Chapter Fifty-Six: Through the Gates of Malfoy Manor

Hermione looked up at the gates of Malfoy Manor. The fact that it was called Malfoy Manor was enough to make it ridiculous, but then you added in the gates, the towering mansion, the albino peacocks roaming around, and it became almost a grotesque parody. If she, Ron, and Harry had sat around dreaming up the most absurd place Draco Malfoy lived in, the Manor was almost exactly what they'd picture. Unbidden, Hermione wondered if this was Phobos's childhood home, or if he had lived in a different mansion somewhere. Perhaps the latter. Draco had been Abraxas's grandson, who was Phobos's cousin. But then again, Igneus in Hermione's world was disowned, Dougal dead for decades, Audrey divorced and frolicking with young Muggles, and Phobos was…what? Addicted to plastic surgery?

"Yes?" Narcissa's voice crackled magically through the gates, "who is it?"

"It's Hermione Granger," Hermione said, irritated at Narcissa for pretending not to know it was her, and for making her journey to the manor this way when she could've just flooed in like a normal person. She was more irritated for herself for swallowing the bait and showing up at all. But what had Narcissa meant by "we"? Was Hermione going to walk in and see Fred shagging her? Was Riddle going to be lounging in the library, reading books on mental health and time travel, one maddening step ahead of Hermione once again?

It had been a month, a solid month after that disastrous Ministry meeting where Hermione had vacillated wildly between ignoring everyone, even her father, and manically staying up all night reading books on psychology once again. Perhaps her father was right. Perhaps she needed professional help. But who could possibly help her?
The gates opened without further word, and Hermione sighed. If she saw Fred Weasley's bare arse, she was going to go crazy. Well, crazier than she had been for the past few months…or years.

"I'm traumatized," Hermione muttered out loud, skirting an albino peacock as she walked to the front door, "I'm not crazy."

"Well, let's not be too sure about that," a man drawled from her left.

Hermione froze, her left hand up to knock on the door, her eyes wide.

"Phobos?" she whispered to the door, and then she forced herself to turn her head and look to be sure.

The man, who was leaning against the ivy colored mansion wall in expensive dark grey robes raised a pale blonde eyebrow at her.

He looked exactly the same, and yet entirely different.

"How old are you?" Hermione blurted.

"Well that's rude," Phobos said, "didn't anyone tell you not to ask a wizard his age?"

Hermione tried to laugh, but it came out more like a strangled sob, and she launched herself forward, throwing her arms around his neck, which was higher than she remembered it being. His white blonde hair was short again, like she preferred it, though she'd never told him that of course. There was the faintest trace of a lion still, when she ran her hands over his hair and scalp.

"What are you doing, Granger?" Phobos said, his voice odd, but she buried her face into his neck, and his arms were around her, and she closed her eyes so the tears wouldn't fall. They fell anyway.

"What am I doing?" Hermione said, her voice coming out strangled and muffled by Phobos's no doubt expensive robe, "what are you doing here? Unless you're that other, Tahiti version of you?"

"Do I look like I'm in my seventies?" Phobos said testily, and Hermione laughed, or maybe she sobbed, she couldn't even tell.

"That's you," she said, crying in earnest now, "I recognize that sneer."

"You're not even looking at my face," Phobos said, but he sounded gratified. His hands rubbed her back, and it felt so good Hermione shuddered. It had been so long since anyone held her like this. Even at the end with Blaise they'd grown so far apart the loving embraces had become limited.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione repeated in a whisper.

"I told you," Phobos said, "Narcissa said I could live with her. Remember? She's lonely?"

Fred Weasley's dick allegedly said otherwise, but Hermione thought it prudent not to say so.

"You know that's not what I meant," Hermione said, "what are you doing here? In my reality?"

"I told you I'd come back," Phobos told her, "have you sustained memory damage?" He sounded just as obnoxious as ever, but his hands were still stroking her back.

"Yeah, but that was ages ago," Hermione said, "when you told me you'd come back. ages. It's been years. Didn't you...I mean...you know that, right? That it's been years? I thought you'd come back right away."

