"Now I was someone else.
We knew each other in a way we no longer were and never would be again. Being a stranger is hard, but being a stranger when you're so impossibly close is unbearable."
― Herta Müller
Hermione follows through the next few days with a fruitless sort of anticipation. She has no way to know if her little experiment had worked, or if any of her communications through the diary went through. And yet, without that fragile hope, she doesn't know how to continue.
As the bruises fade, so too does the illusion of belonging.
She aches to feel connection again, to feel tethered to something. She wonders at what point she should give in, to fully assimilate. For all she knows, Marion Lestrange is a blank slate, lost to the annals of time.
She revisits the notion that Marion had died sometime between the last entry and the moment Hermione woke in that hotel room. Her body was bruised and battered, evidence of clumsy magical and muggle triage littered across her skin.
What wonders could she accomplish in the body of this woman? What life could she breathe into the forgotten? What opportunities could she unlock with access to the Lestrange vault?
The more time she spends in this timeline, the more she realizes how easy it is to be Marion. She finds herself fantasizing at night that she had subverted Tom Riddle's plans, and lived the rest of her years quietly supporting her family and friends. It shouldn't be too difficult to live below the radar. All she would have to do is bide her time, and she could one day see Harry and Ginny and their children. She could see Ron and Luna and everyone again. What horrors could she prevent them from experiencing? What trauma could she supersede? She imagines what life would have been like for Draco if he had been raised without the expectation to become the Dark Lord's soldier. Maybe he could finally see what she had always seen in him. He could marry Astoria, or he could travel the world. It would be so easy for her to simply wait. To bide her time. To change the world for those she loves, and to one day see them again.
It's this thought that scares her more than anything.
The complacency.
Hermione reaches for a quill and parchment, beginning to write a letter to Alphie. Over the past few days she has repeated their conversation in her head a hundred times. She has grown increasingly sure that Alphonse Rosier has built a time turner prototype, or at the very least has access to one. There was something in the way he spoke of influencing the timeline. It isn't that a time travel device doesn't exist, but that it isn't in the Ministry's possession.
Ink drips from the motionless quill, splattering onto the parchment below. She thinks better of writing to him, realizing she was about to ask a Department of Mysteries Unspeakable to divulge his unspoken mysteries.
She couldn't possibly do that. Not while leaving a paper trail, at least.
Hermione allows the half written scrawl to be consumed by candle flame, watching as it flickers and burns into ash and smoke. She puts on a cloak over her simple cotton dress, and disappears into the fireplace through a roar of green smoke.
When she arrives at the Rosier manor she is surprised to find there is no one around, an eerie quiet descended on the manor. Hermione keeps her hand on her wand as she walks into the hall where she is again greeted by silence.
She creeps slowly through the corridors, checking other rooms in the expansive home. As she begins to round up the stairs she hears what sounds like an apparition. She turns sharply, pointing her wand in the direction of the sound.
A tiny little house elf trembles on the other end, peering up at her with big bulging eyes. Hermione lowers her hand, recognizing the elf from her other visits to the manor.
"Hello, what is your name?" Hermione keeps her voice gentle, unable to scare or mistreat a house elf even to maintain her cover.
"My name is Prim, Miss Lestrange."
"Prim, could you tell me where everyone is?"
The elf looks as if she could well up in tears. A tremor goes through the little creature's body, a shiver or a sob.
"Master Alphonse is dead, Miss."
Dead?
Hermione steps back in shock.
"How?" She chokes out the question, tears dripping from the elf's eyes in big gluey gobs. She can feel her heart squeeze, but somehow tears won't fall.
"They took him in the night. Two days ago, Miss."
"Who took him?" The little elf squirms as Hermione's voice raises.
"Prim does not know. Madame Druella was crying so much, Miss."
When her desperate letters to Druella go unanswered she finds herself back at the Lestrange Manor. She's surprised to see Cygnus there, gathered with Magnus, Avery, and Nott. She expects for their leader to creep out from the shadows, but he's nowhere to be seen.
Odd.
"Marion, may I speak with you?" Cygnus speaks up and she nods. He has the classic Black family features: dark hair, dark eyes, a high-bridged nose, and utter contempt for life itself dripping from his every pore.
She follows him to the small den near the main parlor. She imagines Marion spending time here often as a child, luxuriating over the books displayed from floor to ceiling. Perhaps she's read every one.
Her eyes turn on Cygnus, meeting the severity she finds with her own scorn.
"You seem awfully calm," she remarks, taking a seat with one easy movement. Her chin is turned upward, meeting Slytherin apathy with Gryffindor obstinance.
"Druella needs time." He sighs, but chooses not to sit. Not to fully face her. She watches as he paces in front of the shelves, brushing his fingers against the book's bindings.
