Chapter Fifty-Five: Memorial Musical Chairs

Four Years Later

"Have we agreed upon the statue for the Great Hall?" Kingsley Shacklebolt rumbled from the head of the table in his gargantuan office.

"No," Harry said brattily, "I never agreed to a statue."

"Potter never agreed to a statue," Snape mimicked, his tone twice as bratty as Harry's had been. "Precious Potter can't have a statue of himself, oh no, that might ruin his humble reputation."

"Severus," Remus said, "you're saying all of this out loud. We discussed this. Remember?"

"Sorry, Remus," Snape said contritely, and when they smiled at each other, Hermione felt Harry's shudder even though he was ten feet away from her.

It had been four years, and he still hadn't gotten over Remus's betrayal about no longer hating Snape like a normal person.

Kingsley's face twitched. It had been four years since the incident with the dry shampoo, but absolutely no one had gotten over the weirdness of Snape smiling. Nobody.

"I'm just saying," Harry said irritably, "it's ridiculous to have a statue made of me. The hair alone will be awful!"

"And the glasses," Snape agreed, nodding along, "plus you can't quite capture that entitled sense of arrogance in marble, and then it won't be an accurate representation, will it?"

"Severus," Remus sighed.

"We can get you a babbling potion antidote Professor," Percy said as he took notes of their meeting. He was recording the minutes, as Kingsley's senior undersecretary. Percy was more popularly thought of as the number two of the Ministry.

Crabbe passed around a plate of eclairs he'd brought, Vernon Dursley taking three.

"I don't need a babbling potion antidote, Weasley," Snape snarled, "and as Potions Master, I think I would know if I needed one!"

"Unless you've been hit with one, Professor," Riddle said politely, also taking notes as the junior undersecretary to the Minister, "you wouldn't know. It's one of the side effects of the potion—"

"I know that, idiot boy!" Snape said, "you think I need educating on a potion by a child?"

"He's twenty-one, Severus," Remus said mildly, looking at Snape like an indulgent parent, the only one who found their spoiled brat of a child throwing a tantrum to be precious, and not obnoxious.

Riddle gave his most innocent facial expression at Snape, who was turning purple with outrage, as more and more people spoke up in Riddle's favor. Hermione had kept her word, and Harry had too, so had Hagrid, and Remus, and Snape, and even Blaise, and not revealed who Voldemort had truly been. No one else knew that Tom Riddle, number three to the Minister of Magic, polite and handsome, so popular and beloved, hero of the wizarding world, brave soul who had sacrificed his own path in life and world to save their own was really a monster. It had been part of the package of Riddle coming to help, after all, and Hermione upheld deals, until she couldn't. And one day, if Riddle stopped being Everyone's Favorite Humble Orphan, if his face started to melt, if his eyes glimmered red, if he showed his real self, she would make sure, absolutely sure everyone knew who this charlatan really was.

"I think a statue is a great idea," Vernon Dursley barked unexpectedly, as Dudley nodded next to him, "my nephew deserves a reward for all he's sacrificed for you lot over the years."

The Dursleys had been living in Hogsmeade, teaching independent self-defense classes, even enjoying special Defense Against the Dark Arts sessions of hand to hand combat at Hogwarts for years, immersing themselves in the wizard world, but Vernon Dursley still referred to anyone magical as 'you lot.'

"Thanks, Uncle Vernon," Harry said as Snape scoffed, "but I think lots of other people are more deserving then me."

"Yes, let's create a statue of Riddle," Blaise said sarcastically, "it can be twelve feet high and made of gold."

Hermione flinched. Blaise had not taken their break-up particularly well, for all that he'd been the one to initiate it a year ago. She had known it would come. She'd always known. It was obvious it would never work out with them, that Hermione was too broken and damaged for someone like Blaise, that all the villas and fruity cocktails and beaches and shagging wouldn't stop the inevitable, but she'd tried it anyway, like an idiot, and she'd broken Blaise's heart. Or so he said. No matter how much Hermione protested, that she wasn't the one ending things, he still claimed the destruction of their relationship was her fault. And the awful thing, was that he was right.
Riddle gazed at Blaise coolly. Harry glowered. "It certainly shouldn't be of me," Riddle said mildly, "no one thinks that."

