione said, "why does everybody think that?"
"Maybe because you've got him following you around with that face," Blaise said, "the evilest wizard of all time, and he's your puppy."
"He doesn't follow me around all the time," Hermione protested, "and I didn't sleep with him."
Blaise's eyebrows were up.
"I gave him a hand job," Hermione heard herself saying for some reason. It wasn't really any of Blaise's business what she had done with Riddle. Was it? It wasn't like Blaise had ever been her boyfriend, not really. He'd known the truth all along, and he'd agreed to it, the same as Phobos. The only one she'd really tricked at all was Riddle. So why did she feel so guilty?
Blaise, to his credit, kept his face still except a slight twitch under his left eye.
"And he touched me. Over my knickers. And we snogged a bunch. And one time, he snuck into my room—"
"Okay I've got it," Blaise said, raising a hand, pinching between his eyebrows, "you can stop. Please. But I don't care. You saved us all. What's a little wanking off to that?"
Hermione burst out laughing, and Blaise grinned, and she wanted to kiss him so badly it scared her.
It was alright, what she had done with him before, because he had known why it was happening, and he'd agreed to her full plan. It would be entirely different to use him now to take her mind off of things. It would be wrong. And Hermione was very tired of doing the wrong thing, even if it were for the right reasons.
"Exitus acta probat, right?" Blaise said, trying to smile. He didn't quite manage it.
"The end justifies the means," Hermione muttered, looking down, "I mean, you could've just said that, Blaise. Been less pretentious then an archaic Latin phrase."
Zabini snorted. "Less pretentious?" he laughed, "this, coming from you, Granger?"
"Point taken," Hermione said, still looking down. She felt Blaise's hand on her chin, gently, his shoes were right in front of hers in the snow now. He drew her chin up. When had they gotten so close?
"I don't care that you did all that," he said again, "I mean, I'm jealous, but I don't care. You don't love him, do you?"
"Of course not," Hermione said, horrified. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that the person hanging out of Ravenclaw tower window had been joined by others.
"So, do you love that Malfoy predecessor?" Blaise asked.
"No," Hermione said, "no, come on, Zabini. No. He's a...friend."
"A friend?" Zabini said, raising an eyebrow.
"I used him to take down Riddle," Hermione said, "that's all you need to know."
"Like you used me?" Blaise said, but it wasn't an attack. It was a question.
"No," Hermione said softly. She could feel herself weakening. The dream of Italy or somewhere that was currently warm and tropical was growing. She wanted to see Blaise naked in Hawaii while they drank cocktails out of coconuts that had little umbrellas stuck in them.
"Can I kiss you?" Blaise asked.
Next to them, the squid resurfaced, bellowing, or whatever a squid did to make loud noises, a trio of merman clinging to a tentacle. They both ignored it.
No, Hermione's brain screamed at her. They were being watched. She'd hurt Blaise enough already. She'd hurt Phobos so many times. Screw Riddle. He needed to be hurt more.
"Yes," her mouth said instead, and Blaise licked his lips, leaning forward, "not here. Let's go in the woods."
"Kiss her!" floated across the grounds, barely audible from Ravenclaw tower.
"Is that Michael Corner?" Blaise said, squinting, "and Dean Thomas?"
"Probably," Hermione said, biting her lip, regretting everything she'd ever done.
"Okay, let's go," Blaise said, still sounding like the wind had been knocked out of him, "I don't fancy an audience myself."
They tried to walk casually to the trees nearby, but the snow was thick, and the forest seemed miles away. Hermione kept biting her lips. Blaise kept licking his and looking at her. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt dizzy. She was so awful. She was a monster. She was desperate to kiss Zabini and forget all of that.
They both started walking so fast they were almost running, ducking into the trees, one last "kiss her, Zabini!" floating their way.
"Yeah," Hermione said like an idiot, "kiss her, Zabini."
He didn't need to be told again, and her back was against the nearest oak in a flash, Zabini's mouth on her half chewed off lips. It had been only a few months for him, but for Hermione it had been over a year, and she gasped, their tongues touching, lips wet.
"Fuck yes," Blaise hissed against her, and it should've ruined the moment, but it didn't, and she grabbed at his hair, pulling him down again. Phobos would know. Of course he would. Dean and Michael were nice enough, and they were her friends, but if two saw, more did, and Riddle might show up any moment and try to kill Blaise for getting Hermione's first kiss in months.
"Kiss me," she said urgently.
"I am," Blaise groaned, but he obliged, and then his mouth trailed to her neck, sucking.
"Yes," Hermione chanted, "yes, yes, yes." Help me forget, her mind screamed. Help me feel again. Help me. Help me. Help.