"Yeah well, so did I," Phobos said, his voice strained.

"Did something happen?" Hermione asked. She wanted to look up at him, to inspect his facial expression, to see the differences time had made to his face, but she didn't want Phobos to see her weeping like this. It was just too embarrassing. "Did something go wrong?"

"No," Phobos said, his voice still strained, "I mean, not the way you're thinking."

"So where have you been?" Hermione said, clutching at him. She'd feel more pathetic about it all if she hadn't been feeling pathetic for years now. Young Hermione would've never spent all her time hiding from her problems like this.

"Home," Phobos said, who seemed just as inclined to not stop clutching at Hermione as she was. "I've been…busy."

"Doing what?" Hermione said, looking up at him at last, gathering her strength.

Hermione had never known and would never know what dear old Draco would've looked like if he'd lived to his twenties, so she had no idea if Phobos still looked like him or not. He was taller, as she'd seen before. He was still just as pasty white, his hair still platinum. His cheeks were flushed red, just like they always had when he was mad or embarrassed or snogging her. It had been years since she'd seen Riddle's cheeks get flushed. Some of the baby fat had left his face, and his jaw, chin, and nose were more defined. Some might say he looked pointier, and perhaps he was, but Hermione was so glad to see him he looked beautiful to her.

"Take a picture, Granger," Phobos drawled, "I know I'm gorgeous, but…"

Hermione finally let go, and swatted at his ridiculous expensive robes, like they were teenagers again in school, playfully flirting. It wasn't even the hundred most pathetic things she'd done in the last month.

"And so modest," Hermione said, and she tried to roll her eyes and make fun of him, she really did, but instead she grinned, and then laughed, and pushed at her hair like an idiot, for the first time since she was twelve wishing she had pretty curly hair, and not the frizz ball she'd inherited from her grandfather. She hadn't been concerned with her appearance in ages. She supposed it went with the territory of the crippling depression she'd clearly been suffering from. Blaise had always been attracted to her appearance at least, for some reason no one could fathom, and Rita Skeeter liked to question in the papers with her snide articles about their relationship. When they'd broken up, Rita had made it clear it was because Blaise had come to his senses about how ugly she was, and perhaps there was a grain of truth to it. His new girlfriend was a French witch who modeled for a living, after all.

Phobos was still staring at her, and Hermione fought the urge to cross her arms. Why in the hell had she worn her rattiest pair of jeans, her least flattering wool pea coat that was two sizes too big, and not a scrap of makeup? Was it because she had been convinced Narcissa was referring to Riddle when she had said "we"? was it because she wanted to show Narcissa exactly what she thought of her and her bloody manor by dressing so horribly? Was it perhaps, both? Either way, Narcissa was clearly getting her revenge.

"Maybe you should take a picture," Hermione blurted, as Phobos kept staring at her. His gaze lingered at her neck, and down to her left arm, for some reason. Her face felt like it was on fire. It wasn't like she owned anything nice to wear, anyway. When had she last gone shopping? When had she last done anything girly with a girlfriend?

"I have some," Phobos said, and for some reason he took her left hand in his right, lifting it up. For one wild second, Hermione thought he was going to kiss her hand like they were in an Austen novel. "from the papers. Remember? And I've dug around everyone's collections. My favorite is one Corsington took of you at that Halloween party. Remember that party, Granger? You were a sexy fairy?"

"Well, sexy," Hermione mumbled, gratified and mortified all at once, "I wouldn't say I was…what in the bloody hell are you doing, Malfoy?" for Phobos was turning her left hand all about.

"You're not married," Phobos said, dropping her hand, "I'm surprised."

"It's 2002!" Hermione said, outraged, "I'm twenty-two years old! Or maybe twenty-three, if you count that time I spent in your world…the academics disagree on whether you should or not…"

"Narcissa told me you're not with Riddle, but that's all she told me," Phobos said, "she said I should ask you the rest."

"How needlessly unhelpful of her," Hermione said dryly, "so I take it you're the one she was referring to?"

"Yes," Phobos shrugged, "I've been here a while now."