"Why not?" Oliver said, bewildered, "if we're talking about a statue of Harry, which I agree with by the way, we should definitely talk about a statue of you as well. You took him down together, after all."

Hermione briefly made eye contact with Riddle before she cast her gaze about for something, anything to distract her.

Harry was grinding his teeth. He'd gotten a little better at getting along with Riddle, better than Hermione herself did, if she was being fair, and far more than Riddle deserved. More than Hermione thought Harry ever could. But then the break-up with Blaise had happened and Harry had become convinced it was because of Riddle, no matter how times Hermione protested that Blaise had been the one to dump her.

Brigitte, next to Harry in her Auror robe, looked at Hermione sympathetically, and that was somehow worse. She grabbed the tray of eclairs in desperation, shoving one into her mouth as Crabbe nodded at her approvingly.

"There should be one of Hermione too, then," Percy said, as he took notes. To her dismay, every single person at the table nodded, even Blaise. Evan Snape.

"Absolutely not," Hermione blurted, but her mouth was full of éclair, and it came out a series of muffled wet noises.

"All three of them, maybe," Ernie said obliviously, "and one of Millie, too!"

"Yes, Millicent," Hermione said after she swallowed painfully, seizing on the suggestion gratefully, "forget us, it should be Millicent and Adrian Pucey, Flint and Seamus, Grandmother Longbottom and-" for a second, Hermione realized how many names she would have to say to name every single person who'd died in the second wizarding world war and the words caught in her throat, "Ron," she added after a moment, "Ron, too."

"And mum," Dudley said, tears in his eyes, "don't forget mum."

"Ginny," George said, "Bill and Charlie, mum and dad."

"Lynn and Carina and Lavender and Des and Tracey," Katie added.

"Theseus and Wayne," Justin Fintch-Fletchley said, "and Sam. I know he's not dead, but…"

"The Van de Houser twins," Byron Smith said.

"Pansy and Draco and Irene," Edith Lodgeman said.

"Dorcas Meadows," Evelyn Sanders said quietly.

"Igneus Malfoy," Riddle said.

"Minerva and Albus," Flitwick squeaked.

"Beaky," Hagrid croaked, then blew his nose.

"Nymphadora and Alastor," Kingsley rumbled.

"James and Sirius," Remus said.

"Absolutely not!" Snape snarled, and when Remus and Harry glared at him in unison the spell broke and they all laughed, half the room with tears in their eyes.

"My point," Hermione said, studiously not looking at Blaise, who still looked betrayed, when they met eyes, though he had no right, and Riddle, who had only grown more handsome over the years, though she didn't think it possible, "is that let's memorialize our heroes. Not me, for heaven's sake. I barely did anything."
There was an outcry of dissent, for Hermione's actions had brought back just enough fighters, and Riddle himself, and the extra numbers had turned the tide, defeated Voldemort, and saved the wizarding world, and then she made the mistake of looking at Riddle. He had one eyebrow politely raised at her. She used to be able to read his face, at least a little, but grown adult man Riddle was an enigma to Hermione. His facial expressions and behavior, in the very few times she'd seen him in the two years since their years at Hogwarts had ended, was always polite, always deferential to her. But it was cold. Like he was interacting with a distant aunt that had always dutifully sent him a birthday present. Like she was a Ministry official he was unacquainted with, but knew he had to be cordial to for the sake of his career.

Hermione supposed Riddle's cold indifference, much like Blaise's hurt, was her fault as well.

"Let's shelve this discussion for now," Kingsley rumbled, putting his hands up, "about the statues of Harry, Tom, and Hermione. But I do think we should discuss a way to honor our heroic fallen."

"Maybe a museum?" Katie suggested from next to Oliver.

It hurt to look at Katie. She was so happy with Oliver, who had taken to being the flying instructor of Hogwarts with predictable zeal. Katie herself was captain of the Harpies. Not, that she assured Hermione many times, like that had been hard with almost all of the league dead in the second war. Hermione was happy for Katie. Her life had worked out for her. Her parents still alive, in their Muggle home in Bath, loving boyfriend, and apparently not haunted by the things she'd done. Of course, Katie hadn't murdered anyone acting under a Libere Loqui.

"A garden," Morag MacDougal suggested, "a garden of statues and fountains, rose bushes, memorials."