"No one will tell me what happened. A tiny elf scared witless had to tell me, and only because I happened to show up to the manor." The words come out in a string of frustration, she bites back more modern expletives and other choice words.
Cygnus sighs again, and she can't help but feel like he drew the short straw. He explains the events of two nights prior, when Alphonse Rosier had been apprehended by agents from the International Office of Magical Cooperation. They arrested him for crimes committed under Grindelwald's orders, and held an emergency trial due to the severity and multinationality of his crimes. She listens in awe, trying her best to keep a neutral face. But the anger rises with each word from Cygnus Black's uncaring mouth. She can't believe that Alphie would be capable of what Cygnus describes, or that no one would have known. How could the young man excitedly drinking sherry in her flat be capable of war crimes ?
The possibility of her own involvement contributing to his arrest sends shivers down her spine.
She doesn't stay long, even when Magnus offers to have the elves cook her favorite supper. She feels physically sick, her mind spinning at the thought that Alphie could be here one moment and vanished the next. She had never heard of the Ministry conducting such trials, though she supposes she wouldn't have. Most governments don't tend to advertise their less than glamorous actions after a war.
But to execute a man? In less than 72 hours?
She can't account for the time between leaving the Lestrange manor and ending up in the Three Broomsticks. She moves in a haze of grief and guilt. The barkeep slides a shot of firewhiskey to her and knocks it back, letting it singe her throat.
If she wrote to Fenrir would he come back to her? Would he hold her in his arms and whisper those wonderful words she longed to hear?
The intense scent of floral and musk drifts to her nose as a blur of red and pink and purple moves into her periphery. Hermione turns her head, conditioned to seek out red hair. The woman tilts her head as if sensing her gaze and Hermione's jaw drops.
Hepzibah Smith stands tall, a statuesque figure of decadence and excess. Each finger is covered to the knuckle in a variety of jewels and stones. Her hair is piled intricately atop her head in a series of twists and curls, completed with a comically small hat atop it all. The effect is like a cherry on a cupcake.
"May I help you, girl?" Hepzibah speaks, her voice a caricature of all things posh and prim. Hermione struggles to find her voice as she takes her in, overwhelmed by, well, everything about her.
"Madam!" A tiny voice squeaks from beyond Hepzibah's billowing floral robes, and Hermione recognizes Hokey the elf. "We are going to be late for our appointment."
Hepzibah turns her attention to Hokey, seemingly done humoring Hermione with her time. An appointment? There's a sinking feeling in her gut.
Without thinking, she stands from the bar stool.
"Hello, my name is Marion Lestrange." The surname flows with all the necessary power, and she watches as the woman's interest is piqued. "We met at an auction, do you remember?"
"Oh, yes!" Hepzibah oozes false congeniality as Hokey twitters anxiously beside her. "How are you, dear? It's been so long."
"I'm well, even though you beat me out for that delicious little artefact." She gives a wink for effect, purposely vague, as if it's their little secret. "And how are you? Any more treasures?"
Hermione watches as the older woman glances around.
"Are you busy, Miss Lestrange?"
"No, I was simply having a midday tipple before going to Gringotts."
"Oh! What a coincidence!" Hepzibah tuts happily. "Shall we walk together?"
Her brows pop up, surprised it worked. Hermione follows Hepzibah out onto the main alley, slowing down her pace to allow the redheaded woman to stride aside her. They are probably an odd pair. Hepzibah is an explosion of color and Hermione has purposely dressed herself to blend in as much as possible. She glances up at her, musing at her appearance. Harry had described her in the least flattering terms possible, but she wonders if that was all simply tainted by Tom's own disgust toward her. Hermione thinks Hepzibah is even beautiful in a way, sort of like a clown, but a beautiful one.
Hermione tries to remember what year Hepzibah Smith has the misfortune to meet Tom Riddle. It's not for nearly a decade, if her memory serves correctly. That means Tom still doesn't know about Helga's Cup.
"Madam Smith," she coos smoothly, having followed her to the lobby. (Gringotts truly has not aged.) "I heard a rumor that you are the descent of Helga Hufflepuff herself. Is that true?"
She seems overjoyed at the opportunity to discuss her lineage, and begins to do so—in detail. Hermione listens patiently, giving all the appropriate oo's and ah's, though it isn't difficult to find some of what she shares interesting. There's certainly worse ways to go about being a descendent of a Hogwarts founder than surrounding yourself with pretty things and being a little bit loud.
"You know," Hepzibah's voice lowers, her perfume flooding Hermione's nostrils as she leans closer. "I can tell that you appreciate the finer things in life, Miss Lestrange. Would you like to see something very special?"