Blaise pushed her robes off her shoulders, and the cold wind bit at her, but it didn't matter, because she was feeling something again. Something other than the ravenous pit of guilt and regret that tormented her day and night ever since the exhilarating afterglow from the defeat of Voldemort had worn off and she'd seen, in the cold light of day, what she'd done. Blaise was unbuttoning her shirt, kissing down her chest, pushing aside her Gryffindor tie to kiss the swell of her breasts above her bra, pushing the cups aside, taking a nipple in his mouth.
"Yes," Hermione gasped, "Oh yes, please. Yes. Help me, Blaise."
The sucking stopped.
"Oh no," Hermione said, "don't stop, don't-"
"Help me?" Zabini said, looking up at her, his brow furrowed, "what do you mean, help me, Blaise?"
"Help me forget," Hermione said desperately, "please. I need to forget. Please, Zabini."
Blaise drew back further, frowning more, and Hermione whined in her throat. God, what sort of pathetic, sad little monster had she become?
"Why aren't you kissing me?" Hermione begged, "I need you Zabini. Please. Stop making me beg. God. Leave me some dignity."
"Forget what?" he asked her instead.
Hermione felt her eyes get that horrible feeling that meant tears were coming soon. No. There was no way Zabini would continue if she started crying. And she needed him to continue.
"Please," she begged, "I need you. Only you can help me forget."
Blaise looked pained.
"I want to help you," he said, his eyes darting down to her chest, then looking back up, "I really do. But forget what?"
"I killed Carina," Hermione said, "and Rabastan Lestrange. And-"
"Killing Rabastan Lestrange is a favor to the universe," Blaise told her, "and Carina...Hermione, it was self-defense. You didn't know."
"No," Hermione said, "she had her back to me. I could've incapacitated her."
"She forgave you," Blaise said gently, "remember?" He reached down and covered Hermione's skin up again.
Hermione hadn't even known she'd told him about the ghost of Carina Zimmerman, but she had gotten drunk a few times in his presence in the last few months, so she supposed she must have confided in him.
"Yes," Hermione said, "I...she said she did. But I can't stop remembering. Please, I want to feel something nice for once."
Blaise looked away from her. He looked to be wrestling with something enormous.
"Do you love me?" Blaise asked finally, and Hermione's mouth fell open. It was the last question she'd expected, but of course, it made sense. He'd asked if she loved Phobos and Riddle, hadn't he? And she'd said no.
"I..." She trailed off.
"Oh," Blaise said flatly, "I see. This is like... "I don't want to lose my virginity to Riddle'. Right, Hermione? That's what this is. You want me to do you a favor."
"Yes," Hermione said desperately, "I...yes. Please."
Blaise sighed, removing his hands from her waist, and she felt her opportunity slip away. She needed it to be Blaise. Riddle was too dangerous to toy with in bed. He might literally kill her when she made it clear she was using him the day after. Phobos might stay, abandoning his own life and own world, if she actually fucked him. She panicked.
"I really like you," she said quickly, "a lot, I do, Zabini. I want to go with you to Hawaii. Can we go? Tomorrow?"
Blaise looked into her eyes, searching for something. She doubted he would see what he most wanted, but he saw something he liked. She saw the moment he relaxed.
"Tomorrow," he promised, both of them skating over the fact that they were still students in school and couldn't just skip out of class, as ludicrous as that seemed.
"Yes," Hermione said, she felt a gust of wind hit her but her skin felt like it was on fire, "yes, let's go swim naked in the ocean."
Blaise's skin flushed. It was much harder to see on him then the pale white Riddle and Malfoy, but it was there. Triumph surged in her, and Hermione was yanking at his tie, pulling him to her for another kiss, and they sank into the snow slowly as they kissed, Hermione crawling into his lap. She latched onto his neck, her hands drifting to his belt. Blaise was breathing hard in her ear.
"I missed you," he said, his voice cracking, as Hermione fumbled at his belt, yanking it open in a fury, "I missed you so much. I thought about this all the time."
"Me too," she said honestly, thinking of all those sweaty dreams, and Blaise groaned. Her hand found him and he groaned again, Hermione leaning back to kiss him again as she stroked clumsily, squirming, her brain going blissfully empty for the first time in so long.
Blaise's hands were on her waist once more, but he moved them over her hips, down to her thighs, under her skirt, and up her bare thighs again, as snow froze her knees. He touched her knickers and Hermione gasped, yanking her head up, and he sucked on her neck again.
"Now," she begged, "now, now, now," and Blaise tore her knickers in excitement as he yanked them to the side, Hermione grasped him into her hand, lifting herself up.