"Scholarships," Riddle put in, "to the students who can't afford to go to Hogwarts, in the heroes names."

"And where will we get the money for this?" Narcissa Malfoy scoffed.

Hermione's lip curled when she saw who had spoken. It wasn't the only lip curling in the room, although more people than she was comfortable with had grown fond of Narcissa over the years. Fred Weasley, for one, if rumors were to be believed. Though if they were true, just his penis was fond of Narcissa. Just another bizarre relationship that had formed in the aftermath of the war.

"From noble pure-blooded families like your own," Riddle said, "of course. You've been so generous, over the years."

Riddle's voice and facial expression hadn't changed, but Hermione still knew him a little, and she knew he loathed Narcissa Malfoy just as much as she did, perhaps more. That shouldn't have excited her as much as it did. Though why Riddle hated Narcissa Malfoy she had no idea. The woman's idiot husband had died in his service, after all. Or the other version of him's service. But perhaps he'd heard how Narcissa had offered to Phobos that he could live with her, and that he couldn't forgive. Not that it mattered. Phobos had never returned.

"Yes," Harry jumped in, "don't you want to make reparations for your family's crimes, Narcissa? Haven't you said so?"

"Yes," Fred needled unexpectedly, "You've got all that cash you're dying to spend. Remember?"

Narcissa's cold eyes turned to Fred. Well. Perhaps his penis hadn't been comforting her anymore.

"What about the foreign witches and wizards," Brigitte said, delicately cutting off a supremely awkward confrontation, "Madame Maxime?"

"Yes," Fleur said, tossing her hair, looking at Brigitte approvingly, "and I still want a statue of Beel. Twenty-two feet 'igh, at least!"

"At least," George agreed, "make sure to include the fang earrings. Traumatize mum from behind the grave."

Everyone laughed again. You either became somber as a monk after a traumatic event, or you developed a rather morbid sense of humor.

"Don't forget the elves," Dobby squeaked under a pile of hats, "that contributed."

"Yes," Hermione said, sitting bolt upright, punching the table with excitement, causing everyone to jump, "yes, Dobby!"

The house elf grinned at her.

"I agree," Harry said, pushing his glasses up his nose, "also, we need someone other than Rita to write a book."

Everyone shuddered.

"Wonderful idea," Remus said, "someone who knows what happened, with intelligence, strong narrative skills, and a good grasp on grammar," Hermione nodded, until she realized everyone was looking at her.

"What?" she said blankly, as Harry smirked, "I wasn't even here for a full week of it!"

"That's what interviews are for," Krum said.

There had been a brief, mad moment where Hermione had considered resuming her relationship with Viktor after Blaise had so unceremoniously dumped her, but then she'd come to her senses. Viktor would bore her to death. She'd terrify him with her new empty soul. Then again, she knew he was rather desperate to get rid of his groupies. Perhaps a murderous, dead eyed girlfriend was what he needed.

"I can't write a book," Hermione snapped, shaking off thoughts of dating Viktor Krum. What a mess she was. Hadn't she decided she should be single forever with Crookshanks and her father? When she had some sort of itch, well, she could find a cute Muggle and get out her urges safely that way. "I'm busy," she added.

"Doing what?" Blaise said, arching an eyebrow.

If anyone else had asked, Hermione would've lied without hesitation. But Blaise, the stupid handsome bastard, knew exactly how scattered Hermione's life currently was.

"Research," she blustered, "experimental magic. My company is booming, you know!"

Blaise coughed politely, or not so politely, based on his facial expression. She'd warned him, hadn't she? Ever since the beginning she'd warned him! And it wasn't like he hadn't gotten anything out of it. Did all those years of orgasms mean anything to him?

"Yes, it is," Morag said, unexpectedly coming to her rescue, "we've been quite busy."

"That's wonderful to hear," Remus said, sensing tension in the air and trying to defuse it. Remus had become rather zen over the years, even beyond how he'd been before the hell of Hermione's sixth year, perhaps due to Snape, perhaps due to meditation which he now swore by, perhaps due to tranquilizing potions he was rumored to drink daily, which Harry insisted was the real reason.