"What?" Hermione shrieked, "how long…what do you mean, a while? Why haven't you—" she stopped herself.

"What?" Phobos asked, crossing his arms.

"Why haven't you come to see me?" Hermione said at last, "and while I'm at it—" she yanked at his crossed left hand, inspecting his own long pale fingers.

"I'm not married either," Phobos said.

"I don't care," Hermione said at once, and the smile that had been creeping onto Phobos's face for some minutes disappeared. Ever since she'd clapped eyes on him, the gaping chasm that was Hermione had been a little less empty, and now she'd gone and ruined it. Well. It was better to be honest and humiliate herself to get that feeling to go away, just for a moment. "I'd want to snog you either way, I mean," Hermione added.

Phobos blinked.

The magical speaker crackled.

"Are you two ever coming inside?" Narcissa said imperiously, "or am I going to interrupt you flinging yourself at my son, Miss Granger?"

"Your son?" Hermione said in disbelief, staring at the magical speaker.

"Adopted," Narcissa said, and even through magical distortion her voice was clearly stiff and irritated, "of course. I have not got mad."

"Well it is in your genes," Hermione said rudely, thinking of Bellatrix, who by all accounts had been willfully denying the death of Voldemort to all who would listen to her. Which at this point, was basically Rodolphus and the dementors.

"And being a charming young woman was clearly never in yours," Narcissa said, "either come inside or leave, Miss Granger. I don't have all day."

"What else are you doing?' Hermione said, outraged, "all those hours practicing that delicate "I smell the Mudbloods" look you've got? Beating house-elves? Admiring the family jewels?"

"Son," Narcissa's voice crackled in the speaker, "please do teach your girlfriend some manners before she steps inside. Lucius's ghost will come back to haunt me otherwise."

"That's true," Hermione said, "and no one wants to see him again."

"Manners," Narcissa said again, her voice chilly.

"I mean," Hermione continued, still oddly holding Phobos's hand, "isn't the ghost of Lucius more upset about you boinking Fred, for instance?" she'd picked up rather a lot of Harry's inappropriate and ridiculous sexual slang in the past few years. It was just so fun to say!

"I've changed my mind," Narcissa said coldly, "I don't want her in my library. Go somewhere else, son."

"Mother," Phobos said after a warning look at Hermione, "I do really need to show her the library. Please."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue. This was the most alive she'd felt in ages, snarling with Narcissa. If she was being honest, the surge of fear and rage she'd felt after their confrontation at the Ministry had been the main reason she'd come today. Hermione had become an adrenaline junkie. Otherwise, she felt every emotion as if were wrapped in a layer of cotton. Muffled, and indistinct.

Phobos took their intertwined hands and raised it to his mouth, kissing the back of her hand, and it was so strange Hermione's mouth snapped shut.

"Very well," Narcissa said after a while, "but keep her out of my sight. You owe me that."

"Yes I do," Phobos said, still gazing into Hermione's eyes like they were in a Bronte novel. It had to be a Bronte. Only a Bronte sister would write a romance that included an unhinged quasi mother in law, a mansion full of dark magic, and a boy who'd been time traveling and world jumping. Well, perhaps not that last one. "Just don't lock me in the attic," Hermione muttered, "Or climb into my grave."

"Er, what?" Phobos said.

"Oh," Hermione said, blushing, "did I say that out loud?"

She had developed a terrible habit since moving back home with her father of muttering to herself. Her friends and family had already been convinced she was going off the rails into bonkers town, and the muttering certainly didn't help. When even Luna Lovegood was concerned, you knew you'd gone too far.

"Yes," Phobos said, arching an eyebrow, as the door swung open to admit them, a house elf bowing them inside. Phobos read her mind and pinched her so she didn't say anything about S.P.E.W. Or did he even know about S.P.E.W? Had she ever told him?

"I should've changed it to the House Elf Liberation Front," Hermione muttered, "to honor Ron. He was right, that acronym is better."