"There you two are! I've been looking for you for ages, I had to pull this out to find out where you'd gone off t-"
Hermione whipped her head around, a loud suction noise from Blaise detaching himself from her neck, her hand still grasping his penis.
Harry was staring at them, his eyes bugged behind his glasses. In his hand dangled the Marauder's map.
"For fuck's sake, Potter!" Blaise bellowed.
His hand was still pushing Hermione's torn knickers to the side, and she thanked every deity known to man that Harry couldn't see the most incriminating evidence of where their respective hands were because of her splayed Hogwarts skirt.
Harry's mouth fell open further.
Hermione's hand squeezed involuntarily, and Blaise gave a strangled sound.
They all stared at each other, equally horrified. It was hard to guess who was most traumatized.
"Potter, do you mind?" Blaise finally said, recovering first, "I mean...a little privacy here?"
"Er," Harry said, finally blinking.
"Harry," Hermione tried, "Um...this isn't...what it looks like."
Blaise laughed. He dropped his head to her neck with a groan. His hand was still pulling her knickers to the side. Hermione's hand squeezed again out of nerves and he hissed.
"I hope not," Harry said, "because it looks like my two best mates are boinking in the snow."
That was enough to do it, and all three of them began laughing. Hermione retracted her hand, and Blaise slowly moved his as well.
"Boinking?" Blaise choked out, still laughing into Hermione's neck, "boinking?"
"I figured that was a better alternative to shagging like rabbits," Harry said.
"We're not actively shagging," Blaise said, looking up from her neck. His eyes were twinkling mischievously, and whatever energetic life force Blaise still clearly possessed Hermione longed to steal and shove it into herself. What she would give to be herself again. "Yet," he added.
Harry gagged.
Hermione tried, reluctantly, to get off of Blaise's lap but he tightened his arms around her.
"Granger," he hissed, sounding panicked, and Hermione looked down and saw that if she moved, Harry would get quite the eye-full.
"Better not let Riddle catch you," Harry said finally, taking off his glasses to clean them like a sixty-two-year-old man. Considering Hermione had seen him clean his glasses exactly zero times in all the years she'd known him, she knew this to be a sign of defeat.
Blaise snickered, and Hermione was tempted to get up and let him traumatize Harry as punishment.
"I'm serious," Harry said, wiping each lens down again, presumably giving Blaise the chance to cover himself up with an ounce of dignity, if Blaise realized it. "He'll turn you into a horned toad or something, Zabini."
"And that's if he's in a generous mood," Hermione said gloomily. She really didn't want to be thinking about Riddle now. She didn't want to be thinking, period. That was the whole point. She wanted to turn off the parts of her brain that thought of things like "logic" and "karma" and "ethics" and just go fully primal.
"You didn't let me finish," Harry said indignantly, "he'll turn you into a horned toad, and then he'll deep fry you and serve you to that Malfoy bloke for dinner."
"A Malfoy wouldn't do anything as plebeian as eating a toad, Potter, come on," Blaise said.
"Well he would pretend it was chicken or something!" Harry said, exasperated.
"Harry," Hermione said, dropping her own head into Blaise's neck, "don't you have somewhere to be?"
Harry snorted. "right, and leave so you two can shag and get frostbite?" he scoffed, "sure. You know Riddle will find you mid thrust, Zabini."
"I thought you were trying to get me cooled down," Zabini winked.
"Ugh!" Hermione said, getting up while Zabini yelped.
"Dammit, my eyes!" Harry shrieked, for he had taken that fortuitous moment to replace his glasses on his nose.
"I'm going back to the castle," Hermione said, suddenly angry for no reason, rage spiking in her. "You two can trade banter without me."
"Oh hey, wait, Hermione," Harry said, "don't be like that, come on."
She could hear the telltale sound of a zip behind her, Blaise getting to his feet but insanely, she started to run, even when they began shouting her name. She ran all the way back to the castle, so fast Hagrid was a blur as she ran past him, up seven flights of stairs down a hallway, and into the Room of Requirement, which had turned back into Ron's bedroom of all places. Hermione sunk down to the floor, putting her head into her arms, and guilt and regret returned all at once. She stayed there the rest of the day, and well into the night, not caring who might be looking for her and for what reason. But she still let Blaise take her to Aruba a week later.
Author Note: This chapter is complete fanfic-y TRASH and I make no apologies for it! Hopefully it's clear why Hermione is acting the way she is...and yes, I am totally making fun of myself for the pretentious name of this fic. Thanks for all of your support and feedback, it's always cherished!