Hermione nods emphatically. She can feel her hands tingle in excitement.
The redhead leads her to the Smith family vault, it's higher up, and smaller than the Lestrange's or other pureblood families. That doesn't mean that it is anything less packed to the brim with galleons and treasures. Hepzibah rattles off all of her treasures, happy to share it with someone. Hokey sticks close by, eyeing Hermione wearily. She gives the elf a polite smile, to which she turns her head. She is fascinatingly independent, or rather, fiercely loyal to her madam.
She sucks in a sharp breath as Hepzibah pulls out a small ornate box, decorated with badgers and olive branches. The box is opened slowly and Hermione bites back a grin as the golden chalice is slowly revealed.
Well, fuck. It's really Helga Hufflepuff's Cup.
"May I?" Hermione murmurs, reaching out her hand to lift the cup out of the box. The last time she held the cup was certainly under different circumstances. There's still a deep magic that emanates from the golden object, but it's purer. The essence of Helga and all of Hufflepuff. She frowns slightly, angry that Tom would corrupt this object with his own evil. It's almost… sacrilege, to borrow a muggle term. "It's lovely."
"Isn't it?" Hepzibah beams, not noticing the wheels turning in Hermione's head.
"Exquisite." She lets out a little sigh for dramatic flair. "You have such an eye Hepzibah, I don't know if the Lestrange family has any treasures as rare and wonderful as this."
Hepzibah blushes at the praise.
"I don't think that's true," she denies with clumsy humility, but there's a sparkle in her bright eyes. "There are many magical artefacts your family holds that are just as nice. Maybe even nicer."
"Madam Smith, what if I were to propose a trade?" Hermione looks up, grip tightening on the cup. Hepzibah tilts her head, a round red curl falling from her little hat. "Anything you desire from the Lestrange vault, for this cup."
"Miss Lestrange…"
"You don't have to, of course." She backtracks, gently placing the cup back in the box. "Oh, it was silly for me to even suggest…"
"Wait." Hepzibah says tightly. "What if I were to look? Just to see if there was anything worth a trade?"
Hermione's eyes light up.
"Yes, I suppose we could do that."
Hermione holds the ornate box in her open palms. She can't believe that actually worked. It wasn't stealing, of course. Hepzibah did find some priceless trinket or two to take for her own. She did get something out of it.
It's just that she won't remember she did.
And neither will her elf.
Her fingers curl up around the box, a tiny frown forming on her lips. Having to obliviate Hepzibah and Hokey had reminded her of her parents. Both seemingly out of best intentions, but at what cost?
"Hepzibah's life ," she reminds herself. Without Helga's Cup, Tom would never go after her, or learn about Slytherin's Locket. Hopefully.
This is the first she has made the conscious choice to interfere in the timeline. She chews nervously at her bottom lip.
She considers what to do with the cup now that she has it. Hide it? Destroy it?
The bell above the door chimes as she walks into Borgin and Burke's. Tom Riddle raises his head as she enters, his head tilted but no other emotion evident in his features. She gives him a pleasant smile to which he returns with a nod.
"Miss Lestrange," he speaks her name in greeting, his eyes scanning her. She can feel it again, the strange feeling of him at her mind's door. Not yet knocking. Just standing there. Waiting.
"Mr. Riddle, I'm happy you're here." She still smiles slightly, pulling out the box from her enchanted bag. She has covered it in a velvet cloth to hide any hints to the origin. She can see hints of curiosity in his quirked brow. "I could only really trust you with this."
(She isn't actually happy to see him. Walking down Knockturn Alley and seeing the familiar sign had twisted knots in her stomach at the thought of purposely seeking him out. But she made a decision, a plan, and she intends to stick to it.)
Hermione lifts the box onto the counter, slowly peeling unraveling the velvet cloth to reveal the box. She unfastens the hardware and opens the lid just as slowly. For a moment she wonders if this is too much theatrics but she knows that Tom will respect it. Her heart beats nervously, and she's sure if an outside observer were to watch this spectacle they might view it as oddly erotic.
She knows what she's doing, or at least she hopes so. She wants to fill Tom with desire.
For the cup.
"I found it on my travels. I thought you might like to see it." She breathes out excitedly, pulling out the golden chalice and handling it gingerly. "It's rumored to be Helga Hufflepuff's Cup, but I don't know if I quite believe that."
The little strip tease appears to work as Tom's eyes light up only as they do when coveting something that does not belong to him. He's like a magpie, in a way. (She muses for a moment if his hatred and disgust for Hepzibah was just a projection of his own self-hatred. A displeasure of seeing himself mirrored back at him—misplaced desires and unsightly hoarding.)
"It would have to be appraised first." He tells her matter of factly, as if his veins don't throb with desire. A desire to possess, to own, to take power and make it his own.