"You're doing it again, Granger," Phobos said, both eyebrows up now, as they made their way into the ridiculous extravagant entryway. It was just as cold and austere and over the top as Hermione always suspected it would be. Marble statues stared down at her from gilded marble alcoves. Floor to ceiling windows with stained glass near the top didn't do much to make the overwhelming white marble and crystal ambiance warm up.

"It's like living in a tomb," Hermione mused.

"I can hear you, Granger," Phobos said, "you know that, right?"

Hermione froze. Then she forced herself to laugh.

"Yes, I'm joking," she said airily.

"Are you?" Phobos said, "you look unwell. I thought you'd—"

"What?" Hermione said, "you thought what? And how do I look unwell? What do you mean?"

She knew exactly what Phobos meant. She was scrawny. Not only was eating difficult for her most of the time, but she rarely moved from the couch the last few months. Her skin had gone past pale and into grey territory. There were purple circles under her eyes. The color that was usually present in her cheeks and lips was gone. Her clothes were sloppy and unflattering. Her hair was…well, her hair always looked like this.

"You look like you got run over by a thestral," Phobos said bluntly, "and then you got dragged into a muddy alleyway, and then someone mugged you. Then you got trapped under the wheel of a carriage and couldn't eat for two weeks. It rained the whole time, and you turned the shade of pale a ghost envies."
Hermione turned to Phobos, who looked so much better than he used to, even with the pointy face.

"I missed you too," she said.

They stopped in a hallway that he'd led her down, that presumably ended in a library.

"Well, looks like I got here just in time," Phobos said at last, after searching her face.

"For what?" Hermione said.

"To save you from Riddle,' Phobos said.


For the first time in perhaps…well…ever, Hermione sought out one of her girlfriends.

"I need some girl advice," she said to Brigitte through the fireplace, "can we…maybe…round up some of the girls?"

"'Arry and I are about to catch a creeminal," Brigitte informed her, "veery nasty one. Likes to torment Muggles with badly made pastrees. A monster. But for dinner, yes?"

"Yes," Hermione said gratefully, "the Broomsticks, maybe?"

She remembered that lesson of so many years before, when she'd thought the Hog's Head was the way to hide an illicit conversation. And this conversation was going to be quite illicit.

"Who else is coming?" Brigitte said carefully, "Evelyn?"

"Er," Hermione hedged, "maybe."

In the years that had passed, Evelyn and Brigitte had never quite become friends, for all Evelyn tried. Hermione of yesteryear would have forced the friendship until she was successful, or perhaps they had a fistfight. But Hermione of today could barely mange to brush her hair some days.

"I think I still have a piece of comb in there," she muttered.

"Eh? What eez zat?" Brigitte said.

"Nothing," Hermione said, twitching as Brigitte's head squinted at her. She really needed to work on the talking out loud thing before someone forced her into the newly built ward at St. Mungo's where Lockhart was residing again.

Brigitte sighed. "Who eelse, 'Ermione?" she asked wearily, and suddenly, Hermione knew this had been a huge mistake.

"No one," she said, "I'm joking about the whole thing. I don't need girl advice. I'll see you and Harry later this week, yeah?"

"Wait," Brigitte said, sounding alarmed, "wait, 'Ermione, I can eat dinner with Evelyn."

"No, I was kidding," Hermione said, "I'm such a kidder! Anyway, I don't need any advice. I know what I'm doing."

"About what?" Brigitte said, still looking alarmed, "'Ermione, 'Arry and I 'ave been so worried about you. Viktor and Fleur have told me—"

"Oh, you're talking to Viktor about me?" Hermione demanded. She'd heard a week ago from the twins that Krum and Fleur had been hooking up on the side for fun for a while now.

"Everyone ees worried," Brigitte said, "we met, last month, to talk about—" but Hermione heard a noise on Brigitte's end, saw her head turn, and then she continued hastily,

"I mean…we are worried, about you. You 'ave isolated—"

"What do you mean, you all met to talk about me?" Hermione said, her voice rising like a tea kettle whistle.