Riddle doodled on his notes, like Hermione's words and life and business meant nothing, not even to the record keeping of this meeting, and her hackles, as they so often were around Riddle, were raised.

"We're very busy," Hermione insisted, her voice a little too loud, as Riddle drew a little thorny rose like the total fucking weirdo that he was.

"Doing what?" Snape asked snidely, "creating buttons with terrible acronyms?"

"We're working on magic to contain Azkaban," Ernie snapped, "so we can keep scum like Millicent's father contained forever."

"And we're working on studying the psychology of young witches and wizards," Evelyn said quietly, "so no one can be persuaded to embrace dark magic again."

It had been years, and the new wizarding world still didn't know how best to handle the miscreants in Azkaban.

"Just give them to the dementors," Narcissa said, waving a hand delicately, her lip, as it often was, curled.

"Your sister is entombed in Azkaban," Kingsley reminded her delicately, "and your brother-in-law."

"Like I said," Narcissa shrugged.

"Don't those dementoids suck out souls?" Uncle Vernon asked.

"Dementors, Uncle Vernon," Harry sighed, "and yes, they do."

"Why don't we give them to the dementoids, then? " Uncle Vernon bellowed unexpectedly, making them all jump, "they deserve to have their souls sucked out, that's what I say. None of this namby pamby touchy feely stuff like you lot are doing with them. Those are murderous criminals! They murdered my wife!"

More than a few around the table were nodding.

"They're horrible," Dudley said unexpectedly, "dad, you don't understand."

"But yet," Riddle murmured, shading his thorny rose, "are they not just punishment? For those who have truly wronged us?"
Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"Dumbledore hated them," Harry said loudly, also glaring at Riddle, "and that should be proof enough that we should get rid of them. They can't be trusted. They followed Voldemort."

Neville shrieked and fell out of his chair, and he wasn't the only one.

"Potter, we discussed this," Professor Flitwick squeaked, "give everyone a warning before you mention the name, please."

"Yes," Trelawney said, gasping and clutching her heart, "though of course, I did have a warning. The third eye had informed me that you were about to—"

"My point is," Harry said, pushing at his glasses, "is that we need something that isn't beholden to You-Know-Who guarding our prisoners."

"If you think so," Riddle said politely, "I'm sure you know best."

A debate exploded, one that grew in volume and fist pounding on tables, Snape eventually standing up and screaming in Madam Pomfrey's face, of all people, as Percy and Riddle both took notes primly. Hermione wondered how he was going to be depict the moment Vernon Dursley wrestled Chris Jones, but from what she could see of his sketch upside down and across the table, it was accurate to life. The bulging on Vernon's eyes alone…

As the four thousandth, six hundred and thirty second debate on what to do about Azkaban raged around them, Hermione got up with a sigh to pour herself some tea and came face to face with Narcissa Malfoy.

"So good of you to start such an important company instead of joining the Ministry, as the Minister requested of you," she said sweetly.

Hermione briefly considered throwing boiling tea in her smug face.

"As you can see, it's an important topic," Hermione said stiffly instead.

"And you spend so many hours at your company," Narcissa said, "so diligent. Don't you?"

"Of course," Hermione lied, wondering who had told Narcissa that she hadn't been into Sticks and Stones and Broken Bones in a month.