Hermione fights back a pleased grin.
"I've heard of other Founder's Objects scattered around Europe," she says offhandedly, placing the cup back in its box and watching as Tom follows its every movement. "They say even Ravenclaw's Diadem is hidden somewhere, though I don't have the faintest idea why that would be."
His head raises slowly.
He responds only with a low hum. She watches his reaction carefully, unsure if he's already found the Diadem or not.
"Perhaps precautions of the war, or simply lost in time." She continues, but he doesn't take the bait. He is infuriatingly inscrutable.
"Perhaps." Tom's hand lightly brushes against the ornate box. "I will appraise the cup for authenticity and inform you of my findings, in case you would like to sell."
"Oh, I don't want to sell it." She responds with a haughty little smirk. He looks up at her, successfully caught off guard. "I'm giving it to you, Tom."
One of the only emotions she seems to easily read on his face is suspicion.
"I wanted to give it to you earlier, after our conversation earlier, but couldn't seem to remember where I put it." She shrugs. "It really doesn't hold much meaning to me, as you know I was a Ravenclaw."
She leaves it there, not wanting to press further, not yet. She must play the long game. With her wand pointed at Hepzibah Smith, Hermione made a decision. A plan.
Alphonse Rosier, the only hope she had that she could return home, is dead. There was no one else she could turn to for answers.
Who else had a knowledge of enchanted diaries that caused strange phenomena? What if the two diaries were somehow related in magical property, if not an outright horcrux itself. Alphie's words replay in her mind, and she can't help but the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Maybe she isn't in 1945, after all. Maybe she's just trapped in the diary, ensnared by its bizarre and dark magic. Just like Ginny had been.
As much as it pains her, Tom is her only hope.
Even without the dementors to guard it, Azkaban is excessively cold. A place in which life cannot be sustained, just like the rose bushes outside Malfoy Manor, who no matter the enchantment wilt at first frost.
Draco is escorted by an auror down a long and dark hall before reaching a large metal door.
He had received special permission from Minister Shacklebolt after confiding in him about the diary. The Minister of Magic was not pleased that Draco had hidden something from him, especially with such a high profile circumstance, but he eventually acquiesced. It was agreed it was best Ron and Harry remained unaware of Draco's visit to Azkaban, and of the full picture of Hermione's mysterious enchantment.
The door is opened and Draco enters, Fenrir Greyback nearly unrecognizable in his descent from humanity. He can see where Granger had blasted his arm clean off, and where it attempts to regrow itself, bleeding and grotesque. There is dried blood on his lips, from what Draco imagines was an attempt to assuage the unbearable strain in his tendons.
"The Malfoy heir," Fenrir snarls in greeting, his body suspended in a specialized magical restraint. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Malfoy inhales steadily, careful to maintain his breathing. To not display fear.
"I want to know about a woman." Draco says carefully, his eyes narrowing when Fenrir bucks and hollers. "What can you tell me about Marion Lestrange?"
Fenrir's body stills at the mention of the name.
"Dead." Fenrir groans after a moment, the word sending chills up Draco's spine. A strange sound emanates from his scruff covered throat, not quite a cry, not yet a howl.
"How do you know?"
"I killed her. I killed her. She's dead."
" When? " Draco asks more earnestly, his heart ramming against his chest. Fenrir appears to have become inconsolable, and Draco takes a measure out of pure desperation. He enters Fenrir's mind, his memories stained with carnage. A horrible mess of blood, anger, fear. Draco almost cannot stomach it, the sour taste of bile on the back of his tongue.
There's a garrotte around Fenrir's neck, the memory so visceral that Draco can feel it crushing against his own larynx. Someone stands behind him, tugging. Panic rises as Draco sees red.
But through the terror he can see a woman.
There's a flash of blue, a curse hurled behind his head, and the wire is released. Fenrir chokes out, looking up to see her. Dark waves hastily tied back, falling into her face. Deep dark eyes trained on him. A smile blooming on her features.
There she is again, laughing in a sun-drenched clearing. Her skin radiates heat as she dances, hips swaying to the music coming from a tiny radio. Her cotton dress flutters in the breeze—Fenrir follows its every moment.
And again, she holds a bottle of liquor, pours it first into his mouth and then over an open wound. Draco hisses.
And again. The woman. Always the woman. She guides Fenrir's hands over her moon bathed skin and Draco can almost feel the softness of her flesh under calloused fingertips. It is ambrosial. It is…
Draco steps back, as if distancing himself from the less than pleasant imagery. He tries again, desperately trying to create a timeline, but there's nothing after Hermione's message. Any trace of her stops with Fenrir standing in an empty hotel room.