"For dinner," Brigitte said hastily, "we just met for dinner, you were invited, you remember, 'Ermione? To the Traveling Thestral? But you were—"

"Yes, I was busy," Hermione lied, although of course she'd actually been staring at a book wondering what the point of reading a romance novel was when she hated romance and didn't believe in it anymore.

"Yes," Brigitte said after a pause that said that she clearly knew Hermione was lying, and what's more, Hermione knew that Brigitte knew that she was lying, "and we all said it 'ad been a while since we 'ad seen you, that' is all!"

"I see everyone all the time," Hermione said, outraged.

"When?" Brigitte asked, "Fleur said you pretended to be sick when she came by last week."

"I was ill," Hermione lied, "my um…stomach. Maybe I'm lactose intolerant now."

"Katie said you said no when she asked you to lunch," Brigitte said, "because you were busy with work."

"I was—"

"But Morag and Ernie said you 'and't been at work in weeks," Brigitte continued relentlessly.

"Fred and George—"

"I am not taking an insult from the man who's shagging Narcissa Malfoy," Hermione said loudly.

"It's not an eensult, 'Ermione!" Brigitte said, "and it's only a rumor, about Narceesa."

Hermione snorted in disbelief.

"'Arry has tried to catch you at 'ome, but your father said you were traveling," Brigitte said, "without Crookshanks. When was the last time you traveled without that cat, 'Ermione?"

"All the time," Hermione lied, "and don't you have a criminal to catch? Some Auror you are."

Brigitte looked hurt, and Hermione felt equal parts guilt and relief. Good. Now Brigitte would do what she'd driven almost all her friends to do, including Blaise, and stop trying to be her friend. Leave her alone.

"I don't even know why I called you," Hermione said abruptly, and she threw a pinch of powder into the fire, ending the call all at once, even while Brigitte tried to protest.

"I know what I'm doing," she said, her voice angry and low. Hermione leapt to her feet, taking a stack of books she'd brought back to Malfoy Manor, and made for the door before catching a glimpse of herself in a mirror over the couch. No. She couldn't show up looking like this, what was she doing?

She ran upstairs two at a time. She had to hurry. Most people would be so annoyed at Hermione's rudeness they wouldn't attempt to contact her, but Brigitte was harder to shake. She had no friends or family, after all, and try as she might, Hermione just couldn't push her away.

"Then again, she has that criminal with terrible pastries to apprehend," Hermione muttered, running her hands through her hair, and then she cackled. Crookshanks cocked his head at her.

"What?" she snapped, "I'm not talking to myself. I'm talking to you."

Crooks meowed.

"Do I have time for Sleekeazys?" Hermione said, looking into the mirror in her bathroom as she stripped off. Her ribs were sticking out too much, "do I even have Sleekeazy's?"

"Under the sink, luv," the mirror said eagerly, "and you've got a tube of red lipstick as well."

"You're way too excited about this," Hermione said suspiciously as she turned on the shower, scalding hot.

"Well it's been a while since you tried," the mirror said, shrugging.

"Did you just shrug?" Hermione said, one foot in the shower.

"I'm a mirror, luv," the mirror said, "I don't shrug. You know, maybe you should see a Healer about—"

"Oh, shut up," Hermione snapped, whipping the curtain closed behind her.


An hour later, Brigitte and Harry still hadn't burst down her door, and she had managed to wrestle her hair into submission in the fastest time ever.

"It's not perfect," the mirror said critically, as Hermione turned to and fro in a plain black dress, her lips dark red, her hair pin straight for the first time since she'd been fourteen, "you could—"

"Yes, thank you," Hermione snapped storming out of her bathroom. Could she not even escape criticism about the flaws of Hermione Granger in her own home?

She grabbed the stack of books, jammed them into a satchel she'd put an undetectable extension charm on, and walked outside, out of the wards on her father's home, and Disapparated.

Muggles walked around her on the busy London street, but as always, they didn't notice her or the telephone booth with the broken phone.

"Time for him to face the music," Hermione said as she picked up the handle.

"What?" the phone said as she picked it up, "what are you muttering, luv?"

"Oh, piss off!" Hermione snarled.

"Miss Granger, is that you?" Riddle said from behind her, as Hermione stormed up the stairs to Kingsley's office.

"I thought we talked about this," Hermione said as she walked faster, a smile of triumph leaping to her face and then off it, not turning around. He'd found her even faster then she'd thought, "when we first met. I'm not your maiden aunt."

She waited. Who was she going to get today? Personality number 9, the Polite and Distant Bureaucrat was all she'd encountered for years, as much as everyone else got Everyone's Favorite Humble Orphan. But then again, she'd made sure to never be caught with him alone since Hogwarts.

There was the sound of footsteps walking fast behind her, and then she felt Riddle's robes brush on her legs. The breath from his mouth was on her ear as he replied.

"You're not really a maiden at all, Hermione," he said quietly, "are you?"

"Are you?" Hermione shot back, feeling her triumph grow. She couldn't stop her smirk this time.

"Not for some time, as you well know," Riddle said. They'd come to a dead halt. The Ministry for some time had been poorly staffed. It was only to be expected after the second war that had wiped out most of its staff and half the wizarding world. But still, anyone could arrive, perhaps Percy, to seek out the Minister, and Riddle was risking his reputation to harass her anyway.

"You haven't changed at all," Hermione thought.

"Whereas you're totally different," Riddle replied, and she felt his hand on her shiny hair, stroking, as Hermione turned red. Had she said that out loud, again?

"Watch yourself," Hermione cautioned, "what's her face won't be happy if someone sees you like this."

"Contessa?" Riddle said, "she doesn't care what I do. Not as long as I'm still on track to be the youngest Minister of all time."

"I think Percy's ahead of you in line," Hermione said, clutching her bag to her as Riddle kept stroking her hair. His long fingers went from her hair to her bare arm, and goosebumps broke out, "unless you plan on bumping him off soon?"

"Not at all," Riddle said, "Mr. Weasley and I get along famously, don't you know."

Hermione finally turned, swatting his hand off of her. She'd be strong. She couldn't attack the Minister's Junior Undersecretary in a corridor without repercussions, and she had no intention of rotting in Azkaban with Bellatrix.

She'd last seen Riddle a month ago when he'd been doodling Snape brawling with Harry in official notes, but he was still so handsome it made her ill. His face had hallowed out a bit with age, his jaw sharper, his oddly colored eyes still arresting.

"What happened to telling me to go fuck myself?" Hermione said, "or is Contessa not earning the status of your staid blond witch wife?"

"I'll get married when I'm ready to be Minister," Riddle said carelessly, "it will be good for my campaign. The handsome newlywed and all."

"Oh, of course," Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

"Contessa won't last that long," Riddle shrugged, "she's too…"

"Vapid and spoiled?" Hermione said sweetly, remembering the expression on Riddle's current girlfriend's face in every article she'd seen her in.

"Dull," Riddle said, "extremely dull. But then again, so is every witch next to you, Hermione."

Her heart was pounding. It had been years. Years and years, since that time in sixth year when she'd told Riddle she was fucking Blaise and he'd screamed after her that he loved her. They'd spent the rest of the year, the summer, and their seventh year bitterly ignoring each other. They'd spent the following years after school coldly tolerating each other once every four months or so in meetings. But not once, had Riddle hinted at any other feelings for her other than irritation and contempt. Not even when it had gone around that Blaise had dumped her, and she'd seen him in the Leaky Cauldron, getting drinks with colleagues after work and laughing. She'd been there with Harry and Brigitte, getting drunk as a skunk, but Riddle had acted like she was a moldy bar stool. Old, and in need of a good rubbishing. She'd been wearing her most attractive outfit, a bright red tight dress that Brigitte had foisted upon her one Christmas. She'd done her hair and makeup too, just like that time at Dippet's Halloween party where Riddle had loved how she looked, and still Riddle had acted like she was fungus. It had been a relief. It had always been a relief that Riddle had let her go so easily, despite what she had predicted would happen, that he had been fine with her dating Blaise and moved on. Sure, she'd expected him to lose his mind over Blaise, to declare his love for her again, but instead he'd ignored her, no matter what she'd done, and Hermione had given in to the truth. She'd been right about Riddle. He had always been using her, pretending to find her interesting and attractive. And now he'd gotten what he always wanted. Respectability, a sure path to real power, a stupid girlfriend who made him look desirable, a flock of women who worshiped him, golden press from Rita. Why in the hell was he finally reverting after all this time?

"It must be the hair," Hermione thought.

"Your hair?" Riddle said, "what about it? It looks dreadful, by the way."

Hermione turned red once more, more from anger then humiliation that she'd been muttering when she thought she'd only been thinking again.

"Yeah?' she snapped, "then why were you caressing it, Riddle? You bloody liar!"

"I wanted to see what you'd done with it," Riddle shrugged, "it looks a fright. Like that time when you got hexed and looked like a Veela. Remember?"

Hermione stared at him, outraged at the blatant lie. She knew she looked good. She'd run into half the employees of the Ministry on the way to Kingsley's office, and every single one had spent at least thirty seconds waxing on about how wonderful she looked.

"Yes," she'd said dryly to Padma Patil, "and it only took me an hour."

"You're the only one who thinks so," Hermione said, "so forgive me if I don't believe you."

"You look like every boring witch I know," Riddle shrugged, "might as well start giggling at me and tossing your hair. I do like that lipstick, though. Makes you look like the harlot you are."

"Ah, I see you're enjoying your trip back to 1952," Hermione said caustically.

"I'm from 1944," Riddle said to her, smirking, "not quit the insult you intended, I'm sure."

"You never learned how to speak properly here," Hermione said, "I told you to fix that. People will hate if you're running for Minister and you're speaking all hoity toity to them."

"You never learned how to speak properly either in my old world," Riddle retorted, "you always used your odd slang and unladylike vulgarity."

"Miss it?" Hermione taunted "or do you ask Contessa to act like me when you're bored?" She was angry. Angrier than she should be. But why? She didn't care that Riddle had a girlfriend. It was a relief he'd moved on from pretending to be in love with her.

"You seem awfully fixated on my girlfriend," Riddle said, "tell me, were you thinking about me when Blaise fucked you?"

"No," Hermione lied at once, too fast.

She had, of course. Riddle had been right about her too. It had taken a while, but then one day she'd been thinking nonstop about Carina, wondering who had hit her with the Oblivius Mutus and why, if she'd tried to fight it off, if she was scared when she had been under its control. If she had been begging inside for Hermione to see the truth before Hermione had killed her. And so she'd dragged Blaise out from the balcony on their rented flat in Paris, shoved him onto a rug, climbed on top of him, closed her eyes, and seen Riddle. And unlike every other time that had happened before, she hadn't tried to make it stop. She'd been so loud when she finished that Blaise had grinned at her for hours afterwards, while a sick pit opened in her stomach. But no one ever needed to know about any of that.

"You're lying," Riddle said, delighted, "it's okay, Hermione, every woman I've ever been with, I pretend is you."

"You're disgusting," Hermione said.

"And you showed up looking like a fancy pony to impress me," Riddle said, "I'm flattered."

"A fancy pony?" Hermione said, clasping her books to her like a shield, for Riddle had that unholy light in his eyes that meant he was about to bit her neck or tell her to go fuck herself or declare his fake love or murder someone and turn them into a teacup, one of those.

"Yes, that eats ice cream," Riddle said, "remember?"

"I do not look like Lickety Split," Hermione said with great dignity, "she has four legs and is pink, for one. Also, the part where she's a cartoon horse."

"Either way," Riddle shrugged, "don't deny you've tarted yourself up for me so you could—"

The door swung open on the bottom of the stairwell, and they leapt apart, as Percy Weasley made his way upstairs, his nose in a scroll.

"Percy," Hermione said, relieved, "I've been looking for you."

Riddle's eyes narrowed. "Have you?" he said, "you forgot to mention that to me."

"Yes," Hermione said, glaring at him, "and Kingsley. I need to talk to you about something."

"The Minister is very busy," Riddle said smoothly, his face blanking back into number 9's polite and distant lines, "I can give him a message for you, Miss Granger?"

"He's in a meeting," Percy confirmed regretfully, "do you mind telling me now, Hermione?" he rolled up the scroll he'd been reading, "how are Fred and George? Have you seen them recently?"

"Oh yes," Hermione said, "we talked about…friends."

There was no point in telling the truth, and saying they talked about Fleur and Krum shagging, or the rumors about Harry and Brigitte, and the fact that Oliver and Katie had been caught snogging after the Harpy's latest match…without shirts. Fred and George had spent the years after Ginny had left turning into horrid gossips.

"Well, give them my regards, and your father as well," Percy said, "we should all get together for dinner soon."

"That would be nice," Riddle said.

"No one invited you," Hermione snapped, and Percy looked shocked. But then again, almost no one knew who Riddle really was, did they? That had been what Riddle got in return for helping defeat Voldemort, after all.

"Hermione," Percy chided.

"While I'm at it," Hermione said, "I want Riddle off the official Ministry mental health initiative. That's why I'm here."

"Excuse me?" Riddle said politely, "Miss Granger, have I done something to offend—"

"Contract it out to Sticks and Stones and Broken Bones," Hermione cut in, adding unnecessarily, "my company. We won't charge much, but we've already done lots of research. I'm sure you'll be pleased with our results."

Riddle's eyebrows were in his hairline.

"Miss Granger," he said, "I've got copious notes and research already completed for the Minister, and—"

"Not as much as I have," Hermione said, reaching into her bulging, trusty book bag and withdrawing a giant scroll, "I think Kingsley will be more than pleased with our

efforts."

"The Minister," Riddle enunciated, "is more than pleased with my efforts, Miss Granger."

Personality Number 9 was straining, but Hermione could see his efforts to beat Vaguely Sullen back into submission.

"Yes, but he will be thrilled with my efforts," Hermione said, and the increasingly hostile expression on Riddle's face raised her spirits, moment by moment. Was he just now realizing why she'd worn the lipstick, why her hair was shiny and straight? And how mad would she have to get him before he revealed himself to Kingsley and Percy?

"Well I'll give it to him," Percy said, looking back and forth between them, "though I think he's with Madam Charette."

Hermione couldn't stop the smug smile this time. Riddle's face twisted.

"Madam Charette?" Hermione said sweetly, "what a coincidence. I was hoping to speak to her."

"I'll bet you were," Riddle muttered.

"I'll ask Kingsley," Percy said, still looking between them like he was trying to puzzle out an equation, "Don't get your hopes up, though, Hermione, the French Minister is in a rush."

"I'm sure," Hermione said, knowing her smile was gloating and not caring. Riddle scowled at her as Percy made his way beyond them.

"You duplicitous little bitch," he hissed at Hermione, "you think I don't know what you're up to?"

"I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean, Tom," Hermione said, and the way Riddle stopped in his tracks when she said Tom made her gloat all the worse.

It had only taken fifteen minutes, at best, even adding in the time Riddle had spent fruitlessly protesting against being taken of the project, and Hermione waltzed out of the Ministry victorious, knowing Riddle wasn't going to be meddling in the minds of young witches and wizards, and that the dementor removal project was being fast-tracked with French help. Riddle had discovered who her red lips and shiny hair had really been for when Madam Charette and her aide had complimented her on taking their fashion advice from their previous meeting. All in all, she'd won, just like Hermione Granger was used to, and expected. So why, when she woke up the next morning, was she still feeling an ache between her ribs? Was it because she'd figured out why she had been so very angry talking to Riddle, when she'd thought she was beyond rage at him? Was it because she realized the terrifying truth? The truth, the awful truth, was that nothing made her feel so much like the Old Hermione, not Phobos, not Blaise, not her friends or family, as when she was fighting with Tom Riddle.


Author Note: Thank you so much for all of your support! I can't put into words accurately how much it means to me that you read this and enjoy it and maybe even comment! And maybe you don't enjoy it and comment and that's good too, I can only improve through growth. :)