When Hermione had graduated Hogwarts after a bizarre year and a half that included her dating and shagging Blaise, ignoring Riddle, who had never again declared his love for her but dated a series of increasingly attractive witches, many in their twenties while he was still a teenager and in school, she'd been offered a job in every department in the Ministry. The Auror department, who had already recruited Harry, Padma Patil, and Brigitte, had begged her to join. She'd been asked to join the Department of Mysteries by a hooded figure, offered to lead the Muggle liaison office, and the Department of Magical Law Reform had told her she could be the head in three years, tops, if she joined them. Kingsley had offered her a place as his right hand, a position Hermione knew was fast tracked to be the next Minister of Magic, a job that had gone to Riddle when Hermione and Harry both refused. Fred and George had even tried to talk her into working at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, even though they assured her they were aware that she was almost entirely lacking in humor. They needed a brilliant mind and someone who could point out everything that could go wrong, they told her. But Hermione had instead spent over a year after graduating shagging Blaise all over the planet, reading books, drinking wine, telling herself this was a life she could enjoy, until the roaring guilt that plagued her night after night, no matter how many time she shagged Blaise to exhaust herself, kept her awake. Until she saw disappointment in Harry's eyes when she refused to return to England for the twelfth time. Old Hermione would've joined the Ministry, of course. Old Hermione would've been a model employee, perhaps fought for magical creature rights, passed Muggleborn reform legislation, argued against the old pure-blood laws that discriminated against everyone else. But New Hermione was a useless empty souled monster, and she knew she couldn't possibly work day after day, hour after hour, playing politics to feel like everything she was doing was pointless. So, she'd gone to Evelyn. She knew the Gryffindor girl was suffering just as much as Hermione was, and they'd gone to Morag, who had become quiet and withdrawn after the last battle, and Ernie, who'd become even more loud and pompous as his coping mechanism to trauma, and they'd formed a new business doing something that really mattered, but didn't have rules, and regulations, and arse kissing. It had worked for her friends. Morag had grown more confident again. Ernie more easy-going. He'd even started dating someone new, a sweet Muggle girl. Evelyn had gotten a sparkle in her eye that Hermione hadn't ever seen.

But it hadn't worked for Hermione, no matter what she tried to pursue. Sure, the Azkaban reform was important, imperative, even, and at first it had distracted her enough to be energized, to care. Blaise had been thrilled at the return of old Hermione, and they'd shagged even more frequently. Harry had come over for dinner a lot, she'd gone to old gatherings of their mates and partied and danced and drank and smiled and laughed. But then one day, slowly, the creeping exhaustion had snuck in. The absolute lack of care for what happened to her, or anyone else. The feeling that nothing she did could make a real difference. The nightmares had returned of the people she'd killed or gotten killed with her actions and she'd wake up screaming. She'd stopped going to work, turning over day to day operations to her friends, pretending like she was working from home, only Blaise and Harry really knowing what was going on with her, and they couldn't understand. Blaise had tried everything, to his credit. He'd tried vacations. He'd tried having them live in other countries. He tried to make Hermione go to Muggle university. He'd tried making them live as Muggles. He'd tried yelling, and cajoling, and begging, and bribing. But Hermione had lost all zeal for life, and in desperation, Blaise had dumped her. In retrospect, she thought he'd done it to shock her back into being the Hermione with fire in her eyes and in her heart, but she'd shrugged and moved out, that dead place inside of her still dead, and Blaise had been heart broken, begging her to come back, and she'd refused, moving back home with her father. Her father never judged New Hermione, at least. Harry would come by for tea once a week like clockwork, no matter how busy he was tracking down loose Death Eaters, sometimes bringing Brigitte with him, whom Hermione had the niggling suspicion Harry was shagging on the side, though she never asked. She didn't want to know. It's not like she of all people could judge. Morag and Ernie and Evelyn came by from time to time, sent her daily owls about the business, and Fred and George and Fleur would pop over from their shops in the village at lunch on slow days. Katie and Oliver would come to dinner sometimes, and Hermione would smile and graciously host and her father would beam, and Dudley Dursley would come by on occasion and talk about his mother and cry, and Hermione would hug him, and then she'd lay in her bed and stare at the ceiling, her mind blank on a good night, rushing with guilt the rest.

"Maybe you should see a psychiatrist," her father had suggested gently one evening as they sipped sugar free cocoa, and Hermione had viciously mocked him, reminded him that she couldn't exactly tell a psychiatrist that she was a witch and felt guilty for committing murder with her magic wand, and that the wizarding world had no such person to talk to. Mr. Granger had borne the sarcastic storm and then simply said, "maybe they should," and for a week, Hermione had been almost manic, researching ways she could help wizards and witches with mental health, going into the company's little storefront in Diagon Alley to talk to Morag and Evelyn and Ernie about it, even going so far as to consider getting her own degree in counseling, perhaps at Oxford, like she'd always dreamed of attending as a girl, even though she'd resisted Blaise suggesting it before. But then she'd seen an article in the paper about the star young employee of the Ministry, and his quest to help the wizarding world heal the scars of the war with his new proposal on magical ways to treat mental health issues. Hermione had screamed like she was being murdered, drawing her father from his shop next door where he'd been dutifully scraping Fleur's perfect teeth, Fleur running behind swearing in French, thinking Hermione was being attacked. Instead they'd found Hermione kicking every sofa in the home, raging and storming, throwing the paper with Riddle's beautiful face, smiling his little Everyone's Favorite Humble Orphan smile at her.

"How did he know?" she kept howling, and then it was all ruined.

She hadn't written to her colleagues to stop the research, but she'd given up herself. The next day she'd gone into London, dressed up in a bright red slinky dress, painted her lips burgundy, danced all over a cute Muggle, snogged him silly, and then left him high and dry, coming home at three am drunk to her father and his pursed lips.

"I think I should talk to Harry about you," he'd said regretfully the next morning over eggs and toast, and Hermione had begged him to leave Harry alone, that he had his own demons. Shed gone to visit Ron's grave instead, tried to cry, and ended up screaming again about how Ron had abandoned her, not even stayed to say goodbye when he could've, until a family nearby told her to get out and stop disgracing the dead.

"Funny that I've heard otherwise," Narcissa Malfoy said, drawing her out of her reverie. In the background, Vernon Dursley was bellowing and standing on a table for some reason, while Snape was doing a mocking dance that involved him twirling and bobbing his head. She blinked.

"Heard otherwise about what?' Hermione said blankly.

"I've heard you never go into work," Narcissa said baldly, "that you spend all your free time…doing what, Miss Granger? The brightest witch of her age does what all day?"

"Television and masturbation," Hermione said flatly, "oh, I also have taught myself how to polka."

"Your Muggle references are charming," Narcissa said dryly, "but wouldn't your time be better spent researching time travel?"

"Time travel?" Hermione said. It was the absolute last thing she'd thought Narcissa was going to say, "what for?"

"You don't want to learn the rest of the secrets of alternate realities?" Narcissa said, "You? The endlessly curious one? I have the books, you know. In the Malfoy library."

"I already know the secrets," Hermione lied. Phobos did, anyway. But the last thing she wanted to do was think about Phobos. At best, he'd realized she was right, moved on, realized the foolishness of his plan, decided to never return, forgotten her. At worst, he'd tried to return and gone to a different dimension, or time, or died somehow in the attempt.

"Do you?" Narcissa said, raising one pale eyebrow, "that's lovely to hear. We also have a lot of rare volumes on the mind. Lucius wasn't fond of them, so they were hidden in a corner, but they still exist."

Hermione's gaze drifted to where Riddle was dutifully making notes of Snape's bobbing head dance.

"Tell Riddle," she said shortly, it's his initiative."

"No," Narcissa snarled, her beautiful façade breaking, "why would I give access on books of the mind to a sociopath, Miss Granger?"

"You married one," Hermione said rudely, "you tell me."

"I think you could put them to better use," Narcissa said, "that, and your brain. Or perhaps you'd prefer to wallow in self-loathing some more, helping no one, accomplishing nothing?"

"Takes one to know," Hermione said, as Harry and Snape startled wrestling for some unknown reason, Remus sipping from a flask and ordering everyone to take a chill pill serenely. Maybe there was some truth to that rumor about the tranquilizing potion.

Narcissa smiled a little.

"Maybe I am doing something," she said, and Hermione knew the stupid bint was trying to intrigue her. It wouldn't work. Narcissa Malfoy was awful.

"You must be very lonely," Hermione needled, "to want to hang out with me when you hate me so much. Can a Mudblood even touch the precious Malfoy floor, or will your house explode?"

The little smile widened. "Oh, I'm not lonely," Narcissa said, "I have wonderful company. Why don't you come by and join us?"

She glided off, and out of the corner of her eye, Hermione thought Riddle was watching them, but when she turned her head, he was shading the flask in Remus's arm diligently on his parchment.

"I don't care what you're up to," Hermione said to no one, as Narcissa sat next to Fred, who made a disgusting kissy face at her, "I don't care."

But she did.


Author's Note: Hopefully you'll forgive the time skip, I felt it necessary, and also I didn't want to write a story with 500,000 words...also writing the slow destruction of Hermione's mental state and her relationship with Blaise wouldn't have been particularly enjoyable for me. In case I haven't made it clear with my writing, Hermione is suffering from some severe depression/guilt/PTSD.

Thank you for your support as